As the crowd gathers, a collective hush falls over the grounds of Hogwartsschool. Among the students, Draco stands frozen, his usual sneer replaced by a haunting expression of regret and anguish. He struggles to suppress the wave of emotions crashing within him—emotions he has carefully buried for years beneath a façade of hostility and rivalry.

His piercing grey eyes are locked on Hargrid, who walks laboriously under the weight of Harry's limp, lifeless body. Behind him, the chilling presence of Voldemort and his death eaters looms like a dark specter, their triumphant smirks twisting Draco's stomach into knots. The sight of Harry-the boy who had been an unyielding thorn in his side and yet unknowingly the beacon of his secret affection cuts deeper than any spell or curse ever could.

Draco's mind races. He replayed every choice he had made, every cruel word, every moment he'd allowed himself to follow the path carved by his father. What if he had been braver? What if he had stepped up when it mattered, defied the expectations of his name, and helped Harry instead of fighting against him? It's too late now. The overwhelming guilt weighs on him, suffocating his chest.

Tears sting at the corner of his eyes, but he forces them back.

He's a Malfoy; Malfoys don't cry. But in this moment, his name feels meaningless—a hollow shield for the broken boy trembling inside.

He wants to scream, to rush forward and rip Harry from Hagrid's arms, but his legs refuse to move. His head tells him that Harry is just an enemy, nothing more. Yet his heart, heavy with a desperate ache, betrays him. Draco doesn't notice the murmurs spreading through the crowd or the movement of the figures around him. All he sees is Harry— his messy hair, glasses askew, the shadow of a hero now reduced to unbearable stillness.