"It – it doesn't matter," she said at last, her voice a dead thing. Pansy drew breath, still avoiding Draco's eyes, her cheeks flushing blotchy pink – with anger or shame, or... Draco didn't know, but he wished he could fix it. He gripped her cold, clammy hand tighter as she went on. "They're all the same, in the end. Every last damned one of them. Blood purity? There's nothing pure about any of us." She said the last fiercely, and her hand squeezed around Draco's fingers so tight that they ground together painfully.