Draco had just killed Blaise. Did the universe expect him to fight his father now, too? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. His father would kill him if he could. Draco knew that, and that knowledge hurt worse than his shattered arm. And Draco still couldn’t bring himself to think of killing his father. His father. No. That was asking too much. Draco desperately examined the masked Death Eaters, trying to figure out which one was his father. Hoping Bellatrix was just playing a cruel joke.