Choices

Chapter Seven - Bliss

Steady as it comes

Right down to you

I've said it all

So maybe we're a bliss of another kind...

~Tori Amos, Bliss

...darkness swallowed him, consumed him utterly, scourged him like knives, like whips until he thought his skin must be flayed from his bones, and always there, always high and mocking and amused in the background, that cold, cruel laughter... "Malfoy! Malfoy, wake up!"

Draco slammed into awareness with almost painful force; stared up bewildered at the concerned face and messy hair and ridiculous glasses of Harry Potter above him. Then the full impact of the nightmare rolled over him again, and suddenly he couldn't control his body, couldn't control anything as shaking spasms ripped through him and he doubled up around the gnawing ache in his chest.

Suddenly, warm arms were around him, holding him firmly, bracing him like a rock against the tremors that shook through him, and all Draco could do was hang on to Potter and refuse to acknowledge the burning in his eyes. It seemed to take forever for the shaking to stop; much longer than it had last time, and Draco realised that tonight's dream had been worse than usual. Even after the shivering stopped, it took him a while to gather himself together enough to push away from Potter; he felt utterly drained, and dangerously close to the edge of whatever control remained to him.

Eventually, Draco composed himself enough to ask, "What are you doing down here, Potter?" Stumbling across him out in the hallways was one thing, and Draco's own fault, but actually coming down here, into the heart of Slytherin territory? Potter had obviously meant to find him. And what that said about his motives - Draco narrowed his eyes. How much did he know?

Potter sighed, refusing to meet his eyes, and played absently with the silvery folds of his Invisibility Cloak that was draped over his arm. "I wanted to make sure you were all right."

There was very little Draco could say to that without either lying or revealing more than he wanted to. Eventually, he settled on "How did you know I wasn't?"

Potter pushed his glasses up his nose and regarded Draco earnestly - that typically Gryffindor expression that usually made him faintly sick to look at. "It's the nightmares - I have them too, Dumbledore says it's sort of like leftovers from Voldemort, and we seemed - are you OK?"

Draco moved deliberately away from the hand that Potter seemed to have involuntarily reached out towards him, cursing himself for flinching at something so stupid as a name. "I'm fine."

"Right - well, it seemed like we were having them at the same time, and you've been looking really awful lately, so when I woke up tonight I decided to come and see if you were all right." Harry stifled a yawn with the back of his hand, and Draco frowned at him.

"Well, I'm fine. There was no need for you to come down here - in fact, you shouldn't have."

"Malfoy - I know you don't like me, but I think you need help." There was that earnest expression again, and Draco would have made a snide comment about dislike being an understatement except for the fact that he couldn't think past the words that had followed it.

Need help? Need his help, he means, stupid Gryffindor. Always having to play the hero. I don't need your damned condescending help... "I don't need help from anyone, Potter, and especially not you."

Potter regarded him contemplatively for a moment. "I think you do, Malfoy. I know."

Shit. Shit hell damn, please don't let him know everything, I'll die of shame... "Oh? Exactly what do you think you know, Potter?" Draco had never been more glad of his Malfoy upbringing, which allowed him to sneer without even having to think about it.

"I know you're having nightmares about Voldemort - like I do," Harry added, something in his face causing Draco to wonder exactly why the noble, shining idiot had tried to kiss up to him and play nicely the other week. "Which means you must have met him at some point, and since you weren't like this," he gestured at Draco, who pulled the blankets up to his chest in an automatic reaction, then swore silently at himself for getting defensive, "last year, then it must have been this summer. And then there was that dream I had..."

"What dream?" Draco demanded peremptorily, only mildly reassured that Potter didn't seem to have any kind of key to his fear and shame and indecision.

"That one where - well, I was you, and I was in a dungeon..."

"Dreaming you're me? My, how quaint, Potter, though not entirely unexpected."

Harry glared at him. "Look, will you shut up for a minute and let me tell this? I - you were in a dungeon, and your father was there, and then he summoned Voldemort, and Voldemort looked at you and said you looked like a Malfoy, and you were terrified, and then he touched you and the pain in my scar woke me up."

Draco simply stared at him for long moments. "You - you dreamed that?" he finally croaked, wishing the ground would swallow him up and never spit him out.

"Yeah - and I know it was a real dream, because those are the only ones where my scar hurts any more."

I'm not admitting it, was all that Draco could think. He would not let Potter get the advantage over him this way, would not submit himself to the idiot and his bunch of do-gooders to be helped as if he was a child or an incompetent. "And what makes you think that this is in any way your business?" His voice was icy, another benefit of growing up a Malfoy heir.

Harry gaped at him. "You - you need, well, help, you can't go on like this..." he trailed off, confused and clutching at his Cloak and wand.

"I'm perfectly capable of managing my own life, thank you very much," Draco informed him haughtily. "Go away, Potter. I don't need your help, and I never will."

Still, Potter sat there on the edge of his bed for several moments until Draco looked pointedly from him to the door. He paused, once, on the way out, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Draco repeated "go away, Potter," sharply, and eventually the Gryffindor left, Cloak swirling ridiculously about him in the doorway and muddling Draco's eyes for a moment.

Like I'd ever want his help, Draco scoffed to himself, lying back down in the darkness. He was a Malfoy, after all - he didn't need to accept help from anyone. He could manage on his own, and he would. Goody-goody Potter and his bloody altruism. Well, I don't need him.

Draco turned over, restless yet aching with exhaustion, waiting for sleep to claim him again. How Potter could ever have thought he would give in on this, let them tut over him and shake their heads and make him into another little golden boy... Let them pity him. He had some pride after all, even if it wasn't enough... It's never enough. Draco stared fiercely into the darkness, daring it to consume him. Enough of a Malfoy to refuse assistance, but not enough to do what I ought. Always a disappointment...

Could he, in honesty, put this shame behind him and join his father and Voldemort's cause? Even knowing that he would never be more than a pawn in the Dark Lord's subtle games, to be sacrificed at will without regret? Draco forced down the bitter laugh that rose in his chest. What other options did he have? It was no choice at all; either way he would be forced to his knees, to crawl to Voldemort or to Potter and his shining noble bunch of do-gooders. One or the other, and there was no salvation for his pride, no retention of dignity either way.

I know what I ought to do, Draco thought, but I cannot do it. Potter thinks he can help this, understand this? When has he ever had any kind of conflict between his feelings and his loyalties? He knows nothing. He could feel sleep overtaking him, though he struggled against it in terrified instinct, hating even the idea of losing his hard-won control. It was no use, though; he was falling. And rushing up to meet him, inevitable as the tides, the nightmare darkness.

***

Harry supposed that he shouldn't really be surprised that Malfoy had rejected his offer. In all honesty, he would probably have done the same. Neither of them had any reason to trust the other, after all, and plenty of reason for distrust. Still, it was a blow. Harry had told Malfoy things tonight that even Ron didn't know about, and to have that confidence shrugged off was strangely painful.

He does need help. Even if he won't admit it, he does. Harry tucked his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, no longer even remotely sleepy. I can wake myself out of the dreams, but he doesn't seem to be able to... It was the reason, he knew now, that Malfoy was so pale and drawn all the time this term. Still, there seemed to be something more there, something bothering him beyond the nightmares, something that preoccupied him to the extent that he tripped over flagstones in the corridors and did uncharacteristically badly in classes. And what that was, Harry had no idea.

The nightmares are bad enough, anyway. I wish he'd let me help him - at the least I could wake him up out of them, and there must be some way to stop them altogether; Hermione would know. If he carries on like this he's going to end up getting really ill. It was strange - the idea of Malfoy becoming ill, even through his own stubborn stupidity, wouldn't normally have bothered Harry all that much. But the shared dreams - and even more, the fact that Malfoy had come so recently to the nightmares that Harry had lived with for years - made him feel like he was in some way responsible for the Slytherin boy. Hermione would have called that illogical, among other things.

Dumbledore as good as said he was important, Harry reminded himself. So even if he wanted to, he couldn't just leave it like this. He had to find some way of at least finding out what side Malfoy was on, even if Draco wouldn't let him help with the nightmares. He can't be on Voldemort's side, can he? After this, these kinds of nightmares? How could anyone be?

Worry about what to do next gnawed at Harry's mind. He had acted on instinct tonight, and it hadn't got him anywhere. Well, unless you count cutting one of Malfoy's dreams a little shorter, anyway. Somehow, he would have to persuade the proud, stubborn Slytherin boy to accept help from him. Or if not him, then Dumbledore and the teachers. But Harry had no idea how he was going to go about this.

He glanced out of the window; sometime while he had been in the Slytherin dungeons the storm had moved off, and now in the thin light of early dawn the sky was a clear pale grey. Harry sighed, realising that there was little point in going back to bed; it wouldn't be all that long until breakfast. And after breakfast, there was double Potions - perhaps he could try and talk some sense into Malfoy then, seeing as he would be working with the boy. In any case, there was nothing to be gained by letting this problem stew. Shivering a little in the morning chill, Harry began to pull on his clothing.

***

Shaking, Draco sat back on his heels and wiped at his mouth weakly. The nightmares after Harry had left had been particularly vicious, as if to make up for their earlier interruption. He had woken sick and screaming, flailing at an invisible foe, and had immediately bolted out to the bathroom to heave up the contents of his stomach.

It just got worse and worse. And there was nothing Draco could do about it; he had gone around and around the whole twisted thing in his head for weeks and it didn't help, it didn't get better, it got worse. Thinking about it only made him more conscious of the shame that writhed inside him, the fear that gnawed at his guts.

I have to go to breakfast. Shakily, Draco pushed himself to his feet, turning on the cold tap in the sink. Potter already knows too much; I can't let him think I'm weak. He scrubbed at his face viciously with the cloth, trying to erase all signs of his own helplessness. I am strong. No, he couldn't let Harry see him as weak, even if he had never felt less strong in his life.

By the time he had dressed and made his way out of the dungeons, Draco's hands had stopped shaking. Not that it made much difference; he could feel Potter's eyes on him the minute he entered the Hall, and the sensation of spiders crawling across the back of his neck didn't let up for a moment as he poured himself some coffee and tried to choke it down. Draco set his teeth and refused to look up. He would not acknowledge the other boy in any way, would not let Potter get any kind of advantage over him.

It was strangely difficult, harder than Draco would have ever expected not to simply glance across the room and lock eyes with Harry. It felt almost as if Harry's eyes on him were trying to compel him to raise his head, to meet Potter's challenge, prove himself self-sufficient. Undercurrents of fear swirled through Draco's stomach, and he almost gagged on his coffee, swiftly pushing the mug aside and reaching instead for the water jug. It trembled slightly in his hand, and he watched with a sense of surreal unreality as rippling waves swam across the liquid's surface, running back and forth against each other. Harry's eyes on him felt like an intolerable pressure; there was nothing Draco wanted more than to give up, give in and look back, but he knew that he couldn't. He had fallen so far already...

***

He had forgotten that the first lesson of the day was double Potions. With the Gryffindors. In which he was currently partnered with Harry Potter. This realisation only occurred to him after Draco's feet had carried him on his automatic path into the dungeon classroom and to his seat. After a moment, he heard the chair beside him scrape back, and hastily engrossed himself in a study of the tabletop. I don't need help, his mind was clamouring, loud above the roil of his subconscious. I don't need you, leave me alone.

Avoiding Harry's incessant gaze, Draco fixed his own eyes on the blackboard at the front of the room and tried to listen to what Professor Partis was saying. The instructions he appeared to be giving were for a Candelus Potion, which would cause the drinker to glow with a light that could be transferred to anything he touched. It was immensely complicated; Draco had learned the theory over the summer, before... before.

A shudder swept over him; beside him, Draco felt rather than saw Harry shift in his chair. He gritted his teeth and willed his body to stillness, tried to discipline his mind to react to his will, not the weakness of his emotions. Before him, the substitute teacher had just announced (with a glower as he read from Snape's notes) that they would be testing their completed potions on themselves.

Blindly, Draco got out his cauldron and began preparing ingredients. Most of this he could have done in his sleep anyway; it took no mental effort at all to chop tansy and rue, stew mugwort root into paste, or shake powdered aconite into the solution. Most of Draco's mind was occupied with the nagging sensation of Harry's presence beside him, a constant reminder of things he would rather forget, of the price of weakness and the inevitability of betrayal. You say you want to help me, a little voice whispered in the back of his head, but how can I trust you?

He let out a soundless, mirthless snort of withheld breath. Right now, he couldn't even trust himself; it was a bitter, gnawing irony. Mechanically, Draco added exactly five beetle eyes to the simmering potion in his cauldron, and stirred it twice widdershins, still feeling the prickling heat of Potter's gaze. Damn you, leave - me - alone! He tipped oil of cucumbers into the mixture, waited for the blue flash and then added bat liver and Diricawl ashes.

Normally, Draco quite liked Potions; it was both his best and his favourite subject. But his marks had been dropping off recently; concentration and precision had been slipping through his fingers like so much water. And without Professor Snape, it felt strangely empty in the dungeon classroom, empty and pointless.

Wondering exactly what Snape was doing now, Draco stirred his potion with a ladle, then dipped up a cupful. Is he with Voldemort? What are they doing? Does my father know, is he there too? Bitterly, Draco supposed that whatever it was, he would find out when news of the murders got into the Daily Prophet. I always thought my father was worthy of respect - but which of us has changed? Squeezing his eyes shut against the shame of it all, Draco lifted the beaker of potion to his lips.

A hand clamped like a vice around his wrist, forcing his arm back down. Startled, Draco's eyes flew open and he looked straight into Potter's concerned, exasperated face. "Malfoy, you idiot, don't drink that! You never added the juniper oil, God only knows what it would do to you." Draco blinked at him, then looked down at the potion in his beaker. It was thin and grey, where it should have been clear and viscous. If he had drunk that - he had no idea what could have happened to him. At best, nothing; at worst, he could have been killed. Enough of the ingredients were poisonous that he very probably would have been.

Draco was seized with a wild, pain-filled desire to drink the potion anyway, choke down the disgusting stuff and let it do what it would to him. It was a hollow desire though; he knew that he would never actually do it. If he couldn't summon the courage to face Voldemort, then death was far beyond him. He stared down at the runny grey stuff, watching as his fingers twitched around the beaker, Potter's hand still wrapped almost painfully hard around his wrist.

"Thanks," Draco managed to croak at last, swamped by the bitter emotions that seemed to swirl about him so tangibly that he was surprised that Potter couldn't see them. Perhaps Harry could; he gave Draco a measuring look and then nodded, letting him go. For an instant, as he hastily corrected his mistake with the Potion, Draco almost thought that Harry was going to speak again, repeat his offer of last night, but silence was all that his ears received.

I almost killed myself. He couldn't seem to stop thinking about it. I almost killed myself by accident, because of this. God, I wish none of this had ever happened to me. I wish Voldemort had stayed dead. Draco knew such wishing was as futile as wishing he had never been born a Malfoy; he had been doing more of that recently than he had ever expected to. I want this over, but there's nothing I can do? What can I do?

He knew, of course, but he had refused that option already and he doubted it would be offered again. What's wrong with me? Why can't I manage this myself, why can't I rely on myself like everyone else seems to be able to? I ought to do this on my own. I ought to be able to do this on me own, why can't I? Knowledge of his own flawed weakness cut like a knife, but more painful still was the realisation that there was only one course of action left. He would have to do it, before he managed to kill or maim himself for real this time. He would have to beg.

"Potter?" His voice was low, and Draco could feel the trembling in it even if it wasn't audible.

"Malfoy?" The response was immediate and neutral. Well, at least it wasn't outright hatred, although Draco could have dealt much more easily with that.

Draco swallowed, forcing back pride and shame and paralysing weakness. "Will you meet me tonight? After dinner?"

"I've got Defence Against the Dark Arts," Potter muttered out of the corner of his mouth, and Draco's heart sank. "I can't get away until ten."

"At ten, then? There's an old store-room under the North Tower stairwell; the door's under a tapestry of nuns. Will you meet me there? I - I need to talk to you." When Harry was silent, Draco all but slumped to the table. "Please?" he whispered, utterly humiliated at being reduced to this.

Potter was quiet for long moments. "All right," he whispered at last, and Draco got the feeling that this was against his better judgement as well.

***

Draco had been waiting in the tiny, windowless room for almost a quarter of an hour when Harry finally showed up; as the minutes had ticked by and no one had appeared, he had felt the gradual loss of hope congealing into thick despair. Misery overcoming him, he had sat there on the empty chest, head on his knees and one hand holding his wand. The opening of the door made him start; shadows writhed across the walls as his hand moved, the light from his wand tip flickering.

"Malfoy?" Harry's face was puzzled. "I'm sorry I'm late; Professor Lupin wanted to talk to me after class." It figured, Draco thought sourly. Harry Potter, golden boy, adored by students and teachers alike.

Draco sat up, settling his feet back on the floor as Potter stood there looking uncomfortable. He could imagine what he must have looked like, tucked up in a little ball in the corner, and it wasn't an image he cared to present.

"Well," Harry said after a short, nagging silence. "Why did you want to see me?"

Draco winced. Straight to the point, like always. I really don't want to do this. Gritting his teeth and fully prepared to be laughed at, he looked down at his hands, resting atop his knees with fingers tightly interlaced. "You were right." And, oh, how much those words cost him to actually say out loud. From the expression on Harry's face, it was a novel experience for him too. "I do need help. Will... you help me?"

Saying the words out loud was every bit as difficult as he had feared, and as painful. Something flickered and flared in the back of his mind, feeding on the shame of this, the fear that exposing himself in this way would only lead to wounding. There was something else, though, something new and almost liberating, as though by having placed this problem in Harry's lap he had in some way lightened his own burden. Draco didn't understand it.

Harry was silent for a long moment, eyes thoughtful. Draco controlled a sudden urge to reach out and grab hold of something, anything to steady himself. If Harry turned him down, refused to help him - he would be right back where he started, would have exposed his weakness for nothing. He felt brittle, as though Harry's response could break him, splinter him into a thousand pieces, and rationally, Draco knew that this was his last chance. Beyond this point - there was no hope that he could be saved.

"Why did you change your mind?" Harry asked finally, and Draco realised that he wouldn't be getting off this easily; he was going to have to explain the whole thing. For a moment, he was honestly unsure whether he had the strength.

"I - I realised I can't do this on my own," he finally admitted, every word wrung from him in bitter humiliation. "The nightmares - they're too strong, I can't fight this. What I said last night... I'm sorry. I... was too proud to admit it." And I still am, but at this point I have no other choice.

"Oh." Harry seemed to digest this, staring at Draco with a slightly vacant expression. The sight of those green eyes fixed on his own yet somehow elsewhere was rather unnerving, and Draco fidgeted a little, feeling like a child and hating it. Why was it that Harry Potter always seemed to bring out in him everything that he didn't want to feel?

"All right." The words took Draco by surprise, and as Harry continued he felt his stomach drop through his feet as if he had hit an air current on his broom. "But I have to be able to trust you, Malfoy. You have to tell me everything - why you're having nightmares, what you plan to do about the whole - well, Voldemort. You have to tell me."

Draco closed his eyes, realising that he should have expected Harry to put conditions on his help. Wasn't it just like a Gryffindor to try and pull everyone to his side, to insist that his way was right? And what other choice did he have but to acquiesce, to bare his soul to this annoying, messy-haired boy who stood before him? "All right," he echoed wearily. But I'm not telling him anything I don't have to. I suppose I'm going to be forced to trust him, but... no. "Sit down, Potter." Draco shifted sideways on the chest, making room, and after a moment Harry sat down beside him. There was a space of several inches between them, but it was still probably the closest Draco had ever voluntarily been to Potter without a fight starting. It felt strange.

"You got most of it right," he began quietly. "My father..."

"I know he's a Death Eater," Harry interrupted, and Draco waved him quiet.

"Yes, and he wants me to join up too." The words were infused with a vicious bite of self-loathing, and Draco made an effort to calm himself, to speak dispassionately. "Over the summer, he - he summoned Voldemort to the Manor to look me over," and even now, the memory made him shiver uncontrollably. "I'd always thought I'd be happy to enter his service, but - God, I was terrified of him. I managed to fob him off without making any promises, but I'm sure he saw right through me. It was horrible - when he'd left I was so sick I almost passed out." Draco shrugged, striving to appear unconcerned and knowing that he was failing horribly. "Ever since then, I've had the nightmares. My father - he still wants me to be a Death Eater, he doesn't know about this." And I will not tell you about the other thing, the shame and the weakness and the choice I can't make. I've told you too much already.

After a moment, Draco felt Harry's hand come down tentatively on his shoulder. He knew he should bite the boy's head off for presuming to touch him, to attempt to comfort him as though Draco was one of his friends. But he didn't dare - this agreement was too new, too fragile; he couldn't run the risk of sending Potter off in a huff. And besides, in a strange, wordless kind of way, it was comforting. Almost peaceful. "So what are you going to do?" Harry asked, voice hushed.

Draco laughed bitterly. "I don't know."

"But - surely you aren't going to join him?" Draco wondered how he could know with such certainty that Harry was wearing his 'puzzled' expression without actually looking at him.

"I don't want to. I may have to."

"You don't have to. No one has to." Harry sounded definite, and Draco was happy to let the matter drop.

"So will you help me?"

"Yeah, I will. I know what the nightmares are like - and I remember how it was at first, before I could wake up."

Draco turned his head and frowned at him. "You can wake up? How long have you been having these anyway?"

"Two years. Ever since he came back. And I don't know how I wake up, it's just something I learned." Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, pulling his wand out of his pocket and turning it over and over between his fingers. "I'd have asked them to find some way of blocking them, or getting rid of them entirely, but sometimes I have those true ones. Like where I saw you."

"Oh." Draco digested that. "So there is some way to get rid of them?" Privately, he thought it almost too much to hope for; after weeks and months of ceaseless dreams, being without them seemed inconceivable.

"Dumbledore said there might be. I can ask Hermione to research it."

"Oh," Draco said again, wincing at the thought. "Um - can you not tell her it's for me?"

Harry frowned somewhat censoriously. "She's not that bad, you know. Just because she isn't a Pure-blood..."

"It's not that," Draco protested, although it was, in part. "She doesn't like me, and I don't want her to know about... this." It had been hard enough telling Harry.

"Oh. Sorry," Harry offered after a moment. He stretched, clambering to his feet. Draco thought, tiredly amused, that he looked gawky, almost ungainly, like a young bird. Which probably wasn't such a bad analogy, given Harry's flying abilities. "I ought to go," Harry offered after a moment. "I have homework - but if, you know, it happens tonight, I can come down and wake you..."

"Please," Draco half-whispered, ashamed to be asking anything of Harry Potter, let alone something so weirdly personal as this. What had he come to? His father - this would be the final straw; Draco knew that he was violating everything that he was, everything that he had always wanted to be in this. But there was nothing else he could do; what had his Malfoy heritage done to protect him from this?

"OK." Harry flashed him an uncertain smile, then vanished out of the door. Draco heard the tapestry swish against the stone behind him, resisting the urge to put his head in his hands and cry. This was what he had been driven to - and would it even help at all? What could Harry Potter do about the wracking dilemma that lay before him?