Draco was used to the world ending.
It happened when he got the dark mark.
It happened when he saw Harry Potter’s lifeless body in Hagrid’s arms.
It happened when he was sentenced to a summer in Azkaban.
And it was happening again, right in front of him.
His world was ending, for real this time.
The ache in his chest was familiar and yet entirely new in its horrors.
Harry was leaving. Leaving him, that is.
He thought the death of a savior or the scorch of his marred flesh or the three months he spent in hell would be his breaking points, his rock bottoms.
But it turns out nothing compares to losing the love of your life.
Losing is a funny word. Losing implies that somebody is winning, just not you.
And Draco supposed that was true, but the tortured look on Harry’s face as he spoke didn't look like winning, it looked like death.
Of course, Draco was the one facing death.
He was the one who wouldn't make it out alive.
How could he?
There was no coming back from a love like theirs had been.
You don't move on when you're left behind by a god.
You don't keep going, you don't push through, you burn up.
And here he was, burning.
And here he would stay, burning.