Draco's world had been burned to cinders and ash; yes, the pillars that once upheld the Malfoy name had been reduced to thickened piles of soot, weighing him down, suffocating him, not that he didn't deserved it. Sifting through the charred masses around him, sweeping away the heavy substance was a beautiful, delicate hand, reaching out and offering his salvation, pulling him out of a massive pit of decay and inspiring him to rise from the dust. For that hand of grace, he would do anything.