It was rare that Draco found himself entirely at a loss for words, but this was one of those moments. Instead of dimming memory, the alcohol was relaxing his inner wards, bringing down his defences and letting memories bleed into his mind. He took a quick gulp, trying to remind himself to drink more slowly this time, and not finish the glass right away.
And he knew one thing could have been worse, in those memories. Bellatrix could have forced him to participate, and Draco thanked whatever had stayed her hand and let him remain only watchful, trying to school his expression into haughty disdain.
"It is in the past," he said, tone more rough than he intended, yet curt and quick, as if the memory could be cut away. It couldn't -- he'd remember it, long after he slept, he knew this. And was it entirely gone? Recent events showed perhaps not, and Draco rubbed the sleeve over the pair of marks with an absent expression before saying dryly, "I'm not certain there is enough alcohol in the world to compensate for a conversation about our sordid pasts."