Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling, not me.
Courting chaos, chapter one.
Seeing shades of grey sucked. In fact, being sound of mind or having morals was just a waste of time…
Author's note: This is not an action-filled story brimming with romance; it is simply a story about the sacrifices behind every achievement. This is also a story about how each little step towards that goal can leave a bitter aftertaste. I can't thank my beta reader enough; the story flows much more smoothly and is easier to understand after she's gone through it. Enjoy!
Imagine a world where life has just gotten a little harder, a little bleaker. Never fear, hope still reigns supreme but faith is getting harder to come by; that is what happens when the shadow of war slowly creeps upon you and covers you from head to toe. Living in the shadow makes life seem so precious, and so hard to enjoy.
A vision of an easy fight with a clear ending was abandoned early by everyone, dark and light, alike but this silent fight with small victories and too costly losses was not expected.
Looking over your shoulder got old fast, but somehow you never got tired of staying alive.
Why would they always assume that he didn't - or couldn't - love or care? Did they entertain some kind of notion that if you killed people, tortured them, you had no right to something that wonderful; that his capacity for love was slowly drained away each time he took another life? It wouldn't surprise him if they thought exactly that. Bloody fools. It always amazed him that the rules that would apply to him didn't cover them, for the grand reason that they were "good."
He wasn't two separate persons. Wherever he was, whatever he did, he was always himself. Some things needed to be done and some things he took pride in.
He was deep in a dark forest with no light and liked it that way. He used to crave guidance or at least a purpose, but would it help? He was well and truly lost and had started to enjoy himself too much to ever go back. Safely paved roads were long gone now.
Whatever people thought, he did realize that sanity was not something you could put away in a box and just use occasionally. When you left it behind by the side of the road like a wounded animal you would be hard pressed to take it back. Honestly, did he look like a man who wanted a squashed badger inside his head?
Draco Malfoy did not think sanity was overrated; it simply wasn't necessary. He knew the way around his own mind, thank you very much. Admitting to losing his way from time to time was not the same thing as saying that he didn't know where he was.
It all ended up as shades of grey anyhow.
Though sometimes, to his own chagrin, he followed a beacon of light; like a moth to the flame, always miscalculating and getting burnt. Since painful and burning consequences always were to be avoided, who could blame him for wanting to tarnish the light a little? Tarnished objects always did hold a little more appeal for him.
Why was it always grey and dark when they held these conversations? Would it be better if birds were singing and the sun were shining, or would it make it all absurd to the point where she would try to maim the closest person just to make everything less cheery? Well, no matter what, it was dark and crowded and she could live with it. Living with herself was becoming more of a problem, though, and this conversation held during the planning of one of the next raids was decidedly not going to help.
"I know what you think, and what you feel about it, Harry, but it is saving lives," she said and looked beseechingly at him.
"And takes them too! He leaves a trail of dead muggles behind him wherever he goes!" Harry answered her.
"He would do it anyway, why not get something that might help us in the process?"
"Please tell me you didn't mean that? You want us to deal with the devil and pay with someone else's blood?" Harry looked disgusted and sad.
Why couldn't he understand? She was not going to allow him to put all the responsibility on her shoulders anymore. She got the information he wanted, he used it well and he always pretended that he didn't know where it came from. What price she paid to get it.
"I pay with pieces of my fucking soul, Harry Potter! I need you to admit that and stop me from going crazy!" She breathed deeply and told herself that she would not storm off before hearing at least one half-decent answer this time.
"I can't weigh lives, Hermione," he told her. He sounded old and sad.
"But seemingly I can, and should, for your sake? It's a newly acquired skill but it is being honed into perfection, Harry. I will trade your life for a stranger's, even ten strangers', simply because you are Harry and they are just that, strangers. "
He could do sad all he wanted, because she could do righteous indignation until the world ended. She could do it, at least, until her world ended, something that didn't seem all too unlikely these days.
When she looked at Harry again he seemed… compassionate. She wasn't going to take it.
"Don't you even dare ask me how I'm going to live with myself later on," she practically snarled at him. "Ginny already tried and she didn't appreciate the answer. I doubt you will, either."
There was no decent answer forthcoming and that was her cue for a dramatic exit, or maybe a strategic retreat. She considered giving the audience a bow but left it at a rude hand gesture.
She thought about going to her room but decided that her lack of morals probably wouldn't show as much in the library. Maybe she could hide behind one of the old Black genealogies or a large firewhiskey. She knew Ron had a small stash somewhere.
He tried leaving her with impossible choices and always made her sacrifice something; he gave her good information in return, the very best, but making her hurt became a hobby.
When he first started he could catch her looking upset, sad, and even nauseous, but she had been getting a lot better at hiding her feelings lately. Disdain and indifference had replaced her earlier range of emotions.
No matter how jaded you think you have become there is always a little innocence left hiding in a corner. Making her choose who lived and who died killed something precious in her and it was sweet to watch.
Even with four large whiskies inside, the world did not feel like a better place. Actually, it felt decidedly worse. She couldn't become all emotional over her decisions because, frankly, that would end badly. In the beginning she tried avoidance and denial, but they never did work like they were supposed to for her. Having a heart-to-heart discussion about her decisions probably wasn't the brightest idea either. She could see the end of that conversation and it came abruptly. Boys, the prettiest dresses, unrequited love and muggle massacres condoned by her. Probably Bellatrix Lestrange's kind of conversation only with slightly less blood in it.
If she had thought it would help she would have lodged a complaint against the fates, but as a strict believer in logic and dealing with the consequences of one's actions she realized that they were never going to listen to her.
So she sat still in front of the fire waiting for the meeting to end. Ron would find her and most likely sober her up. After a moment filled with more morbid thoughts she looked at her glass, looked at the bottle standing on the small oak table by her armchair, and decided that oblivion could come faster and taste decidedly better than this. Ron could find her later on.
Blood wasn't just blood. He knew for a fact that his was more valuable than others'. He figured out early on that proof didn't matter; if he knew it, if he could feel it, it had to be true.
So having someone save him, save his blood was more than gratifying, it was right. Not, on the whole, a good thing, and best paid in kind with a blood debt, a life debt. Whatever, truly whatever it took, he would fulfill it. That is what made him, well, him. Draco Malfoy. Better than others.
So if you mix blood, respect and a grudging love, what do you get: a reason to live, a reason for revenge and a hell of a lot of sorrow.
It didn't make him stable and it definitely didn't make him kind or likeable. Well, he could always be thankful for the small things. Not that he cared for small things. No, big, clever and grandiose things were always better.
He had a new idea and now he just needed information and leverage. All of it revolved around her, like so much did these days. So he would push, pull and bend her until she broke. Granger never caved under pressure, but if he applied that pressure for long enough and then took it away, then she would break. A broken Granger would mean a free Malfoy. A bargain, really, when you looked at it.