Listening to Goyle's snores, Malfoy began to think, his mind churning with unease.
If he just spoke up, Will would be finished. He would be sent to Azkaban and receive the punishment he deserved.
Harry was dead, and he knew the truth yet had kept it to himself... It felt like a heavy stone pressing down on his conscience.
Two impulses fought fiercely in his mind. On one side were his fear of Will and his concern for his parents' safety as well as his own; on the other was his guilty conscience.
His father Lucius's face surfaced in Malfoy's mind.
His father had stressed it over and over: he must befriend Will, fit in with the High Tower, and earn Will's trust... His father had even hinted that Will had some connection to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
If Will really was working for the Dark Lord, then reporting him would mean betraying the Dark Lord, betraying the master the Malfoy family had always served.
And the consequences... Malfoy shuddered. He dared not imagine what happened to traitors. The Malfoy family might be ruined beyond all hope of recovery.
He remembered Potter's falling figure again, and the Sword of Gryffindor drenched in basilisk blood.
He hated Potter. The arrogant, conceited fool had refused to be his friend. Scarhead had stolen all the attention, making him, the Malfoy heir, look like a joke.
But... watching him die like that had brought Malfoy none of the satisfaction he had imagined. Instead, there was an indescribable... emptiness, and even a faint trace of admiration he refused to acknowledge.
At least Potter had fought openly and honorably, dying to protect others.
Will, on the other hand, only dared to lurk in the shadows and control monsters, like some despicable assassin.
In the oppressive night, a mixture of