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The Fine Line	By : Andreas Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3037 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Fine Line
- 1
*grumbles* aff.net: so many glitches. Apologies to those who've tried to make it through the corrupted version of this. And a huge Thank You to Rousy_P for letting me know something was rotten in the state of aff coding. ;)
Genre: romance/humour

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Summary: When his best enemy starts to ignore him, Draco Malfoy comes up with a new plan to be part of Harry Potter's life. Featuring ancient wands, bloody thorns, bored goblins, and gratuitous growling.
Note on Editions: This short has previously been posted to LJ (draft one) and AstronomyTower (draft two, in three parts). This is draft 2.5, with .5 indicating, primarily, a new and more coherent paragraph structure. In case yeh're wondering. ;)
-----------------------------
The Fine Line

I

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. And if people were out of earshot, 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 their modern day 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 half-blood madman and a power-mad
Malfoy, force their small world into yet another pointless war.

The name Potter was as famous as Malfoy's 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 step back and
do nothing would have been 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. During their six
years at the school, Hogwarts had seen 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 Very Good
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 destabilized their relationship once again, and he
had done it, once more, by omission. The hand that had once shunned friendship
now rarely even deigned to fight back. Potter just wouldn't play along. Too
much, it seemed, was on his mind.

Potter had come out.

Of the closet, they said.

Draco wasn't sure precisely what closet Potter had come out of but
deduced 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 Girl of Proper Breeding and, to secure
the Malfoy line, have just enough sex to get satisfactory results. (Malfoys
often did, repeatedly, and rarely with the same girl. And, relatively speaking,
seldom with ones of proper breeding, or, indeed, to further the Malfoy line.)
Still, he was well aware that he had rather it had been a man. And the plan had
been to have 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 felt growing within him a dream, a hope, a
wish - a giddy desire to explore sensations hitherto felt only as vague shadows
of unreality inside his curiously cramped, closeted dreams.

It was all 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 graces 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, 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. Draco had him right where
he wanted.

Perfect.

'When Harry's business,' noted Hermione, '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 from 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 excitable manner.

'OK, Malfoy - where?'

Draco gazed back at Potter, face blank. Then, when those angry green
eyes looked about 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
and took childish delight in being deliberately, aggravatingly obscure. So much
delight, in fact, that he felt his careful composure slip and hurriedly shoved
his red-faced captor aside, striding regally off down the corridor. 'And we
wouldn't want,' he said, without turning back, or even slowing down, 'anyone to
curtail our little - heart to heart, would we, Potter?'

Draco was almost out of earshot when Harry called out, 'Since you don't
have one, who do you plan to steal a heart from then, Malfoy?'

Draco stopped mid-stride. But he didn't turn. He would not turn.

And he certainly wouldn't 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
tiny 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 most cherished family trait.
Only the family cherished it.

As Harry Potter made his way towards the Room of Requirement on
Valentine's Day, 1998, 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 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 quite sure her style-impaired friend would not
look cheap and tawdry. (Whether this was out of compassion for Harry
or dislike of that prig Malfoy, Harry couldn't quite tell.)

Thus, as Harry had tried to sidle out of the Gryffindor common room in
what he felt was perfectly sensible clothing for a late-night duel, Hermione had ambushed
him with a ridiculously extravagant get-up, aimed her well-used forefinger at
his dorm, and had ordered him to go straight back up and change, or else. Hermione was, in short, a very bossy straight eye for the queer guy.

So now, Harry was dressed to kill. But not the way he had intended.
Not that he had actually intended to do any sort of killing, metaphorical
or otherwise. He didn't quite fancy the first guy he ever kissed being a
Dementor, after all.

If there had been anyone around to see him, Harry would 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 certainly to be
preferred. In much the same way that an ornate sword is more beautiful than a
wooden bat, carrying the promise of a cleaner 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.

II

It was with a sour face completely unbefitting
his outfit that Harry Potter stalked into the Room of Requirement that night.
And it was with a stunned face completely unbefitting his basic Malfoy-ness
that Draco Malfoy failed to greet him in any sort of respectable manner.

They stared.

Harry let his gaze sweep over the room, purposely not sweeping it in
less appropriate directions. Sometimes he loathed his libido. No taste
whatsoever.

Harry found, to his mild surprise, the Room of Requirement that night
mimicking most of the properties of the Hogwarts dungeons, and concluded that
the eerily aware room sensed that Malfoy might appreciate the feeling of being
on native soil during their imminent duel. And considering Malfoy's chances,
Harry was not surprised. He understood perfectly, and 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 waxy candles were unnervingly romantic. And the
half-and-half split of the room into black and grey hues was just plain daft. And dafter still 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 couldn't decorate a padded cell properly.'

'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.

Still, looking at Malfoy did give Harry some considerable pleasure, as
he found his opponent even more stupidly dressed, for the occasion, than he
himself 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
undeniably a skirt. Of course, Harry was well aware that Wizard
fashion was different from its Muggle counterpart in more ways than the
ever-present robes and disturbingly pointy hats. He also, thanks to
Hermione, knew that many pureblood families wore skirts on special occasions in
much the same way that the Scots - Muggle and magical - 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 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. They had all laughed.

Harry no longer had to imagine. The skirt was right there.
Longer and less cheerful than its Scottish relatives, it was pitch black,
narrow, and ended 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 that fluid blackness, 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 certain that 'deceptive looks' was a term
coined in prophetic anticipation of the dazzling abomination before him.

Harry growled, loud 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.

'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 stepped across 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 Requirement had chosen to
make this fundamental fact perfectly - and, perhaps, painfully - clear.

Only a thin, wavering, insubstantial line. But, like so many times before, their wands flew out and that fluttery,
fine line 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 Witchcraft and Wizardry. 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 of Requirement, 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 the Killing Curse then?' Much to Draco's delight, Harry flinched. 'That's pretty damn dark, if you ask me.'

'It was self defence,' growled Harry.

'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.

Purposely deaf, 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, with less practiced flair than Malfoy but
with equal if not greater feeling. 'Like a slug.'

'What for, if I may ask?' Draco's left eyebrow shot up. '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 shut. 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 and condemned to an eternity of shame, a victim of
lured-out, loathsome lust. Was that Malfoy's brilliant plan? 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, trying to drown his
thoughts in speech. '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 couldn't tell. 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 he beamed. 'You learn quickly, Potter.' The grin vanished as quickly as it had
arrived. 'Only took you six years to figure that out.'

'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.'

'Touch�, Potter, touch�.'

'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 referencing 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 (making Harry jerk back into a defensive pose)
and a mumbled spell, Draco conjured a small, semi-transparent goblin, floating
in mid-air, and an insubstantial, pinkish barrier separating the black from the
grey. 'It's a Duel Manager. Very useful when those around you 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 to fit the specific requirements of this room, now was it?
Hm?'

Ceasing his gawking at the fluttery wall, Harry peered suspiciously at
Malfoy. He seemed to be babbling, worse than usual. Odd. 'Scared, Malfoy?'

That put a stop to the prattling. '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 tenure
in this particular realm. '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 and turned a pointed stare to Harry who was still
stubbornly facing Malfoy's backside. Naturally, the goblin concluded, that
ungrateful sod was going to deliberately 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 have hexed 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.

'Come on, Potter,' drawled Draco. 'Quit ogling my arse.'

The goblin had never seen anyone turn about 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 proclaimed, sticking to what it
knew best, 'hand after fouahr quick strides both combatants will tuahrn hand
either hattempt 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 impending journey into that selfsame
Hoblivion.

Though considering the combatants, it wasn't certain 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 already had their wands out, tapping impatiently against leather and
skirt - was enough to thoroughly 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 had been 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.

Honestly, sighed a small voice in Harry's heated mind, sounding not wholly
unlike a certain Ms Granger.

Harry took another step and completely failed to turn his head around. The duel manager was apparently not just for show.

'THREE!'

Harry sincerely hoped the goblin wasn't taking sides.

'FOUAHR!'

As the magical turning-block released his overenthusiastic muscles, Harry
swung around with such force that he nearly missed his noble-arsed target
entirely, being more perfectly poised for a full turn 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 brilliant 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, only in part because the still present barrier shone
an angry, fluorescent pink. He 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 made Harry's life a misery? How could he have been so incredibly daft, so
dense, so distracted that he didn't realise that that stupid, so-called
separator was a magical 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 set, eyes staring off into that
mythical distance into which eyes are wont to stare 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. And Harry was not at all sure this was a good thing.

His eyes slowly 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
mentally dissecting him. Was he trying to decide what hex would do 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.

'I'm not surprised,' muttered Harry, glancing at his wand. (Too far away
to reach without becoming far 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 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 build the most effective walls 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 positively huge
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. '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 were 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 that list from Hermione. But just because
she was better with words, it didn't mean he didn't feel just the same way. 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. '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? Hm? 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 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 raised his wand, aiming it straight at Harry's heart. 'Have you seen this wand, Potter?'

Harry's eyes radiated sarcasm. (Who cared about their opponent's wand
in a duel? Of mere trifling importance, wasn't it?)

To Draco, Harry's eyes merely radiated, always and unstoppably. 'Look closer,' he demanded. 'Have you seen this wand before?'

Harry's eyebrows rose. No. He didn't suppose he had.

'It's not my school wand. Honestly, 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 full 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 about, 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. 'And they call us lying and
manipulative. They who deceive an entire world!'

Harry glared but said nothing. He knew only too well how manipulative
'his' side could be. And with manipulation came the lies, 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 he would remain 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 prone to extremes 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 like 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 straight 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 very true. Harry could vouch for that.

Still, here he was.

Trapped.

III

Till
that moment, Harry had not quite grasped the precariousness of his present
predicament. And as 'precarious' and 'predicament' were gathering dust in his Trying
Desperately To Understand Hermione passive vocabulary, it kept slipping
through his mental fingers. What he did grasp was the general pissiness of the
right bloody mess he had got himself into. And like most people forced to
handle pissy, bloody messes, he was not - in any metaphorical manner - a
happy Harry.

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. Like Malfoy's vicious heart.

Though
considering the ease with which he had fallen into Malfoy's trap, had Harry
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 longed so desperately to belong. After all, group
identity is defined by Difference from the Other. Or so Hermione had claimed.
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.'

There was another
long silence, broken at last by an indecently chipper Draco. 'You know, Potter,
this isn't just any shield. It's quite - special.'

'Should I feel
flattered?'

'Yes. This
particular type of shield is generally only used by Aurors.'

'I'm so very
impressed.'

'But of course.
And the reason they use it 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 unnervingly like Hermione, 'is that it's double-sided.'

Harry could keep
the blank look 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 inched upwards.

'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 the spell, Harry threw himself onto the floor, rolled sideways
and scuttled on all four into the dark corner where his wand lay waiting. Vaguely surprised
that he had not felt any burst of magic pass over him, Harry rose to aim his
wand at Draco. The Expelliarmus died on his lips as he took in the red
rose in Malfoy's outstretched hand. The rose that had not been there seconds
before. The rose that rested in Malfoy's wand-hand.

The rose, Harry
realised with a start, that had previously been Draco's 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.'

The goblin
sighed. Set to vanish only when a duel was completed, it had rather been hoping
the rose was part of some elaborate scheme to kill or at least thoroughly maim
the blond one's befuddled opponent. It wasn't so much that it minded not
disappearing into oblivion. It just felt prudently wary of getting its hopes
up. Duels always ended badly, one way or another. Though it had to concede:
rose-beating seemed an impractical and very, very dull way to kill
someone.

The goblin sighed
pointedly at Draco.

Harry merely
stared. 'But,' he said, 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
turned deeply serious. 'These killer wands are damn near indestructible,
Potter. Unless,' he smirked once again, 'you're brilliant, like me! Which
you're obviously not.'

Harry blinked.
'But. Why?'

'Why? Why do you think?
Or rather, why don't you think? I've been hurling innuendo at you ever
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 petals, 'THIS! "Why", Potter? "WHY"?!'

Harry blinked,
and Draco no longer found it the least bit adorable. He sighed and lowered the
rose carelessly, dejectedly. Dark red petals crashed into velvet blackness. One
lonely, desolate petal lost its grip and fell towards the cold stone floor,
tumbling helplessly against the darkness. 'Am I really that
ugly, Potter?' Draco asked, voice low. '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. Not even when Harry had been blamed for
getting Malfoy Sr. thrown into Azkaban prison. Malfoy had been more angry
than accusing then; perhaps because he knew the charges against 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
snarled, voice back to its usual intensity, 'however much better you
think you are, however pretty and handsome and - 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 (Malfoys were
notoriously good at it), lowered his hands, stuck up his nose, 'And I'm queer.'

Harry blinked.
His eyelids were, in fact, the only part of his body that moved at all. Except.
Except maybe for one other part. But Draco wasn't looking there. Luckily.

'And,' Draco
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. Still, 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,
which 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
disturbing 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 repeat performance. 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,' Draco drew a deep, deep breath,
'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 -- on wooing you
must rate among the most IDIOTIC things anyone has ever done!' Draco
shook his head. 'Why do you always make me embarrass myself? I don't look good
in red, you know. That's your colour.'

'Better red than
eeediot.'

'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 the 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. 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 decided, cute and 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 distracting mental images of Harry dressed in
nought but a nutshell.

'The way you say 'Potter'!
It's so funny!' Harry's giggles were upgraded to a barking laugh. 'You sound
just like Rowan Atkinson saying 'peasant'!'

'I don't,' said
Draco, 'have a 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 then?' 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. 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, perhaps, an albino
rat.

Harry could also
easily see that Hermione might have been right when she said that he had
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 have had some bearing on his future
adult life, he had just as much, if not more, catching up to do, and of a
physically much 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.'

'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.'

'You're drunk.'

'I'm tipsy!'

'So you say. But
trust me Malfoy, with you, it's impossible to tell.'

Harry smiled
widely, feeling unusually witty, 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.

'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, flailing 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?'

'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
na�ve enough to believe that when people keep quiet they only think nice
thoughts? Because, I assure you, most don't. I don't.'

'I am not na�ve!'
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.' He frowned. 'But you don't do that sort of thing, do you? Oh
Precious Perfect Potter.'

The spell hit
Draco before he could even regret having turned his only weapon into a rather
unimpressively barbed flower. Still, when the tingle of magic had worn off,
Draco 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, if he hadn't turned suddenly mute. Draco glared at Harry and mouthed,
very clearly: 'HA. HA. HA.' Which, on the whole, made him look like a
particularly murderous monkey.

Harry grinned
wickedly. It was rather sexy, but Draco wasn't quite in the mood.

Really.

Well, being mute
was terribly annoying anyway.

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 faintly. 'Then you look rather - pretty.'

Draco's jaw
dropped. Pretty? Whatever happened to dashingly handsome?

'So no, you're not
hideous. On the outside.' Harry sighed. 'I just wish you weren't so - hurtful.
You say such horrible things and - and you just spoil the whole - image.'

Draco goggled.
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 - so wickedly odd,' Harry giggled, again. It was a side to
Potter which Draco had not expected. Still, it was, strangely enough, oddly
appealing. Malfoys often found giggling oddly appealing. Generally in pretty
peasant girls. And often with nasty results. And Draco 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 giggly boys.

'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
pass, but puppy? Puppy was going 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! 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. But he had never thought Potter would be quite so - 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 and 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 back to 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, eager 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, 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.'

Draco's right
hand fell against hard, cold stone. Thorns pierced his skin. He winced, but not
from pain. Not 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. His 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, 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 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 a 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 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 was.
This was not going as planned. Though, of
course, results were what counted, which didn't help quench Draco's
doubts. 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 that had been allowed to fester for
far too long.

'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 - spirit,
which I never had with 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 took a firm step 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. 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.

Harry drew a deep
breath. 'You know, I never on my life thought I'd say this, but you look
quite,' he 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 does invite me to test my theory.
Hermione always talks about testing 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, not pleased with these commands to which he could give no vocal
response. '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 rose was quite
thorny.

Draco winced.

Harry stopped.

Draco glared.

Harry stared.

Draco growled.

Harry grinned. 'Now you really
look like an angry puppy.'

His plan, Draco
admitted to himself, had been to foil Potter's advances through the use
of an inconveniently placed thorny rose. It had not been to suddenly,
enraged and excited, thrust his body into that of his 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, and 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 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 was but commonly
red, and pure blood no clearer than the rest.

Draco's hand
moved towards the rose and closed over Harry's. Neither was willing to end the
kiss, but neither enjoyed 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 into a tongue that wasn't 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 sprinkled their clothes, forming trails and
pointers to two pounding hearts, made of the mixed 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 frustrated passion that
he had, he assumed, always loved Harry Potter since that very first day he
walked into 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 at 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, and 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 neither of
them was strong enough to make the leap across. 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 to stay in this tedious realm, it needed to look
into alternate careers for creatures consisting of naught 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 (perchance to the eerily aware Room of Requirement) 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 about the horny old goblin hit, having
both hands overfull with each other. Unravelling, mending, undressing, clothing
in caresses, unwrapping, and 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.

~fin~

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The Fine Line