Pansy hadn't come out after him but Draco hadn't expected her to, and when he shoved himself gingerly upright he could hear soft, muffled sobs. As though her heart was broken and puddled on the floor; the tears of someone who had been ground up and spat out, and now there was just nothing left to fight the wretched hurt back with. Draco couldn't stand to listen. He was a selfish, cowardly bastard, and he needed to either get dead drunk or kill something. He spat on the ground several times and then used the borrowed wand that he was finally trusted with outside of missions to vanish the vomit. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and coughed; ribs and abdominal muscles protesting, all the while unable to obliterate the memory of his father raping the Muggle girl, his treacherous mind still planting Pansy into the memory. He couldn't stop his brain from wondering how it had happened. If she had fought. What his father had said. If he had hurt her physically other than the violation itself. How often it had happened.