He stood each day atop the ruins of his old life – what was admitting you liked a mudblood in comparison to everything else? Actually, it was surprisingly uncomfortable, and it grated on the lingering traces of the vicious bigot that Draco used to be. He wished he had a drink. A strong, well-aged elf-made wine from the Manor’s cellars maybe, with its vivid plummy flavour and its head-swimmingly strong kick. Of course that was impossible in more ways than one; Voldemort and his Death Eaters had consumed most of the aged wine, unappreciative of its qualities. They had downed the stuff like it was Muggle swill.