The numbness was overwhelming. It was almost as if I could cover the fact that it didn't happen, that if I just bathed in that numbness, I wouldn't have been kicked out, if I could just stop breathing, Harry would be alive.
If I could just close my eyes, the morning would bring salvation.
This had to be a dream. It had to be.
But I knew it wasn't.
I lay down next to Harry, touching his still-warm hand, and closed my eyes.
The morning was awful. Reality set in. I had done what Voldemort had failed to do eight times.
"Oh, Harry," I whispered, my eyes leaking, "I'm so, so sorry."
The tears were uncontrollable. They came with a gut-wrenching pain, one that was there and stubbornly refused to leave.
And the guilt! I had killed the world's most famous wizard, something that doesn't happen every day.
"Harry," I whispered again, "please." I didn't know what I was pleading for, nor did I care. "I'm so sorry." I repeated.
"Don't be. It wasn't your fault."
I turn, and see Malfoy standing there. My eyes narrow. I can't tell him the truth. "Was it yours, then? Seems like something you would do."
Hurt and sadness flickered across his face, but it was brief.
The sound of walking filled the air. "We need to go."
"But what about Harry?"
"Potter will have to wait. Unless you want to be dead like him, Longbottom, we need to go. Now." He offered me his hand, and I took it. He pulled me up.
And we ran.