Thanks to TwistedBeauty for the beta on this one :)
There is a fine line between lust and hatred; they toed it for years. Each one, at times, threaten to step across though always stopped short of actually making the leap. Always, that is, until fourth year; that was the year everything changed for Draco Malfoy.
He always knew he found boys attractive, he just figured it was something every boy faced but just didn't talk about. He also knew he found Harry Potter aesthetically pleasing; it was not something he'd admit out loud, even under threat of physical torture. It was one thing for Potter's face to surface during a good wank and entirely another for him to actually verbalize his carnal desires.
So he ignored his bodily response to the boy, at least until he was tucked safely in his dungeon bed with the curtains drawn tight and silencing spells firmly in place. In his bed he could imagine that his hand had never been refused first year. In his bed he and Harry had been friends; he'd been the one to help Harry through all his victories over the years.
During these fantasies he always imagined that he and Harry had slowly pushed the boundaries of their friendship, until "friends" couldn't even begin to describe what they were to each other. At first he hated the direction his mind took at night; so soft and weak to need or even want another person that intimately. Contrary to the belief of most of the rest of the world, he knew that sex itself was not an intimate act. Intimacy came in many forms but couldn't be achieved by physical contact alone. It was with great disgust that he realized that in his alternate world he and Harry never fucked, they made love.
In his bed, the name Potter never entered his mind or left his lips; it was always Harry, that was the name that escaped him with a moan when he came. Slowly he adapted to those feelings, those (he would not admit to actually wanting the boy) meanderings. He accepted them for the flight of fancy they were and indulged in them. Why shouldn't he? It wasn't as if anyone would ever know how vulnerable he was in the dark of night behind the veil of his curtains.
Dawn was bittersweet for him; on one hand everything was normal again. He strutted around with his patented sneer in place, mocking Potter and his great band of do-gooders and thumbing his nose at pretty much everyone outside his inner circle; it was familiar, it was nice, it was comfortable. On the other hand, he had to leave his sanctuary, the one place he felt truly understood, even if it was fabricated. He had to leave his Harry and face the Potter that couldn't even stand to look at him without wincing in barely disguised disgust.
That was his life for the better part of his fourth year; he lived it resolutely until the night after the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. That night was the first time Draco crossed the line and pulled Potter right along with him; that was the night his life was irrevocably altered and even if Potter himself wasn't aware of it, the dynamics of their relationship would never be the same.
It all started with his need to watch the boy in action; of course as far as his cronies were concerned he was only there to witness failure. Obviously the downfall of the Golden Boy couldn't happen without him being there to enjoy it. In truth he just wanted to be there, to be a part of it all, even if he was standing on the sidelines. If he had delved a little deeper into his subconscious he might have realized that he also wanted to be present in case anything went wrong, just in case the hero needed saving for once; this was something he wasn't aware at the time.
He stuck to the shadows; he wanted to remain as invisible as possible, with his unmistakable blond locks that was no small feat. He'd purposely left Crabbe and Goyle behind, with those goons lumbering around he'd never have been able to go unnoticed. The ever present tug low in his gut presented itself when Potter stepped up to the edge. Lust that was undeniable, though nicely managed and hidden behind his cool façade, wasn't what forced him to face the reality of his predicament; no, that moment came a little over an hour later.
He watched as one by one the contestants emerged from the dark waters. Slowly everyone but Potter surfaced and was attended to by friends and professors. He knew the moment Fleur came up without what was "hers" that Potter was in trouble. His hero complex wouldn't allow him to leave anyone behind and Draco silently cursed him for it. Of course Potter wouldn't understand his duties, the responsibility that had been placed on him at birth. They were duties that did not include drowning in some stupid tournament so that ole Voldie could take over not only the wizarding world, but the Muggle world as well.
He watched as riveted as the rest of the crowd for the remaining wizard to surface, though for different reasons. The relief that washed over him at the first sight of the other boy's head coming out of the water was his wake up call.
He wasn't concerned about Voldemort; he wasn't worried that he was losing the only real competition he had in his daily life, and he wasn't worried about who would challenge him if Potter had drowned. None of this mattered; what was important was that he didn't lose his Harry, that he didn't lose the chance to own the beautiful boy that had held his attention for so long. He didn't just fantasize about Potter, he wanted Harry, and he was bloody pissed that the wanker had taken a risk like that.
A/N: So I'm back and am starting some more chapters for "Living Again", but this is something that I posted a few other places a while back and I'm working on this now as well, so I thought I'd post it here too.