He retched for a third time. Dumbledore was dead. He was really dead. Draco looked up from the foul-smelling washbasin and gazed into the dusty bathroom mirror, shocked at what he saw staring back at him: the red, puffy eyes; the stringy, sweat-soaked hair; the gaunt, drawn face; and a complexion as pale as any ghost to have ever haunted the hallowed hallways of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This was not the same boy, he thought, who had only six years earlier embarked on his magical education certain of his place in the world; certain of his destined greatness.

He was now nothing but a murderer.

No, he had not been the trigger man, had not wielded the curse sending Dumbledore to his doom, but still Draco knew that he was nonetheless responsible for the death of arguably the greatest wizard ever to cast a spell. After all, Draco thought, wasn’t it he who had orchestrated the means for the Death Eater Assassins to enter Hogwarts? Wasn’t it he who had disarmed and cornered Dumbledore, rendering the legendary Headmaster helpless against his assailants? And, above all else, wasn’t it he who had eagerly accepted the Dark Lord’s bidding, dreaming incessantly of the glory and good fortune that would be bestowed upon him once the deed was done?

Albus Dumbledore was dead and he, Draco Malfoy, was responsible.

This was what he wanted, right? Dumbledore deserved his fate, didn’t he? He was after all a muggle lover and in the new world order there was no room for muggle lovers. Besides, Dumbledore and his lapdog, Harry Potter, were responsible for his father’s disgraceful downfall. Dumbledore and Potter both deserved to die. And yet, despite his resolve, Draco could not subdue the overwhelming sense of guilt and remorse that clawed at his innards. And as long as he lived, he was certain he would never forget Dumbledore’s feeble voice as he begged for his life…please, Severus. At that very moment, Dumbledore had ceased being an invincible legend, seemingly god-like in his abilities, and had become little more than a frail and frightened old man. And Draco had felt pity�real pity�wanting to stop the whole thing then and there, spare Dumbledore’s life, but it had all happened so quickly. Before Draco could utter a single word of protest, Snape had leveled his wand, unleashed the deadly curse and, in a violent flash of green, sent Dumbledore hurtling over the rampart�the wizened wizard long dead before ever hitting the ground.

Draco vomited for a fourth time.

With a quivering hand, he turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face, the cool wetness offering instant relief against his tepid skin. He had to pull himself together. What was done was done�there was no going back. Right now, he needed to stop worrying about what he did do and start worrying about what he didn’t do. Notwithstanding his central role in the murderous plot, Draco had not, in the end, killed Dumbledore. How would the Dark Lord react to his failure? Voldemort would sooner take a muggle wife than forgive the failing of a servant. But had he really failed, Draco wondered? Was Dumbledore not dead? Had Draco not made the assassination possible?

Draco reached for a towel to dry his face but the rack was empty. With a grimace, he pulled the folds of his robe forward and used them to dab his face. With one final look in the mirror, he sighed and departed the bathroom.

“Feeling better, Draco?� Snape said in his usual condescending tone, as he stood at the window and peered furtively through a sliver in the black drapes.

Draco ignored the comment and looked about the room. The place was a dump: dark, damp, dingy, dusty and disgusting. Did people actually live here? This place was even beneath the Weasleys, if that were possible.

“Where are we?� Draco said.

“In a vacated dwelling across the street from my own.� Snape pulled the curtain back a little further to get a better view.

“What are you looking at?� Draco said, pulling out his wand: “Lumos.�

“Nox,� Snape countered immediately, using his own wand to vanquish the light coming from that of Draco’s.

“What are you doing?� Draco growled.

“An entire contingent of aurors is currently rummaging through my humble abode. Is it your intent to alert them to our presence?�

“What? Aurors!�

“And some Order of the Phoenix members as well I trust. Yes indeed. There’s good-old Lupin right there. I suspect he’s frothing at the mouth right about now, just dying to sink his fangs into me. And, unless I’m mistaken, that is the distinctive hobble of the irascible Mad-Eye Moody. Fools�do they really think I would return home after what I’ve just done?�

“Are you mental? Why are we here?� Draco moved to another set of drapes and pulled them back slightly. Snape wasn’t exaggerating. There had to be a least two-dozen wizards out there.

“We are here to gather our wits.� Snape snapped the drapes shut, twirled and glided toward Draco. “The Dark Lord will be expecting our arrival forthwith.�

“How will he react to me not killing Dumbledore?� Draco asked, somberly.

“I cannot say. The Dark Lord does not take kindly to failure.�

“Then I should run�hide somewhere.�

“Don’t be absurd. Do you really believe you can hide from the Dark Lord? Besides, if you run, he will kill your parents; is that what you want?�

Draco lowered his eyes and shook his head.

“Then take my arm,� Snape commanded.

“I can disapparate on my own,� Draco hissed.

“Don’t be foolish, Draco.� Snape glared at his young protégé. “In your current state of mind, you’d likely splinch yourself. Is that truly how you wish to greet the Dark Lord this evening?�

Snarling, Draco took hold of Snape’s outstretched forearm and in an instant the two were gone.