She was nearly to him, spells flying above her head and past her that she didn't even see. All she could see was Draco, lying on his back staring up at the stars, his hand clutched trembling and weak to his throat, blood bubbling so thick, so fast between his fingers. Hermione slid in a tumble to her knees beside him, dittany in her shaking fingers, dropping her wand and ripping his hand away from his throat, sprinkling the potion frantically onto the gaping wound opened across his throat. Oh god, it was so awful. She wanted to vomit and scream and cry, but instead she dropped the useless dittany that had barely made a Merlin-damned difference, and clamped her hand over the grotesque gash.