Draco spat on the floor, saliva flooding his mouth as the port he'd drank threatened to make its reappearance. Misplaced pride, Nymphadora had said. Draco stared at his empty glass sitting forlornly on the table top, mouth twisted in a self-deprecating sneer – maybe she was right. Draco didn't really know. He swallowed hard, jaws clamped shut and teeth gritted, trying to will himself not to vomit. His left eyelid began to twitch and he swore and clapped his hand clumsily over it in an attempt to stop the spasms. All Draco knew was that it was so much fucking easier to just drink, and drink, and try to ignore his clawing feelings of regret.