to be or not to be| sixth year | draco malfoy

violets goodbye-the end

"a white lilac in the street."
-

second pov

Violet's body plummeted from the tower—a silent, tragic descent—and the last thing the Death Eaters caught was a scattering of her wild, unruly curls, drifting like fragments of a forgotten dream. In that split second, Draco's breath hitched. His heart, once so carefully guarded, shattered into countless splinters. No curse or injury could replicate this raw, searing pain.

For a breathless moment, the world stopped. His perfectly styled blonde hair, a symbol of the facade he'd maintained for so long, began to fall across his face—an ironic echo of the chaos now unraveling inside him. While the Death Eaters' eyes darted to the balcony, Draco slipped from the astronomy tower, driven by a single, desperate thought: he did not care about serving Voldemort or even facing death anymore...
He cared about her.

A distant boom rent the sky, a cruel reminder that even as the world crumbled, life marched on. Draco raced through silent corridors, his footsteps heavy with guilt and regret. Each echo carried the weight of a promise broken, of words left unspoken. His choked sobs were soft, hidden in the darkness, yet every beat of his heart screamed with loss.

Bursting through the double doors that led to the courtyard, his grey eyes desperately searched the cold, indifferent pavement. And then—there, beneath a pallid sky—he saw her.
Violet lay sprawled on the ground, lifeless. Her cherished curls, now tangled and disheveled, veiled half her face, leaving behind only hollow, unseeing eyes. The ebony dress she'd worn, once a testament to her quiet strength, lay crumpled around her like the remnants of a shattered promise.

Every step toward her was a battle. Guilt and regret pressed upon him like unforgiving stones. He staggered to her side until, unable to bear the sight any longer, he collapsed onto his knees before her broken form. In that unbearable stillness, the memories surged—fleeting glimpses of secret afternoons spent together, the gentle laughter that once warmed the corridors, and the unspoken dreams they had shared in silence. Now, all that remained were echoes of what could have been.

With trembling, almost reverent hands, he reached out and cradled her limp body as if by holding her he might defy fate. "I'm so sorry, Violet..." he gasped between tortured sobs. His voice was a broken litany, each word a plea to a ghost that could no longer answer. Every beat of his heart threatened to splinter him further. In that moment, he believed with a crushing certainty that her fall was somehow his fault—that every cold, prideful moment, every chance he'd squandered, had led to this irreversible loss.

The faint trace of her rosy perfume, the scent of long-forgotten spring afternoons, invaded his senses and twisted his cries into ragged, desperate whispers: "I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry..." Over and over, as if reciting a final prayer in vain.

He buried his face in her hair—a cascade of curls he had both adored and resented in secret. He had longed to caress and braid those locks, to intertwine his own fate with hers, but fate had intervened cruelly, leaving him with nothing but the bitter tang of regret.

For a long, agonizing moment, he clung to her, the quiet sound of his grief mingling with the memories of laughter and whispered secrets. Slowly, his sobs softened into shuddering breaths. He brushed away a stray lock of hair from her pale face with trembling fingers and, with one last, haunted look, etched her image into his soul.

It was then that he became aware of another presence—a blurred figure approaching through the haze of his sorrow. Hermione stood there, her eyes glistening with shared tears, silently bearing witness to his devastation. Her presence, unexpected yet achingly familiar, deepened the pain, a silent confirmation that the tragedy was too vast to be borne alone.