Choices

Chapter Five: Precious Things

So I ran faster

But it caught me here

Yes my loyalties turned...

~Tori Amos, Precious Things

That evening, Draco climbed into his pyjamas with much less trepidation. Three nights without nightmares, without any dreams that he could remember, and he felt worlds better. Perhaps, after all, it had been only a passing thing. Perhaps he was stronger than he had thought, strong enough to fight this off. Strong enough to sublimate his fear and do what his father asked of him, do his duty to his family.

It was even within the realms of possibility that the whole thing had been a test. His father and certainly Voldemort were quite capable of hounding him in this manner to determine whether he was fit to join their cause. If so, Draco thought with a hint of the old Malfoy pride, he had certainly proved himself worthy. He had taken what they had sent to him with no word of complaint, and without cracking under the strain. Perhaps he deserved the place his father had made for him after all.

It was a good thought, a relief. Draco had always known that his destiny lay in the shadows, among the ranks of the Death Eaters, and to an extent he had prepared himself for that. Until Voldemort had confronted him, Draco had thought he was ready. And then, he had known that he was not. Now, perhaps - well, his future wasn't looking quite so terrifying right now. I'm strong, Draco told himself smugly as he slid beneath the blankets. I'm a Malfoy, and I'm strong, and when the Cause is triumphant I will help to rule the world. It was a good thought, the kind that usually led to happy, satisfied dreams. Draco snuggled down to sleep the sleep of the self-righteous.

***

A scream ripped through the blackness that surrounded him, and he knew it for his own. His stomach heaved as a putrid stench filled his nostrils, rising from the writhing mess that ensnared his feet. It was like vomit, like slime, like ten thousand eviscerated Flobberworms, and it had him trapped. A high, cold laugh echoed through the lightless cavern, and he flung his arms out wildly, helplessly reaching for freedom. His fingers contacted something damp and chill, and a bolt of pain flared through his forehead, leaving in its wake a terror that he could not comprehend. He could feel the heaving mass sucking at his feet, pulling him down into itself.

A voice hissed in the darkness, soft and harsh and so close to his ear that he could feel chill breath on his face. "Will you not bow to me willingly, boy?" He struggled frantically, panic-stricken, as it continued, "Will you not submit?" He shook his head wildly from side to side, feeling his hair flying out but unable to see it. No, he wanted to say, no, I won't, I can't, but all that came out of his mouth was a broken, whimpering sound.

A cold finger trailed its burning way down his cheek, rested limp and sick-making on the pulse point of his throat. "You are mine, you know," the hissing voice continued as its unseen owner moved around him. "You know, that, don't you, boy. It is your destiny; I am your master, and you will not escape me. I will have you eventually, however hard you struggle." That cold, cruel laugh again, and a swift shocking pain in his neck followed by a warm trickle running down over his chest. Then footsteps retreating, padding away, and the clang of iron bars in the faraway dark. He was alone.

Alone with the sucking mire of the floor, alone with the acid darkness that ate away at him, alone with the endless repetition of his own hoarse echoing screams. Here, alone with his true self, the darkness could swallow him utterly, and the truth was that he would not be rescued. There would be no brave hero to save him, no concerned protector to keep him from harm. The darkness would eat him alive, splinter his soul into a thousand icy shards, and they would let it. They would watch. They would laugh. His screams echoed and rebounded from the depths of the night as the blackness began to devour him.

***

When Draco woke at around seven in the morning, his eyes were burning and his throat was raw, and he wondered if he might be dead. He struggled out of the blankets, which had somehow wrapped themselves into an impenetrable tangle about his legs, and stumbled over to the mirror, the room swimming sickeningly around him. His face in the mirror stared blankly back at him, pale and bruise-eyed and filled with horror.

I thought I was safe, something small and weak and cowering whispered in his mind. I thought it was over - but it's not. It's worse than ever. It will never be over... Draco shook his head wildly; clenched his fists, tried to pull himself together. If he could just take this one step at a time, he was sure there had to be some way he could sort this... One step at a time. And right now, he was going to be late for breakfast.

Operating on pure autopilot, Draco managed to drag himself into his clothes and up to the Great Hall, but he had no appetite for food. His stomach was still roiling with the remnants of nightmare, and even the few sips of coffee that he managed to choke down nauseated him. He spent the time while the others ate trying not to think about anything, absently shredding a piece of toast into smaller and smaller crumbs.

A few seats down from him, Draco could hear Blaise and Pansy whispering together in concerned tones, and realised after a few moments that they must be discussing him again. The idea that people might be worried about him reminded Draco of Potter, and his ridiculous altruism of the other night. Automatically, as he always did whenever Potter managed to elbow his way into his thoughts, Draco glanced up and over at the Gryffindor table across the room.

Harry Potter was sitting there in his usual space, surrounded by his silly little cronies, and he must have felt Draco's glance, because after a moment he looked up, meeting Draco's eyes. Draco tried not to flinch at the resentment in Potter's gaze. Then he blinked, realising that Potter looked like hell - pretty much the way Draco felt. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed, his hair sticking out in an even more riotous mess than usual. When Weasley and Finnigan, next to him, shouted raucously over something Thomas was showing them, Potter flinched away from the noise. Draco had never seen him looking so haunted in his life.

***

After lunch was a free study period, and Draco returned to his room, abandoning his books atop his trunk as he paced endlessly from wall to wall. What was he going to do? What could he do? Clearly, the nightmares had not run their natural course; at this rate he would be hounded by dark dreams and terror-filled nights until he lost either his mind or his life. And living like this - for the rest of his life, however long that might be - was not an option for Draco.

Beyond that - well, Lucius Malfoy was expecting his son to kneel at Voldemort's feet and pledge the Dark Lord his service as soon as Draco left Hogwarts. In his father's plans, Draco would receive the Dark Mark in the summer, would join the Death Eaters in whatever else it was they did besides torturing and killing Mudbloods. Would take a position at the Ministry and pass along whatever information and misinformation was decreed necessary. In Draco's plans - well, he had no plans; that was the trouble. And if his father should find out that he was trying to avoid Voldemort's service and the Dark Arts that were his birthright...

A shiver ran down his spine. He couldn't, he just couldn't face Voldemort again, but he would have to. Even if he were to rebel against his destiny, all that would happen would be that it would overwhelm him completely. If Lucius Malfoy ever found out that his son and heir was such a craven weakling, Draco knew he would end up wishing he had never been born. He would be given over completely to Voldemort, and either placed under Imperius and forced to do the Dark Lord's bidding, or... Or he would meet the same fate as those unfortunate Mudbloods, a warning to the Death Eaters of the price of betrayal. And the inevitable price of disappointing his father.

Oh God, oh God, Draco wailed to himself. There was nothing he could do, no way out of the bind that he could see. Whatever he did, he would end up in Voldemort's clutches anyway. Why me? Why did this have to happen, why am I so weak? Why can't I do anything right? He slumped to the floor, eyes burning with tears he couldn't shed, tears that only solidified his weakness until he felt it like a shroud wrapping around him, taunting him, tearing at him. Was there nothing he could do? Nothing left in his life that wasn't tainted by his own cowardice? He sat there on the cold stones for a long time, shaking with tremors and bleeding inside.

***

That night, Draco didn't sleep, instead sitting up into the early hours with candles lit and a book in his lap, getting up to pace the narrowing confines of his room when his eyes began to droop. He went out to breakfast early, and tried to choke down a few bites of toast in between cups of the strongest coffee the house-elves could brew. When the rest of the school made their noisy, laughing entrance and Draco felt Potter's eyes on him, he didn't look up.

It began to get harder and harder to concentrate in lessons. History of Magic in particular was a complete nightmare. Almost literally; he felt himself nodding off from moment to moment, felt the invisible horrors stalking about the edges of his awareness. Waiting for him, waiting for Draco to falter, to give in, to crumble before the darkness.

Draco didn't dare pace the corridors at night any more, with that busybody Potter prowling about in his Invisibility Cloak. Neither could he let himself lie down to sleep even for a moment; he spent his nights in an armchair beneath the high window, where he hoped that the cold and the moonlight might keep him safe from what haunted him. Still, inevitably sleep claimed him from time to time, and he suffered the torments of his own subconscious, flailing himself into gasping awareness only after unknown periods trapped in screaming darkness.

Draco was sure that Potter knew what was happening to him. He had seen, that time, he had known that it was Voldemort Draco had been dreaming about. He always seemed to be watching Draco now, over meals, across the classroom in Potions, even from across the pitch at Quidditch practice. Which was a whole different humiliation. He struggled through even the simplest things nowadays, dug his nails into his palms and dragged himself onwards, tried to avoid his housemates as much as he could.

***

"Mr Malfoy?"

Draco didn't consciously register the voice at first; he had taken three steps along the corridor before he realised that someone had called his name, and another before he realised who that someone was. He turned. "Sir?"

His Head of House regarded him with disfavour; Draco knew that this was nothing new, that Snape had been suffering from chronic displeasure for years, but right now it seemed like another blow. "Draco, I wish to have words with you. You will attend me in my office after the evening meal."

Draco nodded mutely - there wasn't anything else he could do. Now he had another thing to dread. What did Snape know? Had his father sent for him? "Yes sir." Snape had already turned and was stalking back into the Potions dungeon. Draco stood there staring sightlessly after him for a long time.

However, when Draco knocked resignedly on Snape's office door that evening, trying to reassure himself that the man was really quite fond of him and probably wouldn't do anything to cause him actual harm, there was no reply. Confused now, Draco knocked again. Snape hadn't been at dinner, but he quite often wasn't, preferring to take his meals in privacy when he wasn't needed for supervision purposes. Still no reply. He tried the door handle; locked.

Draco was debating the merits of using an Opening Charm on the door and risking the Potions Master's severe displeasure (quite apart from who-knew-what kind of protections the man might use) when a soft cough sounded behind him and made him jump. Furious with himself for reacting, Draco whirled and had opened his mouth to snarl when he realised that it was the Headmaster standing there and that he probably ought to remember his manners and look properly obedient. He adjusted his face into what he hoped was a politely enquiring attitude.

Albus Dumbledore twinkled at him in that manner that had always made Draco extremely nervous. "Ah, young Mr Malfoy." Draco tried to hide a wince; he really didn't want to think about his father right now. "I am afraid, Draco, that Professor Snape is no longer with us. He was... called away this afternoon. I expect you understand."

Draco did. And now he had a new worry - would Snape mention his abstraction and frankly dishevelled appearance to Lucius? For surely there could be only one meaning to this absence and it was that Voldemort had called Snape away. Draco had wondered for a long time whether Dumbledore knew about Snape's Death Eater activities; now he had proof. Now he wondered why Dumbledore permitted this arrangement to continue, whether Snape was spying on his father and his father's master. "Yes, sir. When will he be back?" A new conundrum, and Draco worried at it in his mind, unable to let it rest.

"Ah. Now that, I am afraid, I do not know," Dumbledore sighed, patting Draco on the shoulder with one wrinkled hand. "There are... difficulties, I am sure you understand, Draco." The twinkling blue eyes became piercing and bright beneath beetled brows, and Draco had to look away, ashamed and afraid of what might show in his own gaze. "I see you do," Dumbledore murmured, and Draco knew that there was very little that he or anyone could hide from this man. He wasn't sure whether it was a comfort, or yet another thing to dread.

"Well, since there is no Professor Snape for you to speak to," Dumbledore said, "I suggest you return to your dormitory, Draco. And," he added as he turned away, "do at least try to get some sleep." Draco wondered if he had imagined the semi-whisper that followed this pronouncement - "I fear you will need it..."

***

To Draco's surprise, he actually did get some sleep that night. The nightmares held themselves in abeyance until almost morning, giving him several hours of oblivion. When they did come, though, they were violent and choking and vile enough that Draco bolted for the bathroom on waking with a hand clapped across his mouth, heaving up acid bile until he thought he would collapse from the wracking spasms. When he finally got to his feet, wiping the back of his hand weakly across his mouth, he was trembling like a leaf and had to clutch at the wall to steady himself. He didn't notice the confused worry on Goyle's face as they passed in the corridor, Draco still shaking uncontrollably.

The thought of eating was abhorrent, but Draco dragged himself up into the Hall anyway, slumping in his seat and trying not to gag at the food smells all around him. After a while, excited whispers around him made him look up. Pansy and Blaise had their heads bent over an open copy of the Daily Prophet, muttering together in concerned tones. Draco thought he caught his father's name.

"What is it?" he demanded, reaching imperiously for the paper. Though the girls looked a little surprised that he was asserting himself again, they gave it over to him without complaint. He stared at the bold black headline.

TWO FOUND DEAD in Ministry Raid: Death Eaters Sacrificed?

The bodies of two known Death Eaters were found by Ministry Wizards yesterday during a top-secret raid on what was thought to be one of You-Know-Who's hide-outs or staging posts. William Nott and Angus Macnair, both confirmed supporters of the Dark Lord, were found dead when the Aurors arrived on the scene, their bodies arranged in what are thought to be ritual positions. According to one senior Ministry source, both bodies were found upon examination to be unmarked, confirming preliminary suspicions that the Killing Curse had been used against them. The Honorary Head of the College of Aurors, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, told our reporter that it was likely that the pair had been killed by their own compatriots, although for reasons unknown to us. He went on, "Either they tried to double-cross [You-Know-Who] and got themselves dead for it, or they were sacrificed when the other Death Eaters learned about tonight's raid. Either way, it's good riddance, I say." When questioned about the presumed leak, Moody was quoted as saying "We're on it; we'll find out who let the news out and make 'em regret it." This morning, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge made a statement asking the public not to be alarmed because "we have everything under control. There is no need for undue worry." [Cont. p4...]

Draco turned to Page Four with shaking hands, and read through the rest of the report, which gave a fuller description of the raid and reactions from eminent figures and experts in the Dark Arts. Lucius Malfoy, referred to as a 'family friend' of both of the deceased, had declined to comment. Draco read that sentence over and over, wondering how his father had reacted to this news, whether he had protested against the killings. And, in a tiny, traitorous corner of his mind, whether he had been forced to take part in them... He refolded the paper again, and sat staring at the scowling picture of Moody on the front until Crabbe jogged his elbow and reminded him that it was time to go to class.

All that day, Draco couldn't stop thinking about those two Death Eaters. He had known both Nott and Macnair ever since he could remember; they had visited the Manor countless times to meet with his father, had brought Draco presents when their visits coincided with Halloween or Christmas or one of his birthdays. Had they really been sacrificed by their own fellows? To what end? Why would Voldemort - Draco shuddered - kill his own followers? It didn't make any kind of sense at all.

Draco wasn't particularly surprised that night when he found an imperious-looking eagle owl waiting on his desk for him. He had been half-expecting something of the sort ever since he had read his father's name in the newspaper. When it saw Draco, the owl drew itself up and held out its leg for him to remove the letter that was tied there. Draco stroked the thick feathers of its crest absently, staring down at the neat strokes and loops of his father's handwriting, stark in black ink against creamy paper, spelling out his own name with equal clarity. Draco Malfoy. Always and forever, he was defined, constricted by his name and all that went with it. The owl hooted irritably, ducking out from under his hand, and took off out of the open window.

Well, there was nothing to be gained by waiting. Draco tried to ignore the way his fingers shook as he carefully broke the black wax seal and unrolled the parchment. It was the expensive vellum his father always used for official missives; soft under his hands, not dry and crackling like the usual school stuff. Swallowing back apprehension and nerves, Draco scanned swiftly through the flowing lines.

Draco-

You will be glad to know that all is proceeding satisfactorily at the Manor. Your Mother has recently turned her attention to the refurbishment of the south terrace, and is consequently quite busy with decorators and landscapers. My own business interests are also prospering. In particular, the goals of my esteemed benefactor, whom you have met this summer past, are closer than ever to being realised. I am sure you will have noted recent reports of increased numbers of incidents involving that element of our society that we abhor - both disposals and political manoeuvring. I confess to a certain amount of satisfaction with these developments, and thus I draw your attention to them.

Equally, I am satisfied with your progress, both academically and personally. I am working on securing you a position within the Ministry for when you leave that institution. You need not fear that your future will be anything less than assured as the son and heir of Lucius Malfoy. Recently I have been lucky enough to participate in certain events on behalf of our mutual benefactor, to which end I have spent a great amount of time away from the Manor; these have now run their course, allowing me to return to my previous pursuits. I have been considering endowing a charitable trust to fund refurbishment at St. Mungo's, among other projects.

Your Esteemed Father,

Lucius Malfoy

Draco put one hand out to the wall, seeking to steady himself as the words on the parchment seemed to run and blur into a river of ink, washing over and through him. His grip loosened, and the letter slipped through his fingers, fluttering silently to the floor. Oh, God. It was all he could think, all he could feel.

'These events have run their course' - on the day when two Death Eaters were killed by their own side? Just how involved were you, Father? Draco shivered, staring blankly into space. No regret, not a word of regret, although Lucius must have known, must have realised that Draco would have read the Prophet report, would have remembered Nott and Macnair's visits to the Manor. Not even any kind of justification, Draco thought numbly; it would have been one thing if those men had been caught spying, or had sold out to the Ministry. Murder for the sake of it, though; killing like that, even as a distraction... Draco felt sicker than ever.

He slumped against the cold stone wall, slid down it into a huddled heap, face pressed into his knees. Was that the fate that awaited him, whether or not he sided with his father and Voldemort? A lifetime of fear and pain and service, to end only in death? Was murder the reward for all of the Dark Lord's faithful servants?

Father, why have you done this to me? For none of this had been Draco's choice; Lucius had chosen for him, chosen Voldemort and the Dark Arts and a lifetime of servitude. Chosen to bequeath his only son to his dark master, and Draco had no choices left to him, no choice at all. What do you want from me, Father? Satisfactory. Draco had spent his life trying to live up to his Lucius Malfoy's example, and all he ever got was 'satisfactory.' Lucius took good care of him, provided him with everything he needed, but there was never any pride there.

Draco remembered, once, in the summer following his fifth year at Hogwarts, watching from the anonymous crowd as those twin Weasleys cut a ribbon and ceremonially opened their Hogsmeade joke shop. He had seen the way their shabby parents embraced them, afterwards, seen the looks on all their faces. He remembered feeling so jealous at that moment that he could taste it bitter on his tongue. Neither Lucius nor Narcissa had ever looked at him that way.

Don't you care at all, Father? Draco didn't know whether the question was on behalf of the murdered Death Eaters, the slaughtered Mudbloods (who must after all have had families too), or himself. Would Lucius falter at all if he had to sacrifice Draco to Voldemort's cause? Would he protest the loss of his son and heir? Bitterly and without humour, Draco grinned to himself. No, it was far more likely that if Voldemort called for Draco's blood, Lucius would drag him to the sacrificial altar with his own hands.

Either way I look at this, I lose. Whatever choice I make, I'm as good as dead; if the nightmares don't kill me, my father and his Master will. There was nowhere to turn, nothing that he could do. Draco pressed himself into the cold stones of the walls and floor and refused to let himself cry.