AN 03/20/16: You didn't see this update coming, did you? Yeah, neither did I. During the last two years I gave up on this story so many times, it's a miracle I haven't deleted it yet. But (and there is a but) this was my first English story and that made it incredibly hard to fully let it go. It didn't help that I still really liked the idea the whole fic is based on. So last week I pretty much randomly decided to give Hocdu another chance.

I planned on writing the fifth chapter, reread the first one and realised very, very quickly that I would have to rewrite it completely. This was after all my first English story and...well. It really shows. So here I am, back with the new first chapter. I'm not sure if any of you guys are still around to see this and I can hardly expect you to, but if you are I want to thank you so much for having given this story a chance back in 2013 and I hope these new improvements will at least make up a little for the...oh god...2 year waiting period? *hiding beneath her blanket and shivering in horror at her own cruelty*

I'm serious guys, thank you. Every single one of you who read, reviewed, favourited and or followed this story. You have no idea how incredible it feels that even after all this time some people still read my work.

A special shout-out goes to fetching-trekky, teedum and cztelnik for your kind reviews (even if this thank you note comes waaaaaay too late).

I don't think anything can really make up for those years of silence, so I'll just shut up now and leave you with the new and hopefully improved version of How our choices define us.

Warnings:

—SLASH (homosexual main pairing)

—AU after HBP

—Canon-typical violence and torture (aka a very liberal use of Cruciatus curses from certain Dark Lords *cough*)

—Mentions of Canon-typical child abuse

—Occasional cussing

—Certain sexual situations (and by that I mean kissing and only kissing) where the consent is a bit shady/might be considered dubious. I'll try to explain this one better without giving away some crucial plot points: there are a few scenes where two characters kiss each other while their attraction is enhanced by a magical means. Neither those two characters nor an uninvolved third party have used/consumed/whatever said magical means on purpose.

English is not my native language. I apologise for any mistakes in advance.

I will put any necessary warnings pertaining only a specific chapter at the beginning of said chapter. Please read those warnings to avoid being confronted with content you might not be comfortable with.

Pairings:

—AdrianxHarry

—MarcusxHarry

—maybe MarcusxHarryxAdrian

(Expect other homo- and heterosexual side pairings)

How our choices define us

by MirrorShard

Chapter 1 Jaded

They are not just children, Harry. They are also their parents heirs. In our world that means something, whether we like to acknowledge it or not.

—Ron Weasley

Harry Potter hated arguments.

It didn't matter if they were loud and emotional, driven by yelled profanities and righteous anger, or deceptively quiet like a simmering caldron, seconds before the inevitable explosion. Both were equally dangerous in their own right and, as far as Harry was concerned at least, both were a pointless waste of time, resources and energy.

So, really, if one were to take all these facts into consideration it was only logical for Harry to despise them as much as he did. In fact his disregard for the uncomfortable and usually quite painful confrontations was nothing short of reasonable.

Anyone could have told you that.

(There was also the widely unacknowledged theory of a certain brilliant muggleborn witch, who suspected that growing up in an unstable, abusive and violent environment might have something to do with this particular quirk of Harry Potter—but, of course, nobody talked about that.)

But all theories and rationalisations aside, everything came down to the simple fact that Harry Potter absolutely hated arguments. As a matter of fact the only thing he hated even more was having an argument with his two best friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley.

Running his fingers through his thick, black hair—and ignoring how he messed it up even more than usual in the process—Harry grimaced as he recalled the last time the three of them had had a fight of this magnitude back in their fourth year.

It hadn't been pretty.

That was the problem with their close friendship; they tended to make allowances for each other all the time and only when they disagreed about something big, something fundamental did things ever come to a head.

Something like his 'appalling disregard for his own safety'.

Which meant that they rarely got into a serious fight, but when they did, they clashed. Violently so.

Harry leaned his head against the window of his compartment and stared blearily at the packed platform nine and three-quarters. Had the circumstances been different, the sight of worried mothers, scolding fathers and crying siblings might have filled him with the sort of bitter melancholy only an orphan could truly understand. An incomprehensible sensation of losing something you don't remember owning in the first place.

As it was though Harry was simply too tired to care about all those broken childhood dreams he would never be able to fulfil. Too tired even to resent the world for what it had taken from him, yet handed away so freely to everyone else. It was a dangerous train of thought and Harry knew better than to acknowledge them in front of anyone but his most trusted companions.

His currently very much absent companions. Damn it, he hated arguing with his friends.

For a moment Harry contemplated searching for them—the train was only so long after all—but he was in no shape to withstand another argument, never mind win one. Their talk would have to wait and, considering they had about nine months of being locked away in the same castle to look forward to, Harry was in no particular hurry. Hermione and Ron weren't going anywhere—nor was he, for that matter.

Besides after the excitement of the last couple of weeks he had definitely earned a few hours of rest. Thanks to the dubious care his relatives tended to bestow upon him, Harry had never looked forward to the summer holidays the way other children did. But this year they had been especially taxing—and for once it truly hadn't been the Dursley's fault.

Of course that might have something to do with the fact that he had barely seen them, having left Privet Drive the second the Order of the Phoenix had found a way to bring him to the Headquarters that they deemed save. Considering that two people had lost their lives because of their ridiculous scheme Harry was reluctant to trust their judgement.

Had he known that surviving their inane plan would lead to him becoming an unofficial prisoner in his late godfather's ancestral home and being forced to fight for his most basic human rights on a daily basis, Harry might have taken his chances with the Death Eaters instead. But that was the wisdom of hindsight for you.

In all honesty, it was a miracle bordering on divine intervention that he had even been graciously allowed to return to Hogwarts. Never mind that he was seventeen and a legal adult, perfectly capable of making his own decisions, as far as the Magical World was concerned. Of course he was Harry Potter and Harry Potter always was the exception of the rule when it suited them, wasn't he?

On some level Harry understood his friends' concern and even appreciated it—not that he would ever admit that out loud, there was no need to encourage their protective urges after all. He knew that Hogwarts would be different this year, hell, everybody knew that.

Albus Dumbledore had died, murdered by Severus Snape of all people. Not that people hadn't joked about it in passing, but nobody had thought it would actually happen. The mere idea of Hogwarts without the ever-twinkling headmaster was- inconceivable, really.

And no matter how much the fall of his mentor still haunted Harry at night—"Severus, please!", green, flash, silence—Professor Dumbledore's death wasn't as devastating as what his ending stood for. What it meant.

Voldemort was ready. His strongest opponent, thought to be almost untouchable by many, had been defeated. His most dangerous servants had recovered in body, although most likely not in mind, from the damage Azkaban had caused them. The resistance within the woefully unprepared ministry was weak and Harry personally suspected it would be a matter of mere weeks until the elected government would fall.

Once that happened, Voldemort would be free to concentrate on the only obstacle left to his reign, the one stronghold the Order of the Phoenix had diligently defended in the wake of their leader's loss: Hogwarts.

Well, Harry Potter and Hogwarts.

No, Harry held no illusions about the state his beloved school, his home, would be in this year. Attending Hogwarts had never been without risks, death traps, Basilisks, deranged professors and Quidditch games had taught him that lesson early on. But he knew without a shred of doubt that this year everything would change.

This year Hogwarts would turn into the battle ground everyone liked to pretend it could never be. It would be ugly. It would be bloody. People—children—would probably die. An escalation, sooner or later, depending on Voldemort's success on the ministry front, was unavoidable.

Harry was well-aware of all these things and had been even before the more opinionated Order members had heard of his plans to return and started their protests. He didn't need Madeye Moody reminding him of the Death Eater invasion and the headmaster's subsequent death every god damn minute—and he appreciated it even less.

He didn't need Ron's comments regarding the evilness of Slytherins either, but at least those helped all of them remember that not everything had changed. Some things were still the same, they were still the same, and no matter how small and insignificant they seemed, Harry had learned to cherish those last remains of the children they used to be.

But it didn't matter. In the end nobody had been able to change his mind, though certainly not for lack of trying. Harry wanted to go to Hogwarts and nothing was going to stop him from doing just that. He had convinced the Sorting Hat to put him into Gryffindor when he was eleven, he was not going to let a bunch of self-proclaimed fighters of justice push him around now that he was older, thank you very much.

To say the Order hadn't been happy with his decision was like stating that Moody had a scar or two. And when logic and rational arguments couldn't move him, certain members had started to up their game.

Harry still wasn't sure why they thought that telling him about how his parents would be disappointed in him and that he was sullying Lily's sacrifice would in any way endear them to him—and quite frankly he had no desire to find out.

Things got so bad that Harry refused to stay in the same room with anyone unless he was accompanied by Hermione or one of the Weasleys. Perhaps he was becoming a tad paranoid, barely escaping assassination attempts on his life from the tender age of one tended to have that effect, but Harry wasn't the open child he used to be.

Trust was not something to be given lightly when you were known as the saviour of the Wizarding World. And the enemy of your enemy wasn't so much your friend as a potential foe you couldn't afford to offend.

Rationally Harry knew that he had very little to fear from Madeye and his men, especially when compared to what his fate at the hands of Death Eaters would look like. They didn't want to kill him or torture him after all, nor did they plan on torturing his friends into insanity to ensure his compliance. He knew that. But rationality had always been more Hermione's forte. Harry's instincts were telling him to be wary of the Order and he trusted his instincts.

They might worry about his safety, might even think him too young to fully understand the seriousness of war. And while Harry and Ron relished in pointing out that they had fought Voldemort for years without adults around to shelter and protect them, those fights had only been small-scale attacks. None of their adventures had prepared them for the realities of a civil war. They would never be prepared. But that didn't mean that they wouldn't give their best to survive it anyways.

The real problem wasn't that the adults didn't know what they were talking about, it was that he couldn't trust their motives. None of these men and women, hardened by pain and grief from the first war, cared about Harry as a person. To them he was a figurehead, a symbol. The Boy-Who-Lived. They cared about his welfare, but only to the extent that he would still be able to do his job, pull off the impossible and defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort.

And Harry didn't blame them. He really didn't. He wasn't bitter—except maybe a little, because knowledge did not soothe pain, the way reason could not justify all sacrifices—he was just honest.

Most of these people didn't even know him. Oh, they knew of him, but they weren't his friends or family or even acquaintances, and as such their interest in him did not venture far beyond self-preservation and an absent-minded curiosity. Besides they had their own loved ones to worry about. Harry could hardly condemn them for that.

He could however fear the measures they would be willing to take to ensure Voldemort's demise. He hadn't missed the rising tension in the headquarters, hadn't missed that Moody's grumbled words that used to be warnings had begun to sound suspiciously like threats. And he certainly hadn't missed the changes in the command structure.

With their revered leader lost, most had turned to the seemingly most reasonable replacement: Madeye Moody. No one could doubt his abilities, nor his dedication to the light side. As a strong second came Kingsley Shacklebolt who had the calm air of a competent leader that Moody was so thoroughly lacking.

They were good men and capable fighters. But they were also more radical than Dumbledore had ever been and determined to end the war—by any means necessary. Harry could understand the sentiment, but he wasn't as sure about their methods as he would have liked.

All that 'the end justifies the means' talk didn't sit well with him. Particularly since the fact that he wasn't following their advice like a lost puppy seemed to gradually move him from the 'asset' to the 'obstacle' category. Harry had witnessed Moody dealing with an obstacle once, he had no desire to do it ever again.

He didn't want to know how far the Order would be willing to go to ensure their victory and being hidden away in a safe house where they would be in full control of him seemed like the surest way to find out.

No, Harry preferred to take his chances at Hogwarts where the lines between friends and enemies had already been drawn in the sand years ago. Besides what good would it do for him to be locked away and trained until Moody deemed him ready to fulfil the damned prophecy? What would be left of the world by the time he might match Voldemort in magic and skill, should that moment ever occur?

Harry feared the answers to those questions. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was reckless, maybe he was risking the fate of the entire world just to stand by his friends' side in a fight they were doomed to lose, but Harry didn't care.

He had loved Dumbledore, had looked up to the man as a guide and mentor, but Harry wasn't like him. He didn't believe in ideals and greater goods. He believed in his friends and he would rather die by their side, protecting them, than take the chance of losing them while he was busy playing hero. He had chosen them over everyone else and he would do it again.

It was a cruel choice, a selfish one even, but then the Slytherin traits had always been so much stronger in Harry than in any other Gryffindor. It caused his light to shine brighter, even as the path it illuminated twisted and turned.

He couldn't be sure, but Harry suspected his friends knew those things, knew more about his motivations than they led on. That the inevitable fight over Hogwarts was coming closer with each passing day was obvious to anyone—it was a miracle so many families still sent their children there, though the wards were admittedly more secure than anything their homes would have to offer—and Ron and Hermione's anger stemmed from the same fear of losing him that had plagued him in the last few months.

They would have to talk about that, and soon.

But for now Harry decided to enjoy the quiet and get some sleep whilst he still had the chance. Everyone knew that peace didn't last around him for long and something was bound to go wrong soon enough. He had to take what he could get, as usual.

His eyes felt more heavy with every passing minute and with a resigned sigh Harry allowed himself to give into the bone-crushing exhaustion he felt. And despite his whirling thoughts of war and enemies and broken futures he dreamt of flying.

Jaded

Adrian Pucey loved illusions.

It was a good thing really, considering his entire life was built around them. Being raised in a fairly old, but not particularly powerful or outstanding pureblood family and later on—as was expected of him—sorted into Slytherin, Adrian had learned early on how to deceive the world, if only to ensure his own survival.

His reputation as the 'Ravenclaw of Slytherin' was perhaps his first and greatest success to date. It had taken surprisingly little to craft the image of a studious, quiet scholar for himself. Really, the true challenge hadn't so much been getting people to believe the mask he presented them, but staying true to said mask for almost eight years of his life.

Adrian enjoyed playing games as much as the next guy, but there was something exhausting about keeping up the farce day in, day out. Especially around those trice-damned Gryffindors that just begged to be cursed in the back.

But he had stayed true to his mask, always certain that one day his comparably harmless reputation would give him the edge needed to pull the house of Pucey from the shadows of the wizarding world's memory once and for all.

Even as a child Adrian had established himself as somewhat of a protege, intelligent, attentive and talented. Not quite a genius, but promising all the same. His private tutors had never tired of praising him and at Hogwarts he had effortlessly taken the top spot in his year.

But Dumbledore's deep-seated mistrust when it came to talented Slytherins was no secret and so Adrian had learned quickly to keep his head down, avoided any confrontations and stand out nowhere except in his academic records. There was no reason to draw undesirable attention towards himself and more importantly there was nothing to gain from such a move.

Of course his reputation also meant that it had come as a complete surprise for everyone when Adrian Pucey had failed his final year exams. With a record of straight Os and the occasional EE thrown into the mix it had baffled his professors and classmates alike when their star student and been forced to repeat his seventh year.

But even the best sometimes lost their heads during the highly demanding NEWT exams and once the initial shock died down, few people bothered to give him a second glance. His friends however knew very well that Adrian never lost his head, especially not during something as inconsequent as a test. Adrian had been forced to bring His name up to keep them from investigating events that were better left alone.

Still, when the perfect and composed Adrian failed his NEWTs for the second time his professors should have definitely become suspicious. In all honesty, they most likely would have, if not for the incident near the end of the school year. Also known as the unexpected death of Albus Dumbledore. The chaos the devastating loss for the Light had caused had been all Adrian needed to successfully slip into his third seventh year, unnoticed and unquestioned.

The professors were far too occupied with the war looming on their doorstep to care why the clever Slytherin was still at Hogwarts. Not to forget that they would hardly deny a poor, frightened pureblood the protection the school wards offered, now would they?

Adrian's lips twitched as he tried to suppress the smug smirk that desperately wanted to make itself known. It was hardly his fault that the flawless Light was so easily fooled now, was it?

With a practiced aura of superiority and condescendence Adrian undid the laughably simple locking charm and opened the door of his compartment. Of course the compartment wasn't actually his although the Pucey's had the money to buy themselves the whole train, let alone a compartment, should they so desire. Such extreme means usually weren't necessary though, since most children were just too lazy to walk to the end of the train. It helped that this side was considered Slytherin territory and the snakes were well-known for defending what was theirs with lethal viciousness.

Adrian also knew that none of his housemates would dare to sit in this particular compartment without an explicit invitation. He had made sure of that and thankfully, in a house that valued self-preservation, not much was necessary to get the message across.

Which meant whoever had dared to try and lock him out of his own compartment was probably an idiotic Gryffindor or Hufflepuff child or a first year who didn't know the unspoken rules of Hogwarts yet.

Well, Adrian thought with a dark smirk, he was absolutely delighted to teach the kid quite a few of those rules, though the pleasure would most decidedly be one-sided.

It wasn't a first year, Adrian realised the moment he opened the door fully. Still, his guess hadn't been completely off the mark either. But even though he had expected a Gryffindor, Adrian certainly hadn't expected to encounter the Gryffindor.

Harry fucking Potter was sitting in his compartment—and he was sleeping. The idea alone was so absurd that Adrian struggled wrap his mind around what his eyes were so clearly telling him. Slowly, as if he was in a trance, Adrian closed the door and sat on the seat across from Potter, who showed no sign of waking up.

This was unexpected. Most unexpected indeed. Idly playing with his wand the Slytherin took his time to observe the Boy-Who-Lived. He was in no hurry after all.

The boy was pale, with dark circles under his eyes that spoke of short nights and restless dreams. How interesting. Adrian had heard rumours that Potter suffered from nightmares, but he had also heard that the boy was in a secret relationship with four Hufflepuff girls. But it appeared that for once the rumour mill had been correct after all. Adrian feverishly hoped that Parkinson would never learn of this, the girl would be even more unbearable than usually.

Absently he wondered if Dumbledore's murder had anything to do with the boy's sleeping troubles, then discarded the thought as irrelevant. Adrian didn't care about Potter, never mind his nightmares. Well, in a way he did, but it was less caring about the guy and more counting on his death.

Adrian frowned. Sitting here and watching the boys peaceful expression, it felt almost disturbing to think these thoughts, even in the privacy of his own mind. Potter looked so fucking young in that moment that, try as he might, Adrian couldn't fully suppress a sudden sense of unease at wishing the boy harm.

How had this child for the lack of a better word managed to defy the Dark Lord? He looked so small right now, so vulnerable, so easily destroyed. And yet Adrian had to wonder how many people had once shared his thoughts, had fallen victim to Potter's harmless appearance and were now dead or in Azkaban because of it. Underestimating the enemy was dangerous, he knew that. Every Slytherin knew that.

And yet.

Leaning against the back of his seat Adrian gradually allowed himself to relax. It was becoming obvious that Potter would sleep for a while, he might as well use the time to read up on the use of ancient runes in different cultures thorough the sixteenth century.

By now self-study on the most random topics was the only way Adrian could entertain himself—well, the only legal way in any case. Repeating the same year—twice—was many things but interesting definitely wasn't one of them. Of course Adrian could hardly complain. Nobody had forced him to accept this mission and he had known very well what it would entail.

By the time Potter woke up, he had already reached chapter nine and was just pondering a particularly fascinating theory on the different uses of the seven runes of protection. His wand automatically slid into his hand the moment Potter let out a quiet groan for the first time, but Adrian made a show of calmly finishing the paragraph and carefully marking the page before he finally looked up.

"Done playing Sleeping Beauty, Potter?" he smirked.

This was going to be good. He would make sure of it.

The boy sleepily opened his eyes with a small yawn on his lips and met Adrian's cool eyes without hesitation.

It was in that moment that it happened. The one possibility the Order of the Phoenix and the Dark Lord Voldemort in all their scheming and planning had failed to account for. The one flaw in a net of carefully constructed plans that could cause the whole web to unravel.

It was a glitch in the system. A fated mistake that had never been meant to be. Brought forth by the fading power of a broken prophecy and bound by the ties of a destiny that would never be fulfilled.

Because when Adrian Pucey met Harry Potters wide, innocent, green eyes, he saw the most breathtaking illusion he had ever seen.

And Adrian Pucey loved illusions.

What do you think of the improvements? Well, I call them improvements, but they might actually not be all that much better lol. I hope you have a great Sunday and with any luck I'll see you guys next week :)

kisses'n'smarties, ReRe

R&R please!