"What if I get sentenced to –" he grasped for a number "– even just a year in Azkaban? The Wizengamot could do that easily; it’s not an unreasonable sentence considering my...crimes...as a Death Eater." He felt so numb and distant, except where her hands pressed onto his shoulders, fingers digging into his flesh through his thin shirt. It was bloody unbelievably awful to talk about the bleakness of his future like this, and so Draco tried to be callous and without feeling.