Draco sat at the table, surrounded by his classmates, and ate. He ate some of everything that was before him--roast chicken, glazed potatoes, and freshly baked rolls. He felt himself becoming warm and full, more than he had in days. He didn't like the feeling. It was unfamiliar and uncomfortable. But for some reason, he kept eating.

Gossip swirled around him, all of it about Weasley and the poison. Apparently, Potter and Weasley had been having breakfast with Slughorn, and had drunk the mead then. Or at least Weasley had drunk the mead. Although Potter was nowhere in sight in the Great Hall, Draco was sure he'd somehow not encountered the mead himself. Draco would have heard if the Boy Who Lived was also at death's door. No one would even be mentioning Weasley, no doubt, if their golden boy had also fallen.

It appeared that Weasley had not died--or at least, not yet. He must not have had much of the drink, because that was powerful poison; Draco knew that much, since he'd picked it out. As the popular narrative had it, Potter (of course) had gallantly saved Weasley by stuffing a damned bezoar in his mouth, and so Potter was the brave hero, and Weasley was dramatically clinging to life, and might expire at any moment. The way they were talking, Draco couldn't tell whether his housemates wanted him to survive or not.

With the amount of death that they'd all be facing soon, Draco was surprised to see his housemates all so gleeful at the potential of mortality. Didn't they know death was all around them, just waiting for the moment to strike? Or perhaps they all thought that Potter would be around to stick bezoars in their mouth, too.

Only Draco seemed to see that Potter was no match for the death that hung over all of them. And so perhaps it was fitting that it was Draco who was responsible for this uproar, even if no one knew it--he who had caused them all to realise the finite nature of their own pitiful lives.

He who had almost caused Weasley's death.

The thought raced around Draco's mind but it didn't have a place to land. He tore into another roll and stared at the soft, fleshy bread.

Enough. He'd had enough.

Draco threw the roll down on the table, pushed his chair back, and stood up. Once again, he felt the desperate need to get away from all people. His housemates paused in their chatter for only a moment as Draco left. They were getting more and more adept at ignoring him, at pretending he didn't exist. Draco wished that they were the ones who didn't exist.

He left the Great Hall, the magical sky storming above him in a deep, angry, stony grey. He had to get away. He needed the night air.

Once outside, he breathed a sigh of relief. Better. The night sky, while still clouded over, was comparatively calmer than the false sky in the Great Hall. Here there was no one to crowd in his space, no conversations that he couldn't help but listen to. If he'd heard Weasley's name one more time, he'd have hit someone, he knew it. Served the bastard right for drinking at 9 AM. And apparently it had been his birthday, too. Well, Weasley never did seem to have much luck.

Now, Draco had a moment to consider the consequences of Weasley's misfortune. The poison had been found, and no doubt disposed of. This meant that Dumbledore would not be drinking the mead. Weasley might still die, but Dumbledore would not. At least, not from the poison. And the locket was already a wash. All of Draco's plans had failed.

Draco walked swiftly toward a stone bench, which was lit up by a warm glow from the window. The rest of the night was dark and raw. It was still cold, with the hint of spring in the air more painful than promising. But Draco needed to be outside.

He pulled the book out of his bag. He couldn't think about Weasley or Dumbledore or the lot of them anymore, better to just read.

Horcruxes.

So far, he had read up on many of the myths surrounding horcruxes, what they were, what they were rumoured to do. But there were some crucial pieces waiting to be filled in. All the books he'd read had danced around the topic of how to make a horcrux. And that was what Draco needed to know.

This book, the one he had grabbed at the last moment, had a concise title: Creating Darkness. He'd chosen it because he thought perhaps it would have the answers he sought.

He opened it carefully. It smelled distinct--not musty, but like night blooming jasmine. Like his mother's garden, rather than his father's library. Like the nights he'd slip outside while his parents were entertaining.

His heart was beating fast, and he didn't know why. This book was different somehow. He ran a finger down the open page, feeling the smooth, crisp paper. It was just a book.

Just like that bottle had just been mead.

Weasley. What an idiot. He wasn't worth the energy it took to think about him. It was entirely Weasley's own fault that he'd ended up almost dead.

The first chapter of the book was entitled "Death and its Many Uses." Something about the wording and the font made Draco shiver. Death really was everywhere. Death Eaters. The Dark Lord. Dumbledore. Weasley. They all were about--or facing--death in one way or the other. Of course horcruxes would be about death too.

He read for a few minutes, scanning for the word horcrux, until he began to grasp the enormity of what he had set out to do. Horcruxes weren't only about death. They were death. They were both life and death. They promised immortal life, but death gave birth to them. He could see why they were so powerful and taboo.

Draco shut the book and closed his eyes, trying to empty his head of thought. He couldn't consider any of this right now. Any promise of a solution was just bringing with it endless webs of complications. Fuck.

After a cold, silent moment, he knew he wasn't alone. He was being watched. Still, he waited before opening his eyes. He heard someone walk toward him, their feet squelching in the wet snow. He opened his eyes to see that Mudblood, Granger, watching him from a mere foot away.

He put the book in his bag quickly. "Do you have a problem?"

She stared at him for a moment before speaking. "I've been watching you," she said.

What the fuck? Where did she get off? Was she trying to scare him? Fat chance she'd have. "Any particular reason?" Draco retorted.

She shook her head, but Draco knew she was only indicating that she wasn't going to answer his question. Supercilious bitch. Granger fixed him with a look, and mirrored his question with one of her own. "What are you up to, out here?"

"Just getting some fresh air, although I don't see how it's any of your business." Draco scowled at her.

"What were you reading?" She asked, ignoring his scowl.

"Now that is definitely none of your business." Draco stood, ready to walk away.

"Harry's on to you, you know," Granger said, softly but menacingly. "And so am I."

Draco took a step toward her that he hoped was threatening. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

She didn't reply, but just looked at him, as if she were studying him. She seemed surprised at what she saw.

"Get lost, Mudblood," Draco said, in his most spiteful voice. "And tell Potter to stay away from me, too." She gazed at him silently for another moment, her face seemingly impassive but her eyes burning in anger, and then turned away, walking back the way she came.

Draco watched her go, suddenly aware that his throat was tight and his stomach on fire.

There was no mistaking the relief that swept through him when he heard the news from his housemates early that next morning. The feeling was palpable and sweet, like the way his mother prepared his tea--milky and comforting--like the start of a new, fresh, clean day.

Weasley had not died.

This meant that no one had yet died. The poison had failed. The locket had failed. No one had died.

He hadn't been hoping for that, but still... maybe he had.

Draco made a list, before heading to breakfast. The list would help him to decide what course of action to follow now, given everything. His hands were still shaking, but his script was careful and measured as he wrote out the two choices:

Kill Dumbledore

Kill Voldemort

He had to think this through rationally. He couldn't allow himself emotion, especially not fear. He looked at the two choices, willing the words to make sense, to show him what to do.

To kill both would be wisest. He could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Earn the Dark Lord's trust by killing Dumbledore, and perhaps make a horcrux in the process.

But he didn't want to kill both. This was meant to be a new path, determined by him. He wanted to kill only Voldemort. He needed to kill only Voldemort, and he needed to do it on his own terms, and no one else's.

He had thought that horcruxes, as powerful as they seemed, would prove to be the key.

But now he wasn't sure it was so simple. After the Weasel... truth be told, Draco wasn't sure he had it in him.

He'd never given killing much thought before this year. His father was a Death Eater--no doubt death was what they talked about at those so-called dinner parties--but he hadn't thought until this year that his future would be the same. He somehow believed that all of the death and politics would be resolved before he had to make a choice about which path to follow. Stupid of him.

Doubt crept back into Draco's stomach, like an ugly, old thing. Inescapable. But he couldn't let it stop him. For now, he would continue with his plan, but with slight revisions. He needed still more information before he made his choice, and he'd have to be very, very careful as he followed this path. His housemates may not have been eager to support him before, but they'd be even less eager to turn on the Dark Lord for him. They weren't ones to sacrifice. Best to let them believe nothing had changed.

Draco left the Dungeons before the other Slytherins, and walked to breakfast alone, kicking at the melting snow with his boots, lost in thought.

At breakfast, Draco picked at his porridge, pushing it around. He no longer felt the need to consume anything but the cup of hot tea before him.

He looked up from the glistening liquid to find eyes on him once again. It was not Granger this time, as she had her head buried in a book, but Potter who was staring at him, unblinkingly, from his seat across the hall at the Gryffindor table. Potter's gaze was angry and direct; there was no subtlety there, which was unsurprising, as this was Potter. Subtlety was not one of his strengths. But still, Potter's glare, however unrefined, made Draco shiver. There was fury in Potter's eyes.

Why were Granger and Potter so concerned with Draco, anyway? Did they know that he'd been behind the poison that almost killed Weasley? There was no way they could even suspect him. Draco had been so careful to cover his tracks. No one had been involved but Madam Rosmerta. But if they didn't know that he'd been the one behind the poison, why had Granger chased him down last night, and why was Potter giving him the evil eye now?

Draco considered going over there, crossing the space to the Gryffindor table and going after Potter. He'd ask Potter what his damn problem was--that is, if Potter could possibly choose one out of the many, as his very existence was a problem in itself. He'd push Potter against the table, telling him to stay out of Draco's business and to keep the Mudblood away from him too.

Draco smiled slightly at the thought as he returned Potter's gaze, and Potter raised his eyebrows in question. It just made Draco want to smack him even more. Only a few months ago, Draco would have followed through on his impulse in an instant. He'd have been over there at the Gryffindor table in a heartbeat, wand drawn, or, better yet, hands on Potter. But now, after one long moment of holding Potter's gaze, Draco looked away, stood, and left the Great Hall. It took all his self restraint, but Draco knew he couldn't draw attention to himself by taking on Potter. He had to forget about Potter and Granger and the Weasel. The newly revised Plan A demanded it. He could no longer waste any energy, mental or physical, on the likes of them.

Draco knelt before the wall, the all too familiar ache of threatening tears stinging at his eyelids.

He hit the wall with one fist, but it was pointless. The wall remained a wall, cold and impenetrable. He didn't understand why the door would not appear. This desperation he was feeling, surely it would be enough to get him inside. Why would the room abandon him now?

He'd long since sent Crabbe and Goyle away. It was rich that, now that he'd finally convinced them again to help him, they had to witness his defeat, his pure powerlessness as the wall refused to reveal a door.

It was richer still to think of Potter flying free on that Quidditch field, racing through the air, the glory of his team and of the whole school.

Draco's stomach turned as he thought of the disdain and assessment in Potter's eyes when he'd confronted Draco. How dare he? Potter was still getting to live what Draco could no longer even touch. Potter had been heading to the Quidditch field, but for some inexplicable reason, he had wanted to know where Draco was going. Draco would have given anything to be headed to the Quidditch field. Potter didn't know how good he had it.

Now the Quidditch field was no longer for Draco, and the Room of Requirement wouldn't have him either. He was completely alone. Not only did he have no one whose wisdom he trusted, nor even anyone to make him a damn cup of tea, but now he had nowhere even to go. He was completely powerless, completely lost, and completely alone.

He thought about just lying down, right there in the hallway, and giving up. The cold stone of the floor beckoned him. It was like a gravestone. And if he were shut out of everything, cut off from everyone, then this would be it. He'd be dead. First his father, then his mother, then him. And he wouldn't even have the chance to take Voldemort down with him.

No, he couldn't allow it. No matter how seductive the impulse, Draco wouldn't lie down. Instead he stood, and walked, as if in a trance, to the empty girl's bathroom, where he sank to the floor and leaned against the cool tile wall. The heater in the corner bubbled noisily. There was something entirely comforting about the sound.

"Myrtle?" he asked in a quiet voice. "Are you in here?"

But there was no answer. A sickening weight pressed on Draco's chest, snuffing out his last thread of hope. Fuck. Look how far he had fallen.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He pulled a sheet of parchment out of his bag, and scrawled a short message on it. "Potter. You and I need to talk. Quidditch field, midnight. D.M."

There. Draco had until midnight to figure out what he was going to say to Potter, and perhaps why the fuck he was doing this. All he knew at the moment was that his situation was untenable. Too many variables had changed. He'd have to re-evaluate yet again.