Draco shivered, and flashed a glance at Hermione. She stood gripping Weasley’s hand again; her braid dishevelled and little curls coming free of it, matted with blood. Her back was half-exposed in the rags that were all that remained of the back of her leather armour and shirt beneath – the gashes fucking Goyle had put there dark crimson in the light. Hermione’s jaw was set and her mouth a hard line, and as he stared at her, her eyes slid over to him, her irises dark pools. They looked at each other for a long moment, and Draco could see the stark fear etched in her face, the exhaustion, the determination that surely was all that kept her upright. That and Weasleys’ Wake Up, Draco thought vaguely. He took a step closer to Hermione, wanting to take her hand but unable to, and his chest ached with the want. The small movement caught Bellatrix’s eye and she laughed mockingly, pointing with a flourish of her wand that made Lupin twitch with readiness.