The next morning Draco awakened early, before the sun had risen. He had that dream again, the one in which he relived that fateful day, the day Dumbledore had died. He refused to let himself imagine what might have happened if he had been brave enough...to accept that withered black hand that had reached out to him. There was no way that old man could have protected him from the Death Eaters who had come, moments later, the ones who had killed him. No, Draco hadn't killed the old man, but his forced flight from the school had obviously cast the suspicion on him. Harry's word finally reigned superior to the son of a Death Eater's, which was as it probably should have always been, he thought bitterly.

Draco looked around at the snoring boys around him with a hint of sadness. They had been his closest friends for six years and yet, they had been torn apart by Lord Voldemort's war. He couldn't help but wish it had been different, that they could somehow remain together, despite their differences. Yet he knew that the only way he could remain seperate from either side was to cast himself into solitude. There was no other way to protect them. If they were seen to be on his side, their father's would punish them. Draco had met Blaise's latest step-father at the last Death Eater meet he had been to, and the impression that the cruel looking man had left remained with him to this day. Blaise didn't need such a man troubling him. The tall pale boy sighed inaudibly and pulled his robes on, before leaving the room. All of the dungeon corridors were empty, but Draco was drawn upstairs and to the Entrance Hall, the room furthest away from any of the dozing students. He spot a House Elf scurrying out of the Great Hall with several large buckets and he forced back his usual feelings of revulsion. He was not a Malfoy any longer. Feeling ridiculous, he dragged himself forward, towards the small creature with the closest he had to a friendly smile - which was unfortunately his malicious grin. Horrified, it disappeared with a loud CRACK before he could say a word, leaving the buckets behind.

He sighed. There was no hope. His reputation for cruelty was certainly coming back to sting him harshly. Not even those disgustin- no, not even the Hogwarts House Elves would offer him a friendly word. How could he hope that anyone would want to talk to such a disgusting person as he? Dumbledore's murderer...sometimes he felt as though he really was the one who had hissed that spell at the helpless man, not Severus. His dreams certainly showed this, as he felt his own mouth shouting those cursed words, and the horrible flash of green light. He shook his head. How dare he impose his company on anyone?