Disclaimer: If I owned anything from Harry Potter, do you really think I'd share?
Author's Notes: This was written at work, so it's a bit unpolished. I'm far too lazy to do much tweaking now.
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Time suspended as the world was tipped off balance and the reactions were immediate. Heads snapped to attention, pinning down the only two that remained unaffected. Silence stretched for what could have been an eternity or the space of a breath.
Then the spell was broken.
A nasty sneer curled his lip, morphing his face into something demonic. His eyes held a dangerous glint, like light reflected off the cold steel of a blade. "What is this, Potter?" he spat viciously.
Harry's eyes wanted to slide off the sharp glare piercing into him, but he dared not. With a deceptively casual roll of his shoulders, he tried to hide his discomfort behind sarcasm. "It's my hand, Malfoy," the name rolling off his tongue in a mocking drawl. "It's customary to shake it. People normally do that when greeting a friend or to show that there's no hard feelings."
"We're not friends," Malfoy hissed as though the mere thought of being friends with Harry was the very definition of sin. Not that a Malfoy has any say in what should be considered moral.
Harry struggled not to squirm, uncomfortable with the ungodly amount of attention they were drawing. Don't they have lives of their own to start? "Even so, being the last day of school and all, I thought-"
"You thought what? That we could shake hands and become the best of mates? Just like that?"
"No, I-"
"Or is this your twisted sense of morals and duty as the Golden Boy of Gryffindor? Should I be falling over my feet in gratitude for your friendship? Am I to be redeemed? I think not. I'd kiss a dementor before I need you to help me 'see the light.' Don't waste your efforts on overtures where they're not welcome."
Harry knew that if he was to stand his ground, he couldn't let Malfoy bait him. He willed his ears not to go pink with the effort of clenching his jaw as not to grind his teeth to dust. "Why?" he asked, but he could have meant a thousand things. Why can't we be friends? Why must we always fight? Why do you hate me? Why must you be such a bloody bastard?
Malfoy didn't seem to need an elaboration. Though nothing was different with his outward appearance, something had changed. The Brat Prince of Slytherin radiated a new intensity that was nearly palpable.
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He wasn't mad so much as he was frustrated. Frustrated - nearly to the point of hair wrenching - that he had to wait seven years for this gesture to be returned. Seven years of a rivalry built on traded taunts in the halls, fierce competition over Cups, and every dirty little trick and it's corresponding retaliation. He wasn't truly angry until he thought of the moment this one echoed, when Harry bloody Potter rejected Draco Malfoy in favor of that pathetic sycophant, Weasel. It was what made an old family feud more personal and the catalyst to his relationship with the Boy-Who-Couldn't-Let-Alone-And-Die. It all went down hill from there, from Potter befriending yet another simpering lowlife - a self-important Mudblood, for Merlin's sake, with her nose permanently lodged in a book - to his father's life sentence in Azkaban.
It was their very last day as students on these school grounds where they had been an ever present fixture in each other's life for so long. Yet it was now that Potter presented his hand as if it was a natural courtesy they exchanged every day. It wouldn't be the first time, for being captains of their respective quidditch teams called for a show of sportsmanship, but even then they glared maliciously as they attempted to crush each other's hand. It was blasphemous to offer it so freely now, as if it were a simple task to sever seven years of cultivated fury, resentment, and every other complicated emotion they regarded one another on a daily basis.
The Golden Boy still stood there, stubbornly keeping his hand between them like all he needed was to practice the patience he so rarely displayed for Draco to acquiesce. Potter would be forced to wait some time yet if he was foolish enough to hope, and so Draco set out to dissuade him. He was well aware that he was a near perfect reflection of his father. Having grown up emulating Lucius, he knew his eyes were capable of the same cold fury.
"Why?"
Flexing his hands so as not to claw out Potter's ridiculously green eyes, Draco felt something within him ignite. His entire frame imperceptibly trembled with the force of outrage. Out of everyone, Harry Potter - sodding Hero of the Wizarding World - should understand this.
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He may have only been imagining it, but Harry could swear there were waves of energy coming from Malfoy. His eyes were no longer the usual chilled, cutting metal, but burning brightly. There was a slight shakiness to his voice when the blonde Slytherin whispered fiercely, "Because nothing is that easy."
And then he remembered...
A condemned man who escaped the dementors twice, but was never really free.
A feared villain who split his soul to live after death, but was never really alive.
A proud boy who was trained from birth to serve the Dark Arts, but never really believed in the cause.
Malfoy whirled about on his heel, striding away in his customary haughty demeanor. Harry felt rooted to the spot, gaze hopelessly drawn to the retreating back of his childhood rival. It took several minutes for him to register that there were indeed voices trying to gain his attention.
"Don't listen to him, Harry," Hermione patted his shoulder in what she probably presumed to be a comforting manner.
"I don't even know why you bothered, mate. It's bloody Malfoy!" Ron threw a shrewd look in the direction the Slytherin had disappeared. It seemed rather pointless in the aftermath of what had just transpired. As much as Harry appreciated Ron's companionship, sometimes he just didn't get it. He clutched grudges too tightly, despite how tiresome they were fairly quick to grow. Perhaps Harry held on to weathering grudges too in some desperate attempt to maintain an ill-conceived sense of normalcy.
He remembered that first day at Hogwarts, when he had let the prejudices of others sway his choices. He never fully realized how easily he was manipulated by such poorly founded contempt. All he had to hear was that all Slytherins were Dark Wizards from a boy he hardly knew and he agreed. He passed judgment on an entire group - and knew he didn't want to be included in it - based solely on a couple of brief encounters with one Slytherin. Things were easier then, when they were cut so clearly in black and white. It felt safe somehow, to be ignorant to the doubt that whispered of how the Light's cause may not be so different from what they were fighting against. Afterall, both sides were purging what they considered to be impure.
Malf- no, Draco had rejected him, but he should have anticipated that. No, it wouldn't be easy, but that never stopped him from trying before.