Chapter 3: Decisions are often Wrong, often Right, never Safe

Harry squirms under Remus's concerned gaze, because right now it reminds him too much of the way Sirius used to look at him, and Harry needs to keep a clear head, there's too many questions he needs answered — too many puzzles that need solving, and he can't concentrate, can't sit still, while he knows somebody is unnecessarily worrying about him.

The man sits down across from Harry as Hermione places a steaming mug in front of him. "Malfoy?" Remus asks, looking between the two of them.

"He's upstairs." Harry replies too quickly, and if it makes anyone suspicious they don't say anything. He doesn't want to know what his friends will think when they find out he left Malfoy upstairs, untied, in an unlocked room. In fact, Harry is more than surprised that the snarky bastard hasn't been downstairs to bait them for the last half an hour — he's even a little anxious to find out what the Slytherin might be doing right now — but as soon as he tried to slip from the kitchen to check on him Remus arrived.

Remus nods, the dark crescents beneath his eyes a contrast to the luminous orb which he will never stop running from. "I suppose I ought to explain some things — no doubt you're all a tad confused —"

"A tad?" Ron interrupts, "that's gotta be the understatement of the century." He sounds whiney, offended, and if it had been an uneventful day his friend's attitude would have grated on Harry's nerves. Instead, Harry looks over at the way Ron slouches against the dusty bench tops, his arms crossed and his skin pale, and Harry feels a little bad for not sharing the information he got from Malfoy earlier with his friends.

"I haven't told the Order you're here. Only Alastor knows, but then again, what doesn't he know? He and I were in charge of Malfoy —"

Something inside Harry snaps upon hearing this. "Really? Then you'd know all about his questioning — 'bout how he looks like he hasn't eaten in weeks?" Harry doesn't know his voice sounds so accusing until after he is met with incredulous looks from both Ron and Hermione. He doesn't stop to apologise for interrupting, for stopping Remus from telling them what they all want to know. He managed to keep the sick feeling in his stomach at bay while talking to Malfoy, because he didn't want his enemy to know that he cared. He doesn't care, though, not really — not about Malfoy. He cares because; "I thought our side was meant to be about saving people! Not killing them!"

Remus looks taken aback, but then there's a little flicker of knowing in his eyes, and he says calmly, "No one has died, Harry. If Malfoy has said something to you —"

"Yeah. You're right. He said some things. Not much, but I still got the gist of it —"

"Then you should know that we did what we had to. This is a war, Harry! And war is about learning who you can and cannot trust!" Remus's hand falls too heavily on the table, and Hermione jumps.

"Exactly! So if you trusted him enough to stick him in here with me then why didn't you just do it in the first place?"

"Would that have been the right thing to do!? The safe thing? Would James approve of me placing a Death Eater next to his son and calling him an ally?"

"No, but — "

"Draco Malfoy was living in the same house as You-Know-Who for months! And you think he isn't dangerous? Harry, wake up!"

Harry's jaw clenches, and beneath the table his hand crawls onto his wand. He'll feel guilty about it later, but right now he's too frustrated. Ron distracts him, just in time. "Mate — what'd Malfoy say to you? Why're you defending him, he's a fucking —"

"They tortured him!" Harry's deadly tone is followed by silence. Only Hermione gasps, because her heart is too gentle to fathom the idea of torture, even when it is inflicted on the enemy. Somewhere amidst his anger Harry rushed to his feet — his chair shoved back behind him — and his breathing is too harsh, too choking.

Ron looks bewildered, "So what? It's Malfoy, he deserved —"

"Ron." Remus shakes his head at Ron, who looks embarrassed, but not guilty, about what he has almost said.

"Don't any of you understand!?" Harry gestures wildly, rubs at his scar, "I saw things! Weeks ago I saw Voldemort — with Malfoy — forcing him to do things — to torture someone — Rowle — and Malfoy's face — he was scared — pained — he didn't want to do it!"

Hermione whispers, "Oh, Harry — why didn't you tell us you'd seen —"

"BECAUSE! Because you'd act like this!" Hermione looks hurt, but Harry continues, "That's why. I can't help it — I can't control —"

"Dumbledore wanted you to —"

"DUMBLEDORE'S DEAD!" And Harry kicks his chair. It splinters against the wall and there's a little trickle of satisfaction in his chest. "Alright!? It doesn't matter anymore, 'Mione. Nothing matters!"

Remus comes forward, "Harry —"

Harry retreats, scowling. He feels betrayed. "What are you going to do the next person who defects, Remus? Going to torture them too?"

"It's what needed to be done! Don't you see, Harry? He wouldn't have said anything, otherwise!" Remus is close to yelling, and it makes Harry angrier. He thinks about how Malfoy told him things — without violence — without Veritiserum, and he doesn't know he will regret his next words until after he says them.

"You're a liar. Know what's worse than lying, though? Keeping the man who killed Dumbledore in the Order. You make me sick."

"Harry, you don't understand —"

"There's nothing to understand! You should leave."

"Harry, listen to what you're saying —"

"Leave. Now."

"I am trying to help you!" Remus shouts, and a vein in his neck pulses.

"Well you're NOT helping—"

"If you'd only tell me what it is you're doing — what you're looking for—"

"And what? Accept help from a liar? No thanks — we're good."

There's a stagnant silence in the kitchen. Remus is trying to hide his outrage, but his face is red, and it shows off the barely healed scars, the wounds he probably suffered within the last two hours. Harry's breathing is the only noise — he can hear it echoing in his skull, louder than the pounding of blood in his ears. He can feel Ron and Hermione's looks of astonishment digging into his back, but he doesn't care.

Then Remus swivels on his feet, a suppressed snarl escaping his throat, pulls open the kitchen door with a bang — and Malfoy stumbles forward, righting himself before falling. His face is composed, but his eyes are wide and his bruised lips are parted slightly. Remus doesn't acknowledge him at all, and before he has time to shove past, Malfoy is already flattening himself against the wall.

"Remus — wait!" Hermione sobs, "Don't leave —"

Theres a crash — probably the umbrella stand falling— and then the slamming of the front door. Remus is gone.

When Harry takes his eyes away from the spot where his father's friend disappeared and looks at his own, Hermione is wiping her tears away. "Harry — how could you?"

Harry's nostrils flare, and he stares at the grimy stone tiles. "Easy."

"He could have helped us!"

"Don't look at me like that!" Harry snaps.

Ron steps forward, growling, and Harry is almost surprised to see how angry he looks. "Don't you start on her—"

Hermione coughs, puts a hand on Ron's shoulder and shakes her head. Her eyes are directed over Harry's shoulder, and when he turns he sees Malfoy standing in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. "Sorry to intrude on the Gryffindor pity parade. Don't mind me — I was just hoping someone would give in and blow this miserable house up in their angst."

"Fuck off, Malfoy!" Ron spits.

Malfoy smirks. "I'd love to — but you know — stuck here and all."

The three of them watch as he saunters over to Remus's vacated spot and helps himself to the lukewarm mug of untouched tea. His nose scrunches up after the first sip, and as if sensing something offensive on his tongue, Hermione rushes out of the room so as to avoid being insulted for her tea-making skills. Ron glares at Malfoy, and after one withering moment he turns and directs the same look at Harry — and Harry nearly apologises — but it's too late, because then Ron follows after Hermione.

Harry feels deserted, but he probably deserves it. He won't let how much of a bastard he feels like sink in until much later, because right now he's too busy sighing and trying to ignore the expectant look Malfoy gives him.

Harry says "What?" at the same time Malfoy says "Potter," and then there is an awkward silence filled with unvoiced tension. The gap between them — the expanse of the kitchen — feels like the vast void of their differences, tormenting them, intertwining them both into this near unbearable, confusing thing called war.

Harry doesn't think he has the energy to argue, so he waits for Malfoy to continue. He's not disappointed, because then Malfoy says snidely, "I don't need your fucking sympathy."

Harry frowns, and looks over to where Malfoy is glowering at him from the table, acting as if he isn't in the house of the enemy, as if he's here by choice, and Harry is about to give in and sarcastically retort when something clicks in his mind.

"This isn't about sympathy, Malfoy — it's about standing up for the weak. You made your choices — you can live with them—" Harry hasn't finished talking before he hears a sudden whooshing sound, and sees Malfoy launch something towards him, his expression livid. Harry manages to duck right before the mug smashes into the cabinet behind his head, but his neck and shoulders still get bathed in tea.

"FUCK YOU, Potter!"

Harry has his wand out before he's aware he's moved his arm, the length of it aimed at Malfoy for a split second before he slams his target back into the wall, Malfoy's head cracking into the hard stone.

The kitchen door flies open and Ron rushes in, Hermione close behind him — sheltered by his broad chest. "What's going on!?"

Harry doesn't get time to answer, because then there is a low creak as the formally abused cabinet door edges open, and a house elf gingerly steps out, large ugly feet narrowly avoiding stepping on the shattered ceramic.

And then every other thought drops from Harry's mind as he feels Regulus's note in his pocket as if it weighs a hundred tons. Excitement floods into him and makes him utter, "Kreacher!"

Draco's skull aches. His vision is swimming. Merlin, he despises Potter and his childish reflexes, not that throwing a cup at him hadn't been childish, but — fuck. Draco thinks he might even have a broken vertebrae or two, but before he gets time to count the pains in his back Potter yells something, and Draco forces his eyes to stay open and watch as a filthy and hideous house elf bows down to the boy wonder.

"Master," it croaks, and Draco compares the sound to a bullfrog.

"I'm going to ask you something, Kreacher, and I order you to answer truthfully. Oh — and before we start, there is not to be any calling anybody 'mudblood,' or 'blood-traitor.' Got it?" Potter sounds breathless, and it pisses Draco off to no end, how he can be thrown to the side and so quickly ignored all for the sake of some creature. The elf grumbles, yet voices its compliance.

Potter pulls something from around his neck and rushes on, "Right — good. Kreacher, did you ever find something like this locket —"

"Harry!" Granger warns loudly, and Draco sees her cast a wary glance in his direction.

Potter looks up, startled, but then his face visibly pales as he eyes Draco, and after a grim nod in the Weasel's direction, the two of them walk with purpose towards him, grab his arms, and haul him out of the kitchen.

"Get your fucking hands off me!" Draco snarls, but when he spins around he finds he is growling at a firmly closed door, and by the deafening silence which greets him he presumes the bloody tossers have already cast silencing spells on it. Draco huffs, curls his fingers, and kicks the door — because dare he admit it, he is actually more than a little curious to find out what Potter is so eager about.

Defeated, with his vision still bleary from Potter's attack, Draco slumps down against the wall. He stays there — not because he wants to, but because he doesn't think he has the strength to move. As his head falls back and his eyelids close, Draco remembers — and before he can quieten his mind, settle his thoughts, his memories assault him.

Dark corridors, his feet are bare and cold, and in the air he can smell something sharp and coppery — like blood. Draco's stomach twists, but he moves on, his hand tight and sweaty around his wand.

The door to the dining room is ajar, and from it a sliver of orange light spills. Draco can hear voices, low, almost like hisses, and the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He pushes open the door, its creak barely distinguishable, but Lucius Malfoy still turns from where he stands by the mantelpiece. His profile is thrown into an angled shadow across the polished floorboards. The fire is bright and crackling, but his father is alone in the room.

"What is it, Draco?" Lucius asks, his lips hardly moving. His hands are in his pockets, but somehow Draco knows they are trembling.

He struggles to find his voice — it is still thick from restless sleep, but eventually Draco whispers, "I heard — I heard something… a scream."

Lucius turns a little more, and Draco can't tell if it is just the light from the fire, or if his father's eyes are actually rimmed with red. The man's brow lifts in inquiry, and for a second it's like Draco is looking in a mirror, but then his father reminds him in a strained voice, "Frenrir is on duty in the dungeons this evening."

Draco swallows, and his heart beats faster — he can almost feel it move beneath his bed shirt. He shakes his head a fraction, jerkily, and it makes his neck twinge. "No — it was a woman. It sounded like —" Draco pauses, he can barely breathe, and he hates the way his father watches him so intensely. "It sounded like Mother."

Something in the line of Lucius's jaw pulses, and Draco's eyes flick down to the way his lips thin, up to the way his eyes waver, just for a second. "Your mother is upstairs. Asleep. Go back to bed, Draco," he says, and his voice is commanding and certain.

Draco doesn't know if he believes what he hears, but sometimes the lie is easier — safer, so he only nods, and then leaves the room.

Scattered fragments of memory, unwanted, hated — Draco slams his head against the wall, and it doesn't help at all. He squeezes his eyes closed, bites his tongue until he can taste blood.

Nothing helps.

The dining table seems so impossibly long — black and endless, and Draco uses every ounce of his strength to stop himself from looking at the head, where The Dark Lord sits — laughing, plotting, whispering to his snake. Draco feels ill, lightheaded. He tries to concentrate on the empty seat next to him, the seat where his Mother should be. But somehow, that's worse, and the candlesticks in front of him all blend into one as his vision blurs.

If Draco listens very carefully, sits very still, he can almost hear the faint humming of a voice from inside the kitchen — Potter's voice. Draco tries to focus on it, hone his hearing onto the way the deepness of it dips and rises — because if he does that then the harassment of his thoughts seems to fade.

"Where is she? What have you done to her!? WHERE IS SHE!? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!? WHAT HAVE —" Draco's voice breaks into a sob, and Lucius pushes him off, throws him away from where he was indignantly clinging to his father's robes.

"Stop this! Stand up at once, Draco!" Lucius seethes, and Draco's nails break as they dig into the hard wooden floor, "If the Dark Lord sees your weakness—"

"I don't care — I don't give a fuck what he sees! Where's mother!? What have you —"

A pointed boot collides with Draco's jaw, and his teeth grind painfully over his tongue. Lucius steps back after kicking his son, and, straightening his cloak, he retreats. The shadows consume him, and Draco heaves, overwhelmed with a hate for his father that he has never been able to name until now.

Draco doesn't stand up — he doesn't care that if The Dark Lord sees him snivelling on the ground he will be killed — all he can think about is his Mother — gone, maybe dead, and there isn't a thing he can do about it.

Snape finds him on the floor — minutes, maybe hours later, and with a perfected facade of strength the Potion's Professor pulls him up, dusts him off, and Draco sees something in those black eyes, like a buried and controlled desperation — and in that moment the look they share confirms everything Draco has always suspected about the man's loyalties.

Potter sounds like he's yelling, and Draco thinks that maybe their silencing charm has worn off, unless the boy just gets brainlessly loud when he's too excited. It's a very strange notion, Potter's excitement, and Draco finds himself clinging to it, almost relishing it, for a very short second before he realises what he's doing, and then disgust surrounds him like a blanket.

Days trickle into weeks, and Draco's urge to make a decision weighs heavily in his mind. He clenches his teeth when he points his wand at Terry Boot in the cellar of his own home, and he looks away when bright splatters of scarlet fall across his shoes.

He thrashes around in his sleep, writhes and moans, and when he wakes he is always drenched with sweat.

He holds his breath when the Hogwart's muggle studies Professor is slaughtered right in front of him. And only when the room is cleared and he is the last one left, fingers curling around the edges of his chair, does he chance a look at her face, frozen in an expression of pure horror.

He barely escapes the room before he vomits.

Her pleading voice haunts him for days.

Some nights Draco sits at the end of his bed, hands shaking as he covers his ears, fingers quivering as he tears at his hair. His mind is dangerous, and he knows he must either risk escaping, or kill himself.

When his reflection gazes at him from the bathroom mirror, distorted and pale and hollow, he tries to decide whether using the knife he holds in his hands is an act of courage — or weakness.

But then he thinks about his Mother, and the knife clatters to the floor.

He approaches Snape with his request when the week dies out, and for the rest of Draco's life he will always wonder whether it was a tear he saw tracing down the Professor's sallow cheek.

Draco jumps awake — curses because he wasn't even aware he has been sleeping, and then scowls up at the towering figure of Potter, who is probably the one who kicked him awake.

"You can come in now. Kreacher's making stew."

Draco blinks up at him, suppresses a groan at the stiffness in his back, and then curls his lip, "Is that how this works, Potter? Throw me out, invite me back in again — like I'm sort of grovelling dog!?" He stands, nearly sways on his feet, but steadies himself with a hand on the wall. Potter looks confused, so to make sure his point is conveyed, Draco bites out, "Get fucked."

Draco trudges off, trying to remain upright on his lead-like legs, and climbs the stairs until he reaches the top most landing. He mutters about irritating, stupid Gryffindors who think Draco will lower his standards enough to eat a meal at the same table as them, and despite the grumbling in his stomach, he shuts himself in a musty, feather littered room and collapses against the door.

Harry was surprised when he practically walked into Malfoy's outstretched legs upon exiting the kitchen. He'd been so ecstatic with the information they got from Kreacher, who now totters around the kitchen almost merrily, the fake locket swinging from his skinny neck as he prepares their meal, that he'd nearly forgotten all about Malfoy. Well, that's a lie, Malfoy has always been quite hard to forget, for whatever reason, but Harry expected to have to scour the house to find the blond bastard's sulking arse. Instead, he was right there, outside the door — eyes closed, sleeping, and Harry would think it a peaceful sleep if it weren't for the way Malfoy's fists clenched in his lap.

Harry jostled him with the toe of his shoe, nudging his leg, but when that didn't work he bent down and shook him by the shoulder.

Now, Harry stands mutely in the empty hallway, perplexed by Malfoy's parting words. Surely Malfoy doesn't think he has any right to listen in on their plans? Let alone get offended by it. Harry shrugs, figuring Malfoy can suit himself and go and chew on a rotten table leg or something, but then he freezes, remembering the thinness of Malfoy's wrists, the cheekbones which stick out far too prominently, the skinniness of the boy who used to be fit enough to rival Harry in his Quidditch skills.

"Harry?" Hermione calls from behind him. He can hear the sound of plates being set down on the table, and he turns just in time to see his friend wearily stepping from the kitchen. She looks at him inquisitively, but he only shakes his head.

"No luck."

He follows her inside, takes a seat opposite her, just as Ron grins and says, "The first proper meal we've had in days, and you wanted me to sit here and suffer Malfoy's sodding expression? Come on, the git's always looked like he's got a stick up his arse, even in the Great Hall, 'member? No food's good enough for him."

There's a scuffling noise, Ron yelps, and Harry thinks Hermione has probably kicked his shin beneath the table. Harry can feel the side glance she aims at him, and pretends to be occupied by an indent in the table.

Ron frowns, clears his throat, and says, "So, Umbridge, hey? Lousy toad. Got any ideas about getting into the Ministry?"

Hermione sighs and crosses her arms over chest, just as Kreacher spoons healthy amounts of steaming stew onto their plates. "Thankyou, Kreacher," The elf looks troubled at being addressed by Hermione, but moves on to Harry with a slight bow, "It's going to take a lot of planning, and a lot of hard work — because we're definitely not rushing into this."

Harry and Ron share a look, and for a moment it's as if they're back in Hogwarts, listening to Hermione ramble on about exam preparations. But this is different. This is war. And they both remain silent as she continues.

"I think one of us should stay here throughout the day and keep an eye on — on Malfoy. Then another should keep watch in front of the Ministry entrance, see how things are done, and what we can get away with. Then whoever's left should go and do what they can — get food, try catch traces of gossip, like what You-Know-Who's up to, what the Order's doing — maybe even grab a copy of the Prophet."

"Sounds great," Ron mumbles over a mouthful of food, "but 'ow we meant to just walk 'round London wi'out bein' recognised?"

Hermione sighs and slaps his arm with her unused spoon, wordlessly telling him not to talk with his mouth full. Then she sits up a little straighter, and there's something devious in the way she smiles. "Well… I did manage to stash away quite a bit of Polyjuice potion when we moved Harry from Privet Drive."

Harry feels his face break into a smile as he appraises her. "Brilliant, Hermione!"

She beams at him, and they find themselves laughing and reminiscing on old times as they eat their stew, a beacon of hope finally shining brightly on their horizons.

It is only after they finish eating and Harry clears the dishes away when his eyes glance up to the ceiling, and once again he is reminded of Malfoy's situation. He looks down, something nagging in his gut, but then his eyes fall onto the pot of leftovers on the counter, and before Harry can talk himself out of it he is already grabbing a clean bowl.

Harry finds the only door that is locked from the inside, and knows that must be where Malfoy is hiding. He hesitates before he knocks, and when he gives in there is no reply. He is not surprised, so he simply leaves the bowl by the door, charming it so it'll stay warm. Then he joins Ron and Hermione in the drawing room.

They decide to sleep in shifts. Harry tries to convince himself this is because there are still Death Eater's waiting outside, and not because he is expecting an attack from Malfoy.

Harry takes first watch, taking his place in the window seat. The chilling air from the closeness of the glass keeps him awake, and after several minutes of staring out into the fog he jumps when he sees Hermione standing in front of him.

She hands him Malfoy's wand. "You should look after this. I think Remus made a mistake giving it to me." Hermione shuffles her feet, acting awkward, and Harry gives her a questioning look until she continues, "And I — well I find it a little, personal, is all — and I thought — oh, Harry just take it." She folds his fingers over the wood and returns to the couch, and when Harry is sure she is asleep he twirls the wand in his fingers, gazing at it in wonder — because Hermione is right, somehow, it's almost… intimate — holding another's wand and feeling the faint, vibrating tingles of magic which travel through Harry's skin upon contact. Then he remembers that this is Malfoy's wand, and he stows it hastily in his pocket.

But when his head starts to lull against the cool glass and the silence becomes too loud, Harry finds himself taking it out again, holding it, tracing over the notches in the handle, and appreciating the warmth which floods into his fingertips.

And he decides that not questioning his actions is definitely the safest option.