Draco drops to his knees and fights to pull air into his lungs. I will not cry, his conscious mind insists, even as his body is wracked with sobs, and he can’t get enough oxygen. When he is finally breathing again, he stands and unclenches his hands to brush the tears off his face. His nails have cut so deeply into his palms that his hands are bleeding, and his face is smeared with blood before he realizes it. Lupin, who has waited patiently and silently, conjures him a handkerchief, and Draco wipes away the tears and blood as well as he can. "I’m sorry," he mutters.