Whachow! A day early! Can I get a booyah?

Nothing much to say today except enjoy the chapter! I'm so happy I got this out today; I wasn't expecting to finish it 'till Tuesday night. But I forced myself to sit down at my desk, whiz through my homework, and then got my ass to the grindstone and finished the chapter!

A special thanks to these lovely people who reviewed, favorited, or added this story to their story alerts: mecherry (who has made my day multiple times! Ooh, I love people that review more than once!); AdonCa (another mulitple reviewer); Puplover43; whitewhite; Electric-Aura (muultippllee reviiewwerrr); Twilight Woods (who has reviewed more times than I can count); and last but not least, Josepheus.

So sorry if I haven't messaged you about your review or replied to a message! Lordie, I've just been busy :/ Y'know, procrastinating and all that. But anyway, I will get on that... tomorrow, probably, because I'm dead beat right now. And I promised a picture of a cat for anyone that left a particularly long review. Have no fear, you will receive your cat!

And thanks to everyone that actually reads these really long author's notes. I know they're probably a huge pain in the ass to read, so thanks to anyone who's actually kept reading long enough to get to this point. But really, you can stop reading this author's note right now because all I've got left is the disclaimer.

Disclaimer: I own nooothhinnnggg! All HP stuff is property of the amazing JK Rowling. My OCs and the plot of this fanfic are allll miiinnne :D

"The power to do good is also the power to do harm." –Milton Friedman

Two-Faced [Harry Potter] Chapter Nine: Regret

The scar burns on my palm as I slink through the halls at two o'clock in the morning, sticking close to the shadows and praying to Merlin that Mudblood's not out and about on her prefect duties of patrolling the halls for wandering students. I wouldn't be surprised if she decided to take it upon herself to pace not only her assigned corridors but the entire castle, as well.

But my mind's only half dedicated to avoiding prefects and staff members. The other half is on – you guessed it – Draco.

The Big Pact, the pledge Draco and I made to each other, is meaningless now. We've both broken our so innocently made promises. It seems silly now, making that vow when we were mere children. We knew nothing of the war, of the Dark Lord, of power. We thought we did. But we were really clueless.

That seems so obvious now. When we were ten, we thought we knew the way the world worked, backwards and forwards and upside down. We thought that because the wizarding world hated the Dark Lord, He was an evil person that was both powerful and cowardly at the same time. We were so certain that knowing that would be enough to keep us away from Him, stay out of the pull of His influence.

We were obviously wrong.

Draco might've gone his life without ever Marking his left arm. Of the two of us, he was the most adamant about not becoming a Death Eater, not becoming like our parents. Even when I was getting Marked, even as the symbol of power and Darkness was being carved into my left forearm, I thought – knew – that Draco wasn't going to follow this path.

I was wrong about that, too.

I don't know for certain why he did it – got Marked, I mean. Narcissa seems to believe that he only did it because he was forced to by the Dark Lord; that He wanted repayment for Lucius's failure at the Department of Mysteries.

But the thing about being a Death Eater is you can't get forced into it. Unless you've been put under the influence of the Imperius Curse, getting Marked isn't something that can be done to someone against their will. I can almost guarantee that most Death Eaters not affected by any charm or curse did it of their own free will. Anyone who says differently is either lying or has been in Azkaban too long. Getting the Dark Mark, being marked as one of the Dark Lord's servants, is something that is chosen. You have to want it.

And I did want it. I still do. No matter how many times I feel that pull of regret when I look down at Draco and my matching scars, I know I still want it – the power, the intimidating presence. The feeling of confirmation. Because when the Dark Lord looks at you like He's – not proud, no, He doesn't ever reach those heights – not proud but satisfied, it's like getting validated. It's like your existence has been sanctioned. He approves, therefore you exist.

I'm not sure if it's that way for all Death Eaters – maybe it is, just on different levels. Bellatrix, certainly – though I shudder to compare myself to her. But it's hard to imagine a brute like Greyback getting all fuzzy inside just because the Dark Lord looked at him.

It seems like it takes only a few seconds to get back to the Gryffindor common room, with my mind lost in my thoughts. The Fat Lady looks a bit peeved that I've woken her up, questioning me suspiciously about my being out so late. I lie and tell her something about not being able to sleep, and she's too tired to insist any further.

I slip into my dorm room quietly and tiptoe to bed without changing, overwhelmed with a sudden tiredness that crashes over me like a tidal wave.

My left palm burns all through my sleep.

Sunday passes without any outstanding events.

Morning finds me dead tired and suffering from a drilling headache, dragging myself out of bed and into the Great Hall for a cold breakfast. The afternoon is only slightly better; Ancient Runes and Charms homework keep me inside while the sun hangs cheerily in the sky outside, taunting me. It's only once night falls and after I finish my various essays after dinner that I relax, shaking out a cramp in my writing hand and trudging up the stairs to the dorm.

I fall into bed, my body feeling like a block of lead. With my drooping eyes, I expect sleep to pull me into peace quickly and easily, without any silly counting of sheep. But as much as I hope, as many times as I try to completely empty my mind, sleep fails to find me.

Every time I start to slip away, something wrenches me back into wakefulness.

Once it's my idiotic, airheaded roommates loudly slamming the door and collapsing in a heap of giggles and whispers. What they're on about now, I don't know. All I know is that I hate the lot of them.

Then it's my Mark burning, red hot teeth sinking into the flesh of my left arm. He's angry – at who, I don't know. All I know is that I hate whoever it is.

And then my thoughts, buzzing about in my head like wasps that refuse to die. Where this headache's come from, I've no idea. All I know is that I hate whatever the cause of it is.

I eventually give up, hauling myself out of bed and throwing my robes on, flinging the door open and letting it bang against the wall, smirking maliciously as my dorm mates shout sleepily from their beds for me to keep it down. I stomp down the stairs to the common room, pulling my hair into a messy bun and slipping out of the portrait hole and into the corridor beyond.

I make it out of the castle without incident, skillfully dodging the prefects that pace the halls,

The moon is high in the sky, looming in the blackness like a watchful eye, blinking as the clouds pass over it. The air is still and cold and thick, and it feels like it's pressing down on me from all sides. My clothes feel heavy on my body, the night's stillness tightening my scarlet and gold scarf's stranglehold on my neck.

I shove my hands in my pockets and furrow my eyebrows at the ground, frowning in concentration as I fight my way up a steep, rocky hill. I stand atop it for a while, just staring down at the shimmering surface of the Black Lake before me.

In the night's moonlight, the lake truly looks remarkable. It's like a sheet of rippling ebony silk, inlaid with millions of diamonds that catch the rays of the moon's silvery light, winking and twinkling until the surface of the lake doesn't look black so much anymore as shimmering, sparkling white. The sky overhead is like a mirror, the stars in the heavens reflecting the winking and twinkling stars in the water. A line of trees separates the Black Lake from the sky, the leaves and branches throwing shadows over the rocky earth that twist and spin as the moon passes in and out of the cover of the clouds.

It's nights like these, the ones that are so breathtakingly beautiful that it hurts, that make me loathe sleep. Why should anyone have their eyes shut for a night like this one? It's such a terrible waste. A night like this shouldn't pass unseen.

I'm almost glad that I wasn't able to sleep.

I bring my legs to my chest, wrapping my arms around them and resting my chin on my knees. My right hand strays to my left, my fingers playing with my sleeve. I pull it carefully up over my elbow, shutting my eyes and running a finger lightly over the skin of my left forearm.

The flesh is smooth. With my eyes shut, it seems almost like the Dark Mark isn't there. With my eyes shut, it seems almost like I'm really Remy Turner. With my eyes shut, it seems almost like I'm a normal teenage girl.

And then my eyes open.

I'm back to the real world. The world where the Dark Mark is there. The world where I'm not Remy Turner. The world where I'm not a normal teenage girl.

This is the real world, and it's the one I'll always be in.

But that's better, isn't it? It's stupid, getting lost to those fantasies. No, not fantasies – just stray thoughts. Just wonderings. Just what-ifs. I don't want to be Remy Turner. I don't want to be a normal teenage girl.

I'm right where I want to be.

Right here, I'm perfect.

Perfect.

I'm wrenched from my wandering thoughts when a rustling comes from my left. I hastily pull my sleeve back down to my wrist, whipping my head around to meet the surprised face of one Harry Potter.

I swallow my instinctual recoil and force a smile onto my face, falling ruefully back into the role of Remy Turner.

"Oh hey, Harry," I say pleasantly, choking back a swear word. "What're you doing out so late?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he returns, and I have to check twice for any note of suspicion. But his words are spoken innocently, friendly.

"Couldn't sleep," I explain a little sheepishly. At least it's the truth. "And who would want to, on a night like this one? Gorgeous, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah," Potter nods, "Nice."

I almost laugh at his awkwardness and the comicalness of his appearance. His unruly hair pokes out in places like tufts of dark grass, waving lazily in the breeze. His lightning bolt scar is just barely visible, peeking out from between strands of hair. His robes have been thrown on quickly over his pajamas, his scarf and cloak hanging disheveled on his shoulders.

This is the boy that's going to 'save' the wizarding world. What a laugh.

"So what are you doing out this late?"

"Just… I dunno, thinking," he says, throwing in a little lopsided grin. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go for it," I nod, scooting over on my little hill. "What're you thinking about?"

My question seems to catch him off guard. I backtrack quickly, sensing his discomfort and suspecting that I'm scaring him off.

"You don't have to answer that if you don't want to," I say carefully, keeping my eyes trained on the lake. "I sometimes like to keep my thoughts to myself, too."

He doesn't say anything, but he seems relieved. We sit in companionable – snort – silence, a few feet's distance between us.

"Harry," I start, licking my lips. I can never get over the way it feels to say his name. It's like when I was younger, when I'd learn a new word. The word would feel new and fresh on my tongue, almost like it was too big to fit in mouth. This feels just like that – except 'Harry' is only five letters. I've come to know him as 'Potter' in my head, so addressing him so… nicely feels odd. "Would you mind if I asked you a question?"

Potter gives a short cough, obviously bracing himself for a question about the Dark Lord or his parents or the war or something. I wonder briefly how often he gets that sort of stuff pitched at him and smile a sly smile.

"How the hell did you cast a Patronus your third year?" I blurt with an attempt at looking sheepish. He laughs a little, clearly not expecting that question. He looks oddly relieved.

"I heard from a few other students about it," I continue, "About you teaching them your fifth year. I've tried a few times, but mine are always flops. Could you… could me show me yours? Your patronus, I mean."

"I – I suppose," Potter says with a little surprised grin. "Erm – here," he flourishes his wand, muttering Expecto Patronum. A silvery, misty wisp plumes from the tip, dancing in the air like smoke and slowly taking the form of a full-bodied stag, antlers and all.

"Whoa," I breathe, taken for a moment by surprise. It's real surprise – real awe. Not many Death Eaters can cast a Patronus – not even some of the older, more experienced ones like Roining and Dolohov. Severus is the only one that I know for a fact can cast one, though I've never seen his. "A stag?"

"It was my father's," he says softly, his voice barely higher than a whisper. The stag moves smoothly through the air, turning its long head to stare back at us for a moment before seeming to disappear in the wind.

"It's beautiful," I say truthfully, still staring at the spot where it vanished. I hate myself for it, but I'm impressed. As hard as I've tried, I still can't cast a full-bodied Patronus. I hate him for it, too. I try to make him feel it, feel the waves of loathe that roll from me. How can he cast a Patronus?

Potter is silent, apparently oblivious to the waves of loathe, stuffing his wand back in his robes and staring out over the lake.

"To be honest, I wasn't expecting you to ask me that," he admits suddenly, glancing over at me with a small smile. "About the Patronus, I mean."

"What were you expecting me to ask about?" I ask, smiling softly. The smile feels weird on my lips. I'm used to smiling widely, greeting people with a beam and laughing heartily. That's how Remy has always been – wide smile, friendly laugh, full of compliments and grins. This feels muted somehow, but more concentrated. Like instead of having to smile on all sides, I only have to smile on one now.

"Voldemort, mostly," he answers, a note of bitterness coloring his voice. I almost flinch at His name and have to keep the snarl from reaching my face. Such arrogance, throwing His name around like it's any old Muggle name. "And – y'know… the Department of Mysteries."

"Well that's stupid," I snort, looking out over the lake to hide the flash of anger in my eyes. I almost forgot about the Department of Mysteries. But how could I? We lost many Death Eaters during the battle. Too many.

I can feel his eyes on me, burning with curiosity. I smile inwardly. I intrigue him; Audra was right. I do have a leg up on the other girls, even if I'm not exactly looking for the same sort of shallow attention they are. "If you wanted to talk about it, you'd be telling the story every night in the common room. You… you don't much like the spotlight, do you?"

Potter gives a short, barking laugh. "How could you tell?"

I laugh a little, shaking my head. "It's sort of obvious – at least, to anyone that's got half a brain. Which I guess rules out most people nowadays. They've all lost their minds to panic.

"Anyway," I shift my weight, turning to look at him, "Enough of that. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Potter. I mean, other than all that 'Boy Who Lived,' 'Chosen One' rubbish."