Shadow was dead. Draco knew it was foolish to mourn for a creature that was never technically alive but that knowledge did not halt the aching slice of pain as it split his broken heart in two. To lose his mother, father and saviour all in one war was an undertaking Draco never knew himself capable of bouncing back from. If it wasn't for Luna, choking the life from Dolohov’s lungs - Draco imagined he would have ripped at his eyeballs with his finger nails until the Death Eater begged for mercy. That's when he would start peeling the skin from his extremities. There was no death suitable for a man so sick and twisted, but Draco would fantasise about it for the next few years at least. 