Of Choices and Regrets

Motherly Love-

The next day was the same as any other. After a restless night, Draco amused himself as best as he could to distract his agitated mind from wandering to the terrible events that had happened and the horror of what he would be doing in a week. At dinner that night, his mother pretended that nothing had happened. She acted like she didn't remember the visitor, or the message he brought, and she certainly didn't let on that she had broke down and cried.

After the quiet, formal dinner, Draco slowly walked up to his room. He didn't understand it; why was his mother like this? What had happened to her that she thought she had to act like this around him? He was confused at her reactions. It was like the last time he had received a mission. She had let down her barriers, she had cried, she had acted like a real mother. But then she went back to the familiar formality. She buried her emotions, and acted like she had never shown them. He had never heard her say anything motherly to him, yet she mourned when he was sentenced to impossible missions.

He slammed his door, strode over to his bookshelf, and started to wreck his room. Why was his mother like that? What had he done wrong? Why was his life so messed up? Rage welled inside of him, and he tried to release it through the things he threw. Books hit the walls, spilling open on the floor. Papers fluttered in the air as they fell toward the ground. Pillows, pens, and clothes now littered the bedroom. Draco tore open his closet and roughly emptied it of its contents. He knocked the chair down, and pushed the bedside table over. Draco let out a bloodcurdling roar, filled with his suffering and desperation.

Tears started to spill out of his eyes, and he slowly sunk to the ground. Surrounded by the things he had thrown, he sat on his cold floor and cried. The tears he had held back for so long ran unchecked down his pale face. Draco cried for his current situation, for the people who were sure to die, for the victims of the war, for the innocent lives taken, for the nightmares that plagued him, for the loss of freedom, for the burdens he was forced to bear. He cried for the way his life had become. He cried for the past, which couldn't be undone. The hot tears burned his eyes, yet relieved him of the stress and sadness he had carried with him for so long.

Draco's hands grasped at the things close to him. He grabbed a pillow and punched it. As angry has he had been, the feeling was leaving him with his tears. He smoothed the soft fabric over and over, petting it to do something. He put it on the ground and laid his head down upon it. His thumb continued to stroke it. The tears still fell unimpeded, and his eyes begun to sting. His vision was blurred from the moisture. Draco slowly began to slip into a gentle sleep. That night was the first time in a little over two months that Draco slept through the night without the terrifying nightmares.

In the morning, Draco found himself in his bed. His eyes were dry and scratchy, but overall he felt better than he had in years. The pressure that had pressed down upon him mentally was lifted. He had lived with it for so long that the light, relaxed feeling was very foreign and fresh. He stretched his stiff muscles and closed his eyes again. It felt good just to lie there.

But then his face clouded. He remembered what he was supposed to do in six days. How was he going to be able to fight? He turned over as if it would help him find the answer. Instead, another question ran through his groggy mind. How did he get here? He sat up and looked around. His room was clean, everything back in its original places, and neater than how they had been before.

He got out of bed. Draco walked to the table and picked up the heavy vase that sat there. He had thrown it at the wall, and had watched the pieces splinter and scatter. Now it was back together. He traced his fingers along the delicate web of cracks. Someone had found all the tiny pieces and meticulously glued them back together. The vase had been entirely black. The white glue gave the vase a marble stone look. It looked like the ceramic urn was made out of a dark stone with natural veins of white. Draco admired it; it looked better than before.

It reminded him of his own life. He had been whole at one point. He had been full of life, although a bit dark. His life was given to someone else, and they had destroyed him. His life had shattered when he had come upon the obstacle of killing. He was left, broken into pieces, not sure what to do. He had spilt the life inside of him. But he had hope. Like the vase, he hoped someone would come help him. He hoped that his life could be pieced back together, and that he could be whole and full again. Draco wished that he could be like the vase, where the hurt became part of him and made him better.

Draco replaced the vase and turned his attention to the books. Running his had along the smooth covers, pausing once in awhile to slide his finger down a familiar title, he remembered the contents of each book. After a moment of hesitation and a quick decision, he rapidly pulled out book after book. He pasted over the stories and spell books, and tore down all the books dealing with the dark arts. He stacked them and picked them up. With some difficulty, he was able to get down the stairs and placed them on a polished table in the library. The house elf would find where they belong. He ran his hand along the books looking for the titles he wanted. He picked out book after book on defense, charms, transfiguration, and history. He gathered these, along with a potions book, and carried the stack back up to his room. He replaced the gaping holes on his bookshelf with the new books. Satisfied with his choice, he reached for a defense book.

The day was spent pouring over the new books, learning new spells, and trying to transform his way of thinking. He didn't want to be on Lord Voldemort's side anymore. He wanted out of the dark, out of the pain, out of the fear. He wanted to make his own decisions, his own choices, and that meant leaving the Death Eaters and becoming neutral. It would take awhile, and will be very dangerous, but he had made up his mind. He couldn't live like this, if you could call it living. He couldn't be a Death Eater like everyone expected him to be. He couldn't kill, and he couldn't torture. He just wasn't cut out to do it. He couldn't join the Order either though, which meant that he would have to protect himself. First, he would learn how to do that. Then he would worry about getting out. A smile crept onto Draco's face. He was in control again.

"Crucio!"

Draco writhed in pain. He screamed, but couldn't hear anything. He tried to escape, but it only made it worse. Draco was lost in a world of suffering, with no past, no future, and no time. There was no sound, no sight, and no sensations except the pain. Every nerve in his body screamed, but he could do nothing. What seemed like ages later, he was roughly cast from that cold world and thrust back into reality. Draco was beaten mentally and physically. The pain lingered in his body, but it scarred his mind.

He stayed on the ground. He was sure that his clothes were ruined, and his sweat was mixing with the dirt. But he didn't try to get up. He was past caring about his appearance. Draco knew he didn't have the strength to get up by himself, so he didn't waste what little energy he had left.

Voldemort looked down at Draco. He sneered and hissed, "This is what happens when you don't obey me. The bigger the mistake, the bigger the punishment. Remember that, and maybe you will live to see your birthday." He paused, soaking in the pleasure of causing Draco pain. He turned to the Death Eaters behind Draco. "Take his away!"

Draco was roughly grabbed and the many hands clutching at his robes and flesh pulled him up and dragged him out of the Dark Lord's presence. When they were far enough away, they released him. Draco fell to the ground, barely catching himself. He breathed heavily, trying to regain his strength and vision without vomiting. By the time he was able to move his head to look around, the others had left him. One lone person remained. Taking off her mask, Narcissa Malfoy looked down at her only son with disgust. She pinched his arm to lift him up and pushed him against a nearby tree as though she had just touched something repulsive.

"You failed! You miserable little boy, you failed the first thing that was asked of you!" she spat the words at him with such contempt that he flinched at each powerful word she threw at him. Her arms flailed around as if she were about to explode, coming dangerously close to Draco's face. She ranted about power, pride and honor. She yelled about respect and responsibility. She told him about the trouble she had gone through to try to help him, and how it disappointed her that he would not let Snape help him, even after she, his mother, had talked Snape into it.

"You don't control your own life, just as you can't control your destiny. You can only follow and obey, which can improve you life, but it won't change it. There is nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do. Give up, Draco! There is no freedom. There never was; it's only an illusion, a pretty dream people like to think they have. You don't have any choices; choices don't exist. You will die if you try to follow anything other than the world. If you want to survive in this world, you must stop following your own mind and obey others. That is the only way! Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth, or am I talking to a brick wall, Draco?"

He hung his head and nodded. Her speech had crushed him more than Lord Voldemort's.