On Sunday, when Hermione quietly relayed Professor Dumbledore's discovery about Quirrell's escape to Draco under the great oak tree by the Black Lake, she noticed a look of panic on his face that she had never seen before.
"When did Quirrell escape?" Draco's smile vanished, and he asked, his face pale.
"Professor Dumbledore said it happened during the Quidditch match yesterday, at noon," Hermione said with a worried look.
Draco's expression shifted slightly.
He suddenly glanced at the gold chain glinting at her throat, a flicker of hope appearing in his eyes.
"Hermione, could we..." he asked her, with a sliver of hope.
"I know what you are thinking, but I am afraid it will not work." Hermione sighed and said to him, "The Time-Turner has its limits; it can only go back five hours at most. That happened far too long ago... it is too late now."
Draco's face was as pale as the stack of new parchment in his hand.
And so, everything had already been settled.
Peter Pettigrew had given his life to free the Dark Lord.
Even a lion must use its full strength to catch a rabbit; he ought not to have underestimated anyone... not even Peter Pettigrew.
They had been mistaken from the very start!
Peter Pettigrew had been lurking near Harry for two years, so of course he had known the Dark Lord's soul was bound somewhere at Hogwarts! Draco thought, regretfully.
"Harry and Ron must have talked about Quirrell in front of that rat," Draco said stiffly.
"I imagine so. But they never did it on purpose," Hermione said sadly. "Back then, no one knew Ron's rat was an Animagus. When the two of them discussed secrets, they would keep them from their dormitory-mates, from their own families... but they would never think to keep anything from a seemingly harmless rat."
"That is right," Draco said, annoyed. "It is all my fault."
Draco was utterly disgusted with himself over this oversight.
He had assumed that the Dark Lord's soul, under Dumbledore's close watch, would be perfectly safe here at Hogwarts.
There was surely no way he could go out and cause trouble again.
Draco had never imagined the Dark Lord might escape.
Yes, while he had been working so hard to trap the Dark Lord, someone else had been working just as hard to set him free!
All it would take was a simple counter-charm! Peter Pettigrew had crept into Hogwarts again and again, stealing Neville's wand, all in an effort to find the Dark Lord and free him.
"It is all my fault," he murmured, feeling a throbbing pain in his temples.
"How could it possibly be your fault?" Hermione said uneasily. "You did not know what he was trying to do. No one did."
"You do not understand..." Draco said in frustration, his voice breaking in the wind.
He was consumed by regret.
For countless days and nights, Peter Pettigrew had been hiding in the Shrieking Shack. He had had so many chances to catch him and stop all of this!
However, thanks to Slytherin's principle of "never meddling in other people's business," he had carelessly let the light from the Shrieking Shack slip through his fingers, time and time again.
Even a single extra glance, one small extra action, might have made all the difference.
Blast this self-preservation!
Blast his refusal to meddle in other people's business!
Had his abilities simply been lacking, he might not have felt so wretched about it.
But this had nothing whatsoever to do with ability; it had been entirely a matter of right and wrong, and the choice had been his alone.
Just as Professor Flitwick had repeatedly told them the Levitation Charm mattered, he had repeatedly dismissed that simple first-year spell out of sheer arrogance.
It was not until his floating wine glass had dropped and shattered during his OWLs that he had realised his mistake.
His arrogance and blindness had ruined everything!
He leapt to his feet, his vision swimming, and very nearly collapsed. He leant against the oak tree, stunned for a few seconds, then stumbled away, ignoring Hermione calling after him.
Poor Draco Malfoy! He felt keenly the fragility of any one person, and the cruelty of fate.
Oh, fate!
He had been trying to resist it, trying to bring about change. He had probed carefully at the threads of destiny, hoping to nudge them from their appointed course, to send them off in some new direction.
But in the face of fate, every effort, every attempt, every struggle, seemed so small, so absurd.
The events of his memory kept unfolding, one after another: the Fat Lady's portrait would still be slashed, and the Dark Lord would still walk free...
He walked a long, exhausting circle, racking his brains, only to discover, to his dismay, that he might have got nowhere at all.
All his carefully laid efforts might have shifted the timeline only slightly... but what real effect would that have on the final outcome?
Perhaps, almost none at all. Perhaps it meant almost nothing.
Then, everything would eventually return to where it had started.
Draco climbed the stairs of the Astronomy Tower step by step, like some wandering ghost, back to the place bound up with his most complicated memories and endless nightmares.
That place had marked the greatest turning point of his life.
Lightning had flashed across the Astronomy Tower, and Dumbledore had fallen to his death. He had missed that fleeting chance, and could never take it back.
He might have to become a Death Eater all over again, that filthy mark branded once more upon his arm, barely clinging to life beneath the Dark Lord's control; or perhaps, this time, the Dark Lord would grant him a swift death instead... if his secret dealings were ever discovered.
A lone figure stood upon the Astronomy Tower.
It was not the Bloody Baron, but another sorrowful, disillusioned soul.
Draco gazed out over the Hogwarts grounds. From here, they looked peaceful, serene, beautiful, as though such evils had never happened, and never would; as though Death Eaters would never invade and lay waste to this sanctuary.
I wonder what it felt like, when Professor Dumbledore fell, in that other life.
Does falling mean that all of a person's suffering is finally at an end?
But he still was not satisfied.
He was still a little unwilling to accept it.