Isolation

Chapter 44: Dying

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Hermione had stopped crying ten minutes ago.

After wailing into Draco's chest for less than sixty seconds, she had abruptly stilled, pulled away from him, and then roughly sleeved away the evidence of her tears, like she was ashamed. She'd then squared her shoulders and heaved in a deep breath; a soldier's determination. Draco had asked her if she was alright and she'd replied, "Now is not the time. I should be helping." And then, with a final heartbroken glance at Tonks and Remus, she'd walked away and had barely spoken a fistful of words since.

Draco had wanted to tell her that no one would begrudge her some mourning time, and that she could scream into his shoulder for as long as she needed, but he didn't. He'd considered offering her some form of consolation, despite his discomfort with affectionate gestures, but she'd assured him she was fine when he'd tried to place his hand against her back. She'd shrugged him off, reiterating that she was fine, even though she evidently wasn't.

Had it not been for the crowd, he had a feeling he'd have been tempted to bait her into reacting, like he had after she'd Obliviated her parents. While some people coped well with bottling up all their angst, himself included, he knew Granger did not, but he couldn't provoke her here. There were too many eyes on him; most of them untrusting and hostile. And, no, he didn't give a shit about their curiosity as to why Granger was willingly at his side, but he doubted causing a scene would benefit the situation.

So he just let her be.

He just let her carry on, like everyone else.

The Great Hall was like a factory crossed with a funeral. Everyone in the room seemed to be divided into two categories: the mourners and the workers. Near the entrance of the Great Hall, not too far from Granger and himself, Draco could see Blaise and Lovegood's heads bobbing above the crowd as they helped with cleaning up some of the debris blocking the double doors. Millicent, Tracy, and Miles were working with Lee Jordan and Dean Thomas to hand out blankets, and countless other students were contributing in any way they could. Then there were the others, lingering by the fatality line, immobile with shock and sorrow.

But they were all mourners, really. Some were simply better at shutting the pain out and getting on with what needed to be done. Like Granger.

He and Granger were sat near the line for the wounded now, and she was keeping herself busy treating small cuts and abrasions on the victims and ensuring that they each had a supply of water. It was hardly arduous work; most of the people didn't care enough to have their minor injuries healed, but at least she had something to focus on. Draco couldn't understand how she could bear to be here, though.

The line for the wounded was so much worse than the line for the dead.

Almost all of the healing potions had been exhausted a while ago, before Draco had even entered the Great Hall, according to Slughorn. There was no Skele-Gro, no Blood-Replenishing Potion, no Wound-Cleaning Potion, and as all of the potions required a minimum of three hours brewing time, they wouldn't be available anytime soon. Pomfrey and the professors were trying to aid the victims, but Healing Spells and a half-empty tin of Burn-Healing Paste could only do so much.

The fighters with the most severe injuries simply had to wait in agony, delaying death if they could, and their whimpers and moans were a constant, haunting drone. In the past ten minutes alone, eight people had been carried into the Great Hall by the recovery teams; four had immediately been placed in the line for the dead, two were waiting to have treatable injuries tended, and the final two had died slowly. Painfully. Loudly. Barely twenty feet away from where Draco and Hermione were sat.