It was not the first time Draco had thought that tonight. The word kept echoing in his head, like a skipping record. Broken.
His wand was broken. His spirit felt broken, the way it had felt before he'd gotten used to how twisted and sharp he was inside, the way it had been just after he'd killed Dumbledore. Except it wasn't about him killing someone, this time, it wasn't about the damage he'd inflicted on his own soul with the cruel use of his magic. It was the damage that the Dark Lord had done.
With the exception of his aunt, who had probably acted in his best interests, no one seemed to have noticed his reaction to tonight's events. Well, his aunt and Fletcher, but Draco doubted that Fletcher could find it in himself to care. He certainly couldn't find it in himself to sympathize with Pansy's brother; his own distress was difficult enough to handle.
The worst of it was, Pansy had not been released. Salazar knew where she was now, whether she was still alive. He held out some hope that the Dark Lord enjoyed using her against Fletcher too much to do away with his leverage completely, but he had no idea how long that would last. And Draco was defenseless, almost entirely powerless, without his wand. He needed to remedy that immediately, before anyone knew.
He had made it back to Malfoy Manor, and up to his room, without really thinking about it. Once there, it occurred to him that he might want to sit down, but he felt as though he might not find the will to stand again. No, he had to stay on his feet until he had a solution. He shut the door behind him, and looked down at the broken pieces of his wand.
They looked so pitiful and useless, splintered like that. When had his wand gotten so brittle? It seemed to represent everything to him, and this was why Draco had always hated metaphors and analogies, symbolism and representation. He could appreciate the subtleties of wordplay quite a lot, but applied to himself, to his mental and emotional state - that was what he hated.
He lifted his head suddenly, remembering. He had another wand, Dumbledore's wand. After he had disarmed Dumbledore, his numb fingers had caught it and simply hadn't let go; it hadn't been until long afterward that he had realized that it had come with him, carried away from the crime scene. It probably wouldn't work for him, but maybe it would work enough to fix his real wand.
But where had he put it? Draco didn't remember most of what had happened that night, but he did not remember throwing it out. He had hidden it somewhere, for the future, to remind himself (when he could stand to be reminded) of what he had accomplished. He had more than one hiding place, though: secret drawers and crannies everywhere in his room, where he stored things of sentimental value or things that he simply wanted to keep hidden. Draco could not remember a time in his life when he hadn't had anything to hide.
He searched them all, until he found it. Behind his mirror, when he gave the password to make it swing open, there it was, in the box he'd found for it, wrapped in the cloth. He remembered doing it, remembered the desire to hide it as much as was possible. It was more than just the desire to hide it, but the desire to forget. As much as was possible without actually getting rid of the thing entirely.
And now he was so very glad that he hadn't gotten rid of it. He opened the box, undid the cloth that surrounded it, and picked up the wand.
The feeling that came over him when he did that took him completely by surprise, and took his breath away. It was like being eleven again, getting his first wand: the feeling of a wand choosing its owner. But that, that made no sense - this was Dumbledore's wand. Draco had never intended to wield it. It wasn't his intentions that mattered now, though.
This wand did not intend to be used simply to repair his old one, that much was obvious. It was intended to be used for much greater things: for doing what was necessary to ensure that Pansy would never be in danger because of Draco or Fletcher ever again. And while that was an end in and of itself, the sensation of holding this wand made Draco think that it might only be the beginning.
Where moments before he'd felt hopeless, broken, lifting this wand made him feel powerful. He almost scoffed at Dumbledore's memory as he thought it, wondering if this had been the secret to the old man's power all along. That would explain why Draco had been able to kill him, the only man the Dark Lord had supposedly ever feared. But he didn't waste time on that.
Dumbledore was gone, but his wand remained. Now it was in Draco's hands, and he intended to use it.