Choices

"Some choices we live not only once, but a thousand times over, remembering them for the rest of our lives…"

In all of the bedroom, in all of the house, in all of the contained ego of it, no one would guess it was less than sincere; less than worshiped. No one would guess it housed someone who was so sick and horrified of it that they'd almost give up anything to wipe it all away. No one would guess that person once lived up to those ideals as if they were the lifelines to which his very existence was tethered. And maybe once they were, but now they merely felt like chains dragging him down. Killing him bit by bit with every day, every meeting. No one would guess the figure sitting by the immaculate, intricately inlaid fireplace, the son of the still somewhat respected government official and Death Eater, had come to loathe every second he spent nowadays. No one would guess that person was Draco Malfoy.

As the flickering flames cascaded awkwardly over his face, the shadows lengthened and the lines furthered, a mask of the man that so many had come to know, whether they harbored requited animosity or otherwise. All of that seemed superfluous now in his opinion; if he had known then what he knew now, what he'd seen, perhaps he wouldn't have focused to hard on trying to make Potions class unbearable for his three least favorite Gryffindors. Compared to what he'd experienced recently, smirking, sneering, and jabbing caustic insults at them seemed playful banter; in opposition to the people he'd met, the trio may just as well have been his best friends. As much as the schoolboy in him hated to admit it. Vaguely, for some reason he couldn't quite determine at the moment, he wondered where they were now; what they were doing. Were they doing that mystical mission of Dumbledore's that had been rumored, passed along from various Death Eaters? Were they really trying harder than ever before to kill Voldemort? Better question being, would they succeed? He'd never let any of the Death Eaters know, not even his conflict-ridden mother, his true thoughts on his situation.

Because, while he shielded his memories and musings from the Dark Lord and any others who tried to use Legilimency on him, inwardly he came to terms with his real allegiances. In truth, he prayed every single night without fail that luck and faith and success would come to Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger. Because if they passed the brutal test…if they completed their assignment, maybe his life would be spared. He wasn't a dense, ignorant, or unintelligent human being—he knew he was on the fast track for certain death. It was only a matter of time before Voldemort realized Lucius's son was no more than a sacrificial pawn, a boy not needed. And who was Draco to fight the Darkest wizard to ever roam the planet?

He rubbed his hands over his once glowing, illuminated and pale face, making contact with his skin so vigorously it looked like he was trying to scrape away all the horrors, all the badness, all the hatred, all the horrific scenes he'd been forced to endure. But much as he tried, nothing would erase them. Nothing could sever them from his mind. Even on the rare occasion that he didn't constantly think of them throughout his conscious state, nightmares plagued his subconscious. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a real dream, a benevolent, neutral dream. No…the only supposed dreams he'd had the past two years were of death and gore, the scenarios made vividly clear to him not only from the Dark Lord as to what he'd do to traitors, but from his father. Draco's own father threatened him with death and torture if he betrayed them. It was then Draco had fully grasped the harsh reality of his fatalistic predicament. He was trapped, and he doubted even a Heaven-sent miracle could save him now. Even if Potter were to magically Apparate in and save him (why, Draco yet had to give a fake reason why in his futile imaginary rescue), Draco knew he wouldn't truly be free. He'd only be putting others in danger.

If only he'd followed Dumbledore's offer that horrible night on the Lightning-Struck tower…if only he'd allowed himself to be inducted into the Order of the Phoenix. He'd be at their mysterious headquarters now, sitting at a long, worn but still lustrous mahogany table, with people he knew well and people he knew not. He could only guess as to who was in the Order, but if he was right, then the unexpected but not entirely unwanted pang inside his heart was true as well. And the worst part of it was, he believed Dumbledore with all of his being, even if on that fateful evening it didn't seem so. If Fenrir and the Carrows hadn't interrupted, Draco was sure he'd have given in and dropped his wand. Dumbledore would have lived if it weren't for his cowardice.

And yet that same man had wanted to save Draco, was willing to save Draco's parents, who were disloyal to him in every sense of the word. He was willing to have Draco join his prestigious, surreptitious rebellion, where, he imagined, Professor Lupin; Sirius Black—here, Draco only had a guess, but it was a shrewd one, and though he'd as soon admit this as he'd admit his qualms about being here, he honestly believed the man was innocent…and now dead…another unnecessary casualty of the violence erupting all around them…he didn't know the supposed murderer, but he knew deep down there was only resistance to evil in that man's heart…a true heart, one that didn't deserve to die; Kingsley Shacklebolt—a man whom Draco's father had told him about, toned with disdain, to which it only solidified Draco's suspicions; Hagrid, whom, while Draco still held an odd, unneeded dislike of him, kind as he was; the Weasleys; and Harry and Hermione, of course.

If he had just made one right choice, one strayed choice, perhaps much of this could have been prevented. If Draco had just come to the Light side, maybe he wouldn't be in this Hell-reserved position. He wouldn't literally be counting down the days to his inevitable demise. He wouldn't be wishing he could escape, but not being able to, the least of which were the charms and hexes that bound him to wherever he was supposed to be residing. The mark on his arm, the parasitic-looking scar that signified his alleged devotion to the Dark Arts and to Voldemort—tingled painfully, and he grasped hold of it so tightly in an effort to make it disappear that his usually ivory skin turned even lighter. Well…turned to its former shade, anyway, for since he had been made part of Voldemort's ranks, his appearance had diminished vastly from the composed, serenely arrogant perhaps, but still well-together prideful self, to a weak boy with grayish-tinted skin, splayed hair that didn't even remotely resemble his previously luminescent platinum locks, and cowardice where there should have been strength.

He was disgusted with himself; he was pitiful, he even admitted that readily. It was the truth. He was a mere shadow, a mere shell, of his old self, and it was hardly deemed worthy of anything. Draco probably would have killed himself to spare that agony and torture, if it weren't for both the Dark Lord having taken everyone's wands for the time being, as they didn't "need" them unless he required leaving the mansion, and because, per Voldemort's curses, no one but he was allowed to inflict harm. It wasn't sure that Draco hadn't tried, of course, but nothing worked, not even Muggle suicide methods. A fact that, if possible, made Draco hate himself further. He was pathetic, and there was nothing at the moment that could change that.

"Draco!"

He jumped, caught up in his own thoughts so deeply that the aristocratic, drawling voice of his father surprised him. He was lucky that—well, as much luck as he was granted at the moment, anyway—the fireplace was far enough so his father couldn't see him fully, but anyone who could hear him, or even just see him, even if they were an inch from death and barely conscious would see more than the Draco that most people thought they knew. Anyone could see the weary expression on his face, his young and pointed face marred by the sudden brutality of his new life. Some may have been cut out for it, some may have not been affected by it, physically, mentally, or ethically, but Draco, for one was not that person. Hence the staggered exhaling he partook in.

Finally turning around as slow as he dared, and defiantly standing upright instead of kneeling down on the ground to meet his father's eyes, even though his body ached, had ached for some time now. At last he made eye contact with his father, forcing Lucius to stare up into his son's quicksilver eyes, Draco's own gazing at his father's dark, dank ones, Draco trying to mask his dislike, Lucius's smirking arrogance still evident. How he could be so collected, so enjoying this, Draco had no idea.

"Father," Draco said unemotionally. He had abruptly changed his façade from moments before—his formerly usual sneer and slow, mocking voice making another appearance. If only his father knew how much Draco worked to keep it up so he wouldn't be tortured…if he didn't, he most certainly would experience pain beyond belief.

"Draco, come down here immediately," Lucius ordered, his voice silkily content. Draco knew at once his father was referring to the room that so many meetings had been held, Voldemort usually presiding over them, though occasionally Bellatrix or Lucius himself. Draco hated the room. Part of the reason he hadn't ever gone in there in the entire time he lived in his house, except for when forced to.

Draco resisted the urge to sigh again, or maybe perhaps just douse the fire. Would that get his father away from him? "Yes, Father," he said reluctantly, hoping he didn't sound as resentful as he felt.

Lucius didn't seem to sense it, so Draco either figured his, Draco's, carefully crafted demeanor had worked, or Lucius was just plain ignorant and dimwitted. Draco had a feeling the last was at least true. Crafty and manipulative, yes, but stupidity made its appearance more than once, Draco hadn't failed to notice. "Do not delay," Lucius commanded. "You know the Dark Lord does not tolerate lateness."

"He's fine with whatever dear Aunt Bellatrix does," Draco mumbled, his caustic tone icy, but quiet enough that Lucius didn't notice. "And what does Vol—"

He was interrupted by Lucius making an unnatural hissing noise that Draco attributed quite plainly to a cat who had just been kicked mercilessly…or perhaps Dobby, their semi-faithful ex-House Elf. Draco willed himself not to roll his eyes at Lucius's opposition. It was a fairly recent quirk of Draco's that he'd adopted; calling Voldemort by his personally appointed name. He hadn't ventured yet to voice it to anyone but himself in interest of self-preservation, and so almost saying it to his father had been an unfortunate slipup. He owed it strictly to this whole Death Eater occupation he technically had and was forcefully coerced into, and the heavy toll it had taken upon him. His main incentive for changing Voldemort's name from "the Dark Lord" he wasn't quite sure, nor was he certain when the change came about. Something Hermione had repeated, apparently originally from Dumbledore to Harry, in a bookstore so long ago that he had no idea why or how it had been retained in his mind. Maybe for this particular problem. "Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself," she had said. He'd blown it off at the time, but now it seemed frightfully important.

In general, even now, he had trouble both realizing the witch was right, and letting go of his previous ideals and not wanting to insult her at every possible second. Not wanting to acknowledge how talented, smart, and brave she really was. She was, after all—or, at least rumors served, and h ad dared to internally hope they were correct—on the mission with Harry and Ron (although part of him admired and even respected their actions, he still refused to call them on their first names). At least he'd refrained from calling Harry "the Boy-Who-Lived-With-An-Annoying-Hero-Complex-And-Issues-With-Anger-Management", and Ron "the infamous, useless blood traitor". Hermione, he recalled, had long since lost her title of "Mudblood"; again, at what time this occurred, he couldn't be sure.

After seeing up close the actions of purebloods and paradigms from a third-party's point of view, he no longer wanted to be a part of it. Though he had followed them almost religiously for sixteen years—although even during his sixth year, he started to doubt them—the actions and cruel taunts to those deemed "less worthy" had sickened him to the core. No matter how much he had detested Hermione in the past, she was, he recognized, probably the farthest thing from deserving that savage nickname. He wasn't sure he could give up all the animosity he still harbored for some of her—full, complete, more than six years of it was too much to quickly let all of it go—but he was willing to give her the due respect and gratitude she merited. After all, she was helping to save the world. She at least needed a thank you.

His father's harsh, unforgiving voice broke through his thoughts again, something Draco was quickly beginning to abhor. "Don't call him by that, Draco!" Lucius yelled, as loud as he could without being overheard. "You're damn lucky the Taboo doesn't work when the Dark Lord is here! Do you want to be killed, son? Do you want to embarrass yourself? Our family? You'll get murdered before you can even think about what you did!"

There's the 'son' card played again, Draco thought scathingly. And about the death…the sooner the better, Father. Oh, how important I'd be if Voldemort actually killed me himself. I'm so excited.

Or, more likely, someone like his guiltless Aunt, who would kill him without a second glance, would be the one to do it. After all, she did murder brutally her own cousin, then laughed afterwards. He had to admit that he had sneered at both the man, Harry's trust and love of him, and at his death, but inside, something lit up, a revelation of sorts. He'd never known Sirius, just heard the bad things about him from his accursed family, but the mention that he was Harry's godfather, that he'd do anything to save him, made him wish he had something like that.

Because regardless of Sirius's status or opinion in his deranged family and the Death Eaters, regardless of the fairly indifferent attitude everyone thought Draco had, the thought the murder was irrefutably wrong. The sudden change of thought had shocked him, but he didn't try and deny the truth. It was horribly, horrifically despicable and inhuman. The truly sickening part was that Bellatrix had felt no remorse for her actions; at that moment, Draco felt truly ashamed he was even related to her, and acknowledged wholeheartedly why Sirius had decapitated himself from them. A few months ago Draco would have never thought he'd want to associate with the theorized blood-traitor, but now he'd rather have hung around his second cousin once removed and be disowned than be here and pretend to be unfeeling and vicious.

And the thing that surprised him the most was not finding out finally that Sirius was innocent and that everyone, especially the Ministry had gotten it incorrect and that the Potters', Sirius's, and Professor Lupin's supposed friend was the real culprit, but that he had—and did—felt sorry for Harry. Because Draco actually commiserated and could even relate, strange as that was. His father had never been a true paternal figure, that much was for damn sure, and if he'd had someone appear in his life and become a wonderful, loved parental idol who was so abruptly and cruelly taken away from him, Draco thought he'd feel the same as he surmised Harry did.

And this, his paralleling with his assumed nemesis, agitated him, but, surprisingly, he didn't regret it. Perhaps it was this that had started the new ideals Draco set himself by. Becoming a Death Eater was definitely not by choice, but admonishment; he had wanted to rethink his whole life, and if that meant apologizing to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, he'd do it in a heartbeat, but he was torn from it before he could execute his thoughts. He had been tortured, then threatened to be tortured again unless he gave in and get branded with the Dark Mark, joining the fine-printed ranks of Voldemort.

And now he was trapped. Incontrovertibly. He hated himself for being so weak, but with Dumbledore dead, and the trio effectively gone, he didn't know what he had to live for or believe in anymore. He no longer had any inspiration. And now Voldemort wanted to see him downstairs, and his father didn't bat an eye at it. Draco scoffed at the naïve belief that there was a core, unrivaled connection of love between a parent and a child, but the only affection he had felt from his father was when he had congratulated him on becoming a Death Eater and "finally joining the side that will lead you to victory and respected glory". And his mother was too scared and unsure to do anything about herself, let alone Draco. He was on his own, and he didn't think he could do it much longer.

More often than not, Draco was sure Lucius only wanted an heir to the Malfoy legacy, not a son, and definitely not a person he was supposed to care for unconditionally. Comforting Draco in his times of need would have made Lucius laugh and think the person who suggested it was either drunk or manic. Draco knew that his mother, Narcissa, cared about him, yes, but he knew she wasn't strong enough either to defend him enough to counteract his father, let alone Voldemort. His only hope now, his only fleeting source of faith, were three certain people in Merlin knew where, doing Merlin knew what. If they succeeded, maybe they'd believe him.

Maybe they'd actually believe him enough for him to be saved. Because even though he knew full well Harry despised him with most of his being, he had a shrewd, hopeful thought that Harry wouldn't purposefully watch or let him die, saving-people trait or no. Draco didn't think Harry was that diabolical or heartless, no matter how long their grudges were against each other in school. He knew, or at least was praying, that Harry had the same inkling that Draco's allegiances were to the Light side, much as Draco had seemed Dark. He only wished that Harry would try to understand the position he had been in…was in. He only wished that Harry would believe he wouldn't have killed Dumbledore…that he'd have given up before he could actually commit the action.

He rubbed his chest uncertainly, still feeling the scars of his sixth year, crisscrossed haphazardly across the ivory skin. He had experienced unbearable pain that day as Harry's spell had hit him, and he had felt vaguely the dull chill of the water on the floor, seeing crimson join the liquid, and realized it was his own blood pooling underneath him. He knew he had almost cast the Cruciatus Curse on Harry, but that was more out of defense than spite. He imagined he would have been regretful of casting it and would've stopped it immediately, once he acknowledged what he'd done. Draco had been staring up at the ceiling, wondering how many seconds he was from death; he saw bright green eyes rimmed with black, the abstract sound of a wand dropped suddenly on the ground sounding eerily far away. Even through his now blurred vision, Draco had seen Harry's plainly horrified, terrified face. And at that truthful, veracious look, Draco knew Harry couldn't believe he'd shot a spell like that, even on Draco, his archenemy since the day they saw each other in the robes shop before their first year. Harry hadn't meant to maim him, to kill him, and Draco was fully aware of that fact. And, oddly enough, he hadn't held it against him, though he still harbored distasteful feelings towards the Boy Who Lived for far more trivial things. Life was funnily ironical that way. Life was cruel that way.

And then Draco was shot back to reality, and he removed his hand from his chest, scars prickling. It was an annoying feeling, and he then realized this might have been similar to what was rumored Harry had always felt when his own scar prickled, although Draco now wasn't seeing any visions into Voldemort's mind, which, honestly, he was glad for. He didn't want to see what Voldemort saw…he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it. He turned back to the fire, still annoyed to see his father's face sitting jauntily arrogant there, orangey flames licking at his platinum hair.

"Father," Draco said slowly, bracing himself. "I'm going to call him whatever I want."

The moment the words had left his mouth, he realized it had cost him quite a bit, and he mentally prepared himself for a good torturing later on tonight. The look on Lucius's face was positively livid, so incensed he was rendered speechless for a minute. "Draco—how dare—how dare you call him—"

"Father, don't treat me like a child," Draco retorted, not believing truly that the words were coming out of his brain. A few weeks ago even, he would never have dared to be this objective. But now the deed was done, and he figured he might as well make his thoughts known. "There's no point to go pretending Voldemort's name is something to be all spastically afraid of! It's just a name, and it's ridiculous how everyone goes around thinking it's something they need to watch their back around. And I, for one, am not going to sit back and watch it happen! I've seen too much to let anyone make my choices for me, because they're mine and I'm old enough to see the truth of everything. So don't even try it, Father, because it's pointless to do so."

Lucius gaped at Draco's admission, and Draco was partly surprised as well, though not at his sentences—he'd never seen his father goggle before. This definitely was a first. But, in spite of himself, he took a little personal pride in the fact that he'd caused it, no matter if it was on a subject that was touchy to say the best. There were a few seconds where the silence almost asphyxiated Draco, but he dealt with it. After all, he'd just talked back to his father in anything but a childish way on something anyone would have been probably equally as shocked that Draco Malfoy had uttered such thoughts. But this wasn't the old person he used to be, he reminded himself. He wouldn't lie down and take it all in, he'd make a stand for himself. For the good people of wizardkind. And he wouldn't let even people like his father, or, hell, Voldemort ruin it for him.

Before long, however, Lucius had seemingly gained back his confidence, smirk plastered so carefully once again on his evil-etched face. "Well then…" he started, and Draco despised the sycophantic resonance drenched in his remark. "We'll just have to do something about that later, won't we, Draco? But for now, the Dark Lord still must see you. And it would be vastly inadvisable to keep him waiting. I will deal with you afterwards."

Well, he'd gotten one thing right, Draco mused. There certainly would be hell to pay—almost literally—if he ignored Voldemort's summons. Even he would admit that. While he disliked the whole nonsense about titles and fear, he wasn't about to just jump in the path of death when there wasn't a great, admirable need to. Because, he had to face it, what would his death cause? Maybe a few subdued, hidden tears from his mother, laughs from his Aunt and the other Death Eaters—not to mention Voldemort—and probably, he grimaced, from his father. No…if Draco were ever to die an unnaturally young death, he'd rather it be for a good purpose, not stupidity. People would look back at him and say, "Oh, that poor Malfoy boy…such a pity he had no reason to die. Ah, well. Crumpet, sir?"

Draco let out a futile sigh, standing up and walking out the door, leaving his father's face smirking there amidst the flames. As he descended the stairs and stood in front of Voldemort's sneering, skull-white face and crimson eyes, he stared defiantly up at him, unafraid of that monster for maybe the first time in his life. Voldemort, whether noticing this or not, made no mention of it. Instead, he billowed closer to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder, emitting an inadvertent flinch from Draco's muscles. He didn't want to show weakness, but he decided a grimaced wince wasn't weakness, but rather disgust.

"Ah, Draco. Just the boy I wanted to see. I have something for you. Something I think you'll like…"

"I doubt it." Draco said icily, and that time, he was fully aware of what he said. Voldemort's emotionless eyes flashed, and Draco let out an internal chuckle. If Draco, a mere, insignificant man in Voldemort's eyes, could irk him, Draco might as well take personal pleasure in it.

"You—"

"No," said Draco again. Voldemort's eyes blazed again, impossible not to notice, and Draco could feel the ire rising up through the man's—creature's, rather—body, and his pleasure mounted. "I won't be afraid of you, and I don't fear what you do to me for going against you, no matter what you do to me. I won't surrender, and I won't obey you anymore, so if that's what you're looking for, then you've got the wrong man."

To Draco's mild surprise, Voldemort smiled with a hideous, twisted grin. The effect was grotesque, matching the demon inside. "Then you've got no purpose here, boy," Voldemort scorned with contempt.

Draco barely felt whatever curse was thrown at him, even though he imagined it was supposed to be unbearable pain. As far as he knew, he'd already experienced as much as his body could handle, and so more was just ineffective, even coming from the Darkest, most vile wizard of all time. He closed his eyes, which he thought Voldemort probably took as trying to quiet a scream, but he did it to simply delve into his own mind again. But there was something that Voldemort had taught him…whether it was for immortality or conspiratorial rebellion, you could never back down; could never give up. Whatever Voldemort would throw at him would be nothing but pesky gnats, nothing that he wouldn't be able to handle. Because as Harry had once said, whatever would come, would come. And this time it would be Draco Malfoy who would have to meet it when it did.

I had suddenly had the thought of doing an angsty-ish Draco fic at some point, I don't know when that spur of thought came in, but here is the product. Please review and tell me what you think of it, if you will.

For reference, the quote above came from Richard Bach, just to put appropriate credit where I've borrowed it from. I felt it fit the story somewhat.

Thank you, everyone.