"Does it still hurt?" Pansy asked him abruptly, breaking the long silence, and he started up from his drifting thoughts. He thought about it for a moment; how much it hurt, how often, whether he should tell Pansy, or if it was too private, something he didn't want to lay bare to her. Pansy had a habit of using a person's weak spots, their cracks in the shell, and either ripping them wide open or jabbing into them with needle-like precision. He didn't particularly want to be her target today. A drunk Pansy could be a nasty creature, as he knew from unfortunate past experiences at school.