He shrugged, fingers tapping at his glass, eyes on the table instead of Nymphadora's accusing face. "I made my bed. Now I have to lie in it, don't I?" Draco was prickly with the defensiveness that came with knowing he was wrong, and he scooped up his grubby glass and swilled down some more of the raw Muggle shit. He coughed and spluttered as it ripped sickening down his throat, balling up his hand and pressing it against his stomach as it protested. Cheap port wine was the devil's own invention.