Draco was sure he was dead. There was no conceivable explanation for how one’s body could feel so broken and mangled, and still maintain life. He placed a hand to his bare chest and felt it rise with his breathing. Interesting, it seems that he was wrong. If this is what it feels like to live, he wondered, maybe death would be more forgiving. He’s unsure if he could really do it, actually end his own life. Who would mourn him? Blaise, Theo, and Pansy perhaps? His mother would obviously be devastated, but maybe it would lessen the burden she felt having to constantly worry about his protection. He was a disgrace to his father, so no loss there. In the end, he was still convinced he’d die before the war was over, so it was a pointless exercise to consider doing it himself. He could think of several Order members who would be happy to turn their wands against him.