She can't even stop long enough to take a swig of firewhiskey, and Malfoy nicks it neatly off her as he settles on the bed beside her with a strangled groan. He sits back a little bit further than her, so that his knees settle as tidily over the edge of the bed as hers. Wrinkles from the bedding are imprinted on his cheek and temple, and his lips are raw and bloodied, and alcohol makes a sheen on them over the blood. "I-I-I'm suh-suh-sorry, Malfoy," she hiccups through her flood of crying, and unexpectedly he smiles with those bloodied lips, lopsided and gentle, all written through with drunkenness and hints of pain.