With an anguished cry, Draco stumbled backward, away from the penseive, throwing his arms up to shield his face, as if attempting to physically ward off the horrendous images that had just bombarded him.

"Aw Jesus," he gasped, as his legs began to give way; he grabbed for the edge of the desk, but missed, and fell hard to his knees, which screamed in protest at the shabby treatment they had been getting just lately. "Jesus Christ, Hermione," he muttered, dropping his head into his hands; "oh, bookworm. Oh no. If I had known…I'd have killed him slower for you."

And quite suddenly he found himself doubled over, being violently sick onto the floor.

Several long moments later, using the edge of the desk and the back of a chair for support, he dragged himself to his feet once more and stared in utmost horror at the once again innocent-seeming milky white contents of the bowl. Dear sweet God.

He had just watched himself…HIMSELF…brutally, savagely, mercilessly, repeatedly, raping the woman he loved. There had been other atrocities too, yes, but- but nothing touched that. He just barely managed to fight down a new wave of nausea.

"I gotta get a hold of myself," he croaked.

He turned away from the penseive, leaning back against the desk, breathing hard, hands balled into fists, staring sightlessly across the room as he fought to regain control of his emotions. After a moment, he inhaled and exhaled deeply, and ran both hands through his silvery hair. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, tears were standing in them, but otherwise it seemed that he had recovered his usual cool demeanor.

His eyes swept the spacious bedroom from one side to the other. "I renounce my father," he said, his voice low and dangerously flat. "I renounce my mother. I renounce this house and everything in it." Behind him, the penseive suddenly and violently exploded. Shards of the bowl flew like shrapnel, not a few of them slicing stingingly through Draco's skin. He turned slowly back to face the desk, watching the opaque substance that was his father's memories slowly disperse with nothing left to contain it. He trailed one finger through it before it vanished completely.

"Well," he said, in a quiet, almost strangled voice, "at least now I understand why she flinched."

At that point, the massive wrought iron chandelier that provided most of the room's light rent itself from the beamed ceiling with a metallic scream and crashed to the floor. Draco, turning his back once and for all on the desk and the shattered remnants of the penseive, surveyed it with apparent mild interest. "That's right," he said calmly, as though answering an unspoken question, "I renounce this house and every last God forsaken thing in it."

And stepping around the wreckage of the chandelier, he crossed the room to the door with purposeful stride, stopping only for an instant to pick up the invisibility cloak, which he had flung across the foot of the bed on his way to view the penseive.

As he left his childhood bedroom for the final time, the two enormous fireplaces cracked from top to bottom, with nearly human groans of agony. Draco did not look back.

00000

He walked slowly down the long hallway of his wing of the manor. His face was expressionless, but his jaw was set in a tight line and his hands, at his sides, were clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Each light fixture he passed under shattered violently; each heavy wooden door he walked past blew inward off its hinges, splintering under the force of his rage.

He barely seemed to notice the havoc that was being wreaked by the near-palpable waves of rage and hatred that were radiating out from the very core of his being. Like Harry, and most wizard and witch children, he had discovered, when still very young, that odd things seemed to happen around him when he was in distress (though of course, unlike Harry, he had always known the reason behind such phenomena). However, that this raw destructive energy should reemerge when he was nearly grown was very unusual. Controlling one's magical essence was, after all, foremost among the many important skills that students at Hogwarts learned.

But what Draco had seen in the penseive had pushed him well beyond the last artificial barrier he had erected, under the careful instruction of his teachers, to keep his magic safely contained. That barrier had crumbled; his power was unleashed, and it was out of control.

Which suited Draco just fine.

It was, after all, accomplishing exactly what he wanted to accomplish. He wanted this house razed to the ground. He would have torn it down with his own two hands if necessary, brick by brick and stone by stone, but if his powers should opt to do the work for him, then so much the better.

He paused for a moment at the threshold of his library, which was now devoid of a door, and gazed into the room that had once been his favorite retreat. As his eyes, dark gunmetal gray with wrath, swept the room, every one of the thousands of books contained within it spontaneously combusted.

"This isn't enough," he said aloud, in the same eerily calm voice he had used back in his bedroom, as flames reflected in his eyes; eyes that, for all his outward semblance of calm, were those of a caged beast. "I'm going to need to kill something." He spoke with flat assurance. "I'm going to need to kill something or else I will go bloody…fucking…insane."

Then, leaving the burning library behind him, he moved on, in an almost trancelike state, down the hall.

00000

As Draco reached the imposing, ornately crafted front doors of the manor, they blew outward off their hinges, tumbling over and over in the air, and hit the ground at the foot of the manor's front steps. It was then, as he stepped out onto the landing of his ancestral home under the darkening sky, that Draco was confronted by the full consequences of his decision not to portkey back to Hogwarts with Ron's body.

For ranged out in a rough semicircle around the base of the steps stood some fifteen or so black-robed figures; his father's most loyal followers. It appeared that they had been converging on the manor but had stopped short when the doors had exploded outward, dropping into defensive stances and whipping out their wands.

Draco now surveyed them with the same outward dead calm he had displayed since leaving his bedroom. Inwardly, his mind was racing as he sought to understand what had brought them here. Then he realized; it was dusk on the third day since Hermione had been taken. They had come for the ceremony in which his father had planned to kill her- and Draco himself- cementing his position as their undisputed leader by proving that his hatred for his errant son was stronger than any blood ties between them.

His attention was suddenly caught by one figure in particular; a slender figure he could tell was a woman merely by the shape of her under her robe. She raised pale hands and thrust her hood back away from her face, revealing a cascade of fair, silvery hair exactly like his.

Mother. She had known what his father had done to Hermione; known and done nothing to stop it; known and approved. Like as not, he thought, the polyjuice potion had been her idea; she always had been devious that way. And he had seen in the penseive, too, that she had visited Hermione herself on more than one occasion, always bringing with her more torture, more anguish, for the already sick, already pain-wracked girl.

Now she was surveying him coldly through ice-blue eyes so like his own. They stared at one another for a long, spiraling moment, until the figure next to Narcissa also lowered its hood, shaking out a thick mane of raven hair shot through with silver. Draco's gaze went now to the woman standing beside his mother, one arm protectively, bracingly about her waist.

Bellatrix. So that was where his mother had been all afternoon; with his mad bitch aunt. Probably prettying themselves up for tonight's festivities. Right, a day at the spa, because one must look one's best when witnessing the ritual murder of one's only child, after all. He remembered vaguely that he had wondered, earlier- a lifetime ago, it seemed- before Hermione had died in his arms, before he had found out just what had happened to her here in this evil place, where his mother had been.

Well, no matter. She was here now, and mother or no mother, he would show her no mercy.

Narcissa's voice rang out through the dusk, trembling with wrath. "Draco! Why were there anti-apparition wards on the house? Where is your father? Traitorous, ungrateful child, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Draco didn't answer. His eyes, which so often shone silver in the fading light of day's end, were flat and dark with rage. He reached up slowly and pushed his hair back, out of his face; he would need to see very clearly if there were to be any slight hope at all of surviving the coming confrontation.

Narcissa's gaze left him then, and she looked around at the others grouped about the base of the steps. When she spoke again, her voice was commanding, through it shook even more than when she had addressed him; still with anger, but also, now, with grief.

"This upstart boy, who is no son of mine, has killed my husband!" she cried to those around her, her voice that of an aggrieved queen. "I can see it written all over his accursed face! Now all of you, throw back your hoods as I have; let him see the face of vengeance before we send him to the deepest pit of hell!"

In a single, seemingly choreographed movement, every hood was pushed back. Draco surveyed them all, meeting the eyes of each one. There were the fathers of his childhood friends, Crabbe and Goyle. There, the father and older brother of the girl who had been intended for him practically since birth, Pansy Parkinson. Over there Nott and Avery, men with whom he had sat down to dinner numerous times growing up, both at his own table and theirs; and over there- over there was Blaise Zabini's father and beside him, Blaise himself.

He was the only one present of Draco's own age, and this confirmed in Draco's mind the fact that Blaise had indeed been working for Lucius; had been his contact within Hogwarts. No doubt the seventh-year Slytherin had been invited tonight to receive special honors for the part- a very large part, Draco was sure- that he had played in bringing about Hermione's capture.

Each of these, and all the others, met Draco's gaze with glares of unmitigated hatred.

And Draco did something that none of them would ever have expected, outnumbered as he was more than a dozen to one.

He smiled.

His desire to kill had been answered, after all- and how. Even though the outcome didn't look so good for him, damned if he wasn't going to take these bastards with him. A lot of them. ALL of them, if possible.

And he thought that, given the current state of his mind and his powers, that just might BE possible.

Behind and above him, every window in the house blasted outward, raining glass shards down on those gathered below. All except Draco. His magic, even while causing the destruction of the house, was also protecting him from the effects of it.

Narcissa screamed her outrage into the gathering night.

And then all hell broke loose.

00000

Hours had passed.

Draco groaned; a low sound of pain beyond words; almost beyond coherent thought. He wrenched his eyes reluctantly open.

He was lying face down in lush grass; his head was turned to the side and, blinking hard, he recognized the sweeping front lawn of the Malfoy estate. Several yards away, he could make out the iron gate he needed to get through before he could apparate back to Hogwarts. About half a dozen bodies littered the grass between him and it.

Gritting his teeth with effort, he pushed himself slowly over onto his back where he lay, spread eagled, gasping up at the stars. Stars which were, by the way, nowhere near as bright as they should have been; they were dulled and obscured by an angry red glow coming from Draco's left.

He turned his head in that direction and was greeted by the sight of the manor burning fiercely in the night. The entire enormous building was ablaze; dark, oily smoke rising into the sky and blotting out the stars altogether in that direction. It looked as though large chunks of the once-majestic house had already collapsed in on themselves, and as he watched, the entire roof caved in with a terrific crash, sending sparks flying hundreds of feet into the air.

The faintest ghost of a smile touched Draco's lips.

He was enjoying watching the house burn.

He could have watched it all night.

And truthfully, considering the amount of effort and pain involved in merely rolling himself over, the thought of actually getting to his feet held little very appeal right now.

Except-

Hermione.

He remembered another time, not so long ago, that he had lain on his back, suffering, just like this- only Hermione had been there then, cradling him, comforting him. She wasn't here now, though; she was miles away, and in just as much pain as he was himself. And he had promised that he would return to her, just as soon as he could.

It was a promise he meant to keep, now that he had completed his business at the manor. Which meant-

That he had to get up.

He attempted to push himself into a sitting position, and was spectacularly unsuccessful. Groaning, he then rolled back over onto his stomach- this gave him much better leverage- and pushed himself slowly up onto his knees. He stayed like this, on his hands and knees, head hanging so low that his fair hair brushed the grass, for a long moment, as his head was swimming and he was afraid that if he moved again too soon, he might well black out.

"Hermione," he croaked through clenched teeth, in an effort to keep his focus.

Have to get back to her…have to….

When the dizzy spell passed, he brought one leg forward, knee up against his chest, foot flat on the ground. Then, wishing mightily that he had something to grab onto for support (but if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, as his mother used to say with a contemptuous sneer) he pushed himself to his feet with one great heave.

He reeled backwards and almost fell, but managed- just barely- to keep his balance. He would not- COULD not- allow himself to fall to the grass again, because he had a very strong suspicion that he would not be able to get up a second time.

Once he had steadied himself he stood for a moment, swaying slightly, eyes tightly shut and heels of both hands pressed to his temples.

Get a grip, Malfoy, he thought grimly; you've had worse, so just get a bloody grip on yourself.

But the thing was, he hadn't had worse; if he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that the screaming agony he was in right now was about as bad as anything he'd endured in the past. He wouldn't go so far as to say that this felt WORSE than when he had been stabbed and Crucio'd, all within a minute's time- but it was as bad. Yes, this was every bit as bad.

For he'd been hit by at least half a dozen curses during the fight- probably closer to a dozen. And these were not the spells employed by his Hogwarts compatriots when they took it into their heads to have a silly little duel now and then; the curses he had been hit with had not tickled him, or given him jelly legs, or made him sprout feathers, or tentacles. No, these had been had deadly serious curses, designed to kill their victims slowly, and with a great deal of pain. Curses that opened bloody gashes where they hit, or caused internal injury; broke bones, or time-released poison into one's system.

Narcissa had deemed him undeserving of a quick, "merciful" death by Avada Kedavra, and had shrieked at Lucius' followers- her followers, now- to "be creative" in which spells they hurled at her son. Ironically, it was this very viciousness on his mother's part, he realized, that had actually saved his life (assuming he made it back to Hogwarts without dropping dead first, anyway); for he certainly could not have been hit by a dozen Avada Kedavra's- or even one, for that matter- and be standing here now.

You outsmarted yourself, mother, he thought, and bared his teeth in what he had intended as a triumphant grin…but ended up looking more like a snarl. Not that there was anyone else left alive to pass judgment. If anyone HAD been present to witness him at that moment, they probably would have turned tail and run, gibbering with fright, because, he realized, when he opened his eyes and looked down, searching the ground for his wand, his snarling face was all of him that was visible at the moment. The rest of him was concealed beneath Potter's invisibility cloak, as his head had been until a minute ago, when the hood had fallen away as he reeled backwards.

He had forgotten that he was wearing it, but now he remembered putting it on. He had done so almost at once, after the first barrage of curses had knocked him sideways over the edge of the landing, causing him to fall some eight feet to the ground and be temporarily hidden from all but a couple of his foes. He had realized that he still had the cloak balled up under his arm, had shaken it out, ducked swiftly beneath it, and vanished from view, eliciting cries of dismay from the two or three people who had witnessed this clever trick.

For just the briefest instant a small part of him had protested that fighting invisible was dishonorable; but he had ignored this assertion and it was gone with the next curse that hit him, fired by one of those who had seen him disappear and had made a quick, keen guess as to which direction he might have taken. Given the choice between remaining visible and trying to wage a "fair fight" when the odds were stacked nearly twenty-to-one to one against him, or taking refuge under the cloak and actually having some slim hope for survival, he would go with surviving, thanks. The others weren't fighting fair; why in the bloody hell should he?

And the cloak HAD saved him; its protection, coupled with his mother's overconfident refusal to allow him to be Avada Kedavra'd, had somehow seen him through. If he had remained visible, he would probably have been hit with fifty curses, not just eight or ten; he would be dead for sure.

The sight of his wand lying in the grass nearby brought him back to the present. He stumbled over to it, and not wanting to crouch down to retrieve it, for fear of falling, held his hand out over it and willed it to rise into his grasp. It did so. But it came slowly, falteringly, reluctantly; it did not leap from the ground to his hand as he had expected it to.

This was a clear indication of just how little strength, both physical and magical, he had left.

Suppressing another groan, he took a few, staggering steps toward the gate- then stopped. He had just realized, with equal parts dismay and resignation, that his work here wasn't quite done yet.

"Mother," he whispered, a raw, painful sound. He had to find her body; had to pay her one last courtesy, that he had denied Lucius, but somehow felt he could not deny the woman who had, after all, given him life- for all that she had attempted today to take that life away again.

Well- that, and he wanted to see that the bitch was really dead.

Changing course, he stumbled over to the body which lay nearest him. He recognized Crabbe, even though the man lay face-down; there had been no others among his parents' circle with such an astounding girth. This was good, Draco thought dimly; this would do nicely.

Focusing on Crabbe's large black cloak, he said "Accio," in a barely audible voice, and the blanket-sized garment flew into his outstretched hand, ripping at the dead man's throat, where it had been clasped. Then, dragging the cloak behind him on the ground, Draco made his stumbling, halting way from one corpse to the next, searching for his mother. He would find her and cover her; something in the thought of her lying here, exposed to the elements like the bloated Crabbe, repelled him, even after all he had been through in the past few hours.

Yet, he never found her.

He'd found Blaise soon enough, and stood over him for a good long time, staring hard into the glassy, sightless eyes of the boy he had once counted as a friend. "Rotten luck, Zabini," he had muttered at last, before moving on. "You brought it on yourself, though. Bastard."

And he had found his aunt Bellatrix, whom he had not covered; indeed, the only courtesy he had done her was to resist the impulse to spit in her dead, upturned face. He never had liked the woman, even back when he had counted himself among Voldemort's faithful; he had always sensed something mad, feral, and innately rotten about her.

But of his mother, there was no sign.

When he had made a complete circuit of the lawn and arrived back at Crabbe's body once more, he shook his head in mounting panic and started his search again.

The second time he encountered Crabbe without having found Narcissa, his panic was complete. He now cared less about covering her body than just seeing it and proving to himself that she was, in fact, dead. He might well have searched a third time, and perhaps even a fourth, except that he was well aware his flagging strength would not allow it. He'd be lucky even to reach the gate now.

Where did she go? his tired mind was screaming as he staggered toward the gate, which looked impossibly distant. Did she crawl into the house to die beside father, or did she escape somehow? Where in the bloody hell did she go?

The thought of his mother out there somewhere, injured but alive, licking her wounds, nursing her hatred, chilled him- not so much for himself, as for Hermione, who had already suffered enough for several lifetimes at the hands of both his vicious parents. But there was nothing to be done about it now…in his current condition, searching any further would be madness. It would guarantee him a lonely death here on the grounds of the home he had renounced.

He made it to the gate, dropping Crabbe's cloak along the way; it slipped easily from between his increasingly nerveless fingers. When he realized this, something clicked in his pain-dulled mind and he thrust his wand into the waistband of his pants, so as not to lose it too.

Passing through the gate, he stopped, reached out a hand to steady himself against it, and gathered all his concentration and energy in preparation for apparating back to Hogwarts. He had to be extra careful, in his weakened and pain riddled state, not to let his focus lapse and end up splinching himself.

When he at last felt ready, he let go of the gate and took a deep breath. He felt as calm and focused as he thought was possible under the circumstances.

Now if only the world would stop spinning like this….

He apparated.