Draco’s chest heaved with grief and exhaustion as he stumbled down the hill next to Hermione. He had begged Blaise to just go, just walk away. But Blaise had made Draco do it. And the worst thing was that he had actually done it. He had done it. Draco had killed the closest thing he’d had to a friend. He felt dirty now – and it wasn’t just the fact that he had killed Blaise. Draco’s soul felt dirty; ashes and grease, like the Killing Curse had left a residue. Another permanent mark – except this one was invisible. But Draco wouldn’t take it back, even if he could. He stumbled on a tussock of grass and a warm hand grabbed his broken arm – further up, away from the break – and steadied him. Hermione. Rasping breaths filled the night air as Draco, Hermione, and Weasley paused for a moment, catching their breath.