Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, obviously. No profit is intended, etc. That's J.K. Rowling's department.

WARNING: Half-Blood Prince spoilers, so if you have not yet read the book, be wary.

Takes place at the end of the Half-Blood Prince. And no pairings, by the way. I followed the details of the books as closely as possible, as opposed to the recent film. For example, Bellatrix did not participate in the raid at Hogwarts. Keep that in mind.

This story will be in two parts; this is, therefore, part I. Happy Reading!

Shifting sullenly in the black sky, heavy clouds blocked any light from either stars or moon; their blanket stretched onward in every direction as though someone were determined that no lone ray should provide hope that night. A deep, ominous rumble sounded in the distance, but the noise was just different enough that one could not mistake it for thunder. It had a different feel – a darker sense of fate and failure, at least for some. This storm did not stem from natural causes, and though a casual and uninformed observer could not perhaps pinpoint why, he could easily sense the thick, hot air that lay too still across the country, the fear brought on by forces unknown. A shadow had fallen.

The manor house, too, rested in darkness. It was a large, imposing structure, surrounded by a high wall overgrown with ivy and vines clambering for a spot nearer to the sun. The house itself was elegant in design – ornate, but not so much that it came across as extravagant. It was obvious that its masters were well-off, and just as clear that they preferred to keep their own company. Any wanderer would think twice before approaching the tall, wrought-iron gates set in the center of the front wall; there was a black arrogance about them that tended to deter curious passers-by, even if they were brave enough in the first place to follow the long, hedge-lined drive leading up to the wall.

Somewhere near the end of the drive, where it met another lane, a cloaked figure appeared - materialized, seemingly out of thin air. It stood there for a few seconds, completely still, then abruptly began to stride towards the manor. The deep hood fell back with the quickening pace, revealing the young man's light blond hair and pale face, both shadowed by the cloudcover. He paused for a moment, as though unsure of himself, but suddenly broke into a flat-out run, his black cloak streaming behind him despite the oppressive stillness of the air.

As he dashed towards the house, Draco could feel a stitch in his side beginning to flare up painfully, but he merely clenched his teeth and ignored it. He kept his eyes looking downward, finding that watching the gravel speed below him was one of the few ways he could keep his emotions under control right now. Even that wasn't working very well; he felt his eyes becoming damp again, and he blinked furiously to clear them. Mostly, he concentrated on not thinking about anything. He was afraid of what might happen if he started pondering, remembering, wondering.

Without warning, he found himself at the end of the drive; he hadn't realized how fast he'd been running. Vaguely, it occurred to him that it might have been a lot easier to simply Apparate inside the house – he did live there, after all – but by the time he had reached the border of the Hogwarts grounds, he hadn't been thinking very clearly. He had simply turned on the spot, imagining the manor and with Snape's cry of "Run, Draco!" echoing behind him.

Averting his gaze without really knowing why, Draco raised his left hand, feeling his forearm burn for a moment as he hurried toward the twisted gates – through the gates, for he passed inside as though they were no more than air – and onto the path.

He didn't know where the others were – the Dark Lord had often used Malfoy Manor as a meeting place for his followers, but it was possible that they had been ordered to report to him somewhere else. That was a relief, anyhow. He didn't want to have to deal with Snape or the Carrows, and especially Fenrir. Draco had felt something flinch horribly inside him when he realized the crazed werewolf had been allowed inside Hogwarts. Did no one think to tell him anything, even after what he had done?

The distance from the gates to the house seemed at least three times longer than it had ever been before, though he sprinted most of the way. All Draco wanted right now was to be alone – to go to his room and figure out what he was going to do now. He hadn't the faintest idea. Things had gone – very well, actually, all things considered. The Death Eaters' goals had been accomplished. They had found the only route into Hogwarts, and Albus Dumbledore was dead.

But that was because of Snape. He, Draco, had not been able –

No. Don't think about that. Not yet. Breathing raggedly, Draco stumbled up the front steps and waved the door open with his wand – he found, to his astonishment, that it was still clenched tightly in his hand, exactly as it had been when Snape had forced him back down the stairs of the Astronomy Tower. He must have been holding it like that the entire time.

Ignoring the footsteps approaching from another room, he crossed the hall in a few strides and pounded up the stairs. As he ran down the upstairs corridor, he heard a voice from below call, "Who – Draco?" but he paid no heed. Moments later he had darted into his room and slammed the door forcefully behind him. The last person he wanted to talk to was his mother.

Shaking, Draco sat down on the edge of his four-poster bed and lowered his head into his hands. The warm darkness of his eyelids was somehow comforting, but it didn't really help all that much. A few long moments passed as, again, he tried not to think, even though he knew he would have to face tonight's events sooner or later. He had thought he wanted to be alone, but now the silence seemed frigid and unfriendly, and instead of calming him it served only to set his nerves on edge again – still.

Was this what he had anticipated? He thought not. The Dark Lord had probably believed he would fail in his attempts to get the others inside the castle and kill Dumbledore – an opinion shared by many of the Death Eaters – but Draco had disagreed. He had been so proud to have been chosen for this mission; it was a task any Death Eater would have given much to perform. He had been determined to show them, and the Dark Lord, that he could do a far better job than his father, especially after the failure at the Ministry. It had, in short, been his and his family's chance for redemption. And he came so close… Voldemort's followers had breached Hogwarts, and he himself had cornered and disarmed Dumbledore… so where had it gone wrong? When you couldn't do it, said a nasty little voice in his head. When you were too scared – too weak – to kill the old man. So had Dumbledore been right? What was that he had said – "Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe". Angrily, Draco dug his nails into his forehead. He should have been the one to do it. Not Snape.

"Draco?" It was his mother again, her voice muffled in the hall outside. Of course – she must have known this was the night, and now she was bent on finding out what had occurred. In her anxiety, Narcissa didn't even bother to knock; she just pushed open the door. "Draco, what – what happened?"

God, why couldn't she leave him alone? Draco stood up very swiftly, feeling his pulse quicken again. Without looking at her, he crossed the room and kicked the door shut in her face. "Leave me alone, Mother."

Narcissa said something, her tone irritated, but he didn't care enough to pay attention to the individual words. She probably would have gone on further if a distraction hadn't arrived, in the form of the front door opening and closing several times in quick succession. Draco could hear the low murmurs of many people downstairs. So they were coming here, after all. A second later, his mother's steps receded away from his room, and he returned to his seat on the bed. He only hoped that no one would feel the need for him to join in the celebration – he really wasn't in the mood.

Slowly, trying to get a grip on himself, he rose and looked at his reflection in the mirror above the bureau. The image surprised him slightly – he looked a lot worse than he had realized. His light hair, still damp with sweat, was in thorough disarray and in some spots threatened to hang over his eyes. The latter were red-rimmed, with dark shadows underneath. Overall, he still looked rather ill.

He was still wearing his cloak, too. His thoughts already turning elsewhere, Draco undid the offending garment and let it fall carelessly into a heap on the floor. Almost subconsciously, his hand went to his chest. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, he could feel the scars – the last remnants of Potter's spell. He had refused Madame Pomfrey's increasingly irate attempts to treat the wounds with dittany once Snape had brought him to the hospital wing. He had said he preferred the injuries to heal on their own, but that had not been the real reason. Draco kept the scars to remind him what a moment of weakness could cost him now. It was the sort of gesture that his aunt Bellatrix would appreciate.

After pacing restlessly around his room for nearly ten minutes, Draco finally forced himself to lie down, to try to think calmly. It wasn't easy – he was feeling far from rational. As it had several times before, it was beginning to occur to him that he had involved himself in something that he had drastically underestimated. He had broken down a few times that past year, the last being when Potter had found him in the bathroom crying. What had he expected – honor and glory? Yes, he realized, that was it. However, he had failed to anticipate the realities – the pain, the anxiety, the sense of being sick with fear at the thought of what would happen to him and his parents if he should fail. He hadn't expected it to be like this. And now, in the solitude of his room, he was forced to look the truth in the face –

He was afraid.

And what was worse, he knew he couldn't go back. He still felt a need to prove himself, to show them all that he wasn't just a child, but now that urge was coupled with a strange reluctance. He felt helpless, more helpless than he had ever done before. At least during the school year he knew what he had to accomplish. There had been hope. Now… now he was in over his head, and he could do nothing.

As though a wireless had just been tuned, Draco suddenly heard distinct voices from downstairs, belonging to his mother and –

Damn, he thought furiously. He had been wrong when he believed Narcissa was the last person he wanted to talk to at the moment. In fact, he would prefer her conversation ten times over to that of Bellatrix. Arrogant, mocking, and fanatically devoted to the Dark Lord, his aunt would not react well upon hearing that her own nephew, who carried the pureblood line of both the Malfoys and the Blacks, had ultimately failed to carry out their master's wishes. She would probably scream at him – profanely and at length.

"He wouldn't talk to me – did he really – is Dumbledore –?" That was his mother again. He could hear her clearly; she must be on the stairs or just down the hall.

It was Bellatrix who replied. "So Snape says." She sounded as though she wanted to doubt the facts, but knew she could not, and it made her angry. Narcissa said something very softly, so that Draco could not make out the words, but her sister let out a derisive laugh. "You're just glad it's over? Cissy, you should know by now. For all your hopes and Unbreakable Vows, Draco still failed. He did not complete the task set forth by the Dark Lord himself."

"But we got the result we wanted, didn't we?" Narcissa pressed on, sounding desperate. "He's dead – why does it matter who did it?" Their voices were drawing nearer now. "And surely – surely he did not expect Draco to – to succeed. Now that it's done –"

"You think he can simply walk away?" Bellatrix interrupted, her tone scornful. Then her voice suddenly dropped and became deadly serious. "Listen to me, Cissy – Draco is a Death Eater. He is one of us, and he must face the consequences that any of us would." Her sister let out a small noise of protest, but Bellatrix cut her off impatiently. "You cannot put yourself out for him any longer. If you try to come between him and his duty, both of you will be hurt. He must prove himself – alone and without protection."

"He's only sixteen, Bella!"

"He's nearly of age!" the other contradicted her sharply.

This time, Narcissa did not reply, probably realizing the futility of arguing with her sister when she was in this frame of mind. Draco suddenly realized that both women were just outside his door.

"It's futile to discuss this any further," Bella continued, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Stay here, Cissy."

His mother was not pleased. "He's my son!"

"And that is exactly why you're staying outside," said Bellatrix triumphantly. "You would only try to protect him, and you can't do that anymore." Draco saw the doorknob move slightly.

"Protect him," Narcissa repeated apprehensively. "Bella – protect him from what?"

She didn't answer.

"Bella!"

Again ignoring her sister, Bellatrix opened the door. Draco was on his feet before his aunt could enter the room; as she slipped inside, he caught a glimpse of his mother's face, white and anxious, before Bella shut the door behind her with a slam. Uneasily, Draco saw that her wand was in her hand, and, judging from the expression on her face, she was ready to use it.

"What do you want?" he demanded, not caring if his words came across as rude. Generally, he tolerated his aunt, knowing that she was one of the Dark Lord's closest followers as well as an extraordinarily powerful witch, but he didn't want to deal with her right now.

"I came to find out," Bellatrix answered, her tone deceptively quiet as she moved slowly in his direction, "why, why it is that a pureblood wizard, a descendant of the house of Black, my own nephew – why is it that he failed to carry out the Dark Lord's wishes?" And suddenly she was right in front of him, no longer calm, her eyes wide and filled with wrath.

"I taught you myself, Draco – how to close your mind – I made you strong." There was a frightening intensity to her words, as though they were building up to some pronouncement of doom. Her wand came up – Draco backed away, trying not to look at her, his heart pounding. "And I might have understood," she went on, fury boiling just beneath the surface, "if you had been unsuccessful altogether. But you weren't!"

Abruptly, Draco felt his back hit the wall. But Bella's wand kept coming; he winced as its tip stabbed painfully into his neck. His own wand was held tightly by his side, but he dared not use it, especially when his aunt was in one of her wild, unpredictable moods.

"You had him cornered – disarmed, helpless! There was no one – nothing – to prevent you from killing him! One little spell, Draco. And still you did not do as you were ordered! How dare you defy the Dark Lord? I'm ashamed to call you one of my own blood! You were supposed to kill Dumbledore – why didn't you do it?" The phrases were shot at him with the cold-blooded accuracy of a knife in the back.

"I couldn't – it – he's dead, all right?" Draco stammered, frustrated, trying to hastily throw up defenses. "And none of it would have worked if I hadn't found a way to get them into the school!"

"All the more reason why you should have completed the task!" Bellatrix spat. She was breathing quickly. "I never would have dreamed a nephew of mine would be so weak!"

Draco jerked his head to the side, not meeting her gaze. "I'm not weak," he muttered coldly.

She was silent for a long time – so quiet that he couldn't be sure she was even breathing. Still, he did not speak; he was afraid that if he said something, he might provoke another, perhaps more painful, outburst. Then –

"Prove it," Bellatrix whispered. A pause – the tip of her wand slid from his neck to his cheek, forcing him to look into her eyes. "The Dark Lord wishes… to speak with you."

And it was only then that he realized how silent the house had become; the low murmurs of the Death Eaters downstairs had fallen still, as if they had all suddenly Disapparated. Draco looked quickly back at Bellatrix. Don't make me go down there, he wanted to say. Not now. Not when he's here. But he couldn't plead with her – not only would it prove he was weak, it would also have no effect whatsoever in changing her mind.

It suddenly occurred to him what he was really up against this time. He had been so confused ever since he had left the castle that he had not had time to consider what the consequences of failure would be, even though his work had allowed Fenrir and the others to enter Hogwarts. He had been expected to fail – that much was clear – but did that honestly matter to Voldemort? The Dark Lord tended to have a more merciless outlook – if something happened, it was someone's responsibility, regardless of their motives or attempts to rectify a situation. Here, Draco was the one at fault, and he doubted that his master would consider high potential for failure an adequate excuse for avoiding the repercussions.

Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded. Bella considered him carefully for a moment before a wicked little smile curved her lips and she delicately lowered her wand.

"Very good, Draco," she told him, satisfied in a way that made him very uneasy. "Now come. We would not want to keep the Dark Lord waiting…"

I really appreciate any comments/suggestions/constructive criticism you readers may have! Thank you for reading! Part II will be coming.