Draco apparated to the foot of a hill near Hogsmeade. He stumbled, nearly falling over, then twisted wildly around, searching for any sign of pursuers, but he was quite alone. Blood dripped steadily over the handle and golden contours of the Horcrux in his hand from under the sleeve of his robes. He tightened his grip to prevent it slipping from his grasp, trying to ignore the pain in his injured arm, to push back the hazy throbbing in his head and focus.
Focus! What now?
He forced himself to climb the hill, deciding he would be able to get a better idea of his whereabouts from the top. Wildflowers crunched under his feet as he picked his way around stones and low shrubs in the misty morning light.
A faint smell of smoke came to him on the wind, mingled with the familiar scent of lake water and dewy grass. And there was a growing noise, an uneven, distant static, punctuated now and then by shouts. Screams. The crackle of fire and the crush of stone on stone.
What is going on?
Panting and dizzy, Draco reached the crest of the hill. Hufflepuff’s cup slid from his limp fingers.
On the other side of the Black Lake, Hogwarts burned.
— The Stopper in Death by absumoaevum