(...) Draco. Is he Alive?"
Girl. Brazil. Slytherin. Malfoy's family. Luneville. Minerva Mcgonagall. Sunstorm192.
“You,” said Voldemort, and there was a bang and a small shrick of pain. “Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead.”
Harry did not know who had been sent to verify. He could only lie there, with his heart thumping traitorously, and wait to be examined, but at the same time nothing, small comfort through it was, that Voldemort was wary of approaching him, that Voldemort suspected that all had not gone to plan.
Hands, softer than he had been expecting, touched Harry’s face, and felt his heart. He could hear the woman’s fast breathing, her pounding of life against his ribs.
“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”
The whisper was barely audible, her lips were an inch from his ear, her head bent so low that her long hair shielded his face from the onlookers.
“Yes,” he breathed back.
He felt the hand on his chest contract: her nails pierced him. Then it was withdrawn. She had sat up.
“He is dead!” Narcissa Malfoy called to the watchers.