He's not sure why they keep doing this – why they keep loving each other when it is obvious to anyone that they were damned from the beginning. They know the chances of both of them surviving the war are slim to nothing and hope, in this case, is futile. Their both powerful, their on opposite sides and neither of them are expendable. One of them has to die. It's not difficult to figure out who it will be.
--
They're not wrong. He's not shocked that it is Draco and not him. After all, he is the Boy-Who-Wont-Fucking-Die and Draco, whilst more powerful than he is, has enemies on both sides and not nearly as much luck as him. He is shocked, however, or he would be if he could currently feel anything, that Draco's killer is none other than Lucius Malfoy. He remembers a time when at learning this he would have flown into fury. But now Draco is in his arms – bleeding and paler than usual with eyes that once shone with love and determination and are now dull and glazed over from the death's capture – and all he can think is he wishes that things were different, that he could have saved him. Still, they'd both known that this would happen and they'd both taken precautions in case one should not survive. He pats the potion in his pocket knowing that they would not be separated for long. First he had to finish the war.
He'd promised Draco he wouldn't stop fighting until the battle was over.