“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”
The whisper was barely audible, her lips were an inch from his ear, her head bent so low that her long hair shielded his face from the onlookers.
“Yes,” he breathed back.
He felt the hand on his chest contract: her nails pierced him. Then it was withdrawn. She had sat up.
“He is dead!” Narcissa Malfoy called to the watchers.
I don’t have much love, sympathy, or respect for the Malfoys—but this moment is probably one of my favorites in all the Harry Potter books.