"Don't put yourself out for us," Draco grated out, the words dry and deathly bitter on his tongue, even though he understood Shacklebolt's decision. Hermione was one girl; one mediocre fighter not worth risking other peoples" lives for, especially when they were all exhausted or wounded, vastly outnumbered, and all but assured to fail in their attempts to retrieve her. But he had to try. Johns and Shacklebolt both stuck their heads in through the doors, scanning for Hermione, and then sent reductos blasting through at the three bunched up Death Eaters tearing towards the now open doors. The explosions ripped chunks out of the floor, puffing up more dust and grit into the air, a screen, a shelter for Draco, and he gripped his wand harder in his hand and went in.