Draco lay awake in the narrow bed in the smaller bedroom. He restlessly rolled on one side then another, but sleep seemed to have deserted him that night. He lit his wand and pointed its beam around to inspect the room. He guessed that he was probably in a boy's bedroom, judging by the simplicity of the decorum. The narrow bed suited Draco perfectly, but would have been uncomfortable for an adult. Wormtail had slept there too, but he was no ordinary man after all.
The room was rather bare, and it definitely lacked any kind of personal touch to it. It looked like its former occupant spent little time there. Boys, especially teens, tended to personalize their own bedrooms according to their tastes, creating with the place a sort of emotional bound. In contrast, the room had the air of having been an unpleasant place for its owner. The only sign left of a human presence were three small letters carved in a lower corner of the head of the bed: HBP. Draco stared at them curiously, wondering about their possible meaning. He soon gave up, realizing the game was both useless and impossible because they could mean nearly anything.
He tried once again to close his eyes, wishing with all his strength for a dreamless sleep. It was a vain hope, as the memory of his first meeting with Death haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, the scene on the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower kept repeating itself in his mind's eye. He could see the jet of green light leave the end of Snape's wand, hitting Dumbledore squarely in the chest. He could clearly see, like he was watching the whole scene in that same moment, Dumbledore being blasted into the air and then falling slowly backwards, like an oversized rag doll, over the battlements and out into the darkness below. He could remember every detail of that night, among which the Dark Mark stood prominently. He had seen it gleaming deadly in the sky, and remembered the shivers its sight had sent along its spine.
It had not been the first time he had seen it. The first time happened just two years before, at the Quidditch World Cup, but then he had felt nothing for it. The Mark had been something meaningless to him, something that did not concern him at all. But now... now it was different, now that he had one branded in his own left forearm, just like his father. His father. Did he really want to be like his father? He had been called Lucius's son so many times since his childhood, that he had grown up taking it for granted that he was going to follow his father's steps.
"You are not a killer," Dumbledore had said. "I wonder if your heart has been really in it," he had suggested.
Oh, Dumbledore was right. He was not a killer or probably not yet. "And that's what makes all the difference between my father and me," Draco mused.
Surely his father would not have had a second of hesitation when in his place. In spite of the mortal danger he and his family had been in, he had not been able to raise his wand against a disarmed man. He kept thinking about his conversation with Dumbledore, the man's calm smile contrasting with his own nervousness, his fear that the other Death Eaters might not come and, even stranger, he remembered the strange sense of comfort and encouragement he had felt at Dumbledore's unexpected praise.
Praise. What a rare thing praise had been for him. For as much as he tried, he could not remember a single word of praise he had ever received from his father; a father who had never had a kind word for his son, a father who had derided him for his defeats, a father who had raised a child just to be the spitting image of himself.
"Enough!" he shouted annoyed, and jumped out of bed.
He desperately needed some distraction to block the unpleasant memories. He headed to the door believing that might help to calm his nerves a little. He went down the narrow staircase and opened the hidden door that led to the tiny sitting room below. The walls were completely covered in books, and the dim light cast by a candle-filled lamp that was hanging from the ceiling was too weak to illuminate more than a pool beneath it, giving the room the feeling of a dark padded cell. Draco headed to a second hidden door he had been told led to a small kitchen.
"Insomnia?" a cold voice asked, making Draco jump. He gave an alarmed look around the dark room, and suddenly realized he was not alone as he thought. There was somebody sitting in an old armchair.
"Oh. It's you, sir," he said, feeling a pang of guilt for the way he had treated Snape that year. He now felt a fool to have even suspected Snape wanted to steal his glory. He had always treated him with some respect, almost affection after all.
"I'm not surprised you can't sleep. Was it your first death?" Snape asked giving the boy a knowing look.
"Yes, sir. I had never seen anyone die before," Draco whispered, staring intensely at his former teacher.
"I know it can be disturbing the first time. But don't worry, you'll soon get used to even that," Snape said conversationally. Draco gulped hard at the evident hint at what a Death Eater's life would be like.
"Well, it's not that," Draco said and paused, uncertain if he could go on.
"Then what?" Snape asked in his silky voice. He knew there was something troubling the boy, because it was probably the same thing that was tormenting him as well. Maybe talking it through was the only way to alleviate the weight that was oppressing them both.
"Dumbledore talked to me before you and the others arrived, and now his words haunt me," Draco said in rush, doubting he would have been able to end his sentence if he had stopped to breathe.
"Yes, they tend to do that," Snape whispered as one corner of his thin lips curled into a half-smile. For a moment he had not realized he had talked about Dumbledore as if he was still alive, and when he suddenly did it his expression became blank.
"Dumbledore told me he had known I was behind it from the beginning, but didn't say or do anything to stop me. He said that he knew the Dark Lord would have killed me, if he suspected someone knew," Draco said and then his face showed confusion. "Did he really care to protect my family and me after all the trouble we have caused him?"
"Dumbledore was a man who could easily forgive and forget," Snape stated.
"Not really like the Dark Lord, from what I heard," Draco smirked, his nervousness rather lessened from the ease of the conversation. "It's so easy to talk with him, to confide in him. Why the hell haven't I done it before?" Draco realized with surprise. Evidently Snape was trying to make it the easier for both.
"No, Draco. The Dark Lord hardly forgives anything, as you have rightly heard. There's no way out of being in his service, unless you count death as an option," Snape said in a tone that could only be interpreted as bitter resignation. Option ... that was the word that triggered Draco's next sentence.
"He told me I had options. He promised that, if I had gone over to his side, he would have hidden me and protected my father and mother likewise. Was it true? Could he really keep us all that safe? Was I really offered a chance to change my destiny?" Draco burst out the doubts that were tormenting him the most.
"Yes, Draco. He really meant it. The Order of the Phoenix actually has the means to do that. The members of that organization are tied by a bond of solidarity, of a sort of brotherhood, which pushes them to protect anyone in need in every possible way. It's nothing like being a Death Eater, where you have to watch your back constantly," Snape bitterly said, his face hardened in a mixture of hatred and remorse.
"My mother told me she made you swear to complete the mission if I failed. If I had accepted Dumbledore's offer, what would have happened to you?" Draco asked with concern. He now knew he had been an extra burden to the man's double-agent duties.
"I would have had to complete the mission unless if I wanted to live, or else your mother would have had to release me from the vow," Snape whispered, surprised that the boy actually cared about his fate.
"I see," Draco simply answered and looked away.
The sudden realization that his choices had determined the fate of four other people increased the weight on his chest. He probably was not as cold and detached as he had thought to be. That conversation had not given him the comfort he was desperately looking for. He took a seat on the sofa and searched his pockets, wishing some chocolate would have done him good. He found a Chocolate frog and tore the box open, biting angrily at the sweet and chomping it in silence. Yes, chocolate felt good. It was a well known anti-depressive, after all. Then he idly looked at the Famous Witches and Wizards' card within. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Albus Dumbledore's face smiling at him. He stood up abruptly, as if an electric charge had stricken him from his seat. He took a few quick steps towards the rickety table, abandoned the sweet box and card on it, and turned on his heels toward the door.
"Goodnight, sir," he said quickly before rushing upstairs.