A Square of Yellow

A/N: Thanks to dancinginmagic for the beta.

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There was a light coming from the kitchen window.

A small piece of yellow in the dark, dark night; the only light to be seen from where they stood under the dense canopy.

Draco shook himself. Now wasn't the time for thinking - not those kinds of thoughts.

His slight movement caught the eye of his aunt, who glanced his way - he felt, rather than saw, the curl of her upper lip. He steeled himself and didn't meet her eyes - he did not want to do anything to bring about the baby voice tonight.

He looked back at the tall, thin, dilapidated - structure - he supposed he must call it. He was far too cold to summon up the usual enthusiasm he felt for making derogatory remarks, but he'd be frozen alive in a Muggle ice contraption before he called it a house.

The light was still shining brightly - that square of yellow in the gloom. He assumed it was coming from the kitchen - they were hardly going to have their kitchen in a basement, after all. Did they even have a parlour? Perhaps they did, but it went by a different name - but Draco screwed up his face in the effort to think of one. He doubted the light was coming from their parlour, whatever they called it: this family was not one for sitting around making conversation. He smirked. For this family, food was of the primary importance.

He tried not to fidget, but he couldn't resist shuffling his feet a little. It wasn't that he felt awkward - it was a huge honour to be here. It was an important mission, far more important than what he'd done before, even -

Well. Not that what he'd done before hadn't been important.

- But the people! The people he was working with! No Amycus and Alecto on this mission - this time: this was something to be seen. He was here with the top - the best of the best - the Big Name Death Eaters, if you will.

He was thinking like Creevey. He deserved to be here. He had earned his place. Fine, he might not have actually done the thing at the end, but it was his planning, his organisation, his sacrifice of schoolwork, girlfriend, the sanity of his Mother ...

Besides. Someone from the House of Malfoy had to be here.

His robes were getting muddy, the water from the earlier rainfall seeping slowly up through the black cloth. The bad weather wasn't over, either: one glance at the sky showed that this night would be far from dry.

It didn't matter. Soon they'd be inside.

They'd been here for hours, and still they were waiting for the signal. Waiting for the last light to go out.

He'd been exaggerating when he'd said that it was the only light he could see. Against orders, there were dim, muffled, forbidden glows coming from wandtips around him: shoved in bushes, hidden by hands, seeping through fingertips. People like to see what they're doing. Draco stifled another smirk. Who knew what was out and about at this time of night?

The kitchen was still glowing. Who was in there, and what were they doing? Playing Exploding Snap? Plotting battle manoeuvres? Maybe, he smirked once more, maybe Weasel-King and the Mudblood were going at it like rabbits on the kitchen table -

- But he knew that wasn't the case. He didn't know how, but he was sure that something - homely - was taking place in the kitchen. Something to do with warm mugs of hot chocolate, nightclothes, and soothing rubs on the back ...

Homely. The very word made him shudder.

Why wouldn't the light just stop? He couldn't stand this infernal waiting.

A breeze ruffled the otherwise silent trees, causing them to murmur together momentarily. The leaves were the only speakers out here, on the hillside: there were no people, no animals to be seen - even the village was hidden by the blackness.

Maybe, he thought with a jolt, maybe they'd already gone to bed, and just left the candles - but no. If there was anything he knew about the Weasleys, it was that they were not ones to leave fuel burning all night long.

No ... something was going on in that kitchen. He wished he knew what! - It might give him some indication of how much longer he had to wait.

How much longer they had left.

It didn't flicker: the square of brilliant yellow stayed constant, sturdy, unchanging.

He didn't actually know any of these people he was waiting with, not personally. The names, though. He knew the names. He knew what they'd done and how they'd done it, he'd sat in lessons with the second cousins of their wives and the nephews of their victims, he knew exactly what his Father thought of each and every one of them - but he didn't know them. Not personally.

He supposed they were his companions now, though, these fellow black-robed figures, spaced out at five-foot intervals. His team; his side; his army. None of the words seemed to fit.

He supposed they all had one common goal: to do the Dark Lord's bidding.

To attack a house full of sleeping people.

To purify the Wizarding race.

He wondered who was in the house. A proportion of Weasleys, obviously. Some Order members, maybe. Granger, perhaps.

Potter.

Potter, who they were now saying had witnessed Dumbledore's death.

Draco didn't know whether it was true or not. It would explain why Potter had chased them out of the castle, of course. But if Potter really had seen the whole thing, then why did he just stand there and watch?

It didn't matter. What might have mattered was that Potter was one more witness to his failure.

One more witness to his innocence.

Was it innocence, or failure? Draco still didn't know.

He cared, though. Desperately.

Did Potter hear what Dumbledore said?

Did he see him lower his wand?

Fuck! - Draco almost swore out loud. He was not going to think those thoughts!

And it didn't bloody well matter, anyway - any offer of protection he'd received was null and void now - Snape had seen to that.

He scuffed his foot in the grass, and once again avoided Bellatrix's glare.

If Potter was in there, then that would probably mean that Weasley and Granger, blind followers extraordinaire, would be in there too. Didn't the Mudblood ever spend time with her family? No matter - she was certain to be in there, tucked up safe and warm.

It was funny how he had thought about Potter and Granger staying here, before he'd even remembered that this was Weasley's own home.

The Weaselette would be in there. Ginevra. One of the stupidest names he'd ever heard - and he knew people called Horace Slughorn and Cornelius Fudge and Ronald. But he couldn't forget her, he thought, and the much-neglected smirk livened his features for a second. Certainly not.

Then there were about a thousand other brothers ... there would be the twins, who had never failed to make him feel slightly nauseous ... a few other faceless brothers he couldn't put names to, who he was certain were only born to fill space.

Then ... the parents. They would be the ones doing all the comforting, in the kitchen, with their warm fire and their cocoa.

He stared at the yellow square again, and he felt savagely bitter.

From far away, he thought he heard thunder rolling. He shoved his hands back into his pockets.

Who else was in there? Order members? Did he know of any Order members? There was ... he'd heard that Mundungus Fletcher was a member of their precious Order. He tried to smirk again, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

What about his cousin? The one with the stupid name. The briefest mention of her father had always been a safe guarantee of making Mother shudder ... Nymphette, or something. She was supposed to be in the Order. Was she friends with this lot?

Another cold breeze shivered through the damp landscape. A raindrop fell from the tree above him onto his face. Draco let it slide down his cheek.

The rain didn't bother him.

It was bothering someone, though: despite all her glares, he could see Bellatrix fidgeting out of the corner of his eye - yes! Fidgeting, Bellatrix! - and hear the creeping beginnings of a swell of mutterings, gathering among his companions. But her expression ... her expression wasn't funny. It was filling him with - he couldn't deny it - it was filling him with dread. Maybe she would forego orders - maybe she would do something drastic, something reckless - something hasty.

He had seen that look before. He didn't want haste, not at a time like this - they needed calm, care, planning! They needed to wait! Now wasn't the time - they should wait for the signal, and if Draco were in charge, then they'd wait a bit after, make sure everyone was completely ready -

Suddenly, their decision was made for them.

The light went out.

Draco actually felt the ripple pass down the line, could almost see the initial widening of the eyes, and the subsequent turning up of the lips. Faces were turned to Bellatrix. Wands went out with many a whispered nox, and the landscape was finally, irrevocably, plunged into darkness.

Bellatrix turned to her waiting audience. Slowly, a wild, feral, insane grin lit her features.

"I think it's time," she said, "for a visit to the Burrow."

The muttering of the Death Eaters almost became a hiss of excitement. The last thing Draco saw was the flash of her teeth, shining in the darkness, as she turned away and started to walk.

There was a sudden, loud beating in his ears - a feeling he recognised: panic - but the feeling didn't quite manage to drown out the dull footsteps of dozens of Death Eaters climbing the hill, cloaked only in the slither of robes on wet grass.

As the feeling squeezed his chest, as the footsteps thumped in time with his blood, he watched, distantly, the retreating backs.

He breathed deeply, once. He clenched his wand.

He started to walk.

Killing Dumbledore had nothing on this.