A/N: SURPRISE! Today is Draco's birthday, so I thought I'd give you all a gift and drop a surprise extra chapter this week! I hope you enjoy!
AlphaBet love to BiscuitsforPotter and DisenchantedGlow.

In the days that followed Pansy's funeral, Draco made an effort to venture out into the common areas of headquarters more often. Each time, however, he noticed that the warm and accepting atmosphere toward him had gone somewhat… cold. Several Order members had returned to scowling at him as he passed. Some offered him feeble smiles, but skirted around him as if afraid he might explode. At meal times, people made polite small talk near him, but Draco noticed that they rarely made an effort to include him in the conversation.

"They're afraid of you," Granger explained on Saturday evening as they sat together in the sitting room.

"Afraid of me?" Draco scoffed. "Why?"

Granger shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. "There have been rumors—rumors I've made every attempt to squash, mind you—that you may have had something to do with the Death Eater attack."

"What?" Draco balked, his fingers digging into the arms of the chair in which he sat. "They think I'm a spy?"

Granger cleared her throat, averting her eyes. "Apparently."

"Based on what evidence? The fact that I almost died a few months ago? Or the fact that they nearly took my arm off earlier this week?"

She bit the inside of her cheek nervously. "People are just trying to make sense of the fact that our safehouse was compromised. If Pansy had been the spy they wouldn't have killed her, and you were the only other one there."

"That's ridiculous! I—You know I'm not—I wouldn't—"

"I know," Granger said earnestly. "No one with any real power in the Order suspects you, if it makes you feel better. Kingsley and Harry both know that you're loyal."

Draco flopped against the back of the chair with a sigh. "I don't know how to prove to people that I didn't betray the safe house. One would think that the fact that the Death Eaters seem especially keen on murdering me would be proof enough."

"One would think," Granger droned with a thoughtful tilt of her head. "Just keep doing the right things. It'll blow over."

Sleep eluded him that night. Between his nightmares of Pansy and anxious thoughts of Order members suspecting him as a spy, he tossed and turned for hours before giving up and heading downstairs for a drink. He assumed that no one would be there to glare at him at nearly four in the morning, but he hadn't expected to find Charlie Weasley sitting in the dark drinking firewhiskey straight from the bottle.

The ginger man looked up when Draco turned on the light and entered. He looked terrible. His red hair was greasy and disheveled and his face was frightfully pale save for the dark purple circles under his eyes.

Draco must have looked frightful as well, because Charlie summoned a glass and poured some whiskey into it for him without even speaking before bringing the bottle back to his lips.

Draco sat down and took a healthy swig, letting the burning liquor numb his troubled mind. He wondered how much Charlie had had to drink. Enough, by the looks of it. Perhaps he should take the bottle away from him.

"Can't sleep?" Charlie's voice was low and gravelly. His eyes were somewhat unfocused on the table before him, and he was swaying slightly in his chair.

"No," Draco clipped, finishing his glass and holding it out for a refill. Charlie obliged, the whiskey sloshing onto the table slightly as he poured it with shaking hands.

"Haven't slept in days," Draco confessed.

"Neither have I." Charlie set the bottle down and rested his head in his hands, fingers gripping his hair hard.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and dark. Draco drank, and Charlie rocked in his chair.

After a moment, Draco became aware of Charlie's shoulders shaking. He let out a sniffle and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand.

"I didn't know you and Pansy had gotten so close," Draco mumbled, feeling slightly confused by the outpouring of emotion from the man across from him.

"It's my fault. Should have been there for her. To protect her," Charlie choked miserably.

"It's not your fault."

Charlie pounded his fist on the table. The bottle of firewhiskey shook precariously. "She was my charge. It was my responsibility to keep her safe."

"I was there, Charlie. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I'm the one who…" he cut himself off. He couldn't tell Charlie that he'd tampered with Pansy's wand. "I should have been quicker. It's my fault, Charlie. You weren't there."

"Exactly," Charlie snarled. "I should have been."

"You were meeting with Shacklebolt. It's not your fault."

Draco didn't know what to say to Charlie to help assuage his guilt. In truth, if he'd been there, Pansy may indeed still be alive. They would have outnumbered the Death Eaters and would have stood a much better chance of stunning them both before Pansy had even tried to use her wand. But despite that fact, it still wasn't Charlie's fault. He hadn't been the one to leave Pansy unprotected. He hadn't been the one whose shaking hands and fumbling tongue had failed to perform the necessary spells when it had mattered most.

Charlie pushed himself back from the table and stood up, tripping over his chair and stumbling into the wall with a curse. After righting himself, he snatched the bottle off the table and staggered out of the kitchen mumbling incoherently.

Draco finished his drink and then charmed the glass clean and returned it to the cupboard. He made his way back to his room and laid on his bed staring at the ceiling. How was it possible that Charlie seemed as filled with guilt as Draco felt? From where Draco stood, no one could possibly be more to blame than he was, except perhaps Mulciber.

But then he recalled an argument he'd had with Granger when she'd been his probationary mentor. She'd been concerned for his safety. She'd distinctly said that if he wanted to get himself killed, he should wait until she was no longer responsible for him. Perhaps the feelings of responsibility of the mentor really were that strong. Perhaps Charlie felt that anything that had happened to Pansy during that time, good or bad, reflected directly upon him.

His stomach twisted in guilt. He liked Charlie very much. To see him so torn up about losing Pansy was just another twist to the thorn in Draco's heart.

During a meeting the next day, Draco fidgeted in his seat. He hadn't felt so unwelcome since his first day with the Order. Several people eyed him warily. Finnegan sneered at him as he walked in and took his seat next to Dean. Charlie seemed teetering somewhere between grief and anger. He tightly gripped the arms of his chair one moment, and the next roughly carded his fingers through his hair. Granger sat directly in front of him, perhaps in an effort to show her trust. Ginny and Cho sat on either side of him, trying to engage him in loud small talk as people entered the room and took their seats. Draco could tell that this was all an act for his benefit, but he was still grateful for the gesture, no matter how contrived.

"Settle down, everyone," Kingsley said as he swept into the room and took his place at the head of the table.

A hush fell over the room as everyone turned their eyes to the Minister and the many files in his hands.

"Many of you have been briefed about the recent attack on the Farley house. Just know that at this time we are not suspecting foul play from anyone within the organization. The investigation is ongoing, of course. How they may have found the safe house is unknown right now, but rest assured that we are examining all possibilities," Shacklebolt announced, his tone serious.

There were a few whispers from the crowd.

"Sir," Bill piped up. "Is it possible that other safe houses have been compromised as well?"

"At this time, it doesn't seem so. Of course we cannot guarantee that they haven't been, but there is no evidence right now to suggest that they have," replied Kingsley.

The wary glances from the crowd divulged that they were not reassured.

"That being said," continued Shacklebolt. "We will be implementing new security measures on all safe houses. This includes strengthening the wards and monitoring travel in and out. These new security measures will go into effect this week, and you will all be briefed on any necessary measures that you will need to take as individuals."

This seemed to calm the group considerably, as everyone had now relaxed into their chairs a bit more.

"Now, we have received some chatter from an anonymous source about a potential Death Eater safe house. It is rumored that several high ranking members in their organization may be stationed there including…" he opened one of the folders before him. "Travers, Rodolphus Lestrange, and Mulciber."

A shiver ran up Draco's spine at the mention of the name. Mulciber. Blood pounded in his ears. What he wouldn't give to get his hands on the man who had murdered Pansy. He sat up straighter, hoping that Shacklebolt was going to share more information about the alleged safe house.

"I would like to plan a raid for early tomorrow morning, if possible."

Draco flexed his fingers around the arms of his chair. He prayed to any deity who may have ever existed for Shacklebolt to assign him to the task.

"If Potter, Chang, Jordan, Thomas, Dawlish, Bill, and George could all stick around. I'd like for you all to be on this team."

His heart sank to his toes, his dreams of vengeance for Pansy rapidly diminishing.

"The rest of you are dismissed. We will meet again tomorrow evening to discuss our new security measures. Thank you."

Most of the Order stood from their seats and began moving toward the exits. Draco sat still, debating asking Shacklebolt if he could join the raid team.

Granger paused on her way to the exit and turned back with an expectant look. Something about her knowing eyes compelled him to stand up and follow.

"He would never let you," she said softly as they made their way into the living room. "You're too close to the situation."

He knew she was right, but it still didn't stop him from glancing back at the dining room doors wistfully before they closed behind him. Mulciber would be captured alive and taken to Azkaban. The Order saw it as justice, but to Draco, it seemed like failure.

If he could just figure out where the Death Eater safe house was… if he were allowed on the team, perhaps he could…

No.

If he were on the team, killing Mulciber would be off the table. He would have to do everything by the book, obey Shacklebolt's rules, and bring the bastard in alive so that he could stand trial for his crimes.

Draco wouldn't be able to do it. He knew himself too well. If Mulciber stood before him, there wasn't a power on Earth that would stop Draco from ending his life. He clenched his fists, his fingertips digging into the fabric of his trousers.

As much as he hated to admit it, Shacklebolt had made the right call by not putting him on the team.

The pit in his stomach growing exponentially, he excused himself and trudged back upstairs, isolating himself in his room once more.

Draco was sure he was going to wear a hole in the floor. He hadn't stopped pacing back and forth in his room in the several long hours since he was dismissed from the Order meeting.

The numbness that had taken hold of him after Pansy's death had gone, and in its place, rage and bloodlust.

He had never been one to enjoy killing. Though it had once been his job, that's all it had ever been. He had never taken pleasure at the idea of taking someone's life.

But now? The very thought of Mulciber dead—and being the one to make it happen—that definitely brought him pleasure.

Imagining the alternative—imagining Order members kicking down some doors and taking him into custody, after which he would live out his days in Azkaban—it filled Draco with a potent rage such as he had never felt before.

This was madness.

It was insanity.

He tried to Occlude... tried to think of something else. Any other solution. It was the reason he had been pacing for so long.

Draco wanted to talk himself out of this stupid idea. It could be his downfall. If he was discovered, there would be no turning back.

But the thought of Mulciber meeting his end at Draco's own wand... it was too enticing to ignore.

Shacklebolt be damned.

The whole Order be damned.

His mind was set.

At just after two in the morning, Draco disillusioned himself in his room. Despite the rage that still coursed freely through his veins, his assassin's instincts hadn't left him. He was able to make his way down the stairs and past some late-night stragglers toward the office without anyone noticing.

Sneaking inside locked rooms was a skill he hadn't forgotten. Within ten minutes, he had gained access to Shacklebolt's office and the files inside without raising any alarm. He spent another ten minutes looking over the detailed folders about the Death Eater safe house, memorizing everything he could, before replacing the paperwork exactly as he had found it and leaving again. He replaced the wards and locks so that no one would ever know that he had been there.

Keeping himself disillusioned, he made his way to the front door. The house was dark and completely still, but he still checked for guards on his way out. He encountered no one, and once he had closed the door behind him and stepped off the porch, he apparated to Yorkshire, his mind singularly focused on one thing: Revenge.

The Death Eaters were getting very lax with their wards. It took Draco even less time to gain access to this property than the safe house in Surrey. As he slipped into the wards, his mind jumped ahead to his next steps. The killing curse he had tried at the Farley house after Pansy had been killed had not worked. If he tried to cast it again now, it might fail.

Draco paused. Was he still too weak for this task?

He faltered. Perhaps this had been a mistake.

No.

He knew he could do it. He had to do it. He could feel rage coursing through his veins. His wand vibrated in his hand with fury waiting to be unleashed.

They had tried to murder him twice.

They had killed Pansy in cold blood, and had targeted Granger.

They deserved to die. To be wiped from this earth, leaving nothing but the pain they'd caused behind.

Granger had been right: he just needed to trust his instincts. He'd been too panicked at the Farley house, but now, he was calm. He was focused. He knew what he could do and how to do it.

"Homenum Revelio Charta," he murmured, watching the miniature rendering of the safe house burst from his wand. There were six blue dots representing people on the premises: himself, and five others. He couldn't tell which one was Mulciber, but Draco knew he wasn't going to be discriminatory. Every Death Eater inside would meet the same fate. They had all done wrong. It would be difficult, but not impossible. He could handle five.

He was still disillusioned, but he was careful to stay low as he approached the house. It was dark on the ground level, but he checked his map spell again before entering through the front door. There were two Death Eaters in the kitchen. He would have to be quick and quiet.

The front door gave way with a simple unlocking spell. A charm to quiet the hinges was next, and then he slipped inside and padded silently through the foyer on the way to the kitchen. He moved quickly past the stairs and stopped just short of the arched opening.

"I still can't believe Mulciber couldn't finish off the traitor scum while he was there," a deep male voice was saying. Travers, by the sound of it.

"'Ow the 'ell did Malfoy survive anyway? I saw what that potion did to 'im. There was no doubt in my mind when we left 'im there that 'e was dead," replied the other one. Rowle? Draco couldn't be sure about that one.

"Who cares how he survived? The potion works. Well enough to kill some muggles, anyway. We'll get him soon. It's just a shame he couldn't go out with his traitorous whore girlfriend."

Draco burst through the opening, the killing curse erupting from his wand with power that had him staggering back. Travers never even saw it coming. He slumped forward against the table as Rowle threw himself back, tripping over his chair in an effort to escape the invisible threat. The man drew his wand with a shout just before Draco's second killing curse ripped the life from him.

As Rowle crumpled to the floor, Draco darted back down the corridor and into the living room. The Death Eaters upstairs would have certainly heard Rowle's shout and would come to investigate. From the living room, Draco saw a dark figure dart down the stairs, wand drawn on his way to the kitchen. In a flash of green, the man dropped to the floor.

There was more movement from the upper level, and Draco could hear hurried footsteps making their way down the corridors. His blood was pumping through his veins, every sense that had been lying dormant within him was now fully awake. He had never enjoyed his time as an assassin, but with the promise of revenge so close, he found himself thankful for his training. Surely Dolohov would never have guessed that he would be providing Draco with the skills necessary to pick off members of his own team one by one.

Someone else was running down the stairs. "Mulciber!" the man shouted to someone on the second floor.

It would be his last word, for in the next instant, he was engulfed in Draco's blaze of green and fell to the floor with a final thump.

This was it. A thrill ran through Draco. It was just him and Mulciber now. And he wanted the man who killed Pansy to know who had bested him in the end.

With a wave of his wand, Draco lifted the Disillusionment Charm and waited for Mulciber to come to his friend's aid.

It seemed that Mulciber was smarter than his compatriots. He didn't rush down the stairs with reckless abandon, but took his time instead. Draco could hear the floorboards creaking above. It was possible that he was sending a distress call to other Death Eaters, asking for backup. It didn't matter. By the time anyone arrived to help him, he would be dead, and Draco would be long gone.

So he waited. He had time.

Mulciber began creeping down the stairs. When the third stair creaked, the Death Eater paused.

But it made no difference to Draco. He was already moving silently to a closer location. At the foot of the stairs, just out of sight, he waited.

He could hear Mulciber's ragged breath as he tiptoed down the last few stairs.

So clumsy.

As soon as Mulciber stepped onto the main floor, Draco acted immediately, and the Death Eater's wand flew from his hand, landing in Draco's open palm.

Mulciber turned, eyes wide as they landed on Draco. He backed up, frantically glancing around for help that would not come. Draco gained on him, power coursing through his body like a tiger preparing to pounce. Disarmed and vulnerable, Mulciber raised his hands as if begging for mercy.

The killing curse ripped through Draco's body and out of the end of his wand, enveloping Mulciber who then landed in a limp heap on the floor.

It was done.

Draco took a deep breath, the weight of revenge lifting from his shoulders. Disillusioning himself again, he turned to leave.

And then he saw something that made him pause.

The third Death Eater, the first one to come downstairs to help the others—Draco hadn't seen his face when he'd fired the curse, but now his victim laid in the dim light from the kitchen. His face bathed in light, Draco's blood ran cold.

No.

It was William Hammond, looking so young and innocent in death. The last time Draco had seen the boy, they had joked about Quidditch. William had wanted more than anything to go to the next Quidditch World Cup, to see the greats fly together with his own eyes. But he would never see it. His eyes were open, unseeing and glassy, still portraying the fear and shock he had felt in his last seconds.

Something within Draco fell away and he dropped to his knees. Of all the people to get caught in the crossfire, this was something he couldn't stomach. William… he had been one of the good ones. A decent kid who hadn't been so very different from Draco really. A victim of circumstance, just doing his best to survive in this nightmare of a world.

And Draco had murdered him.

A/N: Next chapter posts Monday, June 8th.
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