It was horrible. He fucking hated it. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to make it better. Just hold her. Her words drilled into Draco's head, and he couldn't tune them out, couldn't ignore them. He just listened quietly, stroking Pansy's lank, uncared for hair as she tried to exorcise her demons onto him. He wondered if this helpless, impotent horror was what Hermione had felt when he'd told her about the things that had happened to him, the things that he had done. It was a relief when she finally stopped talking and dissolved into a quiet weeping that shook her thin shoulders, a bone-deep relief that he felt terribly guilty for feeling.