Blood and Death

Blood. So much of it. And death. The air is rank with it. He throws an arm over his nose to block the offending stench. Past fallen comrades and enemies he walks not knowing or caring where he is going. There is only one thing on his mind: find Vince. He had been given two objectives this day and he had failed to complete the first one. He'll be damned if he lets himself fail at the second.

Draco lays broken somewhere behind him, skull cracked from being thrown to the ground with such brutal force. He found him, Merlin knows how long after the attack, lips blue, pale face even paler than he would have imagined possible. Unnerved by the violence of it all, he retched by his body not caring who saw.

This is war.

He feels his knees buckle beneath him and falls to the ground. Why is this happening? How could he have been playing practical jokes on Weasley only two months ago and now he is standing in the middle of a battlefield watching his friends and classmates being slaughtered right before his eyes?

They are going to lose.

He had proclaimed himself for the side of the light in hopes that he was choosing the winning side. Potter would defeat Voldemort and it would all be over. A week at the most, that's all he thought it would last. But how could he have been so naive? He knows what Voldemort is capable of, what his own parents are capable of and it is much more than Dumbledore and his forces.

He bends over and retches again. He is going to die. Voldemort is going to win and the world will grow dark and he will be killed for choosing the light.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stands up and begins walking again. He has to find Crabbe. That is all that matters now. They will find a way to leave, to run no matter how far.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Gregory Goyle."

He looks up to find Lucius Malfoy sneering at him, his hood down and death eater robes clinging to him in shreds.

"Another traitor. I can't decide which is a better way to kill you: leave you alive so the Dark Lord can give you the traitor's death you deserve, or do you off the way I did my own son."

So he had killed Draco. An earnest sense of shock runs through him. Has it really come to this? Father against son? Power over family? He makes a growling noise in the back of his throat. Why?

"Crucio!"

He watches the jet of light head toward him as if in slow motion. Out of nowhere there is a black shape in front of him and a scream of such agonizing pain he can do nothing but cover his ears in an effort to make it go away. It seems like hours before the screaming stops and when the body in front of him finally collapses, he doesn't even look at it. Instead, he points his wand at the one man he has trusted for years and now despises and sends at him the most powerful killing curse his body can conjure. The force of it sends him down on his knees and he watches with horrifying satisfaction as Lucius Malfoy's eyes go wide before he falls, lifeless, to the ground.

He looks down at his right hand and opens the palm. The urge to vomit is now more powerful than before, but this time he refuses let it overpower him. Slowly, he pulls the wand from his palm and screams as pieces of burning flesh come away with it. The perfect indent of a wand handle runs across his palm in an angry red swipe. Why? he thinks again. The circumstances are so horrid and nightmarish his brain can't form any thought more coherent than that. He squeezes his palm shut in an effort to quell the pain and finally chances a glance at the person who has so willingly taken the Cruciatus curse for him.

With his left hand, he rolls the body over onto its back and feels the tears well up in his eyes. In front of him lies the bruised and battered face of Vincent Crabbe. "Vince . . . ," he calls, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. But the boy hears and slightly hazy eyes open before him.

"You didn't think I'd let that bastard do that to you?"

Vince smiles and he can do nothing but laugh with overwhelming relief and gratitude. Instantly, he feels energized, alive. They will win this battle. They will. And Voldemort will be dead and everything will go back, not to the way it was, but to the way it should have been.

"Can you walk?" he asks. And Vince nods. He helps him to his feet and slings an arm around the other boy's waist and it feels so right, he knows he'll never want to let go. They weave their way slowly in and out the mutilated bodies and away from the duelers whose numbers begin to dwindle the closer they get to the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

And then he feels it, the prickling sensation in his skin and instantly he knows what it is. Incendio. It was cast on him once as a child by accident. He drops to the ground in pain as the flames lick at his skin and faintly wonders where Vince is in all this and knows as he hears the killing curse spilling forth from his friend's lips. Then there's pressure on his back followed by a cooling sensation and he can feel the heat dying.

Vince saved him again.

And while he feels relieved and honored, he thinks of what he was supposed to do and how he's failed, how Draco's dead because he hadn't been there by his side, how it was his job to protect Vince, not the other way around.

He hears a few muttered words and sees a faint blue glow envelop him, a shielding charm. It looks so beautiful in the eerie darkness of war and it saddens him. He grabs blindly for Crabbe's hand and whispers a "thank you" before closing his eyes.

~*~

When he awakes, the whiteness is blinding. He vaguely recalls what happened and recognizes Madam Pomfrey and realizes he is in the hospital wing. He sits up, finding no pain. His hand is bandaged and so is his back, thoughts of incendio and a shielding charm pop into his mind and it starts to race. Where is Vince?

He climbs out of bed, all staff too busy to even notice him doing so and walks up the row of beds, looking for a familiar face. He spots Pansy and stops for a moment taking in the bandaged head and broken nose. On and on he goes, down one side of the hospital wing to the other. Madam Pomfrey tells him to get back into bed, but he ignores her, not caring anymore. Panic is seizing him. He rushes out of the hospital wing and starts walking toward the Slytherin dorms. But just as he turns a corner, he bumps into Blaise Zabini, her black hair thrown wildly around her face. She must have been running, he thinks and he blurts out the one question on his mind.

"Where's Vince?"

She looks at him for a second, as if he's gone completely daft and then blinks. "Oh, Greg," she whispers and his heart seizes. "He's dead. He was already gone when they found him this morning next to you. He had only enough energy for one shield charm. And he couldn't protect himself when . . . when . . ." Tears start streaming down her cheeks. "The Great Hall . . . I'm sorry." And she rushes past him.

Dazed, he lets his feet carry him down there and stops at the stench. No. Not here. Not like this. He stops a witch with a clipboard and she directs him toward the Slytherin table. The bodies of his house mates, despite their side in the war, are sprawled out on the massive wooden table. No, he thinks again. Don't let it be true. And then he sees him looking so peaceful that if it wasn't for the lack of snores, he wouldn't have thought him anything but asleep. He feels the tears and lets them come.

He failed again.