A Destiny Apart

by Seishuku Skuld

MILD SLASH. Harry and Draco wonder if things could have been different between them.

A Destiny Apart

by Seishuku Skuld (skuldhotohori@yahoo.com)

Series: Harry Potter

Pairing: Harry + Draco

Warnings: light slash/shounen-ai hints, angst galore!

Author's Note: Written for Kelly as part of the Armchair Slash ML's 2002 Secret Santa project. ^_^  This is the first Harry Potter fic I've written, despite being an avid HP slasher for many years.  At any rate, hope you guys enjoy the diversion from my usual anime/manga/game fanfiction. ^_~

Disclaimers: all characters contained herein are intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Warner Bros., Scholastic, and associates.  The author does not profit from the use of these characters.  (Basically, if you try to sue me, I will give you the finger.  And if you tell me stop, I'll give you two.  ^_^)

=======

Harry Potter.

The named lingered in the air for a moment before the chill November wind blew and scattered the remnants of the sound from Draco's lips.

Draco sat in a cushioned chair, staring out the window with a thoughtful smile.  His Transfigurations assignment lay before him untouched, the quill lying across a blank roll of parchment, forgotten for the moment.  Another wisp of wind blew into the room, almost prompting Draco to shut the window.  He would have, save for the fact that the glass was frosted and only with it open could he get a clear view of the Quidditch pitch. 

It was already late in the afternoon, and the sun hung above the horizon casting the sky in a veil of pink, as if almost reluctant to disappear into the oncoming night.  The Gryffindor Quidditch team was out getting the last of its practice before evening fell and the time for dinner approached. 

Draco smiled as he watched the graceful turning and dipping flight of his arch nemesis of six years.  The constant threat of the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who had not dampened his spirits one bit; in fact, these days Harry Potter seemed as energetic and determined as ever, especially when it came to the game of Quidditch.

Draco blinked, coming out of his reverie with a start.  The room he was studying in had already become quite dark, but that didn't seem to matter to him.  He was accustomed to the darkness already.  He smirked, a faint shadow of a smile turning up the curves of his aristocratic lips. 

Harry Potter.

He would have to be satisfied with only watching the young Gryffindor from afar.  That was just fine as far as Draco was concerned.  He sat for another few short moments, before gathering his things, placing them neatly in his book bag.  It would never do for a Malfoy to appear lazy or disorganized; Malfoys always did their business on their own time.  Closing the door behind him, Draco made his way to the Great Hall where his fellow Slytherins and his dinner awaited his arrival.

++++++++

Harry wiped his brow with the sleeve of his uniform.  Despite the cold of winter already having set in, Quidditch practice always got him in a sweat.  He floated high on the field clutching his broomstick, searching diligently for any sign of the tiny golden snitch.  For a moment he was diverted, his eyes wandering to a slightly open window in one of the smaller towers of Hogwarts.

Draco Malfoy.

The glint of the sun off that golden hair was unmistakable.  From the field he could see but only a little of the Slytherin, but it was enough to convince him that Draco was watching their practice.  Harry frowned; perhaps the Slytherin Captain was trying to decipher the Gryffindor Team's strategy.  He certainly wouldn't put it past Malfoy to do a little spying if it got him some sort of gain.  Harry snorted, taking his eyes off the tiny window and back to practice.  He swerved to the side, dodging a bludger that had suddenly come his way.  Harry didn't give it another look as he spotted a small gleam of light at the far end of the field, hovering a few feet above the grass.  A golden glow, just like the sun in Malfoy's hair.  Harry grinned as he sped toward the ground, watching the green grass hurtling towards him at near-impossible speeds. 

Draco Malfoy.  He would enjoy meeting him again in the next Quidditch game.  Harry caught the snitch, cradling the small sphere gently in his hands as it struggled to escape his grasp.

Draco Malfoy.

A particularly strong gust of wind carried the name away, knocking it about as it ascended into the sky.  Harry turned his eyes once more to the window.  It was closed, Malfoy was gone.  The team stopped for the night, descending onto the ground wiping sweat from their foreheads and dismounting their brooms. 

"Come on, Harry," Angelina smiled, giving him a pat on the shoulder.  "We've been practicing hard for the next match.  Let's go to dinner."

Harry nodded, following his team inside.  Later that night, he saw that Draco was the last to leave the Slytherin table, but decided not to say anything.

++++++++

Draco tapped the quill against his cheek, chewing on his lower lip as he searched for more words for Snape's latest Potions essay.  The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet this time of afternoon.  Everyone else was poring over their homework, not necessarily Potions, but Hogwarts professors were known for assigning large amounts of work to keep their students busy.  Pansy Parkinson sat with Millicent Bulstrode, bent over the latest texts from their Ancient Runes class; Crabbe and Goyle were trying to figure out what McGonagall wanted in their Transfigurations assignment.  Draco looked about, his sharp blue eyes combing the entire room, end to end.  Everyone had their head down, talking in low voices in groups or studying quietly by themselves.  Obviously, his presence would not be missed.  Taking his chance, Draco put his books down on the armchair he had been sitting on and silently slipped out of the common room.

He'd found himself wandering the halls of Hogwarts a lot lately, usually with no particular destination in mind.  He went wherever his feet would carry him.  Sometimes he would sit out in the empty Quidditch stands, eyes closed, listening to the wind howling past his ears as he contemplated anything that would come to his mind.  He would think about classes, his father and his mother, the Death Eaters, Voldemort, Dumbledore, but usually what graced his mind most often was Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.  The boy who seemed so average at school, of no noteworthy wizarding ability, but yet did such extraordinary things.  He had survived numerous encounters with Voldemort, and yet somehow always escaped unscathed.  It was as if there was some secret power guiding the boy, guarding him against harm, leading him to great things. 

And what was there for Draco Malfoy, whose own accomplishments and excellent grades in class would always be dwarfed by whatever acclaim Harry Potter would achieve.  He was at the top of the Slytherin class, he consistently had the highest marks and yet he still stood in Harry Potter's shadow, like some great mockery of the ancient rivalry between Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin.  It was as if they had always been destined to be opposites, from the moment they met.  It had already been decided on that first day at Madam Malkin's shop in Diagon Alley, but the point had been driven home their first night at Hogwarts, when Draco had been sorted into Slytherin and Harry into Gryffindor.  Had they both ended up in the same house, they probably would have been friends.  But as things stood, they were bitter enemies.  And it seemed that over the six years at Hogwarts, neither had really bothered to ask why.

Draco found himself once again outside his little secret room; the one from which he watched the Gryffindor team practice.  There was no one outside on the field that afternoon, for snow had begun to fall and the wind made it too cold for even the hardiest and most determined of Quidditch players to practice.

Nevertheless, he went to the window and opened it, letting inside a blast of ice cold air.  He leaned outside and looked at the sky, small flakes of snow falling silently to cover the ground, the bits of green grass already disappearing beneath a blanket of white.  He saw a lone figure in the stands, clothed in the thick black woolen robes that were the Hogwarts winter uniform.  Draco narrowed his eyes, trying to see past the falling snow, the white veil that threatened to obscure his sharp seeker vision.

Dark, tousled hair, a red and gold scarf.  Undeniably Harry Potter.  And Draco was surprised to find that Harry was staring directly back at him. 

Draco stepped quickly back from the window, shutting it with a slam that shook the glass.  His heart was beating his ears, a familiar warmth rising to color his pale ivory cheeks.  What was it that bothered him?  Harry Potter staring at him?  That was common fare, they'd stared each other down many times on the Quidditch field and in their classes, and yet Draco's heart was pounding in his chest like the regular beat of a metronome inside his body.

Hmph.

Draco put on his best sneer, the one of contempt he reserved only for Potter.  Draco Malfoy, getting all upset because Harry Potter's staring at him from the Quidditch field.  What would the other Slytherins think?  To know that every afternoon instead of studying for his exams or doing his assignments, Draco Malfoy stole off by himself to think of Harry Potter?  It was a ludicrous idea, Draco Malfoy did not bloody get along with Harry Potter and everyone in the school knew that.  It was night and day, one of those things you just knew, like how to breathe.  It was instinct, every bit a part of him like the pure blood that ran through his veins...but did anyone every think of why Malfoy and Potter hated each other?  Did Potter ever even bother to think of such things?  Did it even really matter? 

Draco shook his head, as if trying to clear away the questions.  He had no answers.  Six years, and he still had no answers, and nothing to say to Harry Potter except for a few smart jibes in classes and on the Quidditch field.

"This is enough thought for one day," Draco muttered to himself, slipping out of his room.  He looked about cautiously to make sure that no one saw him exit his secret chamber.  He walked back to the Slytherin common room, not even sure if Harry had seen him at all, or if their look had just been his imagination. 

+++++++++

It was no use working.  Harry just wasn't in the mood.  The Gryffindor common room was in an uproar; it seemed that the procrastination bug was catching.  There were cards and wizard chess being played, wizard storybooks being read, or just groups of friends sitting around and talking.  Ron had even talked Hermione out of her usual study routine, she was now playing him at an interesting game of chess, with Ginny egging her brother on.  It just wasn't the right time for work.

Harry shook his head with a grin, why fight the urge?  Ron and Hermione looked busy, as everyone else seemed to be in the room.  So Harry left quietly, slipping through the portrait hole.  There was no Quidditch practice this afternoon, and for the first time in many weeks there weren't any assignments due the next day.  Why not take this day off and relax a little?  Harry usually didn't wander the school in the afternoon; he preferred the evening and the night, when he could be alone and walk the grounds unseen in his invisibility cloak.  But it was too early for that.  He had left the Marauder's Map in his room with the rest of his things, so he found no other better place to go than the Quidditch pitch.  At least if he was outside, he would be getting some fresh air and hopefully some time to himself.

As expected, the Quidditch field was deserted.  There was already a decent layer of snow beginning to cover the grass, and a thin sheet lay on the stands.  Harry cleaned off a small spot with his hand, clearing just enough space for him to sit comfortably.

He closed his eyes, breathing the still, chill air deeply, vividly aware of the small snowflakes that fell on his cheeks like tiny, gentle kisses.  It was utterly quiet, no sound nor disturbance reached his ears, just miles and miles of peaceful silence lying about him like an endless horizon.  There it was that Harry Potter could just be himself, not the Gryffindor seeker or the Hogwarts student, not the Boy Who Lived who was the current target of Voldemort, but just Harry Potter, the part himself he saved only for himself, a face he hadn't shown to anyone else. 

Harry opened his eyes again and immediately he looked to the window in that one particular tower, where he had found Draco once.  There again was the unmistakable figure of Draco Malfoy, the same window open, leaning slightly out.  There was no sunlight to catch his hair this time, but the golden locks still gave some ethereal kind of glow of their own. 

"Draco Malfoy," Harry Potter whispered, staring at his rival, tucked so far away inside the school.  He was sure that Draco was staring at him too.  They gazed at each other, time seeming to freeze as some sort of knowing and understanding passed through them: the echo of the same question.

Why did it have to be like this?

Then Draco stepped away and the window closed, so abruptly that it started Harry out of his reverie, shattering the peace and quiet he rarely had time to find. 

"Why?" Harry asked, his words wafting gently around each snowflake floating in the air.

They needed each other, like some basic drive.  Without Draco Malfoy there would be no Harry Potter, and without Harry Potter there could be no Draco Malfoy.  They were so the opposite, striving against each other at every turn with mocking words and contemptuous, challenging looks, always trying to come out on top, be the better of the other.  Had it always been that way?  Would it always be that way?  Would they struggle forever, until they had no strength left; would they fight each other, never knowing anything more beyond the fact that they were enemies as dictated to them by fate? 

"I want to know you, Malfoy."  Six years of battle, and yet they were still no closer to each other than they had been in the beginning.  Perhaps it was that they purposefully kept each other at arm's length, afraid to get too close for fear of losing the hate, losing the rivalry that kept them alive, gave them their identities.  It couldn't be too hard could it?  Was Malfoy thinking the same thing?  Had they always been watching each other, concealing some kind of secret wish to be friends?  It was improbable, but not entirely impossible.

Harry sighed; so much for his day off.  No matter where he seemed to turn, problems plagued him left and right; there was no escape from Voldemort, and yet it was times like this he really was alone, where he didn't have to worry.  And he went, wasting that small bit of peace thinking of Malfoy, of all people.  Harry picked himself up, heading back towards the school.  That was definitely a sign that it was time to get back to work.

+++++++++

Weeks came and passed, the Quidditch game happened, and to no big surprise Harry Potter defeated the Slytherin team by finding the golden snitch first.  That infuriated Malfoy for a few days, but eventually the anger died down and he was just left wondering again, if things could have turned out differently.  He didn't stop spying on the Gryffindor team practices, but not so much for team tactics as he wanted to watch Harry Potter.  Perhaps, this could be their only way of getting to know each other: clandestine espionage, some strange sort of stalking.  Draco could have laughed if he thought it was mirthful, and he tried to quite a few times, but the sound always died on his lips, leaving nothing but a lingering sadness.  He wondered if Potter had it any better.

Harry Potter spent his afternoons distracted from his work, no matter where he went, whether it was the library, the common room, or the sanctity of his own bed, it always seemed to him that he was throwing away his time, some chance to get to know Malfoy before it was too late - too late to change what they had started. 

It was now in the middle of December.  Snow covered the ground in soft, thick sheets.  Despite the constant threat of open war with Voldemort and his Death Eaters, the students seemed secure of their safety within Hogwarts and held frequent snowball fights outside on school grounds.  Nearly the entire school had emptied that day; students milled out of the main hall, shouting and throwing great handfuls of white powder at each other.

Draco smiled as Crabbe and Goyle ran off to join the rest of Slytherin House, who were currently being mercilessly ambushed by a bunch of Gryffindor fourth years.  He turned to go back inside; snowball fights were not his thing.  He pictured himself sitting back in the common room, curled up by the fire with a giant text in his lap.  He frowned, not finding that particularly appealing; while Draco liked to read, somehow he felt that he should be doing something else.  He decided to go once more to his secret room, the only place in the world it seemed, where he could be himself; where he could sit in perfect stillness with his thoughts of Harry Potter.

He felt something distinctly wrong as he placed his hand on the secret door.  Draco looked about him, but the corridor was silent.  The paintings were asleep and not a whisper of sound reached his ears. 

"It's just me," Draco muttered to himself as pushed the door open.  It slid smoothly under his fingers, revealing a small room with a small desk and small chair, sitting before endless rows of windows.  Except this time, there was also someone already in the room.

Draco nearly jumped with surprise.  He started to stumble back, hoping that the room's occupant had not heard nor discovered his entrance, but as he fell to the ground he realized it was too late.  The figure at the window had turned himself around, revealing a mass of unruly dark hair and round black glasses.

"Harry Potter!" Draco hissed when he found his voice again.  He flushed a bright scarlet, blood rushing to his face to complement his pale complexion.  He found himself in a distinctly disadvantageous position on his arse on the floor.  No one ever caught a Malfoy on his bum.  "What are you doing here?"

Harry said nothing, but simply walked over to Draco and extended a hand.  Draco stared at it for a moment as if it were a snake about to strike at him.  He contemplated ignoring the assistance and pushing himself up, but that would be a little awkward and undignified.

"I could ask the same question of you," Harry said with a smile as Draco took his outstretched hand and helped himself off the ground.  

"What I do is none of your business, Potter," Draco sneered, pushing past the Gryffindor and setting his heavy outdoors robe onto the chair.

"Then maybe you shouldn't be spying on me all the time," Harry replied evenly, closing the door and locking them both in the room.  Outwardly he looked calm, not overly confident, but his posture let Draco know that he was not going to be frightened into any sort of submission or apology. 

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potter.  Maybe the Gryffindors have finally gotten to your head," Draco retorted, putting on his best arrogant Malfoy look.

"I think you know very well what I'm saying," Harry said softly but firmly, looking Draco steadily in the eye.  Draco flushed even brighter at the intensity of the stare, and quickly averted his eyes from Harry's gaze. 

Harry gestured at the windows with his arm.  "I see you sometimes, staring out of these windows at me."  He pointed to the one on the farthest right.  "That one in particular."  Then he was silent, waiting for some sort of answer from Malfoy.  A long period of silence followed as Draco considered his options.

"I was just spying on your Quidditch strategy," said Draco, breaking the silence that had begun to settle about them.

"Then why do you insist in spying even when the team isn't out there?"

"I like the fresh air," Draco smirked.

"Or is it something else?"

Draco declined a reply, simply listening to his heartbeat.  He wasn't going to give in to Potter.  It was probably just some big joke the Gryffindors had decided to play on him for some sort of revenge; they'd get Potter to get him to admit to something silly, and then spread the word around the entire school.  Well, Draco Malfoy wasn't stupid, and he certainly wasn't going to fall for it.

"It's nothing else."

Strong arms around his shoulder whirled him around so he was looking Harry eye to eye.  "You're lying, Malfoy," Harry hissed.  "I know what you're thinking.  This isn't some kind of game."

Draco shook himself free from Harry's grip, his silver-blue eyes blazing with anger.  He had already seen through the farce, why did Potter insist on continuing it?  He wasn't going to get anything embarrassing out of Draco Malfoy today or ever if he could help it.  "Started reading minds now, Potter?  Been taking lessons from that old bat Trelawney?"

"Shut up, Draco, you're so bloody full of shit!" Harry practically spat, also anger.  "I didn't come up here to bandy words with you, Malfoy."

"Then why are you here, Potter?"

There was a long silence as they stared each other down.  It was a battle of wills like always, each fighter trying to anticipate the next move of his enemy and formulate a suitable counterattack.  The moment dragged on, both their hearts beating in their ears like the loud, steady booming of a war drum.

Finally, it was Harry that broke the silence.

"Do you ever wonder if it could have turned out differently?" he said quietly.  Draco opened his mouth, but Harry's hand quickly shot out and covered Draco's lips in a strangely intimate gesture.  "Don't say anything unless you mean it."

Draco waited for more moments, meeting Harry's eyes.  They flashed with anger, but also with a sadness underneath, and a confident sort of knowing that Draco didn't quite comprehend.  Something about the hand on his mouth told him that Harry probably understood more about him than he cared to let on: more about Draco himself, not the stupid play he put on for the benefit of the other students, the teachers, and his own parents.  Draco took a step back, away from Harry's fingers. 

"Maybe," he replied, hoping that his wasn't some huge prank as he originally thought.  If it was, Potter was a good actor. 

Harry let out a great sigh as some their tension melted.  He relaxed and let his hand fall to his side.  In truth, he had half been expecting Draco to suddenly draw out his wand and hex him at the small touch.  "Do you think of it a lot?"

Draco sighed.  He felt like he was running headlong into a trap, despite knowing that it was there.  It was like being hemmed in all sides, surrounded, with no choice but to surrender.  Strangely, he felt no dread, but instead like a great weight had been lifted off his chest and he could breathe again.  "Sometimes.  Usually when I'm alone."

"What do you think about?"

"Everything."

"A lot of 'what ifs?'" 

"Yeah.  A lot of those."

"Every day?" Harry pressed his questions onwards. 

"I think so," Draco evaded, not quite wanting to admit that he thought of Harry Potter every day, and every free moment his mind had.  That seemed a little bit odd, somehow.  "What about you?"

"Something like that," Harry replied with a small, relaxed grin.  They stood an arm widths apart from each other, like some awkward wall stood between them that they couldn't yet bring themselves to cross.  "Do you think we could have ever been friends?"

"Once upon a time, maybe."

"What about now?"

"It would take a miracle," Draco said with a raised eyebrow, knowing full well what he was getting himself into.  He was standing on the edge of a precipice and looking down into an endless darkness, not knowing what lay at the bottom, or if there was one at all.  Draco smiled.  He welcomed the darkness.  "But I guess small miracles can still happen."

Harry smiled warmly in return, although his heart was still pounding like it was about to burst from his chest.  "I think of you all the time, Malfoy."

"I think of you a lot, Potter."

"What do you suppose that means?"

"If we were third year girls, I'd say we were infatuated."

"We aren't third year girls," Harry pointed out.  "But I still think we're infatuated."

Draco smirked, taking a step closer to Harry.  He was teetering precariously on the edge of the great crevasse that divided them.  "I don't think it's wise to go against a destiny determined to set us apart."

"Destiny is never foreordained, Draco."

"But it is hard to reshape, Harry."

"We'll survive somehow."

"You're the Boy Who Lived, you survive everything."

"I'll help you too, Draco."

"Don't make me laugh, Potter.  I don't need your help."

"What do you need then?"

"Have you ever heard of the old adage 'Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer?'"

"Are you telling me you're my enemy, Malfoy?"

"Which do you think I am, Potter?"

"I want you to be my friend, Draco."

"What if I want to be closer to you than that?"

"Then you will be," Harry smiled.  He put a hand on Draco's shoulder, not quite sure what he was doing and why.  "How close do you want to be?"

"Close enough to know you inside out.  Don't you think it's strange that we've hated each other for six years and yet never got to know each other?"

"Doesn't that happen often?"

"Only to those who don't know better.  And Malfoys know better, Potter.  I want to know every little bit of you, so I can know exactly what it is about you that I hate."

"And what if you find you don't hate me anymore, Draco?"

"Malfoys hate everyone.  There's always something to hate in everyone."

"But what if there's nothing to hate?  What do you say then?"

"Then, Potter, I'd tell you that I loved you."

"Do you think such a thing can happen between us?"

"Anything can happen, Harry," Draco said quietly, touching Harry's scar on his forehead, his first move to getting to know the legendary Boy Who Lived.  He heard Harry's quick intake of breath.  The scar was a personal thing to Harry and he had never before let anyone else touch it.  It was a symbol of everything he had lost and now, everything he had to gain.  He suffered Draco's gentle touch in silence, knowing it was necessary.  It was right somehow, to have Draco's fingers on his scar.

 "Maybe one day they'll call me the Boy Who Loved the Boy Who Lived."

Harry smiled a bit, and lifted his hand to run fingers through Draco's golden hair.  "I think I'd like that."

~*the end*~