Murder scene at last...

A huge thank-you to xX Starlight-Moon Xx, without whom this part would never have been written to begin with, since she had the niceness and patience to send me the whole dialogue from the 6th book (which I don't have in English, since I'm French). Check out her fics, they're awesome...

Thanks to Hannah, Sarah, Elo and my latest reviewer The Darkest Wizard (hugs all)

Check out this chapter's film version in Death of Innocence.

This chapter is a lot longer than usual since I had to cut my murder scene into two parts... Those are the chapters I'm the most insecure about, so tell me your thoughts please...

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, throwing the door open, praying frantically in his head.

Dumbledore's wand flew out of its owner's hand, and that was it. His task was standing in front of him – his helpless prey. This had been easy.

Then why did his guts keep on writhing in terror?

"Good evening, Draco," the old man spoke softly.

Draco took a small step forward, glancing around quickly. Perfect. Just as planned. The wand a safe distance away, the castle's protectors fighting down in the corridors, Dumbledore had no means of escape, he couldn't reach his broom – the brooms –

"Who else is here?" he asked shrilly. Why did he sound so frightened? He was the one with a wand in his hand, he ought to feel strong!
"A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?"

Draco stared into Dumbledore's twinkling blue eyes. A surge of aggressivity pressed his heart. He yearned to strike the old man, to hurt him, to wipe that calm, wise look off his face. Didn't he know,

didn't he realize? Hadn't he seen the Mark? Or does he think you're too weak to do it, too?

"No," he said in a hard voice, "I've got back-up. There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight."

But this didn't seem to shake the man either. "Well well," he said, "Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you?"

"Yeah," he hissed, "Right under your nose, and you never realized!"

Do it, a voice in his head whispered. Strike. Do it now.

I'll show him. I'll show them all. I'll tell him what I've done, and he'll cower in fear before me!

"Ingenious," said Dumbledore. "Yet...forgive me...where are they now? You seem unsupported."

This was fear, he understood as he listened to his own shaky voice, as he spoke without thinking, seemingly unable to stop.

"They met some of your guard... They're having a fight down below."

Why are you giving him information?

"They won't be long."

You don't need them.

"I came on ahead."

Do you even know why?

"I - I've got a job to do."
"Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy," the Headmaster replied.
And then came the silence. He spoke no more, and neither did Dumbledore; but the hissy little voice in his head had gone quiet too. Nothing to push him forward anymore, he was alone. The only words that mattered now were Avada Kedavra.

"Draco, Draco, you are not a killer."

He was starting to believe it himself, imprisoned in his torturous duty, his hesitation; that's why he blurted out "How do you know?".

Dumbledore smiled; and though the eyes were blue, the face wrinkled, the gaze soft, he thought he saw his aunt's wry grin; there he understood that he was still nothing but a child.

"You don't know what I'm capable of!" he said desperately, his voice louder, with echoes like those of a child trying not to cry, "you don't know what I've done!"

I have done everything – except the very task.

"Oh yes I do," Dumbledore answered. "You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts...so feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has really been in it..."

"It has been in it!" he said vehemently. "I've been working on it all year and tonight –"

Tonight, the cry coming from the fight below sounded somehow like his own, helpless and hopeless. Tonight Dumbledore spoke as if he knew everything of him, more than he knew himself, and the two lethal words he had practised over and over didn't seem to come on his tongue. Tonight it was terror and maybe his first flicker of lucidity.

Draco, Draco, you are not a killer...

He was not a killer. He was a lost little boy, whose father was locked far away in an icy prison. And indeed, Dumbledore was speaking to him nicely, conversationally, like to a little boy he had no reason to fear. But he had stopped listening to the old man's gentle words, paying attention to the sounds of battle instead, and he was petrified.

"Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone," suggested Dumbledore. "What if your back-up has been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps realized, there are members of the Order of the Phoenix here tonight too. And after all, you don't really need help . . . I have no wand at the moment...I cannot defend myself."

Now Dumbledore himself was telling him what he ought to do – Draco just stared. His heart was pounding madly in his chest, and he couldn't see sense anymore, couldn't think. He was speechless, strengthless – spineless.

"I see...You are afraid to act until they join you."

It was a helpless, naive, silly old man, yet he was right. Something was wrong. Something was wrong inside of him. And no matter how hard he tried, he could not fix it.

"I'm not afraid!" he snarled, "It's you who should be scared!" Yet they both knew that it wasn't true. What could he do now, that he hadn't done before?

"But why? I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe... So tell me, while we wait for your friends... How did you smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a long time to work out how to do it."

Through the struggle to keep his body in control, he heard his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger. He heard his own rushed words, explaining how, unfolding the plan he had so carefully planned and that had so perfectly worked out – for nothing. He heard the pitiful weakness of his voice, the vulnerability there, the terror within, so close under the surface, the terror Dumbledore seemed to sense. The Headmaster was acknowledging him, the brilliance of his plan, and it soothed his frightened soul. How ironic. And he felt in control again, he remembered that he had once triumphed in something. How pitiful. He felt as if he had several selves now; the scared boy whose muffled cries he could hear at the back of his mind, the bloody stupid boastful thing that was feeling happy hearing Dumbledore's praise, the grown young man who was screaming What the hell? Do it now! and there were other voices too, his aunt's, whose lines were quite close of his most mature self's actually, his father's whispering that he couldn't really make out, and even the Dark Lord's cold laughter in the background. What couldn't he tune them out and get settled on a way? He was tired of being torn – he had never wanted the pain, never known what he was getting into –

"I was sure it was you."

Some more madness in this fucked up world.

"Why didn't you stop me, then?" he asked incredulously.

"I tried, Draco. Professor Snape has been keeping watch over you on my orders – "

Anger bubbled in him at the name.

"He hasn't been doing your orders, he promised my mother – " he started bitterly.

"Of course that is what he would tell you, Draco, but – "

"He's a double-agent, you stupid old man!" he spat, "He isn't working for you, you just think he is!"

"We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens I trust Professor Snape – "

"Well, you're losing your grip then!" he sneered, "He's been offering me plenty of help - wanting all the glory for himself – wanting a bit of the action – What are you doing? Did you do the necklace, that was stupid, it could have blown everything – But I haven't told him what I've been doing in the Room of Requirement, he's going to wake up tomorrow and it'll all be over and he won't be the Dark Lord's favourite any more, he'll be nothing compared to me, nothing!"

Draco stopped and breathed deeply, feeling more and more out of hand.

"Very gratifying," said Dumbledore mildly. "We all like appreciation for our own hard work, of course... But you must have had an accomplice, all the same... Someone in Hogsmeade, who was able to slip Katie the – the – aaaah..." Closing his eyes, the old man nodded slowly. "Of course... Rosmerta. How long has she been under the Imperius Curse?"

"Got there at last, have you?" Draco taunted, yet his arrogance was nothing but a façade. The terror was overpowering the glee, making it hard to breathe. He listened to Dumbledore musing his deductions aloud, nodding slowly along. He even answered the man's questions, he laughed at Dumbledore's sensitivity about the word "Mudblood". But he now felt numb. Numb.

"But as for being about to kill me, Draco, you have had several long minutes now. We are quite alone. I am more defenceless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted..."

His lips opened on the two fateful words, yet he had no breath to utter them. An almost physical pain contorted his features for one second. He was lost.

Dumbledore carried on as if he hadn't just commented Draco's unability to killed him – going on and on about how the plan had unfolded, deducting and musing – and Draco felt a kind of high, mixed with a weird, numbing realisation, when he told the old man that one of his people had died. So if he still could feel exhilarated over the plan's success, over an enemy's death, why wouldn't he be able to carry out the deed? The noise was getting stronger and stronger – his side was winning – why wouldn't he be able to complete the task and earn his glory?