The world flashed in front of him, layer after layer dissolving into thin air as realization hit him, full force. He looked at her eyes, so painfully innocent, and wondered, briefly, if it was too late. That thought, jumbled with self-doubt, insecurity nearly made it true. But then he was waving his wand, and spoke words, words that meant her death, and he felt himself just- just give. His magic pored out of him, combining with his spell, and the world exploded beneath his eyes. He heard someone screaming, a nasty sound that he winced away from. He was disgusted to discover that that horrible sound was coming from him, and he wished that he would never have to hear it again. The magic, expanding, and looking for something to do, granted his wish.
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"- no. you can't let him in here, Albus. I won't allow him near my children after what he did! And frankly, I'm not too keen to be near him, either."
"Molly, we need to have him here, he knows what happened-"
"Why should we care? The deed is done."
"I have the feeling that there's more going on then meets the eyes, Mungus. We need to know- it could be important."
"Not important enough to have a possible murderer in the household! Can't we do something else-"
The voices washed over him like water. He couldn't seem to grasp their meaning, although he was nearly positive that they were discussing him. He was much more interested in the memories that swirled around him. He closed his eyes and tried to sort it out, but all he could think of was his parents, family friends, the people who had been there. The sort of wild magic he had released would not have been controlled. They would have been killed as they stood in his path. He imagined his strong, proud father lying in a sticky pool of crimson blood, staring up at him with lifeless eyes, and immediately shed away from it. But- no. He had done this. He had killed them. And he deserved to face what he had done.
He closely pictured his mother, soft pale golden curls framing her aristocratic face. He remembered the rare times he had done things well, a soft smile transforming her cold, cruel facade into one of angelic beauty. He superimposed the memory with her lying dead, a lifeless rag doll tossed aside like a used up toy. He felt nothing. Nothing. Like a boat floating unchained, small and alone in the expanse of the giant ocean, he felt remote from the memory, like it was just another lecture in History of Magic. What was wrong with him?
He conjured up mental pictures of people who had been their, trying desperately to pierce the shield of numbness he had subconsciously built around himself. His parents- nothing. Avery- a slight twinge. Unbidden, a memory of Avery and his father came to mind, hidden in his fathers study, analyzing each other under the smoky glare. Alectus and Amycus Carrow, sister and brother- for a moment, nothing, and then he felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Alectus had given him his first broomstick when he was five, laughing as he rode it into one of his fathers exotic pets and nearly killing it as he struggled to get free... the memory melted away like smow and left him feeling strangely drained.
He softly drew up her face, young and pale, looking at him with large, frightened eyes, and it hurt. The pain shattered his shield and raw emotions flooded him. A soft gasp dragged him from his thoughts, and he looked up, giving the girl in front of him his infamous death glare, which seemed to have no effect at all. Perhaps this was because his glare had no passion in it, or that his inner turmoil shone clearly through his silvery, incandescent eyes, or perhaps it was merely because, sitting calmly in the middle of number twelve Grimmauld Place was none other then Draco Malfoy.
The poor girl, who Draco was nearly sure was one of the innumerable Weasley broad, promptly fainted.
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He saw her again, after he had let out his magic. She was frightened, but her eyes held volumes of trust. She had thought he could save her, blindly placing her trust. He remembered, clearly, the feel of her hand laying on his for only a moment. Then the aurors had come, dragging him away by portkey. They had fought over him, and he had changed hands but he had been in that haze of numbness, too hard to feel; too broken to care.
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Ginny Weasley shook her head, poppy red strands of her hair falling into her face. She hastily pushed them back, standing up and facing the reason for her current familiarity with the floor. He glanced at her, briefly, and then his eyes grew distant and cloudy with memories. She quickly hurried to her brother and his two best friends, the so called "Golden Trio", taking the stairs two at a time in her hurry to get away from Malfoys eerie glare.
There was a sort of dark fear in her wild gaze as she ran through the house. She had recognized the pain in Malfoys eyes, but how could she not? It was her own fear, one that she had worked so hard to hide after her first year at Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry, starring her straight in the face, hidden in the depths of the stormy eyes then none other then Draco Malfoy. And maybe that was part of the reason she was running so fast; it almost seemed that if Malfoy, that spoiled stuck up jerk, could be touched by that all-consuming pain that she so clearly remembered, then anybody could.
Almost before she realized it, she was standing in front of Ron, Harry, and Hermione, telling them about Malfoys sudden appearance and blatant personality change. Their reactions were predictable, and so found herself drowning out Rons wails of injustice, Hermiones psychoanalysis and Harry's quiet loathing and slipping out the door and into her own memories.
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She had been as beautiful as he remembered, that night, for all that her blonde hair had been matted to her head with dirt and blood. He knew, deep down that this was the last day he would see her. One of them would die tonight. He had tried to memorize the way her large brown eyes had shone with trust, the way that, although young, she did not cling to the older Muggles the way the other children did. She had told him once, in the dark safety of her cell that she had grown up alone, that she had learned how to take care of herself, although she was so very young. He sometimes thought that was the biggest difference between his two girls, who were so different. He had failed them both.
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"Malfoy?" The boy looked up, eyes that had previously been blank and lifeless now filled with soft, swirling emotions. They moved too fast for the formidable matron of the Weasley clan
to catch, but she found, with some dismay, that she did not care to, either. She had always fancied herself as a motherly women who could love all children, and for the most part, she was. But the- the thing (for she could think of no other name to call it) was not a child, and had not been one for some time. She had felt no pain or remorse when she had heard that the boy could not speak and had Occumacy shields placed around his mind so think that there was no doubt in anybody's mind that Voldemort had done it.
The boy was a mute in all sense of the word, and Molly Weasley could not care less.
"Your room is on the top of the stairs, closest to the stairwell." The message behind her words was clear- I do not trust you.
Malfoy nodded, understanding clear in his face and walked up the stairwell, conscious of her eyes following him the whole way up.