Pairing: Harry/Draco
Genre: romance/angst/humour, 7th year
Rating: probably R (?)
Summary: When his best enemy starts to ignore him, Draco Malfoy comes up with a new plan to get inside Harry Potter's life; featuring ancient wands, bloody thorns, bored goblins, and gratuitous growling.
After all, Draco Malfoy is a man of extremes.
Author's notes: 1st draft. And no, this does not mean it's not edited. I start by writing draft zero. Draft one is then edited by yours truly. Draft two will be the betaed version. When I find meself a beta, that is.
(Originally posted to my LJ where you can find some related art and other texts: kayen.livejournal.com)
The Fine Line
by Andreas
Draco Malfoy was a man of extremes; Malfoys often were. In fact, Gregerious Malfoy (1542-1616) turned extremity into something of an art form. Of course, being a Malfoy, Gregerious displayed a singular dislike of devoting himself to anything but art made from an absolutely extreme amount of extremities. The nearby peasants from whom he harvested said extremities thought this to be a very extreme form of art indeed.
While the son of the infamous Lucius Malfoy was not quite as excessively extreme as some of his more illustrious ancestors, he was certainly a man of unyielding opinions and highly pronounced emotions. He was also in the habit of loudly pronouncing both his opinions and heartfelt (though rarely hearty) emotions to anyone and everyone within earshot.
Of course, if people were out of earshot, as it were, Draco simply shot louder bullets.
But, as an extreme is never extreme in isolation, there were also the quiet moments.
The absolute silence.
The brooding bubble that no one dared burst lest they suffered a barrage of verbal bullets and barbs so overwhelming that all but the most impervious of egos were shot to ragged splinters.
But even in those quiet moments, when he did not pester surrounding peasants (or at least their modern equivalents), Draco Malfoy was wont to brood on extremes: politically incorrect politics, whether to hate or love, whether to suck up to professors or simply have them sacked, who around him was friend or foe.
Or, rather, foe or follower.
Draco Malfoy did not keep friends. Draco Malfoy had henchmen, worshippers, fawners, a whole slew of acquaintances. But no friends. Friends were a liability, a weak spot. Too close but not close enough.
What Draco Malfoy was looking for was not a Friend but a Best Friend. Only the best was good enough for a Malfoy, after all.
Before Hogwarts, Draco had thought that Harry Potter might become that best friend he had searched for all his childhood. Potter did seem to be the perfect match.
They were the poster-children of the two opposing parties in the dispute that would eventually, under the lead of a Mudblood madman and power-mad Malfoy, force their small world into yet another pointless war.
The name Potter was as famous as Malfoy was infamous. They were living icons. Together, they would be unbeatable. The very best of friends.
Better than anyone else could ever be.
But Potter had refused his offer of friendship. Had thought him not good enough. Him! A Malfoy!
This was a rejection Draco could not silently accept. To simply step back and do nothing would be to admit that he, a Malfoy, was not worthy of being paired off with Perfect Bloody Potter. That was unacceptable.
They would form a pair whether Potter wished it or not.
But not just enemies instead of friends. Too common. Too plebeian.
They would be the worst of enemies instead of the best of friends. Draco would make sure of that.
Theirs could have been the best, most glorious, friendship ever to grace Hogwarts. Now, theirs was the worst feud ever to disgrace it. Under their lead (mostly under Draco's lead – that was another family trait, after all) Hogwarts saw the worst Gryffindor/Slytherin house rivalry in decades. They were the shining vortex of spite around which all the other students circled. The perfect pair. As extreme in antagonism as they could have been – would have been – in friendship. Draco Malfoy was, after all, a man of extremes.
It was, all things considered, a functioning relationship. Draco didn't even mind losing much. It was expected. He was The Bad Guy (but with Excellent Taste, let it not be questioned). And he always made sure to fail spectacularly. Spectacular was what Malfoys did best, after all.
But now Potter had gone and destabilized their relationship once again (he was, Draco conceded, the least stable of the two; less poised, less controlled, less explosively hysterical when the situation required it). And Potter had done it, once more, by omission. The hand that had once shunned friendship now rarely even deigned fight back. Potter just would not play along. Too much, it seemed, was on his mind.
Potter had come out.
Of the closet, they said.
Draco wasn't sure exactly what closet Potter had come out of but gathered that he had apparently been doing untoward things with boys in it. Not that Draco was in any position to pass judgement on this hitherto hidden quality of Potter's, seeing as he himself had frequented that very same closet. Broomshed. Outhouse. Abandoned classroom.
All in his mind. With boys, only in his mind.
And now, Potter was out.
And Draco wanted out. Out of this stalemate situation. Out of this pre-plotted life. Out of this mess he was in.
And certainly out of his luxurious walk-in closet.
But he also wanted in. Wanted to walk into Potter's life, sans closet, sans shackles, sans past.
Sans everything.
Together they would build a new closet, a great big marvellous thing with two entrances and two exits. A place to meet. And greet. With separate rooms on either side, when needed. But inside the closet, there would be passion of a most extreme kind. Malfoy and Potter – how could it be anything but glorious? In any shape or form, they were the perfect pair. No one could compare.
The best. The worst.
Forever, among unequals, the first.
Once more, Draco Malfoy sought the absolute best.
He had considered marrying some Eligible Girl of Proper Breeding and, to carry on the noble Malfoy name, simply have sex as much as it took to get satisfactory results (Malfoys often did. Repeatedly. And rarely with the same girl. And, relatively speaking, seldom with ones of proper breeding.) but he was well aware that he had rather it had been a boy, a man. His plan had been to have luxury boy-toys on the side, men for hire (Malfoys often did, if only because they could).
But then Potter had rushed out of his pauper's closet in a flurry of school-wide excitement and dismay. Female dreams had been shattered overnight, leaving piles of gloom littering the hallways (for days and sometimes weeks afterwards).
Perhaps, perchance, those shards of broken dreams had coalesced anew in Draco Malfoy, because Draco Malfoy suddenly felt growing within him a dream, a hope, a wish. A giddy desire to explore sensations hitherto felt only as vague shadows of unreality in his curiously cramped, walk-in closeted dreams.
It was all very new to him: these waking dreams. New, at least, in the sense of something long forgotten – but once tasted – feeling fresh and exciting as it revisits a starved palate.
But there was some sense to the dreams, at least. Draco required it to be so. And in those quiet moments, he reasoned with himself on the subject of reawakened attraction and found that, yes, it was so.
Potter was undeniably (due to his ridiculous fame and terribly unfortunate Hero Affliction) the most eligible bachelor in the Politically Correct part of the magical world. And Draco Malfoy was, by virtue of his family's position, numero uno in the Other Part.
The shining knight and the prince of darkness.
What a pair.
Draco Malfoy wanted Harry Potter. He had always wanted Harry Potter. It was only the form of the want that had changed.
Draco Malfoy wanted Harry Potter.
And he would have him.
All he needed was a time and a place. And a plan.
A few weeks after Potter's escape from his under-stocked closet, Draco had finally come up with the latter and was endeavouring to settle the former.
'Just. Just leave us alone, Malfoy.'
'Aw. Potty doesn't want to play? All work and no play makes Potty a dull boy.' Draco smirked. As annoyingly as possible.
Potter glared.
Perfect.
'Leave. Us. Alone!'
'I heard you the first time, Potter. And shut your mouth, I don't want to hear it thrice. Some people do have longer attention-spans than your Weasel friend. Ooh, the Potty pot needs to let off some steam, doesn't it? Tell you what – no, listen – I'll leave you and your pathetic little friends – those you have left – alone. If you beat me in another duel. I did miss our first one, very regrettably, as you well know. Don't you think it proper that we end our acquaintance with a proper duel, Potter? Only you. And I.'
'And why should Harry waste his time on you, you pathetic little has-been?'
Ah, Granger. Hangs about like a bookish terrier, doesn't she?
Perfect.
'Mind your own business, you anal-retentive Mudblood!' sneered Draco with, he thought, a snootily sneering sort of flair.
'Don't. Call her. That!'
Potter glared viciously. Draco had him right where he wanted.
Perfect.
'When Harry's business,' noted Hermione primly, 'is with You, I'll mind it as much as I please, Malfoy.' The sneer on 'Malfoy' broke her composed veneer in, Draco considered, quite an intriguing sort of way. Over the years, Draco had rather come to respect the bossy Mudblood. But, as was always the case with Malfoys, keeping up appearances was of utmost importance, pushing aside all personal considerations.
Well, almost all personal considerations.
Potter was personal.
Very much so.
Malfoys rarely got personal. But Draco personally considered himself rather a personable sort of pureblood. It was either that or slipping slowly into various unattractive shades of personality disorder. Another typical trait of forcedly impersonal Malfoys.
But Draco had too much personality for that.
Harry turned to Hermione, sighing.
'Hermione, just – wait for me.'
The last Draco heard of That Meddling Mudblood was an indignant huff as Potter grabbed his arm and yanked him into a side corridor. Mere seconds later, Draco was pressed up against the wall, an angry Boy Who Lived To Be Livid invading his personal space in rather an excitingly excited manner.
'OK, Malfoy – where?'
Draco gazed back at Potter, purposely blank. Then, when those angry green eyes looked ready to turn a murderous red, he smirked. In pressing situations, Draco reasoned, stick to what you know.
'Well, Potter, we will Require a suitable Room for our little – clash, don't you think? Hm?'
Draco was well aware of Potter's great dislike of riddles (could have something to do with that Tom chap, certainly) and he therefore took great delight in being unnecessarily obscure.
Potter opened his mouth (no doubt about to say something nasty about ridiculous bloody riddling) but Draco pushed him brusquely aside and strode regally off down the corridor.
'And we wouldn't want,' he said, without turning back, or even slowing down, 'anyone to disturb our little – heart to heart, would we, Potter?'
Draco was almost out of earshot as Harry called out:
'Since you don't have one, who do you plan to steal a heart from then, Malfoy?'
And thus, Draco was brought to a sudden stop.
But he didn't turn. He would not turn.
And he would certainly not say 'Yours.' Because that was supposed to be a secret, wasn't it? It wasn't prudent, after all, to reveal ones devious plans beforehand. Especially not ones that involved the stealing of something quite so...
Precious.
Precious Potter's precious heart.
'Cheap shot, Potter. Cheap and tawdry.' Okay, just a little turn then. A turn and a smirk. Stick to what you know. 'Like your clothes.'
And then, he was off. Off to be the wizard, the most wonderful wizard there was.
Malfoys did arrogance very well. It was a gift.
As Harry Potter made his way towards the Room of Requirements on Valentine's day, 1999, he looked neither cheap nor tawdry. And it was all Malfoy's fault.
Harry had, in a fit of recurring Malfoy-induced anger, let slip to Hermione that Malfoy had called his clothes just that: cheap and tawdry. Sadly, this had apparently stuck in her mind, and as Harry prepared for what both Hermione and Ron presumed, based on the date of the meeting, was a romantic date, Hermione had set out to make sure her hopelessly fashion-unconscious friend would not look cheap and tawdry (how those words hounded him; and it was all Malfoy's fault).
Thus, as Harry had tried to escape the Gryffindor common room in what he felt was perfectly suitable clothing for late-night duels, Hermione had ambushed him with a ridiculously extravagant get-up, aimed her very well-used index finger at his dorm, and had very sternly told him to go straight back and change right this minute, or else.
Hermione was, in short, a very bossy straight eye for the queer guy.
So now, Harry was dressed to kill. But not in the way he had intended. In actual fact, he had not intended to do any sort of killing, metaphorical or otherwise. He just didn't quite fancy the first guy he ever kissed being a Dementor, all things considered.
If there had been anyone around to see him, Harry would certainly have had turned heads right and left. Now, the only head turning in every which direction was his own as he looked around to make sure no one saw him sneak about after curfew. Especially not in leather pants, shiny green shirt and a black leather suit jacket. Hermione had sworn he could win any man's heart in those clothes. Maybe so, but he really didn't feel like testing his powers of seduction on Filch the caretaker.
Or on Draco Malfoy.
Though, on a purely aesthetic level, Malfoy was to be preferred. In much the same way that an ornate sword is more beautiful than a wooden bat, offering a swifter kill.
But there would be no killing.
And certainly no kissing. Kissing Malfoy would be like kissing a particularly beautiful sewage pipe. Kissing Filch would be like kissing the sewage.
It was with a sour face completely unbefitting his outfit that Harry Potter strode determinedly into the Room of Requirements. It was with a stunned face completely unbefitting his basic Malfoy-ness that Draco Malfoy completely failed to greet him in any sort of proper manner.
They stared.
Harry let his gaze sweep over the room, purposely avoiding sweeps in less appropriate directions. Sometimes, he absolutely loathed his libido. No taste whatsoever.
Harry was mildly surprised to find the Room of Requirements mimicking most of the properties of the Hogwarts dungeons, but he supposed that the disturbingly perceptive room had somehow sensed that Malfoy required a certain feeling of being on native soil during their upcoming duel. Considering Malfoy's chances, Harry understood this perfectly well. He understood, and he smirked ever so slightly.
Other decorative features – like the large candles forming their own slowly revolving galaxy of golden light near the ceiling – were less easy to explain. In fact, the candles were strangely and unsettlingly – romantic. And the half-and-half split of the room into black and grey hues was just plain daft. Really.
And even dafter was the fact that Malfoy had placed himself squarely in the grey section, black-hearted bastard that he was.
'Don't look at me,' said Draco, calling attention to himself in the manner of a sign saying DO NOT READ THIS. 'I didn't design it. If you ask me, this precious room of yours is absolutely piss-poor at proper interior design.'
'Well, I didn't ask you, did I?' huffed Harry, further upset by having to look straight at Malfoy in order not to seem evasive. Or afraid.
Though, in looking at Malfoy, it did give Harry some considerable pleasure to find his opponent even more stupidly dressed, for the occasion, than he was. (Dressed by whom was anyone's guess. Maybe Pansy, though what remnants she had of personal style certainly seemed to suggest otherwise.)
Draco Malfoy had, for some reason Harry could not begin to fathom, donned a dress for their nightly duel.
Well, not a dress as such. He did, however, wear what was very undeniably a skirt. Of course, Harry was well aware of the fact that Wizard fashion was different from its Muggle counterpart in more aspects than the ever-present robes and disturbingly pointy hats. He also, thanks to Hermione (as usual), knew that many pureblood families wore skirts to special occasions in much the same way that Scots – Muggle or otherwise – did.
In fact, Harry remembered it clearly: During their second year at Hogwarts, Hermione had stumbled upon this, to Muggleborns, little known fact and had been thrown rather abruptly out of character and into a disturbingly violent giggling-fit.
When her giggles had finally subsided, she had met the confused gazes of Harry and Ron and had said, simply:
'Imagine Malfoy in a skirt!'
Those had been her exact words. Then they had all laughed.
Harry no longer had to imagine. The skirt was right there before him. Longer and decidedly less cheerful than its Scottish relatives. Pitch black, narrow, ending just a few inches above ground; above a pair of equally pitch black boots. Pitch black except for some rather intricate gold decorations, wherein the letter 'M' figured prominently.
Above the fluid blackness (what was that material? Harry could not even venture a guess), Malfoy wore an excessively tight vest over a dark grey shirt with no collar.
The only thing not, apparently, designed to steep Draco in a shroud of becoming darkness was the vest, made of what looked like polished dragon-hide and radiating brilliant hues of deep blue.
In short, Draco Malfoy looked deviously sexy.
He looked deviously sexy in an obvious attempt to distract his professed poof of an opponent. And it was working.
The bastard.
The unjustifiably beautiful bloody bastard!
Suddenly, Harry Potter felt absolutely certain that 'deceptive looks' was a term coined in prophetic anticipation of the dazzling abomination before him.
Harry growled. Loudly enough to hide the completely uncalled-for moan that skipped merrily out of his mouth despite his expressed orders to the contrary.
'Always dress up for duels, Malfoy?' he huffed, looking Malfoy up and down once more to make it perfectly clear that he had seen the entire sorry mess of a sexy outfit. Except for the sexy part, of course.
'Do you?' Malfoy raised a delicate eyebrow, a picture of perfectly feigned cool.
'Hermione – thought I was going on a – date,' said Harry and shuddered theatrically.
'Well,' said Draco, sniffing loudly and letting his pointed nose home in on the candle galaxy high above, 'I do have a date, once I'm done with this.' This small talk. Then I have a date. Either with you – or a hex, if I'm not quick enough. If I'm not—
If.
Just.
If.
'Then let's just get it over with, Malfoy,' growled Harry.
Draco let one hand fly gracefully through the air, sketching a perfectly curved trajectory. Style. Malfoys were good at it.
'There, Potter, get over yourself.' He grinned. 'Oh, I am sorry! I meant, get yourself over,' his hand stopped, indicating the other side of the divide, 'there. Potty.'
Harry did, feeling rather potty for following Malfoy's orders without protest. And for turning his back to that deceiving git in the process. It must have been all those tight clothes. And the skirt.
However traditional it was.
As Harry strode angrily into the dark, he absently noted a fluttering few inches of blended light where the room split into its two hues of shadow. A border where the deep dark of his side seemed to melt almost seamlessly into Malfoy grey.
No man's land.
Visible only as a concept. Much too small to be of any practical use.
A thin strip of indeterminable darkness. A fine line. To thin for even the most delicate of balancing acts.
There was no middle ground that could hold and support these two foes. There was no solid no man's ground and the Room of Requirements had chosen to make this fundamental fact perfectly – and, perhaps, painfully – clear.
Only a thin, wavering, insubstantial line.
But, once again, and like so many times before, their wands were by their sides and that fine line quickly took on all the mental makings of the Great Wall of China.
It was the border of a personal war as old as their mutual, tumultuous stay at Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Magic. But its first beginnings could be traced much further back than that. It was a divide between Potter and Malfoy, between Darkness and Light.
Or, according to the inscrutable Room, between Darkness and Grey.
Though, Harry felt, the hues should be reversed, the palette turned halfway around.
'Shouldn't this be your side, Malfoy?'
'Oh, stop whining, Potter. After all, that side does match your terrifyingly tousled hair. Be grateful it's not pink.'
'Oh, I was just thinking,' Harry said with feigned indifference, 'that you're the one who does Dark magic, so, you know.'
'Oh? And what about Avada Kedavra then?'
Much to Draco's delight, Harry flinched, in much the same manner that everyone else did whenever the Scarred One spoke of Voldemort in polite company.
'That's pretty damn dark, if you ask me.'
'It was self defence,' growled Harry, glowering darkly.
'Oh, everything's self defence with you, isn't it? Must be difficult, having the entire world assault you on a daily basis.'
Harry made no reply. He was quite busy seething with righteous anger. He, too, thought it best to stick to what you know.
'Besides,' continued Draco, 'I did try opting for your corner but the grey seems to follow me around... It's rather insulting, really.'
'Good,' said Harry.
Ignoring this comment with all the flair of one deaf and blind, Draco stepped up to the diffuse divide, beckoning for Harry to do the same.
'Come on, Potter. I don't bite.' He smirked. 'Unless, of course, you turn me into a ferret, in which case I will make quite sure to bite off your privates and chew them to a bloody pulp.'
Harry's face darkened. He did not care to envision Malfoy, in any shape or form, anywhere near his privates.
'Then I'll just have to make sure I turn you into something with less teeth then, won't I?' He smirked. Not quite as annoyingly as Draco, but then he had had less practice. 'Like a slug.'
'What for, if I may ask?' sneered Draco. 'Perfect suction?'
Had Harry's eyes narrowed much further at this point, he would have been standing there, before That Git Malfoy, with his eyes fully closed. And who knew what dreadful things might come of such crowded darkness.
No.
There would be no killing that night.
Certainly no kissing.
Even less snooty, snobbish snogging. Even if Malfoy had been – that way.
Gay.
Which he clearly wasn't. In any sense of the word.
And Harry would be damned if there were to be any sucking.
He would be damned; condemned to an eternity of shame. A victim of lured-out, loathly lust.
Was that Malfoy's brilliant plan (he always seemed to have one, however flawed)? To humiliate the queer? To bring about Harry's fall (To what? His knees?) through the use of a well-decorated Malfoy body instead of that ever-failing mind? Genetics over evil, ineffective genius?
If that was Malfoy's plan, he was almost succeeding.
Almost.
But it would never, ever, never work, unless Malfoy could read Harry's treacherously filthy mind.
Harry's eyes widened.
He couldn't, could he?
'Making fun of my sexuality, Malfoy?' Harry snorted. 'That's low, even for you.'
'What are you on about Potter?' Malfoy asked, eyes wide. 'Making fun of your pathetic sexuality? You got that from suction? What a dirty mind you have. You really ought to choose your friends a bit more carefully. That Mudblood's mind must have dirtied up yours something vile.'
'Don't. Use. That. Word!'
'What? Dirty? Vile? Sex-u-ality?'
'Mud.Blood.'
'Tsk-tsk. You make it sound so – dirty. Is your mind waddling in filth, pansy? Oh-sorry-slip-of-the-tongue. Potty. Naughty boy. I guess I'll have to – what is it those Yanks say? – whoop your arse real good in this duel, because you need a good spanking, Mr Perfectly Porn.'
Whether Harry's reddening cheeks were due to anger or embarrassment, Draco did not know. Delightful it was, in any case.
But back to business.
'You remember the rules, I presume?' Draco drawled, as aggravatingly as he could manage.
'Yes. I seem to recall they involve cheating.'
Draco stared blankly. Then grinned widely.
'You learn quickly, Potter.' The grin vanished as suddenly as it had arrived. 'Only took you six years to figure that out.'
'No. I've known for a long time that Evil cheats. Hermione says its one of its - defining traits.'
'And I am eeevil, right?' Draco smirked.
'No. You're just an eeediot.'
'And, of course, in some long-dead Goblin tongue, ee-djut means very bright and charming.'
'I don't speak goblin.'
'Which means you can't disprove it!'
Harry blinked.
Draco smirked.
'Now, who's the eeediot?'
Harry's face darkened. And then he grinned ever so slightly.
'People keep telling me I'm bright and charming but, really, I didn't expect it from you, Malfoy.'
'Touché, Potter, touché.'
'Not yet. First I need to – what was that thing you said? – whoop your arse? So, how about we do what we came here to do?'
'Why, of course. But do keep from referring to my noble arse, Potty. It's quite out of your league.'
'I'm not interested in your arse, Malfoy.'
'Who said anything about interest?'
Harry gritted his teeth. Realizing the relative futility of trying to outsmart Malfoy in verbal sparring, Harry decided to backtrack to the much safer subject of the impending duel. (Safe, like futility, being relative.)
'So, are we both going to be counting then?'
'Really, Potter,' Draco rolled his eyes, 'how very Muggle of you.'
With a swish of his wand (which made Harry jump immediately backwards and assume a defensive pose) and a mumbled spell, Draco conjured a small, semi-transparent goblin, floating in mid-air, and an insubstantial, softly pinkish barrier separating the black from the grey.
'It's a duel manager. Very useful when everyone around your are indisposed, terminally or otherwise. And the thing you're gawking at is just a temporary separator. Of course, the room has already made that line quite clear, but the manager wasn't made for the specific requirements of this room, now was it?'
Ceasing his 'gawking' at the fluttery wall, Harry peered suspiciously at Malfoy. He seemed to be babbling. Worse than usual. Odd.
'Scared, Malfoy?'
That certainly seemed to put a stop to Malfoy's prattling. He very archly arched an eyebrow at Harry, in manner of the archetypical mortally offended archenemy. Or an arch archangel. (It should here be noted that Malfoys, being by nature extreme, did arches very well, be they linguistic prefixes or simply oversized gothic monstrosities designed to inspire fear in surrounding peasant folk. Though when Archibald Malfoy, in 1912, demanded to be called Archie and sought employment as an archivist for the witches' liberation movement, arch didn't even begin to describe his relatives' reactions.)
'You wish, Potter.'
The insubstantial wisp of a goblin duel manager chose this moment to put a stop to what it felt was a serious waste of its exceedingly short existence in this particular dimension.
'Aahre the combatants reahdy?' it intoned morosely, pondering its depressingly ephemeral existence.
'Ready,' said Draco, turning his back to the goblin and Harry.
The goblin sighed. They always turned away. It was all so terribly dull. And one didn't even get to see the outcome. So terribly dull.
The goblin sighed. This time very pointedly looking at Harry who was still stubbornly facing Malfoy's backside. Naturally, the goblin concluded, that ungrateful sod was going to extend the excruciating dullness of its misery. It was indeed a cruel, uncaring world to be ephemeral in.
Harry frowned.
There stood Malfoy, his back towards Harry. The perfect target. Harry could hex him right then and there for being such a bloody insufferable eeediot. But he wouldn't. He wouldn't, because he was a heroic, honest Gryffindor. Not a cheating Slytherin. And Malfoy knew that.
The bastard.
The goblin cleared its non-existent throat very noisily.
'Come on, Potter,' drawled Draco. 'Quit ogling my arse.'
The goblin had never seen anyone turn around quicker or with greater determination. Of course, being ephemeral, it didn't have much to compare with. And what the strange, wiggling movements of the blond duellist's backside meant, it could not even begin to fathom.
'Ah will count to fouahr,' the goblin announced loudly, sticking to what it knew best, 'hand after fouahr quick strides both combatants will tuahrn hand either attempt to disarm their opponent or hex them into hoblivion.' The goblin found this last bit particularly satisfying as it implied that it might actually get some company on its journey into said Hoblivion.
Though, considering the combatants, it was not at all sure whether this was to be considered a good thing.
The goblin sighed.
'Hwands hout!' it boomed in rather a miserable, squeaky sort of way. The fact that its preset proclamation was entirely in vain (as both Harry and Draco had their wands out, tapping impatiently against leather and skirt) was enough to deflate any vaguely life-like cloud of magical residue.
The goblin sighed.
'H-ONE!' it intoned with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
Harry took one stride forward, as per indifferent instruction, hearing Malfoy do the same behind him.
'TWHO!'
It felt odd, Harry decided, not to have anyone there to witness the proceedings. No witnesses. Except that fake goblin. And there was nothing to indicate that that miserable apparition gave a damn about fairness. After all, it was conjured by Malfoy, of all people.
Well, of two people anyway.
Harry could be hit by a hex in the back any second now. Still, he wouldn't be the one to turn. To cheat.
But, perhaps just a quick turn of his head to check out Malfoy? On Malfoy. Check ON Malfoy. (Well, honestly, as Hermione would no doubt say.)
Harry took another step. And completely failed to turn his head around. Apparently, the duel manager was not just for show and counting.
'THREE!'
Harry sincerely hoped the goblin wasn't taking sides.
'FOUAHR!'
Having the magical turning-block initially oppose his overenthusiastic muscles, Harry swung around with such force that he almost missed his noble-arsed target entirely, being perfectly poised for a full turn rather than a perfect shot.
Still, the Expelliarmus shot off in Malfoy's general direction with considerable force and speed.
Malfoy smiled as the spell hit the barrier, dissipated outwards, condensed again into a brightly shining orb of pink and volleyed back towards Harry, sending his wand flying into the complete darkness of a distant corner, and his mind into the gloom of one utterly and pathetically defeated. Cheated.
Malfoy hadn't even raised his wand.
Harry saw red. And it didn't exactly help that the still present barrier now shone an angry, fluorescent pink.
Harry closed his eyes and found he had quite forgotten how to count to ten.
Why on Earth had he trusted Malfoy to play fair? Why had he expected that insufferable brat to be any different from all the other liars and cheats that repeatedly made Harry's life a misery? How could he have been so incredibly stupid? So dense? So distracted as to not realize that that stupid separator was a shield?
Maybe it was those bloody sexy clothes again.
Maybe the young man inside.
Those deceptively angelic features.
Maybe it was Malfoy's endless prattling and, he had to concede, rather witty retorts.
Maybe that was Malfoy's plan.
To bring about Harry's fall through cheating concealed by a deceitfully attractive appearance.
That bastard!
But Harry would not fall. He would face any hexes thrown his way standing, not begging on his knees. He was not a cowardly Slytherin.
Was Malfoy leering?
No, Harry would face nothing on his knees that night. Especially not that.
Malfoy was right. Harry's mind was waddling in filth.
Malfoy's wand still wasn't up. At least, not the visible one.
Drowning in filth, even. Harry shuddered.
Then he waited, perfectly still, jaw firmly set, eyes staring off into that mythical distance that eyes are wont to stare into during times of great distress. To the haplessly hovering goblin, it seemed a very dull distance.
This universal Distance seemed particularly dull on this particular night for the very simple reason that nothing particularly note-worthy happened for a particularly extended period of time.
In particular, there was a very distinct lack of hexes being thrown in Harry's general direction.
Harry was not at all sure this was a good sign.
His eyes re-focused on Malfoy and took in the other's appearance with some considerable trepidation.
Malfoy seemed to be plotting his next move, studying Harry as if dissecting a particularly interesting Mowtab in Potions. Was he trying to decide what hex would do the most – the most satisfying – damage?
Harry braced himself for the worst.
Or did he? Really?
The worst?
But, no. No, that couldn't be. Besides, he would have done it already. Or would he?
Didn't psychopaths play with their victims first? Wasn't that what Hermione had said? Of course, she said such a lot of things, really.
Malfoy wouldn't do that. Malfoy was just. Malfoy. An insufferable git. But not evil. Not really. Not like that.
But why – how could Harry be so sure? Was he sure?
...
Yes. Malfoy was not evil.
Just an eeediot.
Even in pig Goblin.
The bastard!
'You know, Potter, shields are one of those things that I'm just marvellously good at.' Malfoy smirked. Aggravatingly.
'I'm not surprised,' muttered Harry, glancing at his wand (too far away to reach without becoming all too easy a target. At least this way, he could dodge a spell. Or try to).
'Ah, then you agree that Slytherins, in general, are very sensible in this manner: protection first?'
'Sensible wasn't the word I was thinking of, Malfoy.'
'Yes, I can see your point,' said Draco, nodding sagely. 'Clever is a much better word, really.'
'Cowardly.'
'No, now you're thinking of Ravenclaw. Not one of their more heavily publicised traits but, I promise you, all too true. They're great thinkers but horrible – and cowardly – fighters. You Gryffindors are brave fighters but horrible thinkers. Hufflepuffs are – Hufflepuffs. They're nice to have around. Nice to have as a shield. Hufflepuffs make excellent servants for Slytherins for that very reason, you know.'
'Hufflepuffs would never serve your kind, Malfoy.'
'Oh, but they do. Easily manipulated, loyal till death. Buffers and shields. Perfect henchmen material. Hench-puffs.' Draco sniggered. Unattractively.
'Then Slytherins are just as cowardly as you say Ravenclaws are.'
'Now, now, Potter. Think for once. It can't hurt. Why do you think Slytherins are so good at shields? Why do you think we build up so many walls around us? So many great, impenetrable castles?' Draco smiled softly. Unnervingly. 'I grew up in one, you know. Magnificent walls. You should see it.'
'Been there. Done that. The scenery tried to eat me. And no, I don't know why you're so bloody good at shields. I also don't know why you're all such bloody twats. And I don't Bloody Well Care!'
'We're good at shields, Potter,' Draco continued, undeterred, 'because your people force us to be. When a House is continuously under attack, the only sensible thing to do is shape the most effective shields possible around it, wouldn't you agree?'
'What?!' exclaimed Harry, eyes wide and mouth gaping. 'You're the ones who are always attacking everyone with your bloody pranks and bullying! By your reasoning, Hufflepuff ought to be one absolutely enormous Slytherin-repellent shield!'
'Well, haven't you turned articulate over the years, Potty. But however wittily you put it, you're still completely wrong and equally dense.' Draco sighed loudly. 'Just think – there's that word again; I'm sorry but you'll have to try it – think back to when you first came to Hogwarts. Think about how Slytherins are treated from the very beginning. Just think for one second about all the preconceived opinions that all the other Houses hold about Slytherin. That sort of thing has a name, Potter. And since you hang about with Hermione Lure-Th'Elves-Into-Involuntary-Liberation Granger, you should know it. It's called prejudice.'
'Facts are not prejudice. The Sorting Hat looks into our minds, Malfoy, and it sees what we are made of,' (and it almost put me into Slytherin and I worry about that so much that I probably try to distance myself from you even more because of my own insecurity, but I would never tell you that, because you don't deserve to know, you incomparable bastard), 'and it places people into Slytherin who are manipulative, egoistic, narcissistic, arrogant, immoral, over-ambitious, conniving, cynical, egomaniacal bloody bastards!'
Okay, so he had stolen most of the list from Hermione. But just because she was better with words, it didn't mean he didn't feel the same way.
So, there.
Still, an imperceptible shade of embarrassment had crept into his angry red. Invisible to any onlooker but pressingly felt by Harry himself.
They were, after all, Hermione's words. Not really his.
But he did agree fully. Didn't he?
Draco's face darkened.
'Well, well. You are a quick learner, Potter. Only took you, what, six seconds to figure that out once you'd heard my – infamous name, didn't it, oh Precious Potter?'
Harry snorted. Loudly.
'You think it was your name? It wasn't'.' (Wasn't it though? Partly?) 'It was that snooty face and those sneering lips of yours. Your absolute bloody arrogance!'
'So. You noticed my lips, Potter. It's a wonder it took you so long to burst out of that closet of yours,' said Draco, smiling. 'Though wasn't it really more of a cupboard? Still, you've grown into quite a – specimen anyway, haven't you, Potty?'
Harry breathed noisily through his nose. Malfoy was wiggling his bloody eyebrows at him. Honestly, just bring on the hexes already!
'You don't have to try and disarm me with your charm, Malfoy,' huffed (and puffed) Harry and spread his arms wide. 'I'm already wandless! Or hadn't you noticed, with all your bloody babbling?'
'Ooh, I'm flattered. The Boy Who Lived thinks Draco Malfoy is charming. What a Prophet headline that is. Should I call my old pal Rita, perhaps?' Draco smirked. Again.
'That wasn't what I said!' blustered Harry.
'Subtext, Potter. Look it up.'
Harry's blush was once more concealed by his already deeply flushed features.
'Should I leave you two ahlohne, perhaps?' intoned the goblin. 'Or should I just disintegrate quietly where I float?'
Neither boy paid it the least bit of attention. Typical. Still, this duel was unusually entertaining. In a rather dull sort of way. Dull, but not terminally boring. Which was always a start.
The goblin sighed.
Draco suddenly brought his wand higher, aiming it straight at Harry's heart.
'Have you seen this wand, Potter?'
Harry's eyes radiated sarcasm. Who cared about their opponents wand in a duel? Of mere trifling importance, wasn't it?
To Draco, Harry's eyes merely radiated. Always. Unstoppably.
'Look closer,' he demanded. 'Have you seen this wand before?'
Harry's eyebrows went up slightly. No. He didn't suppose he had.
'It's not my school wand. Really, Potter, you hadn't noticed? That's the problem with you. You don't notice things.' Draco pouted theatrically. 'It's very hurtful.'
Harry snorted.
'My bastard father—'
That got Harry's attention. His eyes widened once again and Draco revelled in their gaze.
'—bought it for me in Knockturn Alley. From an old man, if you could call him that, who'd brought it with him from Eastern Europe.' He waved the wand around a bit, making the candlelight dance over its sleek black surface. 'It's really quite ancient. Lots of nasty, forbidden stuff in it.'
Draco's eyes sought out Harry's. Deadly serious.
'It's a killer wand.'
Harry started.
'You've never heard of a killer wand, Potter? No, I suppose you wouldn't have. Always so shielded by your heroic father-figures, mildly demented mentors, motherly moral guardians, and all the rest of those devious do-gooders. I'm sure there's quite a lot you haven't been told about real wizarding history.' Draco snorted loudly. 'And they call us lying and manipulative. They who deceive an entire world!'
Harry glared angrily at Malfoy but said nothing. He knew only too well just how manipulative 'his' side could be. And 'lying' went with manipulative, he couldn't deny that either. So he kept quiet, hoping that in his eyes, at least, there was nothing that Malfoy could use against him.
Draco gazed boldly into Harry's glare, satisfied that his conclusions would go unchallenged. Pleased, but hardly surprised, that Harry had indeed seen through the hypocrisy of his so-called friends and guardians. Even if he would never, being the good-hearted Gryffindor, condemn them with such force and finality as Draco had.
Harry still trusted people. Draco had learnt not to.
With one exception.
He trusted Harry to be Potter. A light in the darkness. Flickering, faded, dangerous to touch, but always shining. Always shining, till the final night would fall. And then Draco would trust no one.
At last.
Trust was a weakness. It opened you up for betrayal.
Harry, long-time enemy and never friend, could betray Draco simply by ceasing to be Potter. But still, he would always be Harry for as long as he lived, even without that shining core of Gryffindor gold that made him Perfect Potter.
And a Harry without that flame, a Potter by any other name, would not still smell as sweet.
Harry, like Draco, was an extreme sort of person and Draco knew, beyond a doubt, that if that light, that noble light, went out it would be with a bang. It would implode and leave in its place a black hole, a darkness of such strength that it would pull Draco's mind and soul into the abyss and he would forever lose the ability to fight his own inherent darkness.
It would, simply put, be the end. The end, and the beginning of something horrible. Like father, like son.
But if Harry Potter died with that golden light still shining, the flame would simple cease to be, leaving a bright afterimage instead of a consuming black void. It would melt quietly into that long night. And then, Draco would follow. Without trust. But with hope. As a Malfoy, but not as his father.
Harry's light burned brightly in that angry glare.
If Harry were to die right then, right there, Draco would never again have to fear that one, tentative, shining trust being betrayed.
Never again.
'You're so gullible, Potter,' he said. 'I'm the son of a leading Death Eater and you walk right into my trap – expecting a fair fight, forgetting that I am not a Gryffindor. And now, you are at my mercy.' Draco tilted his head to one side, gazing thoughtfully at his prey. 'And I could kill you, right now. With a simple spell, just a flick of my wrist, and a killer wand. So. Gullible. And here I thought you'd be positively paranoid by now. That's what the rumours say, anyway.'
And the rumours were true. Harry could vouch for that. Still, here he was. Trapped.
Up until that moment, Harry had not fully appreciated the precariousness of his predicament. And as 'precarious' and 'predicament' were gathering dust in his Trying Desperately To Understand Hermione passive vocabulary, he kept failing to appreciate it. He did, however, quite violently not appreciate the pissiness of the right bloody mess he had got himself into.
Malfoy had (through a plan by Boy Who Lived-standards neither clever nor cunning) Harry entirely at his mercy. But had Malfoy really any mercy to hold him in? Any compassion? Any heart?
Everyone had a heart. A heart that could be stopped in an instant by that most sickening of spells.
A heart that could be as cold as ice and as hard as stone.
Cold as a serpent's blood. Hard as a dragon's hide. The way Harry had always assumed Malfoy's heart would be.
Though, considering the ease with which he had fallen into Malfoy's trap, had he ever really believed that? Or was it just Ron speaking? Ron's view, tainted by a family feud ages deep and too infected to ever heal?
Ron, who had been his steadfast guide through this strange new world. Ron, whose prejudices he had readily adopted because he needed to belong in this place. And group identity was always based on difference from the Other. Or so Hermione had said, anyway.
She was often right.
She had also said Malfoy was not his father, no matter how horrid a little git he might be.
She was often right. Sometimes wrong.
Perhaps she had made Harry less wary of Malfoy.
Perhaps Harry just didn't know what to think of Malfoy. Perhaps he never had.
Ron had Malfoy pinned as the Spawn of Satan. For Harry, it had been enough that he was the Child of his Father. Children often were. It was not something you could opt out of.
Hermione said he was not his father.
Did that mean..?
Would he? Could he? Malfoy?
'You won't kill me,' said Harry with sudden confidence, surprising even himself.
'Oh, and how is that?'
'You might be a stuck-up little git. But you're not a killer. You haven't got the guts.'
There was silence. Sudden. Unexpected. Pressing.
'In my world,' said Draco, his tone laced with ice, 'it takes guts not to kill somebody.'
There was another long silence.
Eventually, it was a suddenly rather incongruously chipper Malfoy who broke it.
'You know, Potter, this isn't just any shield. It's really quite special.'
'I'm so flattered.'
'You should be. This particular type of shield is usually only employed by Aurors.'
'I'm so impressed.'
'But of course. And the reason why they use it so much is..?'
Harry looked blank. It was an expression he had perfected over the years. No doubt with ample guidance from Ron Weasley.
'The reason,' Draco continued, sounding eerily like Hermione giving another lecture, 'is that it is double-sided.'
Harry could keep the blank thing going for very extended periods of time. It was, all things considered, an expression that required very little in the way of actual effort.
'Which means it bounces spells in both directions.'
Harry's left eyebrow rose slowly.
'So, it allows you,' Draco continued, '– if You are creative enough – to perform a very peculiar form of wand-magic.'
The moment Draco began reciting his spell, Harry threw himself down on the floor, rolled to the side and scuttled on all four into the dark corner where his wand lay waiting.
Slightly disturbed by the fact that he had not felt any burst of magic pass over him, Harry rose to aim his wand at Draco.
The Expelliarmus spell died on his lips as he took in the red rose in Malfoy's outstretched hand.
The rose that had not been there mere seconds before. The rose that rested in Malfoy's wand-hand.
The rose, Harry realised with a surprised gasp, that had previously been Draco's wand. The killer wand.
A red rose.
The colour of blood.
Malfoy was looking at him oddly.
The colour.
Of love?
What was it they said? There's a fine line between love and hate? But, surely, that was just…
A pretty lie.
Pretty.
'Are you just going to stand there gawking, Potter?' Draco snorted. 'And you can put down your wand. It's not a killer rose, you know.'
The goblin sighed. Since it would vanish only when the duel was completed, it had rather been hoping the rose was part of some elaborate scheme to kill or at least duly maim the blond one's opponent. It wasn't that it minded not disappearing into oblivion, but it felt wary of getting its hopes up. Duels always ended badly, one way or another. Though it had to concede: rose-beating seemed a very impractical and, above all, dull way to kill someone.
The goblin sighed pointedly in Draco's direction.
Harry merely stared.
'But,' said Harry, feeling amazingly articulate under the circumstances, 'why? How?'
'You really are as dense as you look then, Potter? Bouncing magic? Ring a bell? You demonstrated it yourself, you nitwit! It makes it possible to for a wand to perform magic on itself, if properly aimed, of course.' Draco's manner suddenly became very serious. 'These killer wands are damn near indestructible, Potter. Unless,' he smirked once again, 'you're brilliant like me! Which you are not, of course. Just to make that clear.'
Harry blinked.
'But. Why?'
'Why? Why do you think? I've been hurling innuendo at you since you stepped through that door,' huffed Draco, gesticulating harshly in every which direction. 'And now,' he held up the rose as if prepared to curse Harry with its petals, 'THIS! Why, Potter? WHY?'
Harry blinked, and Draco no longer found it the least bit adorable. He sighed deeply, lowering the rose carelessly. Dejectedly. Its dark red petals smashed into his velvet black skirt. One solitary petal lost its grip and fell towards the cold stone floor, tumbling helplessly against the darkness.
'Am I really that ugly, Potter?' Draco asked, his voice low and unusually weak. 'I mean, you're confined to this bloody castle where the only dating is boy/girl, girl/boy, and even then, sex is about as common as a Hufflepuff booze-up! Still, when you look at me, you apparently see a ferrety slug, isn't that so, oh so pretty Perfect Potter?'
Harry had never seen Malfoy's eyes look so accusing. Angrier, indeed, but not so accusing. Not even when Harry had been blamed for getting Malfoy Sr. thrown into Azkaban prison. Perhaps Malfoy had been more angry than accusing then, because he knew the accusations about his father were true. And yet, it was his father. A bond of pure blood. Pure anger.
Something else shone pure and clear in Malfoy's eyes now.
But what?
'Well,' Draco nearly snarled, voice back to its usual intensity, 'however much better you think you are, however pretty and handsome and - and heroically boyish, this,' Draco spread his arms wide, 'is as good as it gets. It's as good as you'll get at Hogwarts. Sure, you can sneak off to Hogsmeade – you've done it before, oh Hovering Head – but I'm here.' Draco paused. For effect. Malfoy's were good at that sort of thing. He lowered his hands. Stuck up his nose well and good. 'And I'm queer.'
Harry blinked. His eyelids were, in fact, the only bit of his body that moved at all. Except. Except maybe for one other part. But Draco wasn't looking there. Really.
'And,' he continued, 'I'm sick of being ignored by you, you self-righteous bastard! I'm sick of being pushed to the sidelines! I'm a MALFOY! Am I not good enough for you? I, a pureblood, offer you – well, sex – and you just – blink! You blink, blink, blink! Twinkle, twinkle, little twink!'
After that thing about the closet, Draco had acquired material on Gay: The Muggle Way. After all, being well prepared was paramount to any successful operation. Not that it had ever helped before.
First time for everything and all that.
And this was certainly proving to be a lot of firsts. Though Draco had, of course, hoped for still more.
Harry blinked. That was not a first.
'You. You're offering me. Sex?'
'Yes! No!' Draco breathed noisily, staring at Harry in a wild and, Harry thought, rather unnerving manner. He held out the former wand again. 'Rose?' He gesticulated towards the ceiling. 'Candles? Romance? ROMANCE! Ever heard of it? I mean. What I'm saying is.' The noisy breathing made a second appearance. Harry found it oddly distracting. 'I don't know what I'm saying. Yes, I do.' Draco stared intently at Harry. 'You. For all your apparent shortcomings. Would. As the most eligible bachelor in the Wizarding world,' (How Harry hated that Prophet article.) Draco's nostrils tried to get a clear view of the flying candles, 'make a suitable. Boyfriend. For me.'
'Is this a joke?'
Draco blinked. A contagious affliction, it seemed.
'Because,' Harry continued, 'if it is, it's bloody stupid.'
'The only thing bloody stupid,' exclaimed Draco, 'is YOU! If this was some kind of sick joke – which I wouldn't put beyond myself, certainly – do you honestly think I would transfigure a priceless wand into a rose?! A bloody red rose!'
Harry's face seemed intent on trying to give the red of the rose a run for its flowery money.
'Well,' he muttered, 'you've done some pretty idiotic things in the past.'
'And I obviously haven't stopped, HAVE I? Wasting a perfectly nice killer wand on wooing you must rate among the most IDIOTIC things anyone has ever done!' Draco sighed deeply. 'Why do you always make me embarrass myself? I don't look good in red, you know. That's your area.'
'Better red than an idiot.'
'Oh, that's really clever, Potter,' snorted Draco. 'Write my witty repartee for me, why don't you?'
'Your what?' Harry blinked his way to his traditional Blank Look.
'Oh, honestly, you're so awfully plebeian, Potter. What I see in you, I really don't know. Repartee: quick and witty conversation, Potter. Do take notes instead of . . . what is that you're doing?'
Harry was giggling. There was no better word for it.
Harry Potter had the giggles.
It was, Draco quickly decided, cute and terribly annoying at the very same time. In short, it was Harry Potter in a nutshell.
'What's so funny,' Draco huffed, trying to blot out mental images of Harry dressed in nought but a nutshell. Then he realised what he was doing and hurriedly filed away the images for later use.
'The way you say 'Potter'! It's so funny!' Harry dropped the giggling and went straight for a barking laugh. 'You sound just like Rowan Atkinson saying 'peasant'!'
'I don't,' said Draco, 'have any clue who this rowing Atkinson is but the peasant implication certainly seems to fit, Peasant!'
'I'm a city boy, Malfoy. I wouldn't know an ass from a mule.'
Harry fancied he could see the gears working as Malfoy gazed haughtily at him during yet another lull in the conversation.
The goblin considered it a very dull lull.
'So how do you tell Weasley and Granger apart?' was Malfoy's eventual contribution.
'If that's your so-called repartee, I really don't see the point,' said Harry. 'Or perhaps that wasn't repartee, then, as you said repartee should be – what was it? – quick and witty? A long pause plus a lame joke seems like pretty bad repartee, then. Maybe I should write it for you. Your repartee.'
'Would you stop saying repartee, Potter?! You're defiling the word with your – your - peasant ponderings!'
Harry felt that a demonstrative roll of his eyes said all there needed to be said at this point. After all, unlike Malfoy, he had never claimed mastery of this repartee nonsense.
Posh git.
Peasant ponderings? Please. If Malfoy didn't watch out, he'd start sounding like the Brain in no time at all. 'Are you pondering what I'm pondering?' In fact, Harry could very easily see Malfoy as a small white mouse with an inflated head to match his oversized ego. Or, rather, an albino rat.
Harry could also easily see that Hermione had probably been right when she had said that he had seriously overdosed on cartoons when visiting her house. Still, with a lost childhood, he had a lot of catching up to do.
And with a lost adolescence of experimenting with quasi-sexual relationships that might actually have had some bearing on his future adult life, he had just as much catching up to do. And of a physically more urgent kind.
And perhaps now he could finally start.
But with Malfoy? Of all people?
Of course, he was rather sexy in that outfit.
The bastard.
'Perfect,' muttered Draco. 'You refuse my – rose – but see perfectly fit to ogle me. What is it, Potter? Some sort of kinky fascination with that which you so obviously low?'
Harry blinked.
'Loath. That which you so obviously loath.' Draco shook his head and sighed. 'And to think I wasted a whole bottle of my finest wine to – well - to strengthen my resolve. Should have tried to beat it into submission with a bloody sledgehammer instead.'
'Wine?'
'Yes, Potter: wine: the upper class equivalent of Butterbeer.'
'You're – drunk?'
'Tipsy. I'd call it – tipsy.' Draco sniffed haughtily. 'But I do, of course, have a slightly more nuanced vocabulary than you.'
'Priggish. I'd say – priggish. You've got a slightly more priggish vocabulary, Malfoy.' Harry smiled. 'I'd also say you were drunk, just to annoy you.'
'I'm tipsy!'
'So you say. But, trust me Malfoy, your general priggishness does a very good job of hiding any tipsiness.'
Harry smiled widely, feeling unusually eloquent, for once. Must have been those Butterbeers he had had earlier during the day.
Tipsy, that's what he was.
Tipsy. That nuanced kind of drunk.
Tipsy. Probably explained that fluttery feeling in his stomach.
'Are you saying you DIDN'T NOTICE?' Draco exclaimed incredulously. 'That is an utter insult to my otherwise stunningly superior oratory skills, I'll have you know! You horrifically uncultured peasant!'
Harry could do nothing but laugh. He laughed and laughed. And then he hooted some, for good measure.
Malfoy could be so amusing sometimes.
Especially when he didn't mean to be.
'Oh, that's just great!' exclaimed Malfoy shrilly, 'Here a guy goes to all the trouble of not killing you with a rose and you just laugh! How very Slytherin of you, Potter!'
'You know,' said Harry, calming down, 'I almost ended up in Slytherin.'
'Well, it's a bloody good thing you didn't, isn't it?' exclaimed Draco, waving his hands about. 'Because then you and I might have become friends and with your bloody suicidal Gryffindor hero tendencies, I'd have worried till I got grey hairs and do you realise what that would have done to my mental well-being?'
'What? The worrying?' Harry grinned impishly, knowing full well the reply he would get.
Because Draco wasn't that far gone just yet.
'The HAIR, you nitwit!'
'Of course. How stupid of me.'
'I expect nothing less.'
Harry sighed. The goblin followed his lead. There was little else to do.
'Must you – talk so much?' muttered Harry.
'I'm an excellent speaker, Potter! But of course, you're too – unrefined to appreciate such things as good conversation and witty repartee.'
'How would you know? You just – prattle and – and babble!'
'I'm in awe of your magnificent vocabulary, Potter.'
'Can't you just – keep quiet? You're much,' Harry paused, looked away briefly, only to turn an even more piercing glare on Draco seconds later, 'nicer when you don't open your mouth.'
'Are you really naïve enough to believe that when people keep quiet they only think nice thoughts, Potter? Because, I assure you, most don't. I certainly don't.'
'I am not naïve!' growled Harry.
'Or perhaps you think when the mouth stops moving, the brain shuts down? Honestly, Potter, not everyone works like your friend Weasley. You should socialize with a better class of people, obviously.' He frowned. 'But you don't do that sort of thing, do you? Oh Precious Perfect Potter.'
The spell hit Draco before he even found time to regret having turned his only weapon into a rather unimpressively barbed flower.
When the tingle of magic had worn off, he didn't, all things considered, feel all that different. So he asked Potter, with a proper amount of indignation, just what he thought he was doing hurling pointless spells at his pureblooded person.
Or would have asked, anyway. If he hadn't turned suddenly mute.
Draco glared at Harry and mouthed, very pointedly: 'HA. HA. HA.' Which, on the whole, made him look like a particularly murderous monkey mime.
Harry grinned wickedly. It was rather sexy. But Draco really wasn't in the mood. Really.
Well, the mute thing was annoying as all Hell anyway.
Maybe he could at least moan? No. Not that either.
Potter looked at him oddly.
'See,' he said, 'you're so much nicer when you're quiet.'
Draco glowered.
'Now I can imagine that you're just a dumb blond with a head full of nothingness.'
Draco glowered some more.
'And then—' Harry grinned crookedly, blushing almost imperceptibly. 'Then you look rather – pretty.'
Draco's mouth fell wide open. Pretty? Whatever happened to dashingly handsome?
'So no, you're not hideous. On the outside.' Harry sighed. 'I just wish you weren't so bloody – hurtful. You say such horrible things and – and you just spoil the whole – image.'
Draco kept staring (he was getting rather good at it; and with no voice to his name their was little else he could do). Horrible? Image? Horrible was his image. Though perhaps now in a proper past tense sense. Arrogant and snooty. He could settle for arrogant and snooty.
'Sometimes, you're just so – wickedly odd,' Harry giggled, again. This was a side to Potter which Draco had not expected. It was, strangely enough, oddly appealing. Malfoys often found giggling oddly appealing. Generally in pretty peasant girls. And generally with nasty results. Draco Malfoy was certainly a Malfoy. But with a twist. A twist to the right. A twist out of a twisted family. And a twist out of that walk-in closet. Whatever closet space had to do with lusting after boys. Really.
'You're so odd it's actually rather adorable,' Harry continued. 'But then you say something really nasty and it just. It.'
He stopped, taking a break – it appeared – to gather his thoughts.
'You're like a puppy with a sharp bite. And rabies.'
'PUPPY?' mouthed Draco. In capital letters – there could be no mistaking it. He could let the rabies comment pass but puppy? Puppy was too far.
If he had been in control of his vocal chords, Draco would have growled. Which certainly wouldn't have helped clear him of the puppy charges.
'Or,' Harry grinned and a took a few steps towards Draco, 'perhaps you're really more of a kitten with poisoned claws?'
Draco staggered back against the wall.
Sure, he was a cat person. Cats had more sense than dogs, after all. Gryffindors were dogs the lot of them. Old Heroic Bloody Faithful Potter and his merry gang of misfits and mongrels.
But comparing a Malfoy to a fluffy baby feline was frankly a perfectly ghastly thing to do. Potter obviously had no sense of propriety whatsoever; that much was painfully clear.
Draco glared.
Harry grinned.
It was turning into somewhat of an ongoing trend.
'Your hair is in disarray,' a helpful Harry pointed out. 'You do know that, right?' He smirked as Draco's left hand flew up to sort out his hair. While it had been only very slightly tousled before, Draco's trembling and sweaty palm managed to throw it into complete disorder. Perfect.
'You know, Malfoy; drunk, disarrayed and dumb, you look rather – fetching.' Draco's eyebrows rose slowly. Apparently his predilection for alliteration had migrated to the nearest functioning mouth around.
Fetching.
Harry Potter had called him – Draco Malfoy – fetching.
Harry Potter obviously had no sense of verbal style whatsoever. Still, Draco appreciated the thought. He had never thought of Potter as being quite this – forward. It was rather unsettling.
Then, as if reading Draco's mind, Harry stepped quickly backwards and his grin vanished in a most unsettling manner. He sighed. Looked away.
'I'm never myself around you, Malfoy. I—I'm usually – shy when it comes to – well, this, whatever This is. With Cho I just got – tongue-tied. And here I am, calling you – pretty and—' He stopped, blinked a few times, and turned towards Draco, looking for all the world like one gigantic question-mark.
Maybe hero-dom brought on premature dementia. All those blows to the head.
'Fetching,' Draco mouthed grudgingly, wanting to hear where Harry was going with his stuttering monologue.
'I did not call you a fat chick,' said Harry, grinning softly, and turned away again. Draco rolled his eyes. What did he see in this nitwit, really? Apart from the tousled hair, the green eyes, the dimples, the scrunched-up frowns, the single-minded righteousness, the – well, anyway. What?
'And I'm just never that forward. But you—you make me do things. Feel things.'
For one perfectly silent moment, Harry stood rigidly still, staring into space. Then he growled and stalked away to the opposite side of the room.
'And I hate you for it!' he muttered loudly.
Draco's right hand fell against the hard, cold stone wall. Thorns pierced his skin and he winced. But not from pain. Not from physical pain.
He should have known. Of course, he did know. He had cultivated the hate that now hit him with such blunt force that, while he had been physically mute before, his very mind now turned speechless. Thoughts, thousands, millions, rattled about his brain, unable to coalesce into any semblance of coherence.
Hate. Love. A fine line.
An impenetrable wall?
'No,' Harry spoke up, shrouded by darkness, shoulders hunched, voice deep and husky, 'not hate. I don't. I don't hate. You. I hate Voldemort. You're not that bad.' He chuckled bitterly. 'Definitely not that bad. And prettier too. Deceptively – beautiful.'
Draco chose that moment to very inconveniently forget how to breathe.
Harry took no particular notice.
'They say,' Harry said, referring to these mythical They that are so ever-present in conversation across the world, crossing all borders, be they physical or cultural or purely accidental; the unifying They that provided such an inexhaustible fountain of platitudes and perfectly incompatible opinions on anything and everything. An unstoppable fountain that now (as if from sheer shock at the sight of the Hogwarts Two turning their relationship upside down and inside out with such astonishing speed) dried up and left Harry momentarily as speechless as his mute, rose-wielding wooer.
Harry's shoes made barely any sound at all as he advanced towards the fine line that divided the room and separated him from Malfoy. He stopped mere inches from the border, standing perfectly still, staring intently at Draco.
He tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing ever so slightly.
'I don't hate you. So I can't cross that – that line and – and love you. Not just like that.' He paused, nodding softly. 'But maybe you can. You're so very – extreme in everything you do.'
Malfoys often were. Draco silently cursed his name.
'I don't hate you. But I have – loathed you for a very, very long time. Yes. Vocabulary. It's turning weird on me. Blame Hermione.' His face darkened. 'But don't ever call her Mudblood. Ever again. Or I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life, rose or no rose. You're – extreme – so maybe you can change – extremely – and extremely fast.' He grinned slightly. 'After this, I really think I'm quite through with being surprised. By anything.'
By now, Draco was nearly panting from anticipation. It was really most undignified. Of course, he had just cursed his family name. Maybe there was a curse attached to such behaviour.
Malfoys were big on curses.
'I was never this coherent with Cho,' continued Harry wryly, 'but perhaps – perhaps I just felt that it was – wrong somehow. As if I was trying to be something I wasn't. That I'm not. And I don't think I'm a particularly good actor.' His eyed bored into Draco, hard and ruthless. 'But I think you probably are, aren't you, Draco?'
Draco shrugged. There was little else he could do, and he felt uncomfortably passive as it were. This was not going as planned.
Though, of course, results were what counted. This realisation didn't exactly help to stabilise Draco's mind; results were rarely what counted in relation to Potter; what really counted was the incessant trying, the stylish and extravagant failures. Everything about their relationship, twisted as it was, was being turned upside down, spinning out of control, twisting into a new and hypnotising shape. Or, perhaps, untying a twisted, infected knot on a strictly metaphorical umbilical chord that had been allowed to fester for far too long.
...
Draco wondered what was in those bloody bottles, really.
'You bring out something else in me. You always have. It used to be spite – and loathing. Now, suddenly it's,' Harry grinned wryly, 'as Hermione would put it – spunk, which I never had around girls, probably because I didn't really – care. Not that I care care. I. Just. Never mind.'
Coherency. It was wonderful concept.
'But you... I thought I despised you. Perhaps I still do, in a way. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is.'
Yes?
'That maybe there's a fine line between loathing,' Harry stepped determinedly across the faint divide etched on the floor, 'and lust.'
Draco shivered. He didn't know why. He certainly hadn't asked his muscles, or indeed his nerves, to tremble and flutter like feathery leaves, but his body obviously no longer saw fit to inform his mind of its activities in advance.
Everything had been so meticulously planned.
Now, everything was so – sudden.
Unexpected fulfilment of wishful expectations.
Draco's schemes never worked. They were never really supposed to.
Not really.
But this one was. But now, Draco sought an easy way out.
It was frightening: winning after so many defeats.
And from the almost predatory look in Potter's eyes, the victory would be a defeat, the defeat a victory.
Suffice to say, confusion pervaded the room.
As did purpose.
Potter took a deep breath, as if to steady himself.
Draco personally thought Potter looked steady enough already. It was almost indecent.
'You know, I never on my life thought I'd say this, but you look quite,' Harry blushed, much to Draco's satisfaction and unadulterated joy, 'kissable.'
This left Draco with two options: white or red. Considering his complexion, it was probably good that he chose to pale, as if in bleak opposition to Harry's flushed features.
'And,' Harry continued, moving towards Draco, 'that rose invites me to test my theory, doesn't it? Hermione is always on about testing your theories. And, I really have to admit, she does give good advice, more often than either I or Ron would like to admit. And don't call him Weasel.' Harry stopped suddenly, staring intently at Draco who frowned back, obviously not pleased with these commands to which he could make no vocal replies. 'At least, don't do it unless I think he's been really stupid. Then we can call him Weasel together.' Harry grinned. Mischievously. And Draco no longer had any trouble seeing Harry in Slytherin. None whatsoever.
'So, now,' Harry continued, biting briefly into his lower lip, 'I'm going to kiss you. You utter bastard.'
With those words, Harry Potter advanced on Draco Malfoy in a way hitherto unheard of. And Draco Malfoy placed his already mishandled rose in his own mouth, in a way unheard of since Don Juan and silly romantic comedies of the seventies. (The reason that this particular Way was, at this point in time, unheard of was the simple fact that placing a rose, with its thorns still intact, in close proximity to ones lips was generally a painful and highly unprofitable thing to do.)
Draco winced.
Harry stopped.
Draco glared.
Harry stared.
Draco growled.
Harry grinned.
'Now you really look like an angry puppy.'
The plan, Draco acknowledged silently (what other option was there, really?) to himself, had been to foil Potter's advances through the use of a thorny rose placed right in his path of conquest. It was not to suddenly, enraged and excited, launch ones body into that of ones supposed opponent and try to snog him senseless. But Draco's plans rarely worked out anyway.
Plans could be changed.
Suddenly and unexpectedly. It was perfectly normal.
Though, in hindsight, not removing the rose was probably a bad idea.
It was not, however, bad enough to detract from the Very Good Idea that was the actual kiss. And by the feel of it, Potter felt the same.
It was just another fight, another kind of duel. No one would give in, no one would give up. Backing away was not an option. This was a fight beyond compare, a battle more powerful and more dangerous than anything they had ever tried before.
What had taken them so long?
It was also battle with barbs and bloodshed. And like on battlefields of yore, the blood of foes flowed together in the burning trenches, forming a compound that to the naked eye looked no different than its individual parts. Blue blood commonly red; pure blood no clearer than the rest.
Draco's hand moved towards the rose and closed over Potter's hand. Neither was willing to end the kiss; neither appreciated the prickly obstacle that ripped at their lips and bloodied their mouths. The rose had to go. Draco's hand clenched.
The thorns broke skin. Harry bit tongue. Not his.
Then, in perfect unison, they pulled the rose free.
The thorns tore dark red gashes in their path, clung to the lips that had so lovingly caressed them, and the twisted rose shed blood-red petals as if in mourning of its loss. But neither boy backed away. Not even for a second. The rose sailed into the darkness. Hands parted to explore features they had never felt before.
Harry drew unwitting patterns of red across Draco's pale face whilst the other's slender fingers plotted a course through the unruly jungle of Potter's Hair.
Red blossomed around their mouths and fell to mar their clothes, marking a trail, a pointer to their respective hearts made of the mixed pulsing produce of both.
It was all quite poetical, in rather a plebeian but unquestionably passionate sort of way.
And Draco loved it. He loved it with the same angry rage and the same frustrating passion that he had, he assumed, always loved one Harry Potter since that very first day he walked Draco's life, and out of it before they had even shook hands.
The Boy Who had Lived to live a life that had put him so often, during seven long years, within arm's reach but a world away.
The death of the Potters had placed their son not only on the other side of the wizarding world's political spectrum but in another world entirely. A world that Draco could never understand and never, ever respect. A world that was Harry's as much as Harry belonged to the magical world, to wizarding history.
They would never understand each other. Not really. Nor would they ever want to. Not really. The gap, the abyss, that separated them could never be bridged. And none of them were strong enough to make the leap across to the other side. For that, the divide was much too wide.
But if they jumped in unison, as they had now done in an impulsive and highly disorganised sort of way, they could meet in the middle, over that seemingly bottomless depth. And then they could fall together.
Gently, softly. Kept afloat by trust. And just a little bit of pixie dust.
A fluttery feeling in both abdomens. Strong enough to levitate a minor ostrich.
Falling.
Sinking.
Nearly suffocating from a pressing need to touch, to feel, to taste, to heal.
To heal.
To mend mental wounds with ferociously physical ministrations.
Falling.
Falling.
And
(Draco felt it; he was sure.)
Fallen.
And as two pairs of lips wrestled like playful lions and two urgent tongues slithered like sensuous, lovemaking serpents, a golden light descended, a galaxy of flame spun to a slow stop around the caressing couple. New light and new shadows fell in every direction, flickering and fluctuating, turning the once so neatly divided room into a discordant but unified jumble of darkness and light, relentlessly in motion. And from inside that jungle of towering candles came the sound of a squeaky, wobbly voice crooning an ancient goblin love song.
After all, the goblin reasoned, if it was going to have to stick around in this tedious realm, it needed to look into alternate careers for creatures consisting of nothing but a voice and the insubstantial afterimage of a magically conjured body.
Besides, sighing despondently got rather dull once you'd been doing it for a while.
And Harry and Draco kept kissing and kissing and, to be perfectly honest, trying to snog each other perfectly senseless. It was still a fight, still a duel, but one with pillows rather than pointed weaponry.
With passionate moans rather than angry groans. Though the line was fine.
To the casual observer (maybe to the eerily aware Room of Requirements) there might well have seemed something powerfully primal about the way these two inverted foes attacked each other with hands, lips, hips. Something almost bestial, what with the loud moaning and the squealing pig in the background.
But neither Harry nor Draco held any opinion whatsoever of the horny old goblin hit, having both hands overfull with each other. Unravelling, mending, undressing, clothing in caresses, unwrapping, smearing sweat.
Messy.
Wet.
Balmy.
Maybe even barmy.
But deliciously wonderful. Aggressively beautiful.
In one word
Hot.
When they finally broke apart for some much-needed air, Harry breathlessly uttered his final words for the evening.
'Just remember: I don't love you.'
Draco had no time, nor wish, to reply. Miming or otherwise.
The second kiss, a still messier continuation of that very first, earth-shattering sensation, spoke to him. It carried delicate meaning amidst all the fervour and lust.
It spoke to Draco. Not volumes, not novels, nor even very small pamphlets. It spoke a small, crumpled note; passed in the Potions class that never was, the Care of Magical Creatures class that should have been, between friends who cared, not enemies with poisoned minds. A tiny note with one word in shaky block letters.
Just one single word. One word that made the weak candle of hope inside him explode into a crackling fire of joy and anticipation.
Just one word.
One word.
'YET.'
Yet.
And, Draco thought, that's as good you're going to get.
For now.
The line is fine. But unyielding.
They were the best of enemies, the worst of friends. Perhaps now inverted but never evened out.
They were voraciously passionate,
They were worlds apart, separated by a border traversable only by those true yet hard of heart. The pauper and the prince. Blood-brothers. Blood feud. Blood-red. The colour of love; the taint of anger. A fine line.
Extreme.
Times two.