Choices

Chapter Four: Mirrored Meanings

How could I explain?

You would not want to hear.

You wouldn't listen if I talked anyway

For you are too weighed down by your own fear.

~Sarah McLachlan, Home.

***

Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with absent fingers. Across the room, Hermione glanced up from her textbook, gave him a brief smile, and returned to her work. Harry tried to concentrate on his own homework, but he just couldn't seem to get started. He stared at the parchment blankly, reading the same two sentences over and over as he'd been doing for the past half an hour. He was unable to get his mind off the events of the previous night, the way Malfoy had looked so small and vulnerable all of a sudden, the way he had practically begged Harry not to mention the incident.

The strangest thing was that the incident had actually happened at all. Harry had grown to accept his nightmares of Voldemort; after all, the Dark wizard was his enemy, had killed his parents, and was responsible for all the worst memories of his life. But Malfoy? He had always thought that the pale, sneering Slytherin was headed straight into the ranks of the Death Eaters, with his Pure-blood pride and his anti-Muggle sentiments. He would never in a million years have believed that Malfoy of all people could be having nightmares of Voldemort. Not the kind of nightmares that Harry had, the ones that woke him in a cold sweat of terror with screams on his lips.

Because the idea of Malfoy having those kinds of dreams meant that Harry would have to believe that Malfoy was afraid of Voldemort. Which simply didn't mesh with anything he had ever seen in the blond boy. Malfoy had laughed over the Dark Lord's return and Cedric's death back in fourth year, had thrown it all back in Harry's face that time on the train as if he were overjoyed to finally have a chance to pledge his own allegiance to that living nightmare. Draco Malfoy, afraid of Voldemort? Hard to believe. And yet Harry was sure, certain that he had seen it in that face as he had released those thin shoulders last night. Fear. Terror. Loathing.

It all made Malfoy seem far too human suddenly. Harry had been comfortable with Malfoy as an enemy, had known where he stood when confronted by that antagonism. He had been facing one way, Malfoy the other, and the hatred had been mutual. But now... how could he hate someone who shared his secret fears, shared the very dreams that wracked his nights? It was a profoundly uncomfortable feeling, to realise that he might have something in common with Malfoy, and Harry didn't like it one bit.

Harry had always thought of Draco Malfoy as his opposite number in Hogwarts, a sort of anti-Harry who hated what Harry liked and went out of his way to be unnecessarily nasty to Harry's friends. They had been enemies from the day they had arrived at school and had hated each other for six years; they stood for opposing world-views - Malfoy for Pure-blood pride and Death Eater supremacy, Harry for freedom and the downfall of Voldemort. Similar in build, in ability and in their skill as Seekers, yet they had been almost mirror images of each other, locked into diametric opposition. But now, Harry thought to himself, the mirror had cracked, and he was seeing a new side of Malfoy, a side that profoundly disturbed him.

Perhaps the mirror wasn't the only thing that had shattered. Perhaps this new side of Malfoy that was suddenly exposed to the world had been there all along, and it was only some social mask, some pretence, that was broken and gone. Perhaps, underneath, Malfoy had always been this brooding and introspective and abstracted, this haunted. The thought made Harry cringe a little.

Harry didn't want Malfoy to be human. He wanted to be able to hate the boy without needing to feel guilty, wanted to cling to the old enmity that felt so natural and familiar. Because he was very much afraid that this recent change in Malfoy - if change it was - was going to force him to re-evaluate his old attitudes. Because he was beginning to think that he had missed something all these years, that he didn't understand Malfoy at all.

***

"So, are we going to win tomorrow?" Ron flung himself down on the overstuffed sofa next to Hermione, grinning widely at Harry as he put a casual arm around her.

"What sort of question is that?" Harry smiled back at his friend, throwing a cushion at him. "Of course we are!" Well, we ought to. "Have some confidence in us!"

"Oh, honestly, Harry," Hermione put in with a laugh, restraining Ron with a hand on his arm when he tried to chuck the cushion back. "You know very well you'll be shaking like a leaf until you get into the air tomorrow! You always do."

"Yes, but that doesn't stop him winning!" Ron threw his hands in the air. "Harry always wins! Well, unless there are Dementors or he falls off his broom." Hermione tutted reproachfully but hugged his arm anyway, smiling up at him.

Harry laughed. "Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence - I think."

"Well, Ginny's having an attack of the nerves upstairs," Ron observed. "Is she always like this before a game?"

"Yeah, and she'll be worse tomorrow." Harry flicked his fingers dismissively. "She's worrying about nothing; she's an excellent Keeper."

"Yeah, I know." Ron seemed to swell slightly with pride; Harry knew that although he denigrated his little sister in public, he was actually very protective of her, and fiercely proud of her accomplishments. He watched as Hermione smiled up at Ron adoringly. Of course, he told himself sternly, he was happy that they were together. Of course he was. They suited each other so well, and they were so obviously happy together that he couldn't help but be happy for them. But together they formed a kind of closed unit, an exclusivity that made Harry feel a little lonely. They were so together and there he was left on the outside.

It was like from being a trio, they had become a couple who sometimes had an extra member. Harry knew they didn't mean to make him feel left out, but he couldn't help feeling like a third wheel. There was nothing for him in those looks they exchanged, and it left him feeling a little cold, somehow.

He couldn't help but remember Dudley's words over the summer: Do you have a girlfriend? No, he didn't. Harry didn't have that kind of closeness with anybody, and never had. He had friends, of course, good friends like Seamus and Dean, and best friends in Ron and Hermione, but nothing more intense. Unless the whole mutual-hatred thing he had with Malfoy counted, and Harry didn't think so.

Harry bit off a groan. Back to Malfoy again. I just don't want to think about it. And yet he couldn't help it; even as Hermione was asking him about his History of Magic project, his mind was lingering on the topic of a certain Slytherin's allegiances. He just couldn't bring himself to believe that Malfoy could have nightmares like that (like he himself did) if he was a loyal servant of Voldemort.

"I don't know how I'm going to find time for all that bloody Potions research," Ron was complaining. Hermione ruffled his hair with an indulgent hand.

"Honestly, Ron, Harry manages fine, and he has Quidditch practices too!" Snape had set the seventh-year students three projects for their final-year coursework, one practical based, one pure research, and one that combined both written and lab work. Actually, Harry had no idea how he was going to fit the work in, but hesupposed he would manage, even if he had to go short on sleep. He stood up, picking up the stack of books from the arm of the chair.

"I'll see you two later, OK? I have a tutorial with Lupin in ten minutes." But as he climbed the narrow stairs to his room at the top of the tower, Harry wondered if they'd even heard him.

***

Although the day had started out cloudy, the sun had finally made an appearance and was now shining directly into Harry's eyes as he searched the Gryffindor end of the pitch. Nothing; no tiny sparkle of light reflecting off gold, no sharp dart of movement against the green and blue of grass and sky. Turning his Firebolt easily, he started flying in slow circles across the pitch, watching the Ravenclaw Seeker out of the corner of his eye. The fourth-year boy was small and mousy and looked nervous, and Harry couldn't for the life of him remember his name. He was quick, though, even mounted on a Cleansweep Seven.

Harry turned again, keeping one eye on the action of the other players beneath him. Gryffindor had possession of the Quaffle, and Natalie and Laura were passing it back and forth between them, heading towards the Ravenclaw goalposts. Harry watched as Seamus swung his club at a Bludger, knocking it away from the Chasers and towards the Ravenclaw Keeper. Then, bored, he tilted his Firebolt into a dive (the Snitch was nowhere in sight) and hurtled towards the pitch, feeling the displacement behind him as the other Seeker - his name was Stewart Ackerly, Harry remembered - followed hard on his heels. Twisting sideways out of the dive, Harry looped the Firebolt easily and brought it back to a hover, scanning the area near the stands for that tell-tale flicker of gold.

Twice he jerked forward involuntarily, moving before his brain could tell his eyes that the flash they had seen was not in fact the Snitch but a sharp movement form one of the spectators - the sparkle of jewellery, sunlight on blond hair. No Snitch, though.

Harry was twisting idly in the air, listening to the commentary, when he saw it. Gryffindor had just scored another goal, bringing the score up to fifty-twenty, and he was turning his head back away from the action when a flickering sparkle of gold near the Gryffindor goalposts caught his eye.

Instantly his vision seemed to home in on it and he was off, bending low over the handle of his Firebolt as he cut through the air after the fluttering little ball. As if it sensed him coming, it flitted suddenly away, darting towards the goalposts and whirring past Ginny's confused face. Harry could see with preternatural clarity the way its passing wings stirred her hair, which was wisping out of its tidy bun. He put on more speed, increasing the distance between himself and his pursuer; Stewart's slower broom had no chance against the Firebolt.

He was almost on the Snitch now, corkscrewing through the air in close pursuit as he reached out an impatient hand... it bounced and dived through the air, following the currents, then turned... Harry followed, flattening himself to his broom and mentally urging it faster, the Snitch was outpacing him... Leaning forward, he felt the pressure around him change as he snatched the tiny, fluttering ball out of the air - it was a sucking sort of feeling, and looking back as he slowed to a halt, fist raised and trapped wings beating plaintively against his palm, Harry realised that he had just flown right through the central Gryffindor goal hoop.

It was strange, he thought, as Madam Hooch's whistle blew and Ginny flung herself at him, spinning him round in the air and pulling him down to the ground to be embraced and pounded upon with delight by the rest of the team, and the Gryffindors who were flooding the pitch. He had thought that in competition, with someone to compete against, someone he had to beat, he would be able to focus properly on the game. Oh, he still had all his skill, but the sense of aliveness that had always thrilled through him at Quidditch matches had gone. It felt almost like going through the motions, and he didn't understand why.

Afterwards, ensconced in an armchair in the common room while the entirety of Gryffindor House bounced and shouted and stuffed themselves with sweets around him, Harry still didn't feel quite right. Surely he should feel some sort of triumph, some kind of happiness that he had won. I am happy, aren't I? We won easily, we're favourites for the Cup - why don't I feel wonderful about this? Every other Quidditch match that Gryffindor had won, Harry had felt alive and triumphant and overjoyed about. But since the end of last season - since they had beaten Slytherin for the Cup - he had found it difficult to retain his old enthusiasm for the sport. Just a little abstracted, but it was enough to spoil what had previously been his favourite pastime.

He had thought that perhaps the lack of vividness in his practices had been because there was no challenge in it, no opposite number, no one to play against. But today, he had played a full game, a game that counted towards the Cup, and the dullness had still been there. But... Ackerly wasn't really much of a challenger, was he? It wasn't exactly difficult to outmanoeuvre him. Harry sighed, accepting a mug of Butterbeer from Colin and dredging up a smile from somewhere. With any luck, the party would die down soon and he would be able to go to bed.

***

Harry liked this room. It was the light, he thought, there was a clear bluish-grey clarity to it up here at the top of Gryffindor Tower. He thought that maybe it had something to do with the window, which faced north-east, or perhaps the pale grey stone of the walls. The rest of the castle was constructed of a cheerier yellowish-tan masonry, but up here in the heights it faded into a sharply defined grey. Up here, the world seemed more in focus.

Harry sat back down on his bed, lifting his feet to pull on his socks. It was barely dawn, but already promising to be a typical autumn day; there was cloud cover to the horizon and a noticeable bite in the air even though it was only the beginning of October. For a moment Harry considered burrowing back under the covers and staying there snug and warm until it was breakfast time. But that way, he would be groggy and slow through the morning's lessons, and they had Advanced Transfiguration first thing, followed by double Potions. He would need all his wits about him if he didn't want to make a complete fool of himself by turning his shoe into a hamster or something.

Harry sighed, tucking his arms snugly around his knees and staring into space. I don't think I could get back to sleep anyway. It had been so long since he had slept without nightmares that he was finding that he actually needed less sleep when he wasn't awoken in darkness by the dreams. He had had the nightmares almost constantly for the last six months or so; he had worried that that meant that Voldemort was planning some kind of big strike, and had taken his concerns to Dumbledore, but nothing had materialised. Even before that, they had been a steady presence in his life, ebbing and flowing like the tides, reflecting his own moods and those of his enemy.

Harry wondered whether perhaps he should mention to Dumbledore that the nightmares seemed to have fallen into abeyance. He hadn't dreamed anything that he could recall for the last three nights, hadn't had a single nightmare since the night he had woken Malfoy in the disused classroom. Harry wondered whether he should tell Dumbledore that Malfoy was having Voldemort nightmares too. But then, perhaps Malfoy was supposed to be having the dreams. Surely if the boy was a Death Eater Dumbledore must know about it...

Harry shifted, absently fiddling with the cuff of his right sleeve. Lately it seemed like there was a heavy weight pushing down on him, a weight comprised of worry about the war, about the future, about the lost, the missing, the dead. Dread over the role he knew he had to play, the crushing weight of the world's expectations of him. He felt so exhausted sometimes - he wished so often that he could just be a normal teenager, that he didn't have all these extra things to distress himself over. He wished, sometimes in his more shameful moments, that Ron and Hermione were slightly less caught up in each other, that the three of them could go back to their original easy friendship without that extra intimacy that excluded him.

Harry smiled when he thought of his two best friends, but it was a sad sort of smile. He knew they didn't mean to make him feel lonely, he knew that he had no real reason for his feelings, but sometimes, especially at night as he lay in bed waiting for the nightmares to start, bone-cold and alone, he wished that he could have what they had. Someone to lean on, someone to share with and laugh with and snuggle up to. Even Dudley, with his bullying ways and obvious porcine comparisons, apparently had a girlfriend. Harry, though... had no one.

Well, he supposed that wasn't strictly true. While there were many girls, of all years and houses (even Slytherin) who cast sidelong looks at him, who giggled with their friends whenever he entered a room or actively tried to flirt with him, Harry couldn't help but feel that it wasn't him they wanted. It was like they couldn't see past the scar, past the 'hero' persona that everyone insisted on wrapping him in until he thought he'd smother. They had no interest in plain old Harry Potter, what they wanted was Harry the Hero, whose name was always splashed across the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly.

Harry thought about the girls he knew best. There was Hermione, but she was with Ron, and anyway he had never thought of her as anything other than a friend or a sister. Lavender and Parvati? Ginny? Well, he knew that Ginny had had a crush on him ever since they'd first met, but he'd seen her through Ron's eyes for too long - he felt a vague kind of protective friendship for her, but nothing more.

With a sigh, Harry swung his legs off the bed and mooched down the stairs to the bathroom, hands thrust moodily into his pockets. After cleaning his teeth, he stared into the mirror for a long time, wondering what exactly people saw in him. To his own eyes, he looked very ordinary, just a slight, thin boy with green eyes and glasses and a shock of black hair that covered the infamous scar. Raising one hand, he tried vainly to smooth it down into some semblance of order.

Maybe I should go and talk to Dumbledore after all, he thought to himself. I know he's busy these days, but he's said before that if I needed to I could see him. Or Lupin - he's always friendly. But then he remembered - it had been full moon the previous night. No, Professor Lupin would be in no state to be disturbed right now. Harry blinked at his reflection in the mirror, wondering if he should send an owl to Sirius; he hadn't heard from his godfather since the start of term, and he thought he might feel less confused about this whole thing if he could talk to someone.

I wonder if Malfoy meant everyone when he swore me to secrecy? If he knew I talked to Dumbledore about this, or anyone else, he'd probably kill me. Harry had an image in his head of Draco, turning to look at him with a terrible icy look on his face, saying "You did what, Potter?" No, he decided reluctantly, he couldn't tell anyone about Malfoy's dream - it wasn't his secret, and he's made a promise. Even if he does deserve all sorts of trouble, I'm not going to break my word.

Trudging out of the bathroom, he wandered absent-mindedly down the stairs to the common room. Although the fires were lit, the room was empty; Harry curled up in an armchair by the hearth and tried to soak up some of the heat. After three nightmare-free nights, he felt a lot better rested, but it only had the effect of focusing his mind more clearly on the difficulties at hand. Top of the list was the dilemma, paradox and conundrum that was Draco Malfoy. Harry didn't know whether to feel sorry for the boy, or glad that he was finally getting some of his just desserts. The worst part was that this nightmare thing in some way connected him to Malfoy. Harry didn't want to share anything with Malfoy. He didn't want to be obliged to help the boy, didn't want to feel sympathy for him or, heaven forbid, to have any similarities with him. He wanted Malfoy to stay his opposite number. It was just Harry's misfortune that life, and Draco, seemed to be having other ideas at the moment.

***

"Perhaps we ought to wait until its less packed," Hermione fretted, casting an anxious glance down the hallway ahead of them, which was crammed to bursting with lower-year students pushing their way towards the Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts classrooms.

"We're late already," Harry objected, tugging on her sleeve. "Come on, once we get around the corner we can make a dash for it..." They had been delayed at breakfast by Ron, who had been telling an amusing story to the entire Gryffindor table. Harry thought that it was all very well for him, because he had a study period first thing this morning, but Harry and Hermione had to get to their Transfiguration class.

Grabbing tight hold of Hermione's arm, Harry began to push his way through the horde of younger pupils, pulling her along behind him. Reaching the junction of the corridor, he sighed in relief and increased his pace, turning back to speak to Hermione.

"Come on, we're going to have to run or we'll be really - oof!" Harry staggered backwards as he rushed headlong into something solid. Hermione grabbed for his shoulder, keeping him upright and steady. Malfoy - it had to be him, didn't it - wasn't so lucky. Harry bit his lip as the pale boy picked himself up off the floor and ostentatiously straightened his robes, smoothing his hair back behind his ears.

"Um, sorry, Malfoy," Harry offered, thinking that perhaps he ought to be conciliatory in the light of recent events. "I didn't mean to barge into you..."

"Oh, right," Malfoy interrupted in his customary drawl, sneering at Harry and Hermione. "Of course you didn't mean to, Potty, now if you would just get out of my way I wouldn't have to keep looking at you." This last was hissed venomously, and Harry, feeling unaccountably hurt, stepped silently to the side, staring at the boy's retreating back.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Hermione sighed, grabbing at his sleeve and tugging him into the Transfiguration classroom. "Just ignore Malfoy, Harry. He's always been that unpleasant, I suppose he's not likely to change..." Harry got his books out silently, wondering why he had felt suddenly obliged to try to be nice - or at least civil - to the boy.

***

Harry had only just slid into his seat beside Ron when Snape swept into the dungeon in a billow of black robes, his black eyes immediately finding and glaring at Harry. "Silence!" the hook-nosed Potions master barked, eyes fixed on the Gryffindor side of the room. Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw Neville jump and drop his quill.

"Today," Snape announced portentously, "you will be working on preparing the potions you ought to already have memorised for your exam." There were stifled groans from around the room, and he sneered around triumphantly. "In order to test your knowledge more fully, I will be putting you in pairs myself so that none of you," and his gaze speared Hermione and Ron, "have any particular advantage. Miss Granger, if you can tear yourself away from Mr Weasley," Snape's lip curled in derision, and Harry seethed silently on his friends' behalf. "You may work with Miss Parkinson. Weasley, Crabbe." As Ron reluctantly got up to change seats with Pansy, who ostentatiously drew her robes away form him as they passed each other, Snape fixed his oily gaze on Harry. "Mr Potter - Mr Malfoy. And try not to let your complete lack of skill damage his potion-making."

Harry sighed a bit, but didn't protest, rising to obey Snape's order. Malfoy, however, had whipped his head around and was glaring at Harry in complete fury. As he took his seat, the Slytherin hissed "God damn you, Potter," at him. Numb, Harry wondered what he had done this time.

As he was grinding dried hyssop leaves in his mortar and trying to remember what he had to add to their cauldron next (Snape had decreed that they would work without notes in preparation for the NEWTs) Harry snuck a glance across at Malfoy. He still looked a little bit abstracted, as though his mind wasn't quite all there, but he seemed more focused than he had recently. Harry supposed that he must not have had nightmares for the past few nights either. As he watched, the other boy pushed a strand of pale-blond hair back behind his ear irritably, and turned to stare at him.

"For goodness' sake, what is it, Potter?" Malfoy demanded in a hissed whisper.

Caught by surprise, Harry stared guiltily at him for a moment, before hastily muttering "Nothing, sorry," and turning away. Or trying to turn away; Malfoy's hand shot out and grabbed tight and painful hold of his arm.

"Like hell. You've been staring at me all lesson, and I want to know why."

"If you must know," Harry whispered almost under his breath, "I was wondering if you've been... dreaming recently."

Malfoy's response was immediate and spectacular; he jerked, upsetting a bottle of feverfew infusion with a sharp movement of his arm. Disregarding the mess of dripping liquid, he leaned in, grabbing at Harry's shirt collar. "What part of 'never speak of this again' do you not understand, Potter?" he ground out, ignoring the fact that the sleeve of his robe was sopping wet and dribbling infusion over both of them.

"Easy, Malfoy," Harry muttered back, grabbing for a cloth to wipe up the spillage, and prying the other boy's clenched fingers off his robe. He felt as though he ought to try to at least have a civil conversation with Malfoy about this whole nightmare business - after all, it indicated that they had something in common. Which was a scary thought, but an undeniable one.

"What?" Malfoy sounded confused and vulnerable - and sneering and arrogant and irritable, as usual. "Potter, you snivelling little shit, are you actually trying to be nice to me?" He spoke the words as if he didn't quite believe them, as though they didn't fit his mouth.

"Well," Harry felt suddenly embarrassed, as though he had been caught doing something highly inappropriate. "I suppose so..."

Malfoy gaped at him for a moment, then shut his mouth with a decided snap. "Well, don't."

"But..."

"For fuck's sake, Potter!" Malfoy suddenly exploded. Heads turned all across the classroom, and he lowered his voice to a threatening mutter. "Would you shut up! I hate you, Potter, what about this is new to you? I don't care if you crawl off to die, in fact I wish you would! And take your stupid fan club with you!"

There didn't seem to be much Harry could say to that, and apparently Malfoy took his stunned silence for a victory of some kind, because he turned back to the cauldron and began stirring it more forcefully than was strictly necessary. Harry stared at him for a moment longer, thoughts still reeling, then took up the bunch of nightshade leaves that lay waiting on the bench and began chopping them roughly.

Why am I even surprised? he thought savagely to himself. Malfoy's a bastard and always has been. Harry salved some of his wounded pride by imagining the thick bundle of leaves as Malfoy's arm, his hand, his oh-so-perfectly-prissy hair. He ground his teeth as he laid into them with the knife. No, he shouldn't be surprised by this at all. If anyone was Death Eater material, it was Malfoy; he was just a nasty piece of work and Harry ought to be used to it by now. Who knows, he thought viciously to himself, imagining the sharp knife slicing across that pale porcelain skin, maybe all Voldemort's minions have terrifying nightmares about him. It was not a comforting thought.