He doesn't know why, but somehow he's shocked at the sight of Hermione Granger's dead body. Perhaps its lack of determination in her eyes, filled instead with a rather dull brown emptiness. Perhaps it was the way her body is draped around that of Ron Weasley, ever the dynamic sidekicks. Perhaps it's the blood trickling from the side of her head. Perhaps it's the fact that it's red.
Because despite all logical fallacies, he'd expected her blood to be thick and brown.
She was a Mudblood. She wasn't deserving of the red pool of blood swarming around her and Weasley. Her blood wasn't pure.
He knew, however, that he was wrong; he couldn't differentiate her blood from Weasley's. As much as he hated Weasley, he'd known he was pureblood.
Everything that had made up his fragmented life was a lie.
On some subliminal level, he guessed he knew; he'd murdered more than one Mudblood. But he'd always thought Granger was different.
But there it was. All the evidence that proved him wrong, sitting on the ground, dead.
Draco Malfoy supposed then that was why he pointed his wand at his own chest and muttered two small, but very big, words.