It was unbearable, and he was only imagining it. How must she have felt? To have her friend's – her ex-boyfriend's – father doing...that to her? It made him want to think of other, buried memories, their graves best left undisturbed and he felt his stomach quail and spasm and clamped his mouth shut, wrapped his arm around his middle and told himself not to throw up. Not to throw up. Shit. There was nothing around to kill, so drink it was, Draco thought, mouth screwed up with the taste of bile clawing at his throat and sour-stale on his tongue, eyebrows scrunched down as he shuffled for the stairs still clutching his middle, leaving Pansy in his room sobbing desperately and all alone, and Merlin he was a fucking arsehole.