Choices

Chapter Six - Circles

What ravages of spirit

Conjured this temptuous rage?

Created you a monster

Broken by the rule of law?

And fate has led you through it;

You do what you have to do.

~Sarah McLachlan

***

Harry stared down at the newspaper in his hands. Mad-Eye Moody glared back at him, magical eye rolling unceasingly around the frame of the picture. Two Death Eaters dead in what looked like a ritual killing. It was worrying. Questions tumbled around Harry's mind, questions without obvious answers, questions like what was the purpose of the ritual and what is Voldemort planning next?

"I don't understand at all why he would kill his own followers." Hermione frowned in thought, tucking her feet neatly beneath her on the sofa. "It doesn't make any sense; how would it benefit him?"

"Well, Moody said he thought they were used for some kind of ritual," Harry observed, looking up from the paper.

"Yes, but even so," Hermione protested, gesturing with her quill. "Surely it would have been easier for him to use enemies of his for this supposed ritual? There have certainly been enough Muggle-killings lately that it wouldn't be hard."

"The benefits to him must have outweighed the disadvantages of losing two Death Eaters," Ron spoke up from the floor, where he was rubbing Crookshanks' fur dry with an old towel. "If this was some kind of ritual, then it must have been important."

"What kind of Dark Magic requires a willing sacrifice?" Harry asked Hermione. "Or the death of a wizard?" She frowned and made some notes on a scrap of parchment.

"I don't know offhand, but I'll check the library tomorrow." Ever since the war had begun in earnest (despite the Ministry's official denials) Hermione had had a permanent open note for the Restricted Section; time and resources were tight, and the Order needed all the help it could get.

"It doesn't necessarily have to be a dark ritual," Ron pointed out without looking up from the damp cat. "Don't rule out the possibility that they tried to double-cross You-Know-Who, or even just failed at something he wanted them to do."

Harry nodded. "Voldemort isn't exactly one for second chances - and as far as he's concerned all the Death Eaters have had their second chance anyway."

Hermione shuddered. "I wish you wouldn't talk as if you know him, Harry. Even if you do," she added quietly.

"'S a tactical advantage," Ron mumbled from the floor. "Knowing how he thinks, even a little bit. This cat needs a proper brushing, Herm."

"Yeah, well," Harry replied softly, staring into the fire. "I'd still rather not. I wish..." he trailed off with a shrug. I wish I'd never had to have anything to do with him. It was an old wish, the futile wish of an orphan child who had never known his parents. Harry was older now. Stronger. Wiser. He would do what he had to. It took an effort to smile, but Ron and Hermione deserved it. They had taken this fight as their own without complaint, contributed their own specialties to the cause. Hermione spent every spare moment she had researching the Dark Arts in the library; Ron's extracurricular Defence Against the Dark Arts tuition with Lupin and Moody revolved around strategy and long-range planning. No one doubted, after two years of murders and disappearances, that it was a war that they were fighting.

"So do you think he's gearing up to something?" Harry asked his two best friends, breaking the slightly uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them.

Ron and Hermione glanced at each other, curiosity and acknowledgement of affection open between the pair of them. For no earthly reason that he could discern, Harry thought suddenly of Malfoy, of the look in his eyes, nightmare-drenched by moonlight. A strange pang of something approaching guilt twisted in his stomach.

"Nothing's really certain, Harry," Hermione said diplomatically; he knew she thought he worried too much when he should be enjoying life more. He wondered sometimes if this was what it was like to have an older sister, or a mother. "But it is unlikely that this is random. There's some kind of purpose behind it."

"OK, I'll talk to Moody and Lupin tomorrow then," Harry sighed, slouching down in his chair and rubbing absently at the back of his neck.

Hermione looked at him worriedly. "Harry, are you feeling all right? Are you sleeping properly? Because I'm sure there are potions, or charms..." she broke off as Ron squeezed her ankle warningly.

"Harry's fine, Herm. Don't fuss, OK?" And although Hermione grumbled a little, and resettled her books and parchments defensively, Harry was grateful for Ron's unusual perception. He sometimes wondered how much his best friend knew about his nightmares - after all, they had shared a dormitory for six years - until this very summer. Harry had never broached the subject, though, too unsettled by the dreams to reveal them to anyone else, even someone as close to him as Ron. If Hermione was a sister (albeit a fussy, overprotective sister), then Ron was the closest thing to a brother that Harry would ever have. He smiled tiredly at both of his friends.

"I'm fine, honestly, Hermione. Just getting used to all this extra work."

Hermione sniffed audibly, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "At least you actually do your work." Ron suddenly became acutely interested in the snags in Crookshanks' fur. Harry cast quickly about for some topic of discussion, to prevent one of their famous argue-fight-make up sessions.

"So, do you think we really have a spy?" They had overheard Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott speculating on the subject earlier, at dinner.

Successfully distracted, Ron sat up straighter and launched into his latest theory. Hermione, however, gave Harry a look that said she saw right through his pitiful subterfuge.

"...and I wouldn't put it past that slimy git to be sneaking around, passing information to the Death Eaters."

Harry blinked at Ron. "Who?"

"Malfoy, of course! If anyone in this school is a spy it has to be him."

Harry closed his mouth firmly, surprised by the heated denial that rose unbidden in his throat. He didn't know why he kept wanting to defend the pale, haunted Slytherin boy (after all, shared nightmares were a frail and perilous connection at best), but he couldn't make himself believe that Draco was a supporter of Voldemort. Then Harry blinked again. Had he just thought of Malfoy as Draco? Maybe Hermione was right after all and he needed more sleep. He stood abruptly, forcing a yawn.

"I'm knackered, think I'll go up." And he left the pair of them sitting there, still arguing the possibility of Malfoy's involvement in the war that crept inevitably onwards outside the haven that was Hogwarts. It wasn't a debate that Harry wanted to contribute to.

***

...darkness, suffocating blackness all around, and he choked, clawing at his throat... Harry gasped his way into desperate waking, clutching at the bedclothes with shaking hands, staring blindly up into the night-hung ceiling. At last the tremors eased enough that he could grab his wand off the nightstand.

"Lumos. God, that was a bad one." Harry pushed himself upright in bed, drawing his feet beneath him. It was distinctly cold in the room; October had given way to November and the nights were drawing in, bringing winter's chill with them. There was a faint, aching pain in his scar that always seemed to accompany the nightmares now, whether Voldemort himself had inhabited them or not. Harry frowned, trying to remember whether his arch-nemesis had featured in this latest dream. There was darkness, and drowning, and choking... but no Dark Lord. And there had been another dream before the nightmare...

Harry closed his eyes, trying to remember the dream, but all the details fled like water from his grasp, leaving only a faint impression of strangeness, and the image of Draco Malfoy's frightened face. I dreamed of Malfoy? Weird. Shrugging, Harry wriggled back under the covers, turning over and pulling them up around his shoulders. The sense of nightmare had gone completely now; he knew that if he could get back to sleep his rest would be uninterrupted for the remainder of the night. Perhaps he would even have happy dreams for once.

***

Harry's feet squelched in his boots as he dripped his way back through the corridors to Gryffindor Tower. Halfway through the team's scheduled Quidditch practice, it had come on to rain. Outside, the chill downpour was still continuing; Harry was soaked to the skin, having stayed on after the team left to put away the balls and make sure the broom shed was locked.

If Filch caught him, Harry thought somewhat grimly, he would be in for it; he was dripping muddy water all over the place. He hastened his steps, wanting to get out of reach of the caretaker's wrath as quickly as possible. A flash of scarlet in the corner of his vision caught at his attention as he passed a junction of corridors, and Harry paused momentarily between steps.

"Ah, Harry." Professor Dumbledore beamed at him, gliding to a halt in front of him. "The very person I was hoping to see."

Harry wondered why Dumbledore wanted to see him right now, when he was covered with sweat and rain and mud from Quidditch practice, but didn't ask. "Sir?"

Dumbledore gazed at Harry over the tops of his spectacles. "Yes, Harry. I must admit to some concern as to whether you have been keeping up with the news recently."

Instantly the Prophet article popped into Harry's mind, along with his and Ron's and Hermione's speculations about it. "Yes, sir - we have. Are - do you mean the, um, deaths?"

"Ah, the redoubtable Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley? Excellent, Harry, excellent. Professor Lupin tells me that you are doing very well indeed in your lessons with him." Dumbledore smiled benignly at him, and rummaged in one of his capacious pockets, extracting a paper bag with the Honeydukes logo on the side. "Pepper Imp, Harry? No?"

"No thank you, sir. Um, Professor Dumbledore - do you know if something's, well, going on at the moment?" Harry absently wrung the sleeve of his Quidditch robes between his hands, sending rivulets of rainwater running across his fingers and puddling on the floor below.

"Ah." The Headmaster spoke without looking at Harry this time, seemingly engrossed in unsticking his sweets from their bag. "As to that, Harry, there is little I can tell you. Though I am sure you have noticed the burden that has settled over Mr. Malfoy of late. My goodness," he added in a much milder tone, eyeing the muddy puddle that was growing around Harry's feet and threatening to saturate the hem of his own robe. "You had better run along quickly, Harry, before Mr. Filch has a chance to find your trail." And with a slow, graceful nod, Dumbledore moved off down the corridor, leaving Harry standing behind him, more confused than ever.

It was while Harry was plodding wetly up the stairs towards the Fat Lady's portrait that he realised what Dumbledore hadn't said. Ever since the end of his fourth year, since the terrible events of the Third Task and Cedric's death and Voldemort's rebirth, Dumbledore had asked after his nightmares whenever they spoke privately. It had confused Harry for a while, but then he had realised that this solicitude was more than concern, that it was possible that the dreams that plagued his nights might give clues to the whereabouts or plans of the Dark Lord. But just now - not a word about Harry's nightmares, not even an allusion to how well he was sleeping (which wasn't very well, at the moment). No, instead Dumbledore had drawn Harry's attention very firmly to Malfoy. Who, if the evidence of Harry's eyes could be believed, very definitely was having nightmares.

Sometimes I wish he'd be slightly less cryptic, Harry thought, remembering all the veiled advice he'd received from the Headmaster over the years. Just for a change. "Shrivelfig." The Fat Lady swung forwards, sniffing disapprovingly at his filthy, soaked robes, and Harry climbed through the portrait hole. There were a few people in the common room, mostly small clusters of younger pupils. Ron and Hermione were absent, but Hermione had always spent most of her time in the library, and now that they were going out, Ron usually joined her there. Harry nodded at the people who smiled or waved at him, and made a quick exit up the stairs.

Stripping off his sodden clothes in his own tiny room, Harry wondered again exactly what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him - and what he wanted Harry to do about it. He didn't really say anything. But when I asked - he implied that something was going on with the Dark Order. And he mentioned Malfoy - in connection with that? Did he mean that whatever is up with Malfoy has to do with something Voldemort is planning? Harry frowned, pulling an old t-shirt over his head. But Malfoy - he might be having nightmares, but so do I, and I don't think my nightmares are particularly special or insightful. And they haven't been any worse lately or anything.

The possibility, however remote, that Harry's nightmares might provide some insight into Voldemort's plans or whereabouts had been all that stopped him from asking Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey to sort out some kind of way to make them go away. Over the years, it had become a lot easier to wake himself out of them, anyway, and those scar-burning dreams that Dumbledore thought were so closely linked to Voldemort were few and far between. Most times the nightmares were just casual terrors, darkness and fear stirred up in his mind by contact with his arch-nemesis. Still, given the choice, Harry knew he would rather be rid of them altogether.

Sitting down cross-legged on his bed, Harry pulled his Firebolt into his lap and examined it carefully, checking for splinters or bent twigs. It seemed fine, so he pulled out his wand and performed a water-dispersal charm. Then Harry swore - the moisture leaching out of the wood was falling onto his bedcovers. Hastily he thrust the broomstick away from him, where it could drip harmlessly onto the stone floor. Digging his Broomstick Servicing Kit out of his trunk, he got out the handle polish and a cloth.

Malfoy. Harry rubbed the oily polish into the grain of his broom handle until it gleamed, his mind on other things. There definitely is something up with him - that can't be the only time he's had nightmares. He always looks like death in the mornings. In fact - he looks worst whenever I feel worst. The mornings after I have nightmares. Very reluctantly, Harry was forced to entertain the possibility that Malfoy was not in fact evil after all. If he has the same Voldemort nightmares that I do... There had to be some kind of connection. Harry made a face, deciding that since Dumbledore had seen fit to mention this to him, he probably ought to keep a bit more of an eye on Malfoy.

***

Over breakfast on Sunday morning, Harry watched Malfoy surreptitiously. He was a little bit surprised at first by how natural it felt to be keeping an eye on the Slytherin, but as he began to notice things about Malfoy, his mind slipped away from the realisation. Malfoy looked, while nowhere near his former self (and good riddance, thought Harry), at least vaguely human. He seemed alert, and he was actually eating. Harry frowned, wondering when Malfoy's recent eating habits had made their way into his consciousness.

There had been no dreams last night - or at least none that Harry could recall. He had woken when his alarm clock went off, with a vague sense of unease, but no memory of nightmare. And Malfoy looks better, his mind insisted on reminding him. Not that he needed it; Harry was quite good at putting two and two together by now. We have the same dreams - or at the same times, anyway. His dreams simply must be connected to Voldemort. Maybe Dumbledore was right about them being some kind of... of, I don't know, emanation. Which must mean that Malfoy has met Voldemort too - not that it wasn't inevitable, given his upbringing.

Harry looked over at Malfoy again, watching the other boy blink tiredly and swipe absently at his tousled hair with one hand. Anyone less reconciled to his presumed destiny was hard to imagine.

Harry winced to himself. He knew what the logical conclusion to that line of thought was; knew that there was only one possible thing that he could do, if he was right. He just didn't want to take that route. He had been comfortable hating Malfoy, comfortable in their mutual enmity; the idea of approaching Malfoy in anything analogous to friendship was vaguely distasteful. Besides, he had tried that, and been rebuffed. With some violence. Harry hunched his shoulders, sliding down in his chair.

Across from him, Ron dragged his eyes away from Hermione long enough to give
Harry an encouraging grin. "Buck up, Harry, double Potions isn't as bad as all that!"

Harry grinned back, feeling divided. Given his own feelings, he would probably have left things as they were with Malfoy. But Dumbledore had implied that the other boy was in some way important, and that gave Harry an obligation to him. Besides - he knew what the nightmares were like, and he wouldn't wish that kind of thing on anyone else. Even, he realised to his astonishment, Draco Malfoy.

I thought I hated him. And I'm sure he hates me - he even said so, last week, in nice simple words that left no doubt about his meaning. He doesn't want my help, however much he might need it. Harry took a bite of toast, unaware that his eyes had been fixed on the Slytherin table in general and the slight, lonely figure of Draco Malfoy in particular for a good ten minutes. When did I stop hating him? When did he stop being my enemy? And what does that make him, now?

***

Later that night, as he was preparing for bed, the same questions were still whirling about Harry's mind. He didn't have any answers for them; Malfoy - well, he was something. Not hated, not an enemy, not any more. Certainly not a friend. But the intensity that had always fuelled their confrontations, had propped up their mutual animosity, was still there. Harry could feel it, when he looked at the Slytherin boy, when their eyes met by accident; something between them that seemed to have outlived the hate.

And Malfoy - there had been a sense of quiet desperation to him lately, as if he was coming to the end of whatever endurance he possessed. Curious, Harry wondered why. He himself, after all, had been living with the nightmares for over two years now. Was Malfoy somehow weaker than Harry? It pleased his sense of what was proper to entertain such a notion; it was difficult to get past all those years of being bullied by Malfoy, difficult to empathise with him even when his problem was so clearly similar to Harry's own.

Sliding under the covers, Harry pulled off his glasses and set them onto the nightstand, then put out the light from his wand with a whispered "Finite Incantatem." Staring up into the darkness above, he listened to the sound of the rain beating against the window. It sounded like the castle was in for a wild night; Harry hoped Hedwig wasn't foolish enough to venture out into this weather for hunting, and that wherever Sirius was, he was comfortable and dry. Focused on nothing in particular, he tried to decide what he was going to do about the whole strange situation. Somewhere between one thought and the next, sleep claimed him.

Darkness wrapped him, not the warm soft darkness of home and comfort, but chill knife-edged shadows that tore at him and ripped into his mind. He struggled, shrill laughter echoing in his ears as green light seared the back of his eyelids and a rushing noise like huge invisible wings swept past him. Then the touch - cold and slimy from bone-white spatulated fingers, yet burning too, sending screaming fire racing through his skin, and he wanted to choke, wanted to heave, wanted to claw at his own flesh until he bled. He fumbled desperately for his wand, but his numb fingers refused to close about it, and he knew it was futile; he would fail to save himself as he had failed to save everyone else, all the others - he would die as Cedric had, and it would all be for nothing, and there was that high cold voice again, hissing the words of the Killing Curse...

Gasping and choking, Harry flailed himself into awareness, legs trapped in a welter of tangled blankets and skin clammy with cold sweat. Shivers wracking him, he grabbed desperately for his wand, clutching it tightly as if its eleven slender inches could somehow protect him from the darknesses within. Oh God, that was a bad one. That was bad. He stared fiercely ahead, trying to will his traitorous mind to calm. Only a dream, Harry told himself over and over. It was only a dream.

"Lumos," he muttered, relaxing a little as light flooded from his wand tip, warm and soothing and wiping away the shadows. Now that his breathing had eased, Harry could hear the sound of the storm raging outside; the shriek of the wind as it whipped around the tower and the rattle of rain and hail on the windowpanes and roof. The evening's fire had died on the grate, leaving chill ashes, and the air in the room was cold. Harry shivered, wanting very much to burrow back beneath the blankets and just curl up there in a ball until morning.

The moan of the wind rose to a particularly loud howl; it sounded like someone being tortured under Cruciatus. Harry, reminded of the nightmare, bit his lip. That really was a bad one. I wonder - did Malfoy dream that, too? I wonder if he's okay...

He was out of bed and shrugging on his dressing-gown before he even thought about it. As he shoved his feet into his slippers and pulled his Invisibility Cloak out of his trunk, Harry paused. Am I really doing this? Helping Malfoy? It seemed unreal. But Dumbledore had said... And after all, Harry couldn't let anyone suffer these kinds of nightmares without at least trying to help. Even Malfoy.

As he let himself silently out of Gryffindor Tower, half of Harry's mind seemed intent on finding reasons why this was a bad idea. He won't thank you for this. And you don't even know if the password's still the same, it's been weeks. And it might not even be necessary - he might be fine. Harry tried to ignore the incessant little voice, tried instead to concentrate on where he was going so that he could avoid Filch and Mrs Norris and anyone else who might be prowling the draughty corridors at this hour.

In contrast to the last time Harry had walked in the night to the Slytherin dungeons, the hallways now were black as pitch and chill with it. Occasional wailing moans drifted to his ears, making him shiver, but he couldn't tell if they were caused by the wind outside or by the castle's ghostly inhabitants. Occasionally a splintering crackle of lightning flashed across the sky while Harry was creeping along beneath a window; the resultant flashes of silvery light illuminated a bruised sky and sheeting rain, and made him start a little as the afterimages ghosted across his vision. Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak more securely about himself, pushed his glasses absently up his nose, and continued on his silent way.

Down in the dungeons, the sound of the storm was reduced to a distant moan and grumble; even the air around him felt still and insulated. Once Harry paused, doubts running through him like water, and almost gave up and turned back. But - Dumbledore had as good as told him that Malfoy was important. And while Harry might not understand the reasons, he did trust the Headmaster. So he continued on, down into the depths of the castle where he rarely ventured.

The full import of what he was actually doing didn't occur to him until he was standing outside the Slytherin entrance, staring nervously at the blank stretch of wall. If anyone caught him at this, he would be in so much trouble - if there was anyone in the Slytherin common room... It might be long past midnight, but these were Slytherins after all, and who knew what sorts of habits they might have. Well, Harry supposed there was nothing else for it.

"Dragon's Blood," he muttered, expecting and almost hoping that the blank stone wall would remain featureless and impervious. But it wasn't to be; with an almost inaudible creak a section of the wall detached itself and swung open like a door. Clutching his Cloak about him, Harry stepped through into alien territory.

The Slytherin common room was dark and empty, illuminated only by the embers of the fire on the hearth and a single lamp that flickered on the far wall. It was barely enough light to see by; Harry almost tripped more than once as he scurried quickly across the open space to the door at the far end, the door that Malfoy had taken him through before. It creaked viciously as he opened it, and Harry winced, feeling automatically for his wand in his pocket. He wished he dared cast a Silencing Charm, but it was better just to get out of here quickly. He would remember on the way back - always assuming that Malfoy didn't summarily murder him, of course.

Harry crept up the dished stone steps as quietly as he could; now, more than ever, there was the chance that someone would hear him, that he would wake someone or run into one of the Slytherins on the way back from the bathroom. Harry didn't really want to think about the consequences of that.

Outside Malfoy's door, he paused again, irresolute and warring with himself. Was this really necessary, the little voice in his head asked him. He could simply turn around and go back up to Gryffindor Tower and his own room, and no one would ever be the wiser. He didn't belong here. To shut the voice up, Harry pushed open the heavy door and slipped invisibly inside the room.

Almost immediately he realised that he had been right, and right to come here. From out of the darkness Malfoy's voice reached him, whispering a pain-filled litany of horror. "No - no, please - I can't, I can't, help me..." Harry pulled out his wand and conjured a light, shrugging the Cloak back off his shoulders. Malfoy was flat on his back on his bed, arms and legs tangled in the bedclothes and thrashing about, eyes tight shut and wearing an expression of terror and resignation.

Now that he could actually see for himself that Malfoy really was having the nightmares too, Harry found that all his doubts shrivelled, seeming somehow petty and insignificant. Hatred and enmity and confusion aside, he couldn't leave anyone to anything like this. Swiftly he crossed to the bed, and, kneeling on the edge of the mattress, took hold of Malfoy's thin shoulders. He's so cold, Harry thought sadly.

"Malfoy!" he hissed as loudly as he dared, shaking the shuddering form of the Slytherin boy. "Malfoy, wake up!"