"Right. Is everybody ready?" Lupin asked briskly as he hooked a cloak around his shoulders, and Nymphadora dropped a quick kiss on his cheek. Draco stared at his booted feet, left hand resting on his borrowed wand in its holster, rolling his shoulders and breathing slow and deep. He was miserably sober – not all the firewhiskey had spilled from the bottle Hermione had stolen from him, but after they'd fucked, Draco hadn't been able to bring himself to drink it, for some reason. It felt like betraying her, which was stupid because he'd already done that by screwing her and basically telling her to fuck right off straight after.