Choices

Prologue: Indefinable

I've seen the anger and I've seen all the dreams

Watched their existence torn apart at the seams

Though I may seem helpless I will do all that I can do

I've seen a part of people that I never really want to share

I've seen a part of people that I never knew was there

Shelter - give them shelter from the coming storm

~Sarah McLachlan, Shelter.

***

"Damn it, Potter, get out of my way!" Harry staggered, off balance as Draco Malfoy pushed past him and stalked down the stairs towards the waiting carriage. At the sound of his sharp voice, two shadowed figures in the lee of the coach glanced up. Harry felt a shiver running down his spine, and not just at Snape's supercilious sneer. Lucius Malfoy - whom he hadn't seen since that night in the graveyard - was staring at him with a strange expression on his face, his eyes like shards of ice. Harry told himself firmly that he refused to show the Death Eater how scared he was by shivering. Instead, as the younger Malfoy joined the elder and they climbed into their carriage, he turned and stumped up the rest of the steps, hoisting his Firebolt over his shoulder. Still, he couldn't rid his mind of the image of Lucius Malfoy's face, and the almost hungry look that it had worn as it turned away from him.

***

It was coming on for dusk on the longest day of the year, and the lingering heat pooled in the insulated rooms of the castle. Harry leaned back in the window seat, trying to soak up some of the coolness from the east-facing stones. It really was too hot, he thought irritably, rubbing listlessly at his forehead. The party that had filled the Gryffindor common room in celebration of the end of the exams had quickly dispersed as people sought out cool niches, and now that it was late there were only a few of the older students left. Ron was sprawled over a sofa with one arm across his eyes, pretending to be asleep, while Hermione was propped in the corner next to Harry, a thick tome open on her lap.

"Hermione," Ron said suddenly, raising his head, "what are you reading?" His eyes were narrowed.

"Hmm?" Hermione glanced up absently. "Oh. Arithmancy For Aurors. It's on next year's list, and since it was in the library I thought I should have a look at it."

Ron slumped back into the cushions, shaking his head. "That's disgusting. Exams have only just finished, and you're studying already. That's terrible, Hermione."

"It is a bit unnecessary," Harry put in diplomatically, before they could get started on an argument. "Besides, it's far too hot to study right now." Hermione just looked at him as if he'd said it was too dark for Astronomy or something, and he heard Ron sigh.

"Six years, and she's still an incurable bookworm. Our efforts to corrupt her have been pointless, Harry."

Hermione sniffed and slammed the book shut. "Fine, then. What do you suggest we do, since you don't want me to study?"

Ron shrugged lazily. "We could play chess." Harry groaned - six years and Ron was still beating him every game. "Fine, or Exploding Snap? No?" He glanced around, red hair splayed across the sofa arm. "Well, what else doesn't take much effort? How about we curse Malfoy?"

"That's against the rules," Hermione pointed out primly, although Harry had perked up at the thought. "Besides, most curses need the subject present."

Ron shrugged unrepentantly. "Well, we could talk about how awful he is and what we'd like to do to him. You know, just general bad-mouthing." His eyes misted over. "I wish I was an Auror so I could cart him off to Azkaban with the rest of his Death Eater mates."

"Malfoy's not a Death Eater," Harry said absently. "He doesn't have the Mark." He looked over at Ron, who had sat up and was staring at him suspiciously. "What?"

"When have you been going around looking up Malfoy's sleeves?"

Harry frowned. "What? Don't be an idiot, Ron, I saw his arms at the last Quidditch match when his sleeves rode up." He frowned even harder. "Damn it, the bastard nearly beat me..."

"Well, it's not as if it's against the rules," Hermione said diplomatically. "But it was a bit close, I admit."

Ron was looking mutinous. "Well, he may not be a fully-paid-up Death Eater - yet - but the smarmy little bastard probably licks You-Know-Who's boots in his dreams every night." Harry suppressed a shudder at the thought of Voldemort as Ron continued. "Bet he'd try and kill Harry if his dad said so, too...oh, sorry, Harry..." He trailed off, flushing.

"I don't know." Harry stared into space thoughtfully, part of him not entirely believing he could be this uncertain. After all, this was Malfoy... "I grant you he's a vicious little bastard with a cruel streak wider than the English Channel, but I'm not sure he's actually evil." Ron and Hermione were now staring at him as if he'd gone completely mad.

"Harry," Ron said patiently - although Harry could tell that his temper was simmering beneath the surface - "his dad's practically in charge of the Death Eaters."

"And remember what he said on the train the year before last?" Hermione chipped in. "He didn't exactly sound unhappy about You-Know-Who being back, did he?"

"Yeah, he probably holds Young Death Eater meetings for the Slytherins," Ron muttered. "Honestly, Harry! He's the most evil person at this school!"

"I don't know." Harry fiddled with the edge of a cushion. "I suppose I just don't want to judge anyone without definite proof - remember we all used to think Sirius was evil and out to kill me?"

Hermione frowned. "Well, but Sirius never put Hair Growth Potion in Neville's drink, either."

"Yes, but that could be counted as nothing but a nasty practical joke." Harry glanced from face to face with the feeling that he wasn't really getting anywhere here. "For goodness' sake, I'm not saying I like him! He's a smarmy git and I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him, but he hasn't tried to kill anyone. I'm just saying we don't know." Ron's snort told Harry exactly what he thought of that piece of reasoning, and he shrugged irritably.

Hermione's voice was thoughtful. "Exactly what were you thinking of doing to him, anyway? We've got two weeks of term left, and I for one wouldn't mind a little bit of petty revenge." She glanced around at their incredulous faces. "What? I think a few well-placed hexes might lighten Malfoy's disposition - well, enough to stop him insulting people, anyway."

Ron's expression grew wistful. "I don't suppose you could turn him back into a ferret, could you? That was wonderful..."

Harry grinned at his best friend, recalling the incident very well indeed. "Sorry, Ron - Malfoy's already left. I saw him getting into a carriage with his father when I was coming back from the Quidditch pitch."

"Damn." Ron scowled mutinously. "What's he doing gallivanting off, anyway? We still have classes - what gives him the right to skip out on them when we have to stay here?"

"I think he's gone on some family thing - I heard the Slytherins talking about it." Hermione had her nose buried in the book again, and spoke without looking up.

Ron was not mollified. "Translation: he gets a free holiday while the rest of us suffer, just because his father's a filthy rich Death Eater."

"Look on the bright side, Ron - at least he won't be around to annoy us." Harry frowned. "Pity the Quidditch final's already over, actually - I could have done without the little bastard last week."

Ron groaned. "Please, Harry. We know he nearly beat you. We know he's a cheating piece of slime. We've heard it all before. Would you please talk about something else?"

Harry blushed slightly. "Sorry. Um..." He cast about quickly for a 'safe' topic. "What are you doing over the summer?"

***

Harry narrowed his eyes, swerving to the left as he searched the skies for the Snitch. Quidditch might be officially over for the year, but he'd thought it was a good idea to keep in practise anyway, so he had dragged the team out this afternoon. Turning in mid-air, he glanced down at the rest of them - the Chasers and Keeper were involved in an intricate catching game with a pair of Quaffles, while the Beaters were knocking Bludgers about. Then he saw it - the telltale glint of gold - and was diving before he had time to think about it. The Snitch was hovering near Ginny Weasley's shoulder as if watching the game; as he drew close to it, it darted frantically away, but Harry was anticipating it and made a quick grab.

And it was easy, so easy - the Snitch was there and he saw it and he reached out and he had it, and somehow as he sat atop his broom, staring through the goal hoops with the fragile silver wings fluttering within his fingers, Harry felt completely drained. He knew it wasn't the same as a match, but still. He had caught the Snitch for the third time in ten minutes, as easily as picking lint off his robes, and he felt nothing. What had become of the excitement, the nervous energy that he usually coasted through matches and practice alike on the strength of? When had Quidditch become suddenly no more than a routine?

It's just that there's no one to play against, he assured himself as he landed and set the tiny fluttering ball back into it's cloth-lined nest in Madam Hooch's battered trunk. If I were flying a match, if there was someone to compete against, another Seeker I had to beat, it would be different. Ron and Hermione were waving at him from the stands, indicating that they'd wait until he'd changed and walk back up to the castle with him. He nodded vaguely back in their direction, wandering towards the changing rooms. After all, it had only been a practice, and he hadn't ever needed to work to catch the Snitch in practice when there was no one to fly against. But his inner voice sounded uncertain, and there was a strange hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

***

For the thousandth time that minute, Harry wished fervently that he were permitted to practise magic over the holidays. For a start, he would have been able to cast a Cooling Charm on his room, which faced southwest and so caught the full brunt of the afternoon sun. It was ridiculously, swelteringly hot, and Harry wished vainly for a breeze. Secondly, he could have Transfigured the endless rabbit-fodder of salad and vegetables which was all Aunt Petunia would feed him (Dudley's diet continued apace; his mother was determined to see him fit into the new dinner jacket she had bought for him as an inducement) into cakes and chocolates. His stomach was feeling uncomfortably empty.

And then there was the fact that right now he would have given a very great deal to be able to turn his detestable cousin into something horrible, perhaps a very large slug. Harry gritted his teeth and tried not to let Dudley, who was perched on the end of Harry's bed and staring at his schoolbooks with a supercilious expression, know how annoying he was being. He dipped his quill into the inkwell again and scribbled another sentence onto the bottom of his History of Magic homework, measuring off the length of the parchment by eye. That probably ought to do it, he thought wearily, screwing the cap back onto the bottle and wiping his quill absently with a scrap of parchment. Dudley had picked up Unfogging the Future and opened it at random; he was squinting at a runic diagram in puzzlement. Harry privately couldn't blame him; the thing didn't make much sense even when held the right way up.

Dudley's sudden interest in Harry's school life was a little unnerving. The Dursleys usually refused to even speak of the fact that their nephew belonged to what they considered a world of unnatural freaks, and Dudley had always showed every indication of being scared shitless of Harry's abilities. It was therefore more than a little strange, thought Harry, that he was now flicking through the ink-stained pages of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six.

A frantic tapping at the window, punctuated with a disgusted hoot from Hedwig, distracted Harry. He leaped up to undo the catch and throw open the window - the air outside was marginally cooler than within the room, but not by much - and heard Dudley squeal and curse as a tiny grey feathery blur caromed off the side of his head.

Eventually Harry managed to get Pigwidgeon to settle down enough to have his letter removed, though Hedwig hooted irritably at him when he deposited the excitable little owl into her cage.

"Ooh, who's this from?" Harry whipped round, cursing inwardly, to see that Dudley had picked up the letter - which, unthinkingly, he had tossed onto the bed while he was sorting Pig out - and unrolled it, his thick fingers crumpling the edges of the parchment.

"Hey! Give that here, it's mine!" Harry made a grab for the letter, and succeeded in yanking it out of Dudley's grasp. He recognised Hermione's neat, careful handwriting at once.

Dear Harry;

How is your summer going? I'm staying at the Burrow for August - Ron sends his love, and we're both looking forward to seeing you in Diagon Alley on the thirtieth. I've finished all my homework already (Ron hasn't - he keeps putting it off and playing Quidditch with Fred and George instead) and I've been working on exam papers for next year. I hope it isn't too awful for you there - have you heard back from Sirius yet?

The funniest things have been happening here. Mrs. Weasley is getting more and more exasperated with Fred and George, who keep testing out new products on Percy and Ginny, both of whom are getting very jumpy. There was one called Wobbling Jelly which acted like the Jelly-Legs Jinx - Percy was staggering about all over the place. And now as well as the fake wands, they've invented a fake broomstick. I was a bit worried when they showed me, but it only rises five feet off the ground before it turns into a feather boa, so I suppose no one will get hurt.

Ron and I are both hoping that you can manage to stay over here for the last weekend of the holidays - Mrs. Weasley says you're very welcome, and she's probably started baking already. I can't wait for the start of the new term, can you?

Love, Hermione.

"Who's Hermione?" Dudley asked suddenly while Harry was re-reading his letter. "Your girlfriend?"

"What?" Harry practically yelped. "No! She's my friend - I don't have a girlfriend!"

"Oh." Dudley subsided, but there was a glint in his dull, piggy eyes, and Harry dreaded what he would come up with next. "Why not?"

Harry opened and shut his mouth soundlessly for a few seconds. "Because... because... I just don't! Why don't you have a girlfriend?"

Dudley shrugged massively. "I do, sort of."

Harry gaped. "What?" He swallowed whatever else he might have said in the interests of not getting his head beaten in; Dudley was still stronger and heavier than he was.

"And you have girls at your school and all." Dudley's eyes were creased into watery blue triangles with glee. "No wonder none of them want to go out with you, though, with that great ugly scar..." Harry privately thought, as his cousin, who seemed to feel that he'd delivered enough of an insult that he was able to leave, waddled out of the room, that Dudley had it backwards. Everyone in the wizarding world seemed fascinated with his scar, girls included. Enough so that it was all they saw. After all, he was Famous Harry Potter, as Snape had so succinctly put it - he was Daily Prophet fodder whatever he did. It was more than a bit of a pain in the neck, really. Harry rummaged in his open trunk for a fresh piece of parchment, dipped his quill, and wrote slowly: Dear Hermione and Ron...

***

The room was dark, the only illumination lent by a pair of musty candelabra. The dark, cold stone walls seemed to effortlessly swallow up light and heat, and he shivered. The dark-robed man who was his father noticed even this slight movement, he turned and raised a single eyebrow in remonstrance, what light there was glinting unpleasantly off his pale hair. Hair of a similar pale shade was falling into his own face, and he swept it back, raising his chin arrogantly. His father nodded, and he knew it was all the approval he would get. He waited.

The black figure stepped out of the smoky circle with no warning whatsoever, and he tried not to jump. His father was already bowing, going down on his knees before his master, and he hastened to do the same.

"Lucius, my servant," a voice murmured, filled with high, hissing sibilants that crackled along his bones and raised his hackles. He couldn't help himself - he looked up. Up, into a face like an inverted triangle, with skin whiter than bone and flat, slitted nostrils. Up, into fiery red eyes that glowed above a cruel mouth like a gashed-open, bloody wound.

And he couldn't move. He was frozen, and some part of him dimly wondered how much of that was because of magic, and how much simply fear. He stared up into the face of the Dark Lord, mouth dry and muscles spasming with terror, unable to look away, his own will suddenly reft from him. Voldemort reached out with one spindly, pallid hand, and took his chin between those spidery fingers. The touch was cold and burning, and nausea swept though him; he had to fight the impulse to tear away, to scream, to vomit up everything he had ever eaten as those eyes stared into his.

"So this is the boy," the Dark Lord murmured in his hissing voice, and something snapped inside him...

Harry woke with a gasp, forehead on fire and body drenched in freezing sweat. He flung out a hand, fumbling his glasses off the nightstand and jamming them onto his nose even as his other hand clutched at the sheet. Another dream, and this one had felt real. Real in the way that his usual nightmares were not. For the hundredth, the thousandth time, he wished Voldemort would just fall into a bottomless pit or something.

He stared up at the ceiling as his breathing slowed, trying to remember the dream. It wasn't real. There had been Voldemort, of course, but there had been a man, too, a man who had been... his father? But that was Lucius Malfoy...I dreamed I was Malfoy? Huh. Maybe the little bastard is a Death Eater after all. What was really worrying Harry, of course, was that his scar had burned like freezing fire as he had flailed his way into wakefulness. So maybe it was one of those real dreams after all, and Malfoy's just met You-Know-Who...? But then Harry remembered the fear. The sheer all-consuming terror he had felt in the dream, which had been strong enough to wake him.

Hmph. I always knew Malfoy was a slimy little coward. He pelted off screaming like a girl that time in first year... He winced, though, even as the thought occurred to him. After all, it wasn't like he himself wasn't terrified of Voldemort. Everyone was terrified of Voldemort - well, everyone sane, anyway. Looks like Malfoy just joined the Sanity Brigade. Strange. He didn't like Malfoy, the boy was a greedy, arrogant, self-absorbed little git - but he couldn't really blame him for the fact that Voldemort was utterly horrifying, however much he would have liked to. The idea that he and Malfoy could have anything at all in common was a little revolting.

Slowly, Harry pulled his glasses off, folding them and laying them aside. It went against the grain to feel sorry for Malfoy of all people, but... with that father, and that family, it wasn't like the git had a choice about his allegiances...

***

"Harry!" Harry turned around just in time to avoid being bowled over by Hermione, who flung her arms around him and hugged him soundly. Slightly mystified by her exuberance, he hugged her back, grinning over her shoulder at Ron, who was sauntering up with his hands in his pockets.

"Hey Harry," his friend nodded to him.

"Ron." Harry beamed at him. "Had a good summer?" To his astonishment, Ron blushed a fiery red, and Hermione giggled nervously. "What?" He glanced from one to the other of them, and put two and two together. "Oh. You two...?"

"Um, yeah," Ron muttered, grabbing for Hermione's hand.

"Oh." Harry blinked. "Well, finally. How long has this been going on?"

"Two weeks now. Pretty much since I arrived at the Burrow." Hermione frowned at him. "What do you mean, 'finally'?"

Harry stuck his hands into his pockets and grinned at his friends. "Everyone's been taking bets on how long it would take you two to hook up. Since fifth year. Honestly, Hermione, for someone so intelligent you're awfully blind. Ron's been mooning over you for years now."

"Harry!" Ron punched him semi-playfully on the arm, blushing more fiercely than ever. "I did not... well, maybe I did," he conceded, glancing sidelong at Hermione, who was looking flustered.

"Come on, let's go to Flourish and Blotts. I have to get my books." Harry set off down the cobbled street, pulling Ron and Hermione after him. "So you're actually going out now?"

***

Harry pinned his silver Prefect's badge to his robes with some trepidation. The only advantage to the thing that he could see was that as a seventh year prefect he would finally get his own private room, at the very top of Gryffindor Tower. Percy Weasley might have liked the power of the job, but all Harry could see was the responsibility. And the duties. Hall patrols, sharing night-watch duty with the teachers (the conflict with Voldemort remained as bitter as ever, firmly dividing the magical world into those who lived in fear and those who laughed), checking passes for Hogsmeade weekends, presiding over detentions... The previous two years had shown him that the post wasn't exactly covetable. All that, plus studying for the inevitable N.E.W.T. exams, and practising Quidditch two nights a week - this year was going to be exhausting. He was just glad he hadn't been named Head Boy; he had enough trouble already as Quidditch captain, and the memory of the one time in fifth year when he'd been forced to share detention duty with Malfoy was still enough to make him cringe.

Straightening his robes and attempting in vain to smooth down his hair, he left the compartment. Hermione, who had lived up to everyone's expectations by being named Head Girl at the end of last year, had gone left, towards the front of the train, so Harry turned right, moving towards the back. As he strolled along the corridor, he glanced into the compartments, checking that all the luggage was properly stowed, and that none of the students were having any problems. A tiny first-year girl in the second compartment he checked was in floods of tears, but already well taken care of - Ginny Weasley was sitting with her arm around the child and offering a handkerchief. She looked up as Harry passed, and gave him a wry grin. He nodded to her - to everyone's surprise, she had tried out for the Quidditch team after Oliver Wood had left, and made an excellent Keeper - and passed on down the train.

Everything seemed to be in order; Harry passed the plump witch with the snack trolley on his way, and bought a Pumpkin Pasty and some Chocolate Frogs from her. Chewing absently, he stuck his head around the door of the final compartment and very nearly choked.

Draco Malfoy was sitting in the far corner, hunched over with his arms around his knees and a vacant expression on his face as he stared out of the window. He didn't seem to notice Harry, who was struck by how young and vulnerable Malfoy suddenly seemed without his trademark sneer. It was almost as if the Draco who was huddled there chewing on his lip was a completely different person. He wore Muggle clothing - jeans and a pullover - rather than his usual immaculate black robes, and his hair was uncharacteristically mussed. Harry opened his mouth to say something, but the blond boy interrupted without turning to look at him.

"Go away, Potter. Go and play with your little Gryffindor friends and leave me alone."

Harry couldn't really think of a response to that - it was too different from everything he had come to expect of the boy - so he did as he'd been told, and left. But as he strode back down the train to the compartment where Hermione, Neville and Ron were waiting for him, he couldn't help thinking of the look he'd seen on Malfoy's face, an expression which the Slytherin had never to his knowledge worn before. Doubt.