CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

A FRENCH MUGGLE, PHILOSOPHER AND author once wrote to his lover, "If you must die, I'll envy even the Earth that wraps your body."

There was madness in that whole concept—in those words. I had abused that madness from the start, when Bridgette Monet had swooned over the deceased French muggle's words, choosing to fill her dorm room with the written word of mostly Albert Camus—a mere muggle who according to her held entire universes in the passion of his words. She had called his words poetry, but she and I had always had a different definition of what that word truly entailed.

But now, as that quote rivaled its way to my brain, amidst the intense tragedy of my despair, I realized that those words hadn't just been words. They had been the passion Bridgette had made them out to be, all along.

Perhaps even she hadn't entirely been aware of the depth of Camus' words, and now as she lay askew on the destroyed ground of the Schalun Castle ruin, she would never hold the tenacity to know anymore.

It was sheer irony, that the words echoed in my brain now as I gripped onto a rune that the blatant force of my fury and despair offered up to me, when I had thrown a silk pillow at Bridgette's face when she had dramatically recited them to me in our sixth year Beauxbatons' dorm room.

I had decided then that Albert Camus wasn't the muggle philosopher I wanted to indulge my interest in, and instead I had stuck to muggle poets like Edmond Jabès, Amadis Jamyn and more recently the volume of Louise Glück. It didn't matter to me that the poetry I consumed while Bridgette obsessed over authors and philosophers elaborating upon the meaning of love, was written down by mostly muggles, for my judgment concerning the vanity of muggles still held itself firm in its place.

A blast occurred then, yanking me out of my thoughts as my raised hands jolted with the intention, the rune I had used swiftly vanishing at my side as every single death eater head I had earlier counted outside the castle ruin dropped dead in their new acquired spots.

Lucius Malfoy had ordered them all to charge, not one second after he had killed Bridgette Monet, and little did he realize that unlike his own tendency for observation, my wrath followed no time spectrum.

And there he was then, gaping at the writhing bodies of the death eater army he had brought, as they shook with rapid seizures, before the darkness and life in them died simultaneously—all before they had even neared me and friends. Like flies on a checkerboard, the Schlaun castle ruin was littered with death eater forms, displaying the fury of perhaps Merlin himself, through hands that belonged only to me.

Bridgette Monet, an eighteen year old, seventh year Beauxbatons student who cared for passionate love poems and quotes and was an advocate for most invariably underrated things in life along with undoubtedly being my best friend, had died of the killing curse aimed by Lucius Malfoy.

A girl I had known for six years of my life, an irrevocably flawed yet vigorous girl, who had reduced me to the brink of collapse in most moments in my life, catching my hate and fury by its throat and challenging me with her seemingly adverse views on life and friendship. When all along it were my views that had been adverse. When you held unmoving confidence in your own, everything else that people around you said or did was adverse to you.

Bridgette hadn't known a life like mine. She had come from a privileged background, with a wealthy family and elder sisters who were Aurors working for the French government of magic.

And it was that, coupled with her tendency to only spot the brighter areas of life that had kept me from confiding to her about my own true background for years. I had made our friendship battered. I had broken its legs and she had forced it to crawl.

Until she couldn't any longer, until she was a corpse askew on the castle ruin floor in a foreign country, all because I had finally confided and brought her into the mess of my life.

Lien du sauveur, I thought about the bond. She had died, and now according to the bond forged of magic, I would be cursed to remember Bridgette Monet until my own dying breath. And it wouldn't feel like a curse, it would never be a curse.

My ears caught onto Elias Dupont's sobs, and the pieces my heart was in shattered further like glass as though there was still something in them left to be broken. Elias never cried. He was the smart posh boy, the sophisticated charmer who made girls at Beauxbatons devour pages of boring things on specific topics like machinery and politics just so that they could not be caught off guard if they tried to have a conversation with him—just so that they could impress him.

He was the selfishly intelligent boy, forcing himself to educate himself on matters that mattered only to him—he was the bane of many Beauxbatons' professors' existences. Elias Dupont never cried.

I didn't look at his form, hunched over Bridgette Monet's cadaver behind me. I had laid Harry Potter's unconscious body beside her—an act I had done without any thinking involved for I needed only to put Harry away for a moment, and give my rage the center stage. No one else made a single sound as they stood around my dead best friend, and I couldn't bring myself to join in their mourning. How did it help anyone, to bring a tortured burning heart near other similarly hurt ones?

This wasn't the medieval times, where one act of confiding vulnerability can have you thrust in collective hysteria, forming you into a cult of frenzied solace where nobody felt any different than you did. Once you got roped in, you couldn't be roped out. And somebody needed to be on the outside, even if others gave in.

But who really was there to give in? Only Elias, Gabriel and I. Gabriel had only ever been annoyed with Bridgette's presence, it was only Elias who I could share my sentiments with. We had no one else, our other friends from Beauxbatons—Louis, Raphael—they were lives and times away.

It was only Viktor who I could sense in my periphery, though I refused to look beside me and acknowledge his presence. I wanted to turn to look if Dimitrova was crouched beside Elias, I wanted to see if the Bulgarian national Quidditch team beater was as taken with mourning. He had loved her for days compared to the six years I had spent battling my feelings towards my best friend. But did any of that matter anymore?

Viktor Krum shifted beside me, his sword had long shifted to his left hand while he now sported his thick wand in his right—pointed up at the only standing death eater as though my blinding anger needed the Durmstrang support in finishing this last piece off.

"You are monstrous," Lucius Malfoy spat, his voice slightly shaking in his fear now that his army lay dead at our feet.

His fear was the result of only me, the man didn't seem to care for Krum's aim or his presence, and that fact alone led a wave of satisfaction surge through me.

His son, Draco Malfoy, deflated of his previous boldness, had dragged himself to a corner—the boy very much awake in his frantic consciousness as his eyes darted between his father and I. He hadn't moved his limbs, and therein lay the result of my fury, I had crippled him.

I felt the guilt of it like a thorn stuck in each muscle in my body, and it made me realize how grief took away most parts of you but left some things behind as well. A sick twisted generosity.

"The dark lord will rip you apart," The remaining death eater pressed, his beady eyes baring all his hatred at me, his son's predicament long forgotten.

"Do you think your heuristics make you immortal?" He threw his head back and let out a bold laugh.

"It is only the dark lord that is immortal. He came back, and such powers like yours belong only in him."

The hot fury had carved into me now. It had settled. I was on fire, and I burned, but I didn't feel the startling agony of it anymore. The collective anguish was so loud that it had dulled in my senses, accepting me as I had accepted it.

So I felt nothing at the man's spiteful words. He was merely afraid for his life. When people were afraid for their lives, they relied on summoning that one last wave of confidence that came from spewing hatred and meaningless threats, hoping that it all canceled out. But it never did. Life wasn't arithmetic.

A new rune was drawn at my side as I lifted the hateful death eater into the air above with a flick of my fingers, choosing to subject him to the agony his own son had been about to perish to.

Clouds moved in the sky, a streak of light infused softly into the vast dark canvas above. Daylight was emerging, gently, softly, ready to provide consolation for the terrors the night had weaved behind its back. But consolation was all the daylight could give, it didn't hold the power to undo what had been done.

Lucius Malfoy's clamor for his wand was useless, as his limbs were spread apart forcefully in the air, mimicking one of the drawings Leonardo da Vinci had sketched of the flying man. A drawing I had only ever seen in framed pristine glass in Professor Basil's classroom.

I fisted my hand and the death eater yelled out, his face contorting in agony as he fought to regain control of his limbs that were bent on ripping themselves away as they stretched out further, ramrod straight.

Draco Malfoy cried out, calling out to his father in vain because the man—who had predominantly only cared about himself in life—was bent on continuing to do so in death as well.

Viktor Krum's wand lowered, his hard gaze fixated on the torture unfolding in the air above.

Then, the upper limbs came off. They tore like a scarecrow's might if the farmer tugged too hard, bits and pieces of bone fragments sticking out at the shoulders of the death eater as he let out a shout that was deeper than it was higher. The arms flew off with force, and Draco Malfoy screamed, blinking as a spray of blood dripped across his pale facial skin. He was closer to his father's torture, as though he was hoping to catch the man were he to fall.

Hot tears rushed down my face, as I remembered what the death eater had done. I forced myself to repeat it inside my head. He killed Bridgette, he killed Bridgette. I will never be able to talk to her again. He killed Bridgette.

Then the agony gave me more strength, the force doubled—courtesy of the hate and anger. Lucius Malfoy's right leg twisted at an odd angle, and it seemed it would tear a chunk of his entire torso away with it. The sight was jarring, blood fell and splashed on the Schalun castle ruin rubble like somebody had let loose a tap. Draco Malfoy screamed once again, and ushered himself against the wall tighter, just to get away from drenching himself in his father's blood.

Viktor grunted beside me, before he spun to look at me. My eyes were fixed ahead, not daring to miss a second of the torture the vicious man above clearly deserved.

"Dominique, that's enough," The Durmstrang let out, his voice breaking in the manner that told me he was trying to hold his nausea at bay.

I didn't look at him, didn't give a sign that I had heard. My eyes burned because I hadn't blinked in so long, I refused to tear them away from the drawing and quartering of Lucius Malfoy.

"Dominique, stop," Viktor shouted, his face close to mine as he tried to meet my eyes.

The warmth of him so near was so strong, that I had physical trouble and couldn't ignore him any longer. I turned my eyes away, viciously glaring at Krum as I met his anthracite ones with fervor.

"You Durmstrangs need to stop telling me what to do," I seethed, my tone hard as Lucius Malfoy continued his agonized shouting in front of us.

Viktor blinked, taken aback. But he recovered quickly, bearing his gaze into mine again.

"He will die, but you need to stop," He swallowed. "Spending yourself on this isn't worth it."

"What would you know about the worth?" I cried out, infuriated at his tone and audacity, when he clearly had witnessed everything that had happened.

"She was nothing to you!"

"Dominique!" Viktor gripped my raised elbow and yanked it down. My concentration faltered, and so did my strength as Lucius Malfoy dropped down, his form smashing against the blood drenched rubble below.

I fought to retrieve my arm, but Viktor's hold was tight and firm as he kept yanking it back towards him, my struggle in vain.

"Let go of me," I screamed, my hard resolve spent. "Je vais le tuer. I'll butcher him."

"That won't bring her back!" The Durmstrang pressed, trying to hold me back.

But I squirmed and struggled with all my strength, thrashing around as I whipped my head towards the broken form of Lucius Malfoy. He wasn't moving, and Draco Malfoy had stopped screaming, his eyes—now blank—were fixated on his father's unmoving form.

"Il l'a tuée!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, pieces of my hair in front of my face as I thrashed still, trying to get loose of Viktor's desperate hold.

"Il l'a tuée et je le tuerai!"

The Durmstrang grabbed me with both of his hands, trapping me inside the cage of his hard muscled arms like I was a rabid animal that needed to be tranquilized, and this time his warmth did nothing to console the fire inside me.

"Cela ne la ramènera pas!" A third voice shouted, and Gabriel Chevrolet leapt towards me, his eyes shining with tears as they bore into mine with fervor. "Et elle n'aurait pas voulu que tu fasses ça!"

I breathed hard as I stilled, my eyes softening in realization. Bridgette wouldn't have wanted this. She would've wanted the man dead, yes, but this? All this blood and torture? What would she think of me?

"S'il te plaît, arrête, Dominique," Gabriel swallowed, and just his tone alone halted the beast ravaging inside me.

I had seen emotions on people today that I had never thought possible. Out of character expressions and suppressions, and I was done with it all. It was torturous and I wanted it to stop.

Viktor bent his head, pressing his forehead against the side of my still head.

"I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry," He murmured, and I broke down then.

I started sinking to my knees but Krum held me up and I sobbed against his chest, my wails echoing wildly in the now haunted Schalun castle, tainted with the blood of friend and foe alike. As I despaired, I felt Gabriel Chevrolet's fingers interweave slightly with my own from beside me as my left hand lay limp under the tight hold of Viktor Krum, his own arms wrapped around me unmoving. Chevrolet stood near, his consolation a dilemma as he hesitantly only brushed his fingers against mine, as though he was a child lost at a fair, at a loss to everything and everyone around him.

But what appalled me in that moment was their nearness. Were they not disgusted by me? My thirst for revenge stank in the air around us—a sharp rusting iron scent that felt like inhaling blood. It made my stomach churn.

With my great uncle it was only sorrow that had pressed me to take his life. I had not done it out of pure vengeance. I was in control for every second of it, choosing what I did with his blood and his battered body. With Albus Dumbledore, I was equally aware. And I had been in control now with Lucius Malfoy too, but it was not only sorrow that had propelled me this time.

Perhaps it was everything. The loss of Bridgette, my fury at Voldemort, everything channeled into the vicious death eater at the mercy of my magic. Perhaps I would no longer be able to keep any of my emotions apart from now onwards, perhaps everything would always delve into each other, crashing together like tides against a shore.

Elias Dupont's sobs were choked up now, as though he was fighting against himself to pull his resolve together—beating himself up for failing each time he did. I still didn't want to look at him, I didn't want to share what had happened. It was stupid, ridiculous, because tragedies were often shared regardless of someone's permission. But somehow, looking at Elias, when both our states mirrored each other, both our losses profoundly weighing on our chests—it would make everything real. It would make Bridgette truly and purely dead. Realization would strike harder than it was striking at present, it would stab both Elias and me to our own deaths.

─── ☾ ───

It was Viktor Krum, who had taken charge then, selecting a safe place for me to have us translocated to. It had gnawed on me, turning to my heuristics when I had just employed use of it for brutality. But that was just it about my magic, it could offer me a safe haven and it could make other people suffer beyond just the unforgivable curses—the spectrum was brutal.

The Durmstrang had debated on apparating us himself, but with apparation being monitored like it was in Britain, it was only a matter of time and luck if the wizarding governments elsewhere decided to follow the same feat.

He had asked me to translocate us hesitantly, and I had looked at him then, a plain and curious expression on my face. If I hadn't just had my best friend killed, I would've found Krum's reluctance to bother me in my melancholy endearing. But his request had only made me realize what was evident, we had to move on. Voldemort wouldn't just stop and go away because Bridgette Monet had been killed. What care had he for the lives that were snuffed out in his periphery?

I had used my constellations to share the place Krum had in mind, with myself, and without having much energy to inquire of the wheres and whys, I had brought us all here.

We were on solid rock ground in the middle of the vastness of rolling forests. The height of the ground enabled a vision of miles and miles of green and some sparse rocky land all around us, until our eyes were stopped by the dense opaque fog.

The place was well situated, in regards to it being used as a hideout. There was food available in the green around us, a safe view where threats approaching could be sensed and spotted instantly if they managed to cross the sparser areas of the forest. The choice spoke volumes about the strategic choices of Durmstrangs, and how their students were—in line with the popular stereotype—basically raised for battle.

Elias Dupont, one of my dearest friends, the boy I had avoided looking at as though he were a leper who could instantly inflict me with just his eyes, had gotten up instantly, his wand whipped out as he mumbled faint protective charms and allotted them all around our site repeatedly as Viktor Krum and Zubair Dimitrova set up the camp.

Dimitrova's bronze face was hard, and unreeling as the Durmstrang beater worked with Krum, using both wand magic and his own manpower to efficiently muster the camp shelter. I tried to decipher him from where I sat on the ground holding Harry's laying form close to me because I was afraid of having him put his head on the rocky hard ground, or even leaving the unconscious boy on his own for fear he would stop breathing suddenly.

The self proclaimed Casanova, something Zubair had long ceased to become after he had gotten involved with Bridgette. What had their brief romance been like? Bridgette had spoken about it, when things between them had been confusing and they hadn't yet gotten together. But I knew nothing of what it had been like after they had. Of course, I had seen them, but I didn't know how she felt personally. I had had no time—there had been no singular moments for Bridgette and me to converse about such things. There had been no times such as the ones we had had perched on our dorm beds in Beauxbatons, talking endlessly into the night.

If I had ever in my folly assumed those days would come back, it was clear now that they never would.

But Dimitrova had shown no emotion other than a relentless hardness on his face. He spoke to Krum in his usual tone, but there was no smugness in his expressions anymore. There were no sly remarks from his tongue—he wouldn't speak to the rest of us at all. His brief words since Schalun castle were restricted to only Yordanka and Viktor's ears.

I wondered if he blamed me for Bridgette's death. After all, that foolish girl had jumped in front, had she not? She had saved two lives and gave up her own. If I hadn't broken Draco Malfoy's arms, his father wouldn't have been so rash as to spew the killing curse—knowing that he would have to answer to Voldemort if he killed both Harry and me. The dark lord needed me alive at least, for my blood heuristics were useless once I was dead. It was my actions that had led to Bridgette's death, and if Zubair Dimitrova thought I wasn't aware of that very knowledge, he was a bigger fool than either me or Bridgette.

Draco Malfoy muttered something under his breath, and I turned my head to look at him. The sky overhead was clear, and there was a slight chill in the air despite the sun lurking behind some light clouds. The soft gusts of wind blew the Malfoy boy's platinum hair softly.

I had brought him along with us, and I had sent Fischer back. The acolytes needed to stay in Vaduz, for their presence was unknown there even if ours had been found out. It was prudent that someone be in charge of the acolytes in my absence, and I didn't need Flora Fischer at present. If I did, I could always call her.

"Father," The boy muttered as he shook back and forth, his eyes fixed ahead, limbs limp at his sides.

The boy's arms wouldn't work, and neither would one of his legs. And it seemed that he had now also lost part of his understanding, and I couldn't place if it had been under the pain he endured, or upon watching his father's entire torture and finding out just how he would've ended up if Yordanka hadn't brought me to my senses, or both.

"Your father is dead," I spoke plainly to him, pity sneaking into my tone regardless of how much I tried to keep it away when dealing with the platinum haired boy.

"No he isn't," The boy rocked himself on his hip, his legs sprawled on the ground. "He's gone to the dark lord. He'll be back."

I exhaled, my chest feeling heavier by the second. I had assumed I wouldn't feel the pressure of anything after Bridgette's death, but I felt every single miniscule thing—more heavily each time.

"I can't move my hands," Draco Malfoy spoke the phrase for the umpteenth time, each time a different emotion expressing itself. The last time he had cried out the words, panicked. This time he was merely bewildered.

"I know," I answered him this time, my right hand readjusting itself on the back of Harry's head.

The arrow wound I had suffered had crusted up, but it still hurt and the pain radiated, disabling me from bending my fingers. I knew it would get infected soon if I didn't do anything about it. Then my body would rack itself up with fevers, and I couldn't afford any of that at present. But I had no time to tend to myself, and no will to, because I knew that if I started, more wounds will open up and demand my attention.

"I'll do something about it," I offered, my voice low as I looked back at the mad platinum haired boy beside me. "I'll see if I can help it."

I intended to. Maybe I could fix his limbs, repair some of the damage I had done. I was no nurse, and I hadn't learnt healing with wand magic anymore than the utmost basics. I hadn't bothered to learn how to heal with my heuristics too, and my attempts on Harry in reverting the pain he had felt from the muscles in his body were just attempts. I was drawing a rune every minute now, trying my hardest that when I brought the boy back, he would only have his memory to tell him of the agony he had felt, not his body.

"I'm lame now," Draco Malfoy muttered, his eyes on the plain rocky ground we were sitting on. "Like a horse."

I looked away from him, my eyes going to the figure of Gabriel Chevrolet as the dark skinned Beauxbatons boy walked past the shroud covered body of Bridgette Monet previously placed on the ground. He was holding wood he had been gathering in the forest nearby, and his forehead was dense with perspiration, a plain expression on his features.

I swallowed and looked away from the body he had passed, refusing to acknowledge the cadaver. Lucius Malfoy had been right, I had ended up needing a shroud, but it hadn't been for myself and that was truly the part that hurt the most.

Yordanka Hristova sat nearby on a boulder, whittling a piece of wood into a sharper end, not attempting to contribute aid as Viktor and Zubair took the entirety of their task upon themselves. They were almost done now, and when they were, I would bring Harry inside the camp, lay him down, and begin the work of bringing him back.

Bridgette Monet also needed burying. The girl's body would rot quicker in this climate, and she deserved a proper space and a marked grave. The thought of it brought a sharp ache into my eyes, and I shut them tight, making the pain of it overpower the onslaught of tears.

Words were scarce as they were exchanged in low tones and little eye contact. The camp was set up, and Viktor took my hand and helped me up off my feet. My legs ached faintly and from under the dress I wore that Fischer had bought me in Vaduz, I could see my the olive skin on my skin covered in light bruises—most from the dents and stabs of the sharp rocks on the stone ground I had been perched on in a single unmoving position.

Viktor took Harry from me, wrapping a muscular arm under the boy's legs and putting one behind his small back as he hoisted him up, carrying him inside the set up tent.

I stood behind, my eyes going to Draco Malfoy as the platinum haired boy yanked a bit of skin from the edge of his small nail, causing a drop of blood to appear which he sucked on immediately, obliviously.

"Zubair," My eyes landed on the Durmstrang then, who was sauntering close, inspecting the wood Gabriel had brought while the latter was off again in search for more.

Dimitrova looked at me, his dark eyes plain against the backdrop of his bronze face.

"Help me take Draco inside," I let out, breaking my eyes away from the Bulgarian beater's as I bent down to put my shoulder under the fourteen year old boy's arm, my hand holding onto his back.

Zubair Dimitrova wordlessly approached, hoisting Draco up from under the boy's other shoulder as the boy was stretched up to our heights. Then we led him inside the tent, right after Viktor and Harry's disappearing forms.

The tent was spacious from the inside—courtesy of the charms Viktor and Zubair had used—a three roomed construction; it had looked painfully small from the outside. The guys had covered the floors with thick and soft carpet like coverings, so much so that the stone ground underneath was merely a support and could not be felt under my feet at all. We had nothing else inside, which made for more space and places to lay your head down in. There was no bedding, but I doubted we needed it. The tent material was thick, and so it didn't move much under the impact of the wind.

Zubair and I sat Draco down in a corner, the boy was just starting to mutter to himself, something vague about Harry that I couldn't decipher as anything important. It could be that the moments before his tragedy had begun to replay into Draco's mind, and his fragile state at present could not place any of the happenings in order or coherence at all.

Dimitrova left then, swiftly exiting the tent as soon as Draco was settled on the ground. Elias Dupont stepped inside in Durmstrang's wake, just as Viktor was done laying Harry down in a separate room.

"He's down," Viktor cleared his throat as Elias and I looked at each other, words dying on our tongues but yelling in our minds.

I broke away from Elias' gaze and offered Viktor a faint smile and a nod. He stepped near to me, wrapping an arm around my waist to pull me close as he pressed his lips against my cheekbone. Then he separated and ushered himself out of the tent, leaving Elias and me alone.

"Elias," I started, my voice barely a croak. "I don't know what to say to you."

The boy blinked, confusion and hurt in his brown eyes as he furrowed his brows. "Why?"

"I—," I broke off, fearing my voice would crack.

"Why do you have to say anything?" Elias prompted, as though he was disgusted by the notion. "We lost a friend. Someone we had known for six years. You, on the other hand, spent almost every single moment with Bridgette. Explique moi ce dilemme, why do you have to say anything to me at all?"

"Grief doesn't need to be explained, it's not a damn bullet point on a presentation."

I pressed my lips together then, my eyes already brimming with fresh tears as I neared Dupont and wrapped my arms around his neck, my surfacing despair in desperate need of my friend's shoulders. Elias' put his arms around my back, returning the embrace tightly as he held onto his own tears. The intelligent boy never cried, and he had already broken that rule once.

"I didn't know what to say to you," He spoke then, his voice muffled in the embrace. "I thought you would never speak to me again."

"What?" I separated, my face already wet with tears as I looked at him in confusion. "Why would you think that?"

"I thought it would remind you. I thought that I would remind you of—of her," Elias exhaled, "I don't know, I just—"

I broke him off, trapping the intelligent Beauxbatons Bellefeuille boy I had almost always had in my life in another embrace.

"Why would I ever want to forget?" I sniffed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Cela ne sera jamais possible. Why would I ever want to stop having either of you in my life?"

He didn't say anything as we gently rocked in that silent embrace. Draco Malfoy glanced at us a few times, before the boy went on picking the skin around his fingers, his mind completely glazing over everything that was happening around him.

"She shouldn't have been taken," I spoke then, my chin resting on Elias' shoulder.

"No, don't go there, Dominique," The dark haired boy shook his head. "What Bridgette did was insane, but she was braver than any of us. Je n'avais jamais su à quel point elle était courageuse auparavant. She saved two lives, she saved the fucking wizarding world. It cannot function without you and Potter, you both are the reason the wizarding world has a chance at all."

"She knew that," He swallowed, his voice shaking. "And she was so selfless she didn't think twice."

I shut my eyes tight, not trusting myself to say anything else.

"We have to bury her," I mumbled, exhaling softly as we separated from the embrace.

"Oui," Elias nodded, his lips pressed tight. "Gabriel has been looking for a spot in the forest, he'll let us know once he finds it."

Draco Malfoy made a groan, and we both turned to look at the boy. He was trying to move his arms, having forgotten that he could no longer do it.

"I can't move my hand," The boy muttered the phrase again, his eyes glancing between me and Elias.

"Can you do something about that?" Elias spoke to me, his sympathy towards the boy a little more than it had been before—and it hadn't been anything before at all.

"I hope so," I bit my lip, my hands gathering my long messy hair at the back of my head in a ponytail.

There would no be no rest for me at present, I had two boys to bring back—both of whom had succumbed to horrific ailments because of my own actions. It was just as well, the work and effort will distract me—trap my mind in a cage and distract me from my own grief. And maybe then I wouldn't have the muggle philosopher's passionate quotes, adorned in Bridgette Monet's dramatic voice, echoing in my memory and present mind. 

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A/N: 
Grief is so hard to write, idk how authors do it </3