Draco hung his head, staring into the depths of his glass, hunched in on himself; Nymphadora's words tearing through him all the worse because he knew she was right and yet he couldn't seem to summon the energy it would take to fix everything. And knowing – being told – he'd fucked up didn't take away any of his fear and guilt and misplaced pride. It just piled on top of the self-loathing Draco was already mired in, until he was drowning in it, and it took all he had just to keep his head above water.