Choices

Chapter Two: Defining Moments

I used to think my life was often empty

A lonely space to fill

You hurt me more than I ever could have imagined

You made my world stand still

And in that stillness there was a freedom

I never felt before...

~Sarah McLachlan, Plenty.

***

It was good to be back at Hogwarts again. Harry had only realised after the start-of-term banquet that this was really his last year, that he was of age in the wizarding world and, most importantly, would not have to return to the Dursleys' this summer or ever again. The sense of freedom this thought brought with it was wonderful; it made him want to grab his broom and kick off right there and then, to soar through the skies like a falcon.

There seemed to be cloud of bubbly joy surrounding him; Ron and Hermione commented more than once on how happy he seemed lately. Partly he was happy for them too, of course; they really were well-suited for each other and it was a relief that they had finally realised it. But even the thought of Voldemort and the war that awaited him at the end of the year couldn't stem the intoxication of freedom. No more of Dudley's hand-me-down clothes. No more having to tell people that he went to St. Brutus' Secure Centre (although the Dursleys were all too likely to explain his absence by saying he was in prison). No more staying in and painting walls while the rest of them went on day trips to the seaside. No more having to endure cracks about his parents or his scar. No more confiscated wands or broomsticks. It was wonderful, and even the hugely increased workload of the seventh years couldn't dim Harry's glow.

With the N.E.W.T. exams coming up in May and June, the amount of work expected from the seventh-years was enormous. Twice-weekly essays in History of Magic, projects and dissertation research in Potions, Charms and Transfiguration, and extra classes two evenings a week for Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts. Harry hadn't been given a choice about being put into that class, but he didn't mind it so much because it was taught jointly by Mad-Eye Moody and Professor Lupin. Lupin had returned to Hogwarts in a limited capacity the previous year to help Moody tutor those Sixth-form students who were felt to be Auror material; with Voldemort steadily gaining power (whatever gloss the Ministry put on it), the College was actively recruiting. Lupin had restarted the Duelling Club for the other students, too, trying to get everyone ready for what they all knew was coming.

Advanced Transfiguration was fun too. McGonagall had been teaching the class the rudiments of Animagus transformation, although she cautioned them that for every witch or wizard who succeeded, a thousand would try and fail. She was also spending a lot of time going over methods of disguising themselves and other objects. Harry, Ron and Hermione frequently exchanged knowing glances across the room; they were well aware that they were being prepared to fight in what amounted to a magical war.

The only problem with all this emphasis on preparation ("Constant Vigilance!" as Moody barked at least once every lesson) was that it left Harry very little time for Quidditch practice. After being grounded all summer, he was feeling the lack acutely and having to snatch moments between lessons, study periods, and homework was less than satisfactory. He had tried to schedule as many of the team's practice sessions on weekends as possible, but with all the other houses also having seventh-year team members, everyone needed practice space. He had been reduced to taking his Firebolt along to DADA on Thursday nights and dashing out to catch the second half of the practice as soon as the class was over, joining the Chasers, Beaters and Keeper, who were all from lower years, on the pitch. He knew they didn't blame him, but Harry still felt as though he was shirking his responsibilities as Captain.

Still, they were good. Harry could feel it in his bones. It had been a blow at first to lose over half the original team last year, but after holding try-out sessions and mixing people around for a while, he and McGonagall had settled on a team that was almost as good. Better than Slytherin, Harry repeated to himself. We're better than Slytherin. They had won against their old rivals by a narrow margin last year, Harry only just beating Malfoy to the Snitch, and he was determined that they would do so again this year. After all, it was his last, and he wanted to go out of Hogwarts on a high note despite their having won the Cup three times running (in Harry's fourth year it had been cancelled due to the Triwizard debacle). He had the feeling he knew how Wood had felt; the desire to win was strong and almost palpable as he watched the rest of the team practise.

Harry couldn't help but be quietly happy with the life he was currently leading. Sure, there was a shadow of the old dread in the back of his mind, intensifying whenever someone mentioned the war preparations or they heard that another witch or wizard had gone missing or been killed. But Voldemort had made no move against him, personally, for two years now, and Harry was older and more knowledgeable. He still suffered from frequent nightmares of his parents' deaths and his own previous experiences with the Dark wizard, but Dumbledore had reassured him in fifth year that this was something to be expected. "Voldemort has gone deeper into the Dark Arts than any known wizard since Salazar Slytherin," he had told Harry calmly, looking at him over the tops of his glasses in a very reassuring manner. "He has become something so evil that nature herself abhors him. And you, Harry, have been subjected to his presence on at least three occasions; he has touched you more than once, and cast spells upon you. You and he are now linked by blood; you should be glad that his influence on you has resulted in no more than nightmares. It could so easily have been a great deal worse."

Harry knew that the nightmares weren't half as bad as they could be; he had been having them for so long now that he had learned to wake himself up almost as soon as the familiar dream-sequences started. Still, it always took him a while to get back to sleep after an episode, and losing sleep wasn't what he needed right now. The bright side of the situation was that now that he had a room of his own, he didn't have to feel guilty about waking Ron and the others up every other night. All too often, though, nightmares and lack of sleep left him stumbling down to breakfast feeling thick-witted and slow.

Today was such a morning; Harry rubbed sleep out of his eyes, settling his glasses more firmly on his nose, and helped himself absently to toast. He had woken twice in the night from vague dreams of Voldemort, Nagini and Wormtail, which filled him with a sense of nameless dread. It had been a long time before he could force himself to go back to sleep, the second time.

Taking a bite of toast and marmalade, Harry glanced over at the staff table; Snape still wasn't back from his latest spying mission, his chair was empty. Harry could see that a good many of the older Slytherins were looking anxious, sending flickering glances towards the vacant seat. With one notable exception: Draco Malfoy's blond head was bowed over his empty plate in seeming exhaustion.

Harry frowned. Ever since that encounter on the train at the beginning of term, Malfoy had been behaving oddly. Well, odder than usual, anyway. The taunts and practical jokes that Harry had been subjected to since first year were not forthcoming this term. Instead Malfoy just went about his lessons and Quidditch practices in an abstracted kind of daze, scarcely seeming to notice Harry, Ron or Hermione. He hadn't even had anything to say about Ron and Hermione's new relationship, and that was more than weird. All the other Slytherins had had their little comments to make, and for a week Harry had cringed whenever he saw that pale head moving towards them, anticipating the kind of vicious taunting he was used to. It had never materialised.

Malfoy's ignoring him - along with everything else; Harry watched as Pansy Parkinson repeatedly tried to engage him in conversation - made Harry feel slightly off-balance. It was as if the force of his rival's enmity and hatred for him had defined him, had let him know who he was. Without it, he felt like he was trying to ride a one-wheeled bicycle. It was just too strange.

Harry watched as Malfoy brushed off the concern of his housemates with a vague gesture that completely lacked his usual lazy elegance. He was privately amazed to find himself almost wishing for the old Malfoy to return; there had been something reassuring about the constant enmity. He had known where he stood. Although, there was the snide commentary... and the anti-Muggle rhetoric, and the constant attempts to lose Harry points or get him expelled, and the contemptuous sneering at Ron's family.... Yes, being ignored by Malfoy was definitely a turn-up for the books.

The arrival of the morning owls distracted Harry from his frowning contemplation; he looked up, trying to spot Hedwig, who he had sent off with a note to Sirius last week. No snowy owls appeared, although Pigwidgeon dropped a letter into Ron's lap and then proceeded to take a hooting, splashing bath in Seamus' cereal bowl.

Harry glanced up from Ron's laughing recital of the twins' latest prank on Percy in time to see Draco Malfoy turn a sickly shade of green as he picked up a sealed letter from the table before him. His hands shook noticeably as he pried off the black wax and unrolled the parchment; a deathly hush had settled over the Slytherin table as all eyes fixed on the pale face of their de facto leader. Harry, watching narrowly, noticed that as those silver-pale eyes scanned the letter Malfoy trembled all over in a vicious spasm. By this time the entire room had quieted, the eyes of the other houses following those of the Slytherins.

Malfoy didn't seem to notice his audience any more than he noticed anything else these days. He stared at the short piece of parchment for several long moments as it rattled in his unsteady hands, then something inside of him seemed to break. He shoved his chair back so hard that it overbalanced and toppled to the floor, and bolted from the Hall at a dead run.

The crash of the door slamming behind him broke the silence, and at once an excited babble of gossip and speculation (ranging from Malfoy having received bad news to his having been sent new orders from Voldemort) sprang up. Harry, perplexed and remembering the abstraction that had hung over his rival since September, looked up towards the High Table. Professor Dumbledore was cradling a goblet between his hands, staring thoughtfully down the Hall to the doors through which Malfoy had disappeared. Somehow, the expression on his face did not reassure Harry very much.

***

Almost a week later, Harry still couldn't stop thinking about that incident over breakfast. More than anything, it had been the look on Malfoy's face as he fled the Hall. Harry had never seen him look like that before. He was starting to think that perhaps there was truth in the rumours after all, and Malfoy was spying for Voldemort. Perhaps beneath the sleeves of his uniform jumper and black school robes, there was a skull-and-serpent tattoo the twin of his father's. Perhaps Malfoy was a Death Eater after all.

Harry didn't know why he was even uncertain about this. If any student in the school was a Death Eater, it would be Malfoy. Malfoy, who was casually malicious and who wholeheartedly believed in Voldemort's anti-Muggle stance. Malfoy, who was devious and vicious and who had been Sorted into Slytherin as soon as the Sorting Hat had touched his head. Malfoy, whose father was high in the Dark Lord's inner circle. If there was a spy, Malfoy would be the first under suspicion.

Which was why the whole thing was niggling at Harry. If Draco Malfoy really was a Death Eater spy, or even an initiate himself, then why would he clue everyone in to his activities by dashing out of the Hall so publicly? Ron maintained that Malfoy had been unable to face Dumbledore and the rest of the teachers after receiving his orders, but Harry didn't believe that for a moment. Malfoy had never shown the slightest bit of respect for any of the teachers bar Snape, nor given any indication that he cared what they thought of him. And he got letters and packages from home all the time; why not simply pretend that this missive was another such? There had been no need for such display, and that was what was puzzling Harry. It made him think that perhaps Malfoy (whose every move was calculated, after all) was playing some kind of bigger game, and that the Hall thing had all been an act. Draco Malfoy was a consummate actor; witness his 'wounding' by Buckbeak in the third year, for a start.

Harry, who had been watching the Slytherin with a great deal of puzzlement ever since their meeting on the train, was now observing him more closely than ever. He couldn't understand why, if Malfoy really was spying, he was acting so differently than usual. Because the differences went even further than Harry had originally thought. Malfoy was almost completely ignoring his Slytherin friends; Crabbe and Goyle had been reduced to trailing him around like lost puppies, and all the others kept giving him worried looks. Snape, who to the surprise of everyone in the other Houses had turned back up in his Potions dungeon on Wednesday morning in a particularly foul mood, was obviously worried about him and kept eyeing him across whatever room they occupied. And Malfoy seemed completely oblivious to all the attention, which was more than strange considering he seemed to crave the centre stage.

It was almost as if there was something Malfoy was thinking about, something that he was concentrating on so hard that he had completely forgotten about everything else. Perhaps his father told him to try and kill me. It seemed a bit fanciful - after all, what could Malfoy do to him in the middle of a school full of people? - but Harry decided he would be extra wary of the ferret-faced Slytherin anyway. He still watched, though. If he was in danger, he wanted to know about it.

***

Sometimes Harry thought the nightmares were getting worse. The days where he could actually remember what he had dreamed the previous night were becoming more and more frequent. He was also spending more and more of his nights roaming restlessly about the castle under his Invisibility Cloak, unable to return to sleep. It was like a compulsion, pulling him out of his tiny room at the top of Gryffindor Tower and into the darkened hallways. Too often he knew that if he tried to return to sleep he would just drop straight back into the same nightmare sequence. Harry thought it was more than a little unfair that not only was he constantly having to face down Voldemort despite being barely old enough to hold a wand, but that he constantly had to see the Dark wizard in his dreams as well.

This morning, as he buttered himself some toast one-handed (the other was propping his head up so that he didn't collapse face-down on the table), half-listening to something Ron was saying to Seamus about the Chudley Cannons, Harry noticed for the first time that Malfoy looked even worse than he felt. The Slytherin was so pale he almost seemed translucent, and those strange silver eyes of his were hooded and deeply bruised with exhaustion. His hair was limp and falling about his face in a disarray that was completely foreign to the neat, almost prissy Malfoy Harry was so familiar with.

Harry knew, in an abstract kind of way, that many of the girls regularly swooned over Draco Malfoy. Only yesterday Lavender had responded to Ron's Death Eater allegations by wailing 'but he's so gorgeous!' Harry couldn't see it himself. Malfoy was well put-together, with the same Seeker build as Harry, but he didn't have a handsome face. The boy was all angles; sharp cheekbones and a pointed nose and chin. Harry supposed that in some lights he could be called pretty - almost girlish - but he was so pale he seemed washed-out. It was probably inbreeding, considering how Malfoy's family felt about Pureblood honour and all that rubbish.

Draco certainly didn't seem very attractive at the moment, with his face lined and drawn and his eyes dully fixed on whatever it was that he was contemplating. Always before, what had made him impossible to ignore was the way he wrapped the world around himself, the way he automatically made himself the centre of every moment he inhabited. He had seemed comfortable in his own skin, poised and graceful and totally at ease; he had that kind of confidence. Now it was as if he was a washed-out shadow of his former self.

It was very odd, Harry thought. Everyone else seemed, if not exactly chipper, at least vaguely cheerful. He and Malfoy were the only ones who were reaching for the coffee as soon as they sat down at their house tables in the mornings. It made him wonder if perhaps Malfoy was suffering from the same kind of interrupted nights that he was. Harry wasn't sure he liked sharing anything with Malfoy, even something like this. He had always seen the other boy as his opposite, his antithesis, everything he didn't want to be. Malfoy had been a reminder to Harry of how he could end up if he ever entertained the notion of not actively resisting Voldemort. These faint stirrings of sympathy for the other boy were very unsettling.

***

"...no, no, please, not Harry, not Harry...!" Harry bolted upright and awake, afterimages of the green light hanging like ragged ghosts in his vision. Shivering a little, he burrowed back under his duvet and wondered if it was worthwhile trying to go back to sleep. Although it was only the beginning of October, the house-elves had already started lighting the fires within the castle; Harry could just make out a blur across the room that he knew was the embers glowing on the hearth. With a sort of detached curiosity, he realised he was still shaking from the nightmare. He hated these ones; over and over, all he saw was darkness and green light, all he heard was his mother pleading with Voldemort. It was worse than the Dementors had been.

Harry sighed and levered himself up again, reaching for his glasses from the nightstand. There was no way he was going to be able to get straight back to sleep. He pulled his Invisibility cloak out of the wardrobe and shuffled his feet into his ratty old slippers - the stone floors were colder than charity even this early in the school year. Yawning, he slipped out of the door and down the spiral staircase, hoping it would only take a few circuits of the upper corridors to lull him back into a sleepy frame of mind.

Walking the corridors at night was very calming. Even if Filch or Mrs. Norris came by, all Harry had to do was press back against the wall, and the Cloak would ensure that he wasn't seen. Over the years he had come to quite like the feeling of being invisible. Maybe it was because he was Famous Harry Potter; wherever he went people stared at his scar and whispered behind their hands and generally never gave him a moment's peace. Harry liked the way that people looked right through him, but even more he liked the way the Cloak made him feel insubstantial; it was as though he could feel the moonlight spilling through him as he passed beneath the high windows of the west wing.

It was the glint of that same moonlight on silver-fair hair that alerted Harry to the presence of someone else on a window seat in a disused classroom. Harry paused outside the doorway, watching. Malfoy was just sitting on the uncushioned bench, his knees drawn up in front of him and his eyes fixed on some indefinable point in space. He was wearing black pyjamas without a cloak or even a dressing gown, and the moonlight outlined him like an ice sculpture, pooling like liquid diamonds over his fair hair and alabaster features. His feet were bare, Harry noticed. For a moment, he was tempted to stay where he was, to spy on Malfoy for a change to see if he could get an idea what on earth was up with the boy - but then common sense reasserted itself. Why would I want to spend time around Malfoy? Even if he is a spy, he's hardly going to start holding long monologues with himself for my convenience. His momentary, shameful impulse to find Filch and lead him over this way was quashed ruthlessly. I am not going to descend to his level.

Soundlessly, Harry moved on, wandering off down the corridor from window to moonlit window. It would be full moon in another two or three days; Harry hoped that Professor Lupin would be all right. The sharp contrast between silver light and black shadows beneath his feet was dizzying to his eyes, lulling him into a dreamy, trance-like state.

Harry wandered on, thinking of many things. Of Malfoy, and what it could be that was troubling him. Of Ron and Hermione. Of Sirius, and their efforts to prove to the Ministry that Wormtail was still alive. Of Hedwig, still absent on her long-haul delivery. Of Dudley's words over the summer: "Do you have a girlfriend?" Not for lack of girls, Harry thought absently. Half of the fifth and sixth-year girls went all dreamy-eyed around him, unable to see past Harry the Hero. It was a little sickening, really. Harry had tried to explain it to Ron once, but his friend hadn't really understood. Hermione had, without even being told.

Turning the corner into the Charms corridor, Harry left the moonlight behind him and immediately had to side-step into a doorway to avoid running right into Filch, who was prowling along with a lantern dangling from his fingers. He froze, hardly daring to breathe, but Filch turned left, up the stairs towards the Ravenclaw dormitories, rather than stalking towards the room where Malfoy was presumably still sitting in the moonlight. Harry didn't quite understand why he was glad that Malfoy wasn't going to get caught - after all, he had been wearing his cloak so it wasn't as if the Slytherin could drop him into hot water himself - and shook his head in confusion, slipping off down the hallway.

It was dark down here. Harry placed his feet carefully, remembering with the knowledge of six years where the flagstones were cracked or badly fitted and avoiding them with ease. Soon enough he came to the junction, and instead of turning left and going back to Gryffindor Tower, he made a right down towards the Great Hall and the main entrance. Although he was tired enough to sleep now, something about the bright edges of the moonlight drew him back towards the west wing. Harry didn't question the impulse; he felt full of peace, the soft darkness wrapping him like a blanket.

He had almost forgotten about Malfoy; if a soft sound hadn't reached his ears as he meandered down the corridor, disrupting his quiet communion with the night, he might have passed the door without making the connection. As Harry halted, uncertain, in the corridor, he heard another noise, this one unmistakably a moan of terror. He was standing in the doorway before he knew what was happening; the sound was all too familiar from years of disrupted sleep.

Malfoy was slumped on the window ledge, in darkness now as the moon slipped behind the clouds, with his head resting on the leaded window pane and his eyes closed, feet dangling over the edge. He moaned again, shaking his head jerkily and making a slight motion with his arms as if to warn something off. He's asleep, Harry realised, he's having a nightmare. His first impulse was to step back, to leave Malfoy to the dreams he had undoubtedly earned, but something held him. The terror on Malfoy's face was far too familiar, reminiscent of Harry's own nights of waking in a lather of sweat with a scream on his lips. How can I leave anyone to that? Maybe I ought to wake him up...

Harry moved forward uncertainly, parting the cloak so that he could reach out and touch Draco's shoulder. Malfoy didn't wake, but his thrashing grew stronger, and Harry could discern words mixed in with his mumbling, words that sounded a great deal like those of his own dream. It made him wonder, what does Malfoy have to be scared of? Grasping the thin shoulder more tightly (he hadn't realised how much weight the boy had lost), Harry shook Malfoy sharply. "Hey - wake up!" he hissed, mindful that Filch could be anywhere by now. He wished he had the Marauder's Map.

Malfoy's head wobbled on his neck as Harry shook him, and his eyes flew open. They were wide, the pupils dilated, and filled with a terror so absolute and familiar that a sad kind of certainty crystallised in Harry's stomach. "Wh-what?" the pale boy stuttered, grabbing hold of Harry's arms as if to a lifejacket and staring wildly around. Through the contact Harry could feel that Malfoy was shaking almost uncontrollably. Those wide eyes fixed on Harry's face. "Potter? What...?"

"Oh relax," Harry sighed impatiently. "I saw you and woke you up is all. Get a grip on yourself, Malfoy." He waited a few moments, but it seemed like the spasms wracking the other boy were only becoming stronger. "Oh, bloody hell," he groaned at last. Firmly he detached Malfoy's clinging fingers from his pyjama sleeves, and grabbed those too-thin shoulders, pulling the hunched, shaking figure into a tight, hard hug.

Malfoy froze for a moment, then struggled weakly against Harry's arms. "G-get off me, Potter, I d-don't need your help-"

"Yes you do." Harry tried not to cringe over the fact that he was holding Malfoy (a very shaky Malfoy but still the same boy who called Hermione a Mudblood) in his arms. "Come on, I don't like this any more than you do! Just - get a hold of yourself so we can forget this ever happened, all right?"

After a long moment, Malfoy nodded against his shoulder and relaxed, the spasms easing. All the tension seemed to drain out of him like water. "You're the one who's got hold of me," he pointed out with a trace of his customary drawl, pulling away. Harry let him go with alacrity.

"And I have every intention of pretending I never saw you tonight, all right?"

Malfoy sniffed pointedly and Harry wondered whether he had been crying. It was impossible to tell in this light. "Fine with me."

Harry started to get up, but then frowned, looking at the narrow-faced Slytherin. "What were you dreaming?" Malfoy looked away, and Harry felt that certainty again. He knew what, he just didn't have any idea as to the why. And he hated an unsolved puzzle. "You don't have to tell me. But - it was Voldemort, wasn't it?"

Malfoy's strangled gasp was all the confirmation Harry needed.