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Potter’s body hanged, lifeless and pliant, from Hagrid’s arms.
Draco felt a distinct emotion inside his stomach, the falling of a heavy object on his intestines, the disillusionment from hope devastating him in a single instant.
If Harry Potter laid dead, then nothing had sense anymore. Not the war, not his mother’s pleading eyes, not Voldemort’s bragging. If Harry Potter laid dead, then his dreams and his hopes were laying too, at the bottom of his feet. They didn’t have enough life in them to give birth to anything more, not even some sprouts to form a wake of mourning. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t have space to mourn.
His father’s voice rose timidly, calling him. Once so confident, the shadow of Lucius now stood pale and old behind Voldemort, a hand extended. If he had nothing else in the world, then he would take his family.
He began to walk towards him, feet unsure on the slippery stones, and he would have made it if only that sodding git of Neville Longbottom didn’t began a speech. He didn’t really listen to it, too absorbed in watching his parents, and then Harry. He didn’t dare cross the few meters of no man’s land, in fear of being hit by a wandering spell aimed at Longbottom.
Neville unsheathed the sword of Gryffindor, and someone yelled: “Look!”
For a horrifying second, he thought that Hagrid’s had loosened his grip on Harry and that his body had fallen to the ground, like an old coat. But the next moment, that old ragged coat rolled over, and Harry Potter stood.
The buds that had withered now blossomed, strong and vibrant, in his chest. Hope shook its tattered feathers, and Draco stopped looking at his father and forgot his extended hand.
When he entered the castle with all of his school mates, the only Slytherin not running in the opposite direction, he felt right. For the first time in a very long period, it was just right.