DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognise belongs to JKR.

Written for Transfiguration in the School Subjects Competition on HPFC (AU)

It was the sight of her body that did. He had been crossing the entrance hall, finally free from McGonagall's clutches when the door burst open to reveal the oaf cradling her in his arms. He had vaguely recognised her as the mudblood Gryffindor chaser, the wheat-gold hair falling in waves across her too-pale face. A clatter of footsteps behind him warned him in time to jump out of McGonagall's way as she cluttered down the stairs, and her anguished words echoed in the near empty stone hall.

Dead. Katie Bell was dead from some unknown curse as she walked back from Hogsmeade. It hadn't taken him long to work out the cause and he ducked behind a tapestry just in time to see Potter and his little gang hurry through the great oak doors, a bundled scarf with a hint of silver peeking through in his arms.

Draco had been getting desperate; the Dark Lord's threats to his mother and father were harsher with every communication, and he spent every waking hour thinking about or working on the bloody cabinet. After a particularly bad afternoon where he successfully undid a week of repairs with a mispronounced spell he had given up, decided there had to be an easier way. Something so simple and stupid that Dumbledore would never see it coming.

The instructions were as simple as he could make them; Aunt Bella had taught him well the use of Unforgivables. The Imperious curse worked best on a simple minded individual, and required concise, direct instructions repeated regularly.

"Wait in the bathroom until a girl comes in. Not a Slytherin girl, any other girl will do. Give her the necklace and confund her. Then the imperious curse. Tell her to take it to Dumbledore. It's a present, a surprise present."

It should have been so simple. No-one was in any danger except the old man, which was the whole point. No-one could pin a thing on Draco, even if it failed because he was in a carefully obtained detention from that sour old biddy who though he cared about stupid Hogsmeade visits. And if Dumbledore somehow survived through luck or that bloody intuition he seemed to have then Draco was no worse off than before.

But instead it was all wrong and no matter how many times he told himself that the death of an up jumped Gryffindor mudblood slut didn't bother him, shouldn't bother him he couldn't help remember facing her on the pitch or seeing her across the hall. It reminded him that she was a living breathing person, who had a life and things to do. Things she would never do because of him.

His hands were shaking as he shifted the edge of the tapestry slightly to look out and make his escape, but they were all still there. They would always be there now, watching him, condemning him for the murder he committed. How long would it take Dumbledore to figure out who the culprit was? What would the old man do then?

Draco knew if he was caught then the Dark Lord would execute his mother. That much had been made clear from the moment he took service, before his arm had even finished burning with the mark. If he fled then he would be considered a traitor and would be hunted down by the Death Eaters. No, that was no option either.

Perhaps Snape could help him somehow. Shield him, find someone else to pass the blame to. Except Snape was one of the Dark Lord's favourites. He would probably just turn around and report Draco's failure, gloating at the Malfoys' fall from grace. But he had to do something, and do it fast before he found himself trapped here against every teacher, not to mention Potter and his band of followers.

Could he hide in the Room of Hidden Things, make Crabbe and Goyle bring him food until he successfully fixed the cabinet? No, they would surely be watched too closely. Nott maybe. He was smart and his father was one of the Dark Lord's, though Nott himself seemed to care little for the movement. Then again Nott might decide it was safer just to turn Draco in and absolve himself of any blame or suspicion.

Pansy. She would do it to help him, though whether she could pass unnoticed would have to be seen. Now he just had to slip away, up the stairs to the Room...but he needed to go to the Owlery first and send a message so that the Dark Lord would know he hadn't fled. And he would need the notes that were in his dormitory, and probably access to the library.

It just wasn't going to work. He slapped the stone wall in frustration. Maybe he should just charge up to Dumbledore's office and duel him right there and then. Surely the surprise would be enough to disarm the old man and then Draco could finish him at his leisure. But what if he failed? He would probably fail; the Dark Lord feared an outright fight with the muggle-loving fool so there was no way he could win, even with Dumbledore thinking that he was just a helpless boy capable of redemption.

The old man was foolish enough to believe Snape's lies, but would he be so forgiving of Draco now that there was blood on his hands? Maybe he would….

He shifted the tapestry for another peek at the entrance hall, where a small number of students were still milling about. He could hear the whispers echoing, the condemning words retelling the story over and over. He was a caged animal now, with nowhere to run. So maybe he would just have to let himself be tamed.

The Dark Lord feared Dumbledore for a reason; if the old man could rescue Draco's parents and hide them then the problem would go away. If he grovelled and begged and swore he had never meant any harm then the headmaster couldn't throw him to the lions. If he asked for a chance to redeem himself then surely he would be given the same opportunity as Snape. He was still a minor under Dumbledore's care, they had to help him. It was his only hope now, for his own survival as well as his family.

Summoning what little courage he could, he forced himself to step out from behind the tapestry, ignoring the glares of the Gryffindors and the stares of the other houses. Dimly he realised the wetness on his cheeks meant his eyes were probably red, though he didn't remember crying.

Malfoys don't cry. His father's words whenever he skinned his knee or fell from his broom, whenever he failed at a task and earned the disapproval or wrath of his paternal relatives. And this was the greatest failure of all. His father would never forgive him if he surrendered, but he would take his father's hatred if it gave him his mother's life and his own freedom.

The walk to Dumbledore's office seemed far longer when every person he passed whispered and stared with judging eyes. How did they know? A body brushed past his, some Ravenclaw in a hurry not an Auror come to place him under arrest, though his heart rate leaped and he stumbled into the stone wall in shock. The gargoyle who he had tried to find some way around as an initial idea for his mission didn't say a word as the door slid open, and Draco suddenly felt sick as he realised what this meant. Dumbledore knew. Was this a trap? Or was it the chance he was hoping for, the chance to be saved. Either way it was the only chance he had.