Unlike the day before, when his faculties had been mostly intact and his self-consciousness made even a familial hug an awkward ordeal, now he was utterly and completely broken. In a way, it was like Fred all over again - he had only just reunited with the woman who had been his first love, had been given the first few signs of forgiveness for his past sins, only to lose her. This time, however, there was no Rookwood to chase after, no Battle to continue fighting to exhaust himself of this terrible rage at the unfairness of it all.
This time, the only person he could hate was himself.
When Ron reached for him, he went willingly, clinging to the only solid thing nearby - his brother. His grief, regret and guilt poured out of him in uncontrollable tears as his body shook.
He didn't ask why, or how. He didn't need to know the latter, and the former, he could guess. Either it was related to the nightmares and the others that had been killed, or Penelope had made one too many inquiries into her brother's death. And even that didn't matter, in the end. It had happened, plain and simple, and he didn't know how he could live with himself.
Because it was his fault.
"She doesn't deserve to die," he finally said, his voice rough and raw. "She was beautiful, and bright... and I killed her."