Author's Note: Just wanted to give you all a warning in that updates really will be coming much slower for this story. (Really. I mean it this time! *coughs*) I've started on another story, Jörmungandr (which will be a Tom Riddle Jr./Harry Potter story, actually), and I intend to alternate between the two stories in regards to updating with new chapters. Also, let me adorn my pimpin' hat for just a moment: for those of you who haven't yet had the chance to read Words Fail by Nea Marika, you have no idea that you're missing out on an incredible story. *gushgushgush* I would highly advise for you to take the time to read it as soon as possible. Like, now. Or, well, after you're done reading this update. :D Anyway: this chapter is super short, but it needed to stand on its own because of the importance that it has for everything that follows after. Future chapters will also be making up for this one's shortness, as well—page count will be ranging anywhere from 15-20+ from this point on.

CHAPTER TEN

Draco's home had countless numbers of rooms, each with a variety of different purposes. However, no matter how many rooms the Malfoy heir continued to show his friend, one single fact remained the same: Harry could easily pinpoint his favorite place in Malfoy Manor.

It was the library.

Once Draco, his father, and Harry had arrived back at the Manor after Krum's surprising reveal, the raven-haired boy had begged off Draco's offer of activities, stating that he was a bit tired from the activities of the past several days, and asked if it would be all right if he could have some time alone to recoup his energy. It actually wasn't that strange of a request since, at times, Harry would disappear from sight for an hour or two. Despite the friendship that he had with Hermione and Draco both, the years with the Dursleys had trained Harry well—and, when he could, the boy tended to keep to himself, holding his secrets and many of his thoughts close. Harry was, truthfully, used to being alone; in the Muggle world, he would have been described as an introvert—though comfortable enough to adopt extroverted traits when necessary—but the Slytherin still preferred to have some time to himself, especially when it was necessary to mull something over.

He used this time to settle into the library, considering several things that he had learned: the new knowledge regarding the Death Eaters' policies, their purpose in being created, perhaps even Voldemort's original intentions (before anger and hate and, most importantly, fear had gotten hold of the Dark Lord and his followers, taking root deep within their psyche). Now, too, Harry knew that it was time to finally really and truly contemplate what it meant to be associating with the Malfoys, to be Slytherin—considering the things that he had always before taken for granted or assumed that he would never again have to really think about. But… that had been such a silly expectation. There was no choice and now was the time that Harry needed to consider these many things that he had been putting aside, not wanting to think about them. Out of sight, out of mind—or so Harry had thought, but he realized now that it had been a naïve one, and one that wouldn't have lasted that long, anyway.

However, even if Harry decided to put all of his concerns aside to mull over on another day, perhaps when he had more time to consider just what his newfound knowledge entailed, there was still one aspect that connected all of these things together, and that was something that could not be dismissed this day. Harry had been putting it off for too long, especially after Tom's loss.

It was time to seriously contemplate the Dark Arts.

Harry lay curled up in one of the many alcoves that were scattered throughout the ancient room, body wrapped around one of the oldest books that remained within the library. It had been easy enough to find, what with the heady scent of Dark that it gave off. The book must have been in the Malfoy library for countless upon countless of generations, each new one sitting at the previous' knee to learn of the magic that the family was soon famous for. And here, Harry knew, was one of their Darkest books.

Abyssus Abyssum Invocat.

Hell Calls Hell, Harry thought, expression pensive. How apt.

The Slytherin's fingers caressed lightly over the spine of the book; he hadn't opened it, not yet—or perhaps not ever, depending on what he decided within the next several minutes. It was this time, this contemplation, that Harry knew would then form the foundation of his moral standing, perhaps for the rest of his life. He had used the spells from his branch of magic lightly in the past: had voraciously eaten the knowledge that he had garnered from the Restricted Section. Thoughtlessly, he had done what he had wanted, what he had desired—and there had been no consideration, none at all, for the possible ramifications of knowing what he did, of practicing it.

But there were always ramifications; there were always consequences.

The conversations that he had begun to have with Tom—before Dumbledore had taken away the diary—had forced Harry to see that there was a moral line that he had been repeatedly crossing without a care. He had taken what the Sorting Hat had said and had foolishly applied it to whatever he wanted. Intention, after all, came from the person—but a person was the one who chose to wield a tool: the tool was just that, a tool, and was what it was. Its nature was unique to itself, but the choice lay all in the person who first reached out to grasp it.

A person may decide to defend another—that was their original intention; but it was that person's choice to pick up either the staff or the gun. Both tools could be used in defense, but one was much more benign than the other. And the gun… The gun's entire purpose was to harm: to injure or kill, there was no middle ground with that particular tool.

So.

Which did Harry want to choose? Would he reach for the staff? Or would he reach for the gun? Both weapons could harm, but one was much more likely to do so than the other. His intention could be whatever he wanted it to be, but the inclination towards one tool or the other also, in the end, would affect that inclination, that intention: he could want to go good things, great things. But, in the end, the tool that he would wield would also influence how he went about things.

The metaphor was simple, almost pointlessly so.

But, oh, the choices that they represented were so incredibly important; with this decision, there would be no going back. His choice would be made, and Harry knew himself well enough to realize that he would continue down the pathway that he would soon choose, come hell or high water. This was the crux, the turning point.

Harry's breath shuddered out slightly, and he leaned forward to lightly rest his forehead against the comforting coolness of the glass of the window. The metaphor was simple, too simple in a way, and Harry regretfully put it aside to force himself to consider the options that truly lay before him.

Would he put aside learning about the Dark Arts to follow the Light, like his parents had and the generations of Potters before them? Would he finally let go of the knowledge that he had gained from Tom to stick to the learning, the spells that most of the wizarding world considered acceptable? It would be a dry existence, true, but one where he would find solace in so many others who had followed the same path. He could have the intention to be great through acceptable means, through Light magic.

Or Harry could decide to make his way down the opposite pathway: he could finally put aside the lingering misgivings he had retained in regards to practicing the Dark Arts. He could welcome learning Black magic with open arms, taking in what he could and deciding himself what he wanted to do with his newfound knowledge.

And yet:

If he decided upon this path, Harry could no longer lie to himself about the nature of that very magic that called to him with a Siren's sweet song. There was… a taint, an almost oily residue that clung to his magical core each and every time he used a Dark Arts spell. It dimmed the brightness, making the core much more muted than it was before. It wasn't damage, per se—not in the regular sense. Harry's magic was as strong as ever, even before he had first started practicing the gray-shaded Dark spells, but… it did affect him. And Harry knew, too, that that change would be permanent. The dimming had already occurred, as slight as it currently was. If he decided upon this, there really would be no turning back.

It was all or nothing.

Haaarry…

The boy shivered at the barely-audible whisper, eyes falling shut as the slightly bitter taste of dark chocolate slowly filled his mouth, lingering upon his tongue in an almost deliciously sinful way. Haaarry… the voice whispered again, and the Potter heir finally allowed his eyes to open: staring at his reflection from the window, Harry watched in an almost dispassionate manner as a shade of mahogany-stained red crept into the verdant green of his irises, lingering briefly around his pupils before finally fading from sight. The boy gave another shiver at that, muffling a soft sound of distress and fright—and, at that, the taste of dark chocolate lingered just a bit longer. However, despite it all, despite the faint sense of trepidation, of insecurity as to whether or not this was the truly right choice:

It was with a steady hand that Harry reached down and finally opened the ancient tome.

Harry had made his decision.

Now, there was no turning back. Not ever.