It was awkward like nothing else, sitting there on the end of his bed while Pansy lay back against the pillows, cradling a bottle of booze and staring at him with big, hollow, half-amused eyes. He'd expected her to want to cry on his shoulder or something equally distasteful, and had braced himself for the ordeal of comforting the girl who was weeping over what his father had done to her. He'd steeled himself to face the guilt and shame and utter fucked-up-ness of it. Instead she had been as collected and calm as anyone could be in her situation, although the puffiness around her eyes made it clear she had been crying. But she wasn't crying now; no, now she was playing at superior detachment shot through with a sharp bitterness, and Draco found himself wishing she would just collapse into fountains of messy tears.