Draco ran down the slope beside Hermione, all too aware it was Weasley clutching her hand, not him. It should be him, he thought. It was surprising how the little things, the minor things, could still be irritating, even when far worse had happened – was happening. He nearly fell several times as they pushed on down the hill towards Hagrid’s hut, his exhausted body begging for rest. Draco’s maimed right arm hurt the worst; it was even more useless now and with every jolting step the broken ends of the bones grated together, the pain make his vision dance with black spots.