Draco bows his head. "Think of Tuscany, mate," he begs, "think of Tuscany and us in a bright fucking red convertible like a couple of Muggles and we were just kids, we were just kids and I fucking loved you. You and me in the orchard under the orange trees. You and me, you and me, Blaise. Think of us in the dining room, and the record player, and the window we broke that one night, and the garden, and -- and it was so perfect, and I loved you, and it was just you and me, okay?" Blaise doesn't answer him, and from what Hermione can see, he’s slumped over, nothing holding him up. It’s done it. The curse has killed him. Draco lets out a painful noise, "Blaise?" he asks, like he expects an answer. 