She had been there the night that he had fallen into the Fyre. She had watched him die, she had watched the pain flash through Draco’s eyes. She had felt his magic even then, the cold ice of it suppressing the hot licks of fire. She hated brooms and somehow she had ended up fighting for her life on one, but when she felt the pulse of his magic she immediately turned her broom back toward the danger. Back towards him. Harry had flown past her so quickly, she had never even had a chance, but she would have. Years later, Harry told her that it still haunted Malfoy that he hadn’t been able to save him. He had led Crabbe and Goyle into the mission that had ultimately resulted in Crabbe’s death and he’d blamed himself for years. He probably still blamed himself.