einai
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They knew. Every one of them. With their glances on the street and their little sad smiles—they knew. Knew he had been useless. Knew he had stood helpless while Harry Potter, the world’s bloody hero, faded away one hospital sunrise at a time. They knew he had failed.
Draco had failed at many things in his life. This, though—this was the failure that sealed him. A failure without honor, without resistance.
He had no map for this kind of war. No dueling stance for it. No charm to cast. No curse to reverse. The battlefield had been sterile, clinical, and pitiless. Death wore scrubs. Carried clipboards. Smelled of disinfectant.
Now the world sang. And Draco only heard the hollow echo of absence.
The Boy Who Lived was now dead.