The silence was palpable, your could hear your heartbeat in your ears. Your grip on Draco’s hand tightened as his loosened on yours.

The Dark Lord’s eyes were on him, you hated the wicked smile that spread on his mangled features, hated the confident laugh. What you hated more was Lucius and Narcissa’s beckoning, their pleads for Draco to join them.

You whispered, a plead for him to do what’s right.

Though fear was a tangling, constricting emotion that squeezed and suffocated rational thought. Draco’s own fear practically latched to his heart and his brain, his hand fell from yours as he crossed the battlefield.

Draco hated it. That look of betrayal in your eyes, the tears that welled up. He gazed at you from behind his parents. He wanted to scream- to throw up, to die on the spot for making you feel like that- to cause that heartbreak behind your eyes.

But he was a coward.

Draco was a coward.

You knew you should have expected it- gryffindors were the brave ones, slytherins were the kniving ones. Whatever was easiest, whatever meant their personal triumph, it didn’t matter the hearts they stepped on.

Draco’s eyes were leaking. Pathetic, he scolded himself, Stop crying you’re a Malfoy. A Death Eater.

Yet as he was pulled away, as his head turned away from you, that nauseous, scratching, gouging feeling of guilt bit at his skin like a viper injecting its venomous selfishness. Draco wanted to stay with you, but after all, he was a coward.