Of Choices and Regrets

Draco's feet slammed into the ground and he stumbled forward before collapsing to his knees. He blocked his mind of all thoughts and feelings. They were not welcome here. He felt movement around him and he looked up. About a dozen Death Eaters were staring at him, including his mother and his aunt. Past the crowd of black masks and robes he saw a figure that chilled his blood and made him want to run. Voldemort sat calmly on his thrown looking down at Draco. As silent and still as the Dark Lord was, Draco knew that he could strike at any moment, like the snakes he loved so much. The face was the stuff of children's nightmares, and the expression was the stuff of an adult's.

Snape dragged him to his feet and pulled him up to the Dark Lord's platform and fell to his knees. Draco did the same, and bowed his head so that he didn't have to look at the blazing red eyes.

"Tell me, Severus," the Dark Lord hissed. "Was it not Draco's job to kill Dumbledore? Yet Fenrir informed me that you were the one that did the deed. Surely you understand my... displeasure."

A shudder ran through Draco's cold body, yet Snape calmly answered, "The boy was unable to go through with the murder. He instead led us up to Dumbledore and, after disarming him, stepped aside for someone else to finish him off. I told you he was not ready, my lord. He is too green to be able to turn red with blood. He has led a sheltered life. But I do not think he is a lost cause. Give him another year, one away from his little friends. He will brown with time, and will then be able to carry the red. He will learn, or die trying."

Voldemort squinted suspiciously at Snape for a long moment. Draco felt bile rise in his throat, but he pushed it back down. He couldn't vomit here in the Dark Lord's presence. His hands clutched each other in a desperate attempt to control himself. He held on like they were his last line to reality, to life, and to happiness. He couldn't let go for fear of losing himself. His fingers were going numb, but he didn't care. He was past caring. Draco looked up when he heard movement. Voldemort nodded at Snape.

"Yes..." he hissed, "the boy will make a good Death Eater. He has potential, but he is young. I was a fool to think he would overcome his age. Planning is his strong suit, I understand that. Yet, he cannot follow orders if he cannot inflict pain on others. And I was a fool for thinking that he could do that without feeling pain himself. The boy must learn, or his actions with lead to my... discontentment. Maybe even to the point where the only way to redeem himself is to die." Voldemort paused, looking down at the quivering mass before him. "Rise Draco." Doing as he was told, Draco's eyes never left the ground. His hands were still clutched together, though it only looked like he was paying respect to Voldemort, and his breath was ragged and forced. Draco's tongue was pressed painfully into the roof of his mouth to keep him from vomiting.

"Crucio!"

Draco fell, daggers cutting him, pain enveloping him. It lasted for an eternity, with nothing but the stings. He screamed, but he couldn't hear anything and his throat went raw. He was lost in a world of pain.

Draco woke and wrenched the covers off of him. He ran through the dark hall, through the silent rooms. He ran past the emotionless paintings, past the cold statues, past the dark décor.

Draco ran, not caring about anything. He didn't care that he didn't have shoes, or that he only wore pajama bottoms. He didn't care that it was just now dawning, and he should have been in bed like everyone else. He didn't care that his muscles were protesting and that it was hard to breath. When he wrenched the door open, he didn't care that he wasn't allowed to leave the Manor. When he stumbled through the forest, he didn't care that his foot had begun to bleed and the stiff twigs and sharp grasses had lacerated his legs. When he fell onto the jagged rocks, he didn't care that he was bruised and cut.

He ran until he couldn't run anymore. Draco ran to get away from his prison, to get away from his nightmare, to get away from his worries. Draco ran to get away from his life.

He fell on some rocks near a gentle stream on the edge of a clearing. He lay there, not wanting to move, not wanting to feel. For an hour, he didn't move. The rocks pressed uncomfortably into his soft flesh, but he didn't move.

Eventually, he sat up and leaned against a strong oak tree. He rested his head back and hugged his legs up to his chest. He stared straight ahead, yet didn't see anything. He looked inside himself instead.

Why had this happened to him? Why was he plagued with nightmares? If blood was everything, then why was he, the pureblood, so unhappy when Granger, the mudblood, was so happy? Why was she so much better than him at everything? And why was his life so different from the Weasleys? They were supposed to be traitors, yet they had a much better life than his family. They were poor, but so very happy. Maybe blood and money wasn't everything.

Draco didn't move that day, yet his perceptions changed. Lord Voldemort wasn't right. Although he hated it, Draco knew that Potter was correct. People deserved to live, and they were worth something. Blood wasn't everything.

Only when it started to get dark did Draco notice the time. He should get back to the house before anyone thought to look for him. Not that they would be worried enough to come looking for him.

He slowly picked himself up, his muscles protesting every movement. The bottom of his foot was caked in mud and dried blood, and his legs had a plethora of bruises and razor-thin cuts. There was a patch of raw skin on his cheek from the rocks. His pajamas were ripped and caked in dried mud.

He slowly walked back to the dark manor that crouched on the edge of the forest. He slid into the house and silently made his way up to his room. He took a shower and bandaged his foot before dressing and going downstairs.

His mother was finishing her meal when Draco walked in.

"Oh, dear! The House-Elf told me you felt ill and wouldn't be coming to dinner. Are you feeling better now?" she said, faking a caring voice.

"Yes, mother. I feel much better," he said.

As he sat down, he realized that he wasn't lying to her for once. The house elf brought him his first course, and Draco found that he was quite famished. As Draco picked up his fork, his mother put hers down and left him to eat alone.