He stared at his hands, hanging limply from his wrists, as if the weight of the blood on them made them impossible to lift. He had killed someone, taken something that he could not replace, no matter how much money he spent. He, Draco Malfoy, had lifted his wand, pointed it directly between the eyes of another human being, and in the space between one heartbeat and the next and a flash of green light, those eyes went from full, of fear and pain and hostility, desperation and pleading and defiance, to a cold and empty accusation. You killed me, the dead eyes said, and Draco's world had changed.

He hadn't known the man. It had come down to auror's robes against a dark hooded robe and a mask; a clash of costumes more than ideals, Draco thought bitterly.

Had the auror had a family? A pretty girl who was waiting for him to come home and receive her kisses? Had he had a choice? Lucky sod, even if he was dead now. Draco had been handed a robe and told what to do, and it would happen again. He'd once again look into dead eyes and see a reflection of himself, a seventeen year old boy who felt older than ancient, weary and scared and knowing he was alive only because he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He'd felt important, attending Death Eater meetings. He'd met Voldemort, who had stroked Draco's ego outrageously and said everything that Draco wanted to hear; Lucius would be freed from Azkaban, Narcissa's tears would end, and the world would be a better place, thanks to Draco's efforts. Only, it had all gone wrong. His father had come out of Azkaban, but he'd been different. He didn't respond to questions, and he barely looked at his wife and son, simply obeyed orders with a cold and glazed expression that was not at all the father that Draco knew and idolized. Narcissa's tears had dried, but only, it seemed, because she had cried them all, and was left too empty to feel. She had stopped drifting through the Manor like a ghost of happiness past, but only to remain in her bed, waited on by the house elves as she hid under the covers and seemed to wait for death to take her.

As for Draco, he had damned himself. From earliest childhood, he had been taught about pragmatism, about loyalty to your interests once you committed yourself, about what ideals were worthwhile and which had to be stamped out. He had followed his father's course full measure, and now it seemed that his course was set, fixed and unchangeable. Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater, and would remain one until some suitably Gryffindoric auror was luckier or faster, and Draco was the one left to fall lifeless to the ground.

He wouldn't make it easy for them. Maybe it made him the soulless, godless monster that Potter's redheaded minion had called him on more than one occasion, in their tense sixth year at Hogwarts, but Draco Malfoy was not going to roll over and die to suit the forces of truth and light. He would fight, and he would kill, because there was one cause he was devoted to above all others, and that was keeping his own skin intact.

"Mister Malfoy, what a pleasant surprise," said a voice that almost made him jump out of his skin. Draco looked up to see Dumbledore twinkling at him, and leapt to his feet. "No, no, don't get up. If you wish to continue in solitude, I will leave."

Draco looked at him suspiciously. "What, no comment on how I'm not supposed to be here? Or don't you remember that I finished school last year?"

"I do remember, Mister Malfoy," the old fool said serenely, as if Draco had not just blatantly implied the onset of senility. "I also remember, which you may not, that in your fourth year I said that all persons present at the time would be welcome back at Hogwarts, if they should choose to come."

"Well, that's bloody stupid of you. What's to stop a Death Eater from smiling and coming in, just to stab you in the back and throw the doors open to the rest of them?" Draco snorted and rolled his eyes, amazed that the old man had lived so long if he was so thoroughly foolish as to place unwarranted faith in bad people.

Dumbledore simply continued to smile gently. "Is that what you plan to do, then, Draco?"

"What? No!" Draco stood abruptly and kicked at a rock poking out of the ground. He had no idea why he was here, really, only that he'd needed solitude, and peace, and the last place he could remember having either was here, a deserted patch of grass surrounded by trees, which some unknown soul had graced with a wrought iron bench. It didn't have flowers, or a view of the lake, or anything else to make it special, so Draco could not have said why it was so. He'd been coming here since his fourth year, when everything had changed. No one else had ever intruded on him here, and he'd never, even at his most desperate for a few private hours in which to explore the bodies of the girls willing to take their clothes off for him, brought anyone else here.

"Then, perhaps, if you don't mind, I will share your most excellent bench," said Dumbledore, suiting actions to words. "I am, after all, an old man, and I find that these days I appreciate any chance to rest."

Draco didn’t say anything, just crossed his arms and sat back down, scowling. After a few moments, he said, "Don't you have anything better to do than sit around with soulless Death Eater scum?"

He chuckled, actually chuckled, blue eyes shining from behind his shaggy eyebrows as he said, "Mister Weasley does have a decided flair for a turn of phrase, doesn't he? And yet..." He turned away from Draco, staring at the boughs of a pine tree as if its needles contained the answer, if only he could see through them. "And yet, perhaps he does not know, as I do, that his course is not set in stone. It is always possible to change, and I... I have a great deal of hope that Mister Weasley will learn the error of clinging to hate that has been learned from the cradle."

"Some things can't be changed," Draco muttered, staring again at his hands. It was funny, how he could see blood on them, even though he had never caused any to be shed. Perhaps he was going insane, and then he would be like his aunt Bella, laughing as she killed men that she called by names twenty years gone.

Draco shuddered, but Dumbledore seemed not to notice as he said, "Perhaps, Mister Malfoy, but sometimes, things could be changed if only we could open our eyes and see the choices available."

"What choices?" Draco said bitterly. "Is this the point where I'm supposed to leap up and volunteer to carry Potter's banner, heroically throwing myself in front of a curse for the greater good of the boy-who-keeps-living? Renounce my fortune and heritage in order to be alone and miserable, like Snape? Would a pretty girl weep for me if I fight against everything I believed in and get myself killed?"

Dumbledore did not flinch in the slightest at Draco's outburst, just patted his hand, like he was a sodding first year confused by the moving staircases, and said, "Your choices are yours to make, Mister Malfoy. I would no more ask you to join Mister Potter than I would ask him to join you."

He turned then, his eyes boring into Draco's, making the younger man feel like he had no secrets left, and yet was somehow not found wanting. "No, Draco, it is up to you to look within your own soul and find what you believe is worth fighting for. What do you want to do with the gift of life, while you possess it? What is precious enough to you that is worth taking the life of another in order to protect it?"

"Nothing," said Draco, his eyes blank as he once again saw the auror falling. "Nothing except my own life."

"Perhaps, then, I should leave you to contemplate how best to protect that life, and to gain something more, something which makes you feel in your soul that that life is worthwhile." Dumbledore stood, straightening his robe before walking towards the small break in the trees that he had come from. "Just remember, you will continue to be welcome at Hogwarts, should you need to come."

"Wait!" Draco wasn't even sure why he'd called out, just that he had had to. Now, with Dumbledore looking at him quizzically, he wondered what it was he wanted to say, even as his mouth formed words. "Why-- How did you know I was here?"

Dumbledore smiled gently, although Draco wasn't altogether sure he trusted the particular twinkle in the old man's eye as he said, "I do watch my students, young Malfoy. You might be interested in knowing that I am not the only one who knows of your love for this spot... Although Miss Weasley eventually decided against interrupting your thoughts."

Something jumped inside Draco, but long habit kept his demeanor casual as he said, "Probably wanted to turn me over to the Ministry but didn't have the guts to carry through."

"If there is one thing that Miss Weasley does not lack, it is courage... But I think you knew that." Draco definitely didn't trust that twinkle, which implied that someone besides the two of them knew about the kiss the girl had surprised him with before the Hogwarts Express had delivered him to King's Cross station for the final time.

He hadn't thought, then, that there was any future in it, except perhaps the possibility of sparing her life and keeping her for his own, as Mulciber had done with a muggleborn girl that was much too young for the things she was made to do. Perhaps... Perhaps, there might be a pretty girl for him, who would never have to weep, because maybe, just maybe, his path wasn't set into stone after all.
The End.
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