Draco had a moment of jarring confusion as he remembered the last time he had been through here. At night it had been, with Snape and the other Death Eaters, Dumbledore’s death on Draco’s shoulders whether he had committed the actual act or not. His cosy bed in the dungeons had seemed so far away as he had wished that everything was just a horrible nightmare. Bellatrix’s shrieking and whooping had been filled with psychotic joy, a counterpoint to Draco’s own feelings. He had been scared, trapped – and his Aunt had destroyed the Hall, laid wreck to it, and Draco had stared back and seen his childhood destroyed. Stared at his insane, cavorting aunt and seen the possibilities of escape, of taking another path, just...die, like Dumbledore had. At that moment Draco had wanted more than anything else to have chosen differently on the Astronomy Tower. To have accepted Dumbledore’s protection. But he hadn’t, and it had been too late. Or so he’d thought, at the time.