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More Than Nothing	By : Qestral Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 8583 -:- 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
- 3
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- 5
Chapter
Four: The Too-Fine Line

This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

The
time over which exams took place seemed to simultaneously crawl past
and disappear in a flash, and when it got to their final meal at
Hogwarts for the year, Draco found himself wishing he hadn't been so
impatient to get through his tests.

Ravenclaw
won the house-points competition. The hall was decked in the
Ravenclaw colors, and the House renowned for its intelligence sat
with smug, victorious smiles on each and every face. Though Draco
illustrated his disappointment by casting dark glares at the
Ravenclaw table, there was something relieving about neither
Gryffindor nor Slytherin coming in at first place. It was one less
thing to come between himself and Harry. As he reflected that
evening, laying in bed in deep thought, there was already too much
tension between them.

Before
the school year was completely over, and before going back home,
Draco desperately wanted to talk to Harry. He didn't really
understand why, to his annoyance, just that it was important they
talk. He didn't understand what needed to be said, and that had
prevented him from approaching the other boy at any of the
opportunities he'd been alotted over the last few days. It wouldn't
have made sense to strike up a conversation with him in the halls; it
wasn't part of how they related to each other. They publicly related
by either exchanging insults or completely ignoring the other's
presence. This left no room for casual conversation.

So
why do I want to talk to him so badly? And why now?
Draco thought, vexed. Six years of fighting—No,
he corrected, Five years of fighting, and less than one
year of using each other to get off—and now I want to talk to
him?

But
there was no rationalizing the desire away, and so Draco decided to
talk to Harry before getting off the train at Platform Nine and
Three-Quarters the next afternoon.

This
left a lot of space open to be filled with worrying about how to do
that.

As
Draco had become very aware of over the last school year, it was
difficult to find Harry without simultaneously finding Weasley and
Granger, and while the last year had dulled his animosity for them,
he certainly hadn't learned to respect them, either. It would be
pointless to ask to
speak to Harry alone. Weasley would say “No” flat out,
and Granger would look at him with suspicious surprise clearly
expressed on her face. And Harry...

Draco
got the distinct feeling that asking nicely would get an immediate
dismissal, and the idea of facing that stung his pride. He'd have to
be more forceful than that.

But
then what?

Though
it wasn't a new realization, it hit him once again that he still had
no idea what, exactly, needed to be said.

If
I can't think of anything to say,
he thought, annoyance taking him once again, Then why the
hell do I feel I need to say something?

And
then he thought, more deliberately, Why can't I let it go
unsaid?

*

Draco
didn't sleep well that night, and was understandably slow-moving
the next morning because of it. For all
his thinking, he hadn't been able to come up with a logical reason to
talk to Harry.

I
suppose logic and emotions don't often work together.

Draco
balked in the middle of washing his hair as that unexpected thought
dissipated all others in his mind, and for a moment he simply stood
with his hands frozen on his head, full of shampoo suds, and stared
at the wall.

Then
he shook his head violently, as if that would shake the thought away
and make it less real. He rinsed the shampoo off, mind scrabbling
desperately to think of anything less intimidating.

He
diverted his attention from his social matters to the matters of his
household. This, he considered, painfully, and not for the first
time, would be the second summer spent without his father coming
home. Last year, his mother had been in a very tragic state at the
loss of Lucius' presence, and for the first time ever Draco had
realized how much his mother cared for the man. It was one of those
things rarely reflected in their day to day life; Narcissa was a
fussy, busy-body sort of woman, and conversations between her and
Lucius frequently went like this:

“Oh,
look at this lovely necklace, darling! I bought it the other day
when visiting Paris, and it just looks fabulous with that dress you
bought for me on our honeymoon—all this time, and that dress
still fits, would you believe? And you must try the tiramisu at that
new little shop in Rome, you remember, the one we walked past the
last time we were visiting; I was there with Anna Bullstrode—she's
Millicent's aunt on her father's side —and
we sampled... Oh! Just about everything in the store! It was such a
delightful afternoon. I would love to go there again. We should go,
dear, maybe sometime over the Winter Hols when Draco is home and can
come with us!”

“Mm.”

Narcissa's
almost flippant conversation and Lucius' noncommital responses made
their relationship seem so dry that Draco used to marvel that he'd
ever been born at all.
So it was really surprising, that first summer, to be Portkeyed home
and find his mother waiting just inside the door, rushing up to hug
her 'darling baby boy' with tears streaming down her face.

She'd
spent most of the summer in a similar state. The first two weeks of
having his mother checking in on him almost hourly was enough to make
Draco want to scream, but by the end of July he only felt worried.
He had never seen his mother this upset, and he had never conceived
she would be over his father.

It
wasn't that Draco considered his father unlovable. Lucius was just
the sort of man Draco hadn't considered worth worrying about. His
father had always seemed able to handle anything and everything,
and—in a twisted, cold-hearted way—had been the
undefeatable wall of a man that every child's father was supposed to
be.

Lucius'
absence had made the large old mansion seem bigger, somehow. The man
had spent most of his time at the Ministry of Magic, so it didn't
make sense for his never being home at all to have such a huge
impact.

Perhaps,
Draco thought, it's knowing he won't be coming back that
makes home seem so empty.

Draco
found himself praying, as he straightened his robe and preened in the
mirror, that his mother had recovered from the loss of her husband
over the last school year. He wasn't sure he could take another
summer full of his mother's tears and constant check-ups, reminders
that his father was never coming home.

Over
breakfast, Draco cast a glance at the Gryffindor table. Harry sat at
the end of the table, Weasley next to him and Granger across, and the
three of them were chatting unintelligibly. He tore his gaze away
from the apparent happiness, heart sinking slowly and painfully
towards his stomach. His resolve to speak with Harry at all had
faded almost entirely, lost to the realization that there was no
point in interrupting the other boy's happiness. Though Draco had
thought for most of the night—even into his dreams—he
hadn't been able to rationalize his need to be heard.

The
rest of the morning was uneventful, as was the ride to the train
station. Draco sat in one of the invisibly drawn coaches with Crabbe
and Goyle—a very quiet ride; over that school year, Draco had
said less and less to them in lieu of conversation, and they either
hadn't noticed or didn't mind. The only times over the last few
months, that Draco had really hung around them was in the Slytherin
common room, and most of their conversation was summarized by Draco
telling them to shut up or stop being idiots—the latter of
which, he couldn't deny, was very unlikely .

The
most irking part of the morning happened as Draco was boarding the
train and finding an empty compartment. Through the open window of
the seats he was occupying (he had dismissed Crabbe and Goyle under
the pretense of not being able to sleep if there were others around
him, which was partly true; really, he wanted to be alone), Draco
heard Hagrid saying his farewells for the summer to Harry.

“Et's
ben a quiet year, 'Arry. Ah'm grateful; et wouldn't do to 'ave
another bad year, 'specially after th' last one. An' I hope yer
summer's just as peaceful.”

“Thanks,
Hagrid. It'd be nice for things to be as peaceful as they've been.”

“Aye...
Now, if those Dursleys give ye any trouble!...”

The
train whistle blew the warning that they would be departing shortly,
and Draco shut the window, not wanting to listen to Harry's voice.

Peaceful?!
He's been sneaking out of his dorm at least once a week since
October to fool around with me, and he tells that half-breed that
things have been peaceful?!

Indignance
and outrage and even a little pain that he didn't want to acknowledge
flooded Draco's mind, and he sat down in the seat, folding his arms
across his chest, and glowered at the opposite wall.

In
the hallway, he heard Harry call for Granger and Weasley, and from
the door of the compartment next to his, Draco heard them reply.

At
least I know where he is, if I decide to talk to him,
he thought. His stomach knotted as he contemplated once again what
his motives could possibly be for needing to speak with the Boy Who
Lived.

For
a long while, Draco sat propped up against the wall of the
compartment, eyes closed, as if sitting like he were sleeping might
actually put him to sleep, and for a little while it almost worked.
He felt his mind slip into that space between waking and dreaming,
where his thoughts ran free without actually feeling like he was
thinking. He might've fallen asleep, too, if the door of the
compartment hadn't banged open and Harry hadn't tumbled in.

Draco
snapped fully into consciousness, standing up straight, hand
snatching for his wand. He stopped when he saw Harry, sitting on his
knees, hands fumbling with his glasses as he tried to put them back
on.

“Potter.”

Harry
looked up, clearly startled, and
his expression shifted into something
very hard to read.

“Malfoy.
Sorry about the intrusion. I tripped.”

“How
graceful of you.” The words didn't have the bite he wanted
them to deliver. Instead of sounding sarcastic, it sounded almost
bantering. Banter was too friendly, and friendly was not what Draco
was feeling.

“Right.”
Harry stood, and Draco wished he would fight back, say anything if
it would keep him there longer. Instead, Harry turned to leave.

“Wait!”

Harry
froze, then turned his head to look at Draco. His eyes held
something Draco couldn't completely understand. Out of all the
complex things reflected there, there was one emotion he could
recognize. It was the one he distantly acknowledged he wanted to see
the least.

Fear.

A
thousand things bubbled to the surface of Draco's mind when he
recognized that. He wanted to punch Harry for being so ridiculous.
Harry was The-Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived, and therefore had no right to
look at Draco with fear--of all things!--in his eyes. A moment
later, Draco's heart was twisting with guilt. An entire year since
Voldemort last acted, and it was being faced by Draco that scared
Harry that visibly. That wasn't the right response, it wasn't what
he was looking for. It made him feel worlds away from Harry, further
than he had ever felt, because Harry didn't understand that.

Something
in Draco's chest cracked and burst, and flooded his mind with the
force, which was probably why the next thing he said was exactly what
he didn't want to say.

“I
think I hate you more than anything.”

Even
he was surprised at how evident the pain was in his voice. He felt
his brow furrowed the same way it did when he was angry, but there
was something different about this. His cheeks were hot, and his
fists were curled so tightly they trembled.

The
fear disappeared from Harry's eyes, and his gaze cooled.

“I'm
glad some things never change,” he said quietly. “Have a
nice summer, Malfoy.”

Then
he left, and Draco sat down heavily on the seat again.

When
did he get so bloody self-controlled?!
He thought angrily. He could have declared his hatred,
too, at least, or... Draco
roughly ground his fist against his eye, and only then did he
realize—mortified—that he had started to cry.

*

Draco
had waited until he was sure Harry and his friends had left the train
before getting off of it himself, and lost them in the crowd at
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Narcissa was waiting for him, and
she Portkeyed them both home as soon as he was sure he had all his
things.

She's
looking better, he thought, his
mother taking his attention away from brooding over Harry. It
doesn't look like she's spent hours crying anymore.

Narcissa
was a beautiful woman, and she wore every feeling well. Grief even
looked lovely on her, in a 'tragic heroine' sort of way. As soon as
they were in the front door, the grief faded under her 'doting
mother' attitude, and she pulled him into a loving hug.

“You've
gotten taller,” she admonished, taking a step back and holding
his shoulders as she inspected him. He was a full head taller than
her, now. “We'll have to get you fitted for new school robes.”

Draco
sighed, dutifully impatient. Narcissa took a few more steps back,
folding her hands in front of herself and looking her son over from
head to toe. When she started getting the weepy look, Draco felt
himself tense.

But
it wasn't his father that was bringing tears to her eyes. “You're
growing up so well.” Her voice wavered, and she smiled in
spite of the tears. “It seems like it was just the other day
we were sending you off to Hogwarts for your first year, and here it
is the summer before your seventh!”

“Mum,”
Draco said, as if it were a magic word that would make her stop being
so maternal. It didn't work.

“Oh
Draco, my baby boy... I love you so much!”

Then
she folded him in a hug that felt different from how it used to, and
it occurred to Draco that he'd grown more over the last year than he
realized.

“Mum,
you're so... short.”

Narcissa
laughed, and Draco couldn't help but chuckle, too. Then she reached
up and pulled him down so she could kiss his forehead. When she
released him, she gave him a very stern look. “I might be
shorter than you, but I'm still your mother, and I forbid you from
joining the Death Eaters!” She paused to glare as her son
rolled his eyes. “I never joined simply because I didn't want
that ugly mark on my arm--” Draco didn't doubt it; his mother
was that vain, and very little of what she owned had sleeves-- “and
now I'm glad for it! They would've taken me off to Azkaban as well,
no questions asked, and then you'd've been here all on your own, and
I just can't bear to think about that!”

In
spite of his irritation with this ancient topic of conversation,
Draco was impressed; his mother had referenced his father (however
loosely), and even spoken of Azkaban and Death Eaters all in the same
breath without losing control of her emotions. She'd come a long way
since last summer.

“I
promise, Mum,” he responded boredly. “I won't go off and
join the Death Eaters.”

He
resisted his initial response, which was to say he wouldn't follow in
his father's footsteps. His mother was doing so well; he didn't want
to risk ruining that.

“Good!”
she said, then she straightened her appearance and gave a quick sigh.
“I'm going out with some of the ladies this evening, and I
need to go prepare.”

With
that, Narcissa turned to climb the staircase and walk to her room.
“I've left some sweets in your sitting room as a Welcome Home
gift!” she called over her shoulder. “I hope you like
them!”

With
that prospect in mind, Draco hurried towards his sitting room,
leaving his things to the House Elves to take care of and his present
worries temporarily forgotten. His mother always found the best
sweets.

*

Draco
had made it to his bedroom door before the reality of what had
transpired on the train came back to him, though he made it to his
third bite of chocolate before it took over his thoughts once again.
As the scene replayed in his mind, he set down his chocolate and
found a spot on the wall for his vision to unfocus at.

His
stomach clenched painfully as he remembered his own words, and he
felt sick as the memory of Harry's frightened visage echoed in his
mind.

Hate
was so very not what he'd meant to say!

Draco
rubbed his face with his hands, running his fingers through his hair,
trying to understand what had possessed him to say something so
completely wrong. He'd been so angry, but he didn't understand why,
and seeing Harry look scared of him made him feel so horrible he
wanted to curl up on the floor and never move again.

It
was a feeling that had been almost entirely foreign to him, that
misery, and it was that feeling that was the pretense for most of
what he would do that summer.

It
started a moment later, when he did
lay down and curl up on the floor. Feeling miserable and laying on
the persian rug made him feel, to his surprise, a little better, or
distracted at the very least. It was an action he couldn't remember
even considering before. As he looked around at his room, it
occurred to him that he had never even looked at his room from this
perspective; it was almost like being in a different room entirely,
with the furniture tacked to the walls and the floor lined with
bookshelves and paintings of the Malfoy Mansion grounds.

This
is what my life feels like right now,
he decided, rolling onto his back and staring at the upward,
marvelling at how even the ceiling looked different. I
feel like I'm looking at my life and myself from the floor instead of
the chair.

He
glanced over towards his bed, and noticed just how many dust bunnies
and bits of miscellaneous had collected there without his realizing
it. He frowned. From this angle, there's a lot more junk
here than I realized.

Draco
lay on his floor for an hour or more, contemplating his newfound
angle on his room. When the floor finally became too uncomfortable,
he went to lay down on his bed. Instead of laying on it the
conventional way, he flopped with his head hanging off the side, one
hand sprawled towards the pillow and the other across his stomach.
This was another angle to consider altogether; from here, his room
was upside down instead of just sideways, and if he thought about it
enough he could imagine his ceiling was the floor. Claw footed
furniture now looking comically like it was clinging to a strangely
flat, wood-paneled ceiling. This perception amused him so much that
he actually laughed, and while he laughed he thought,
I should write this down.

Draco's
amusement subsided, and contemplated that last thought, still gazing
at his room upside-down. If he wrote it down, of course, it might be
evidence later that he was either insane or childish, and he wasn't
sure which one was worse. But there was something monumental about
this discovery on perception that he wanted to write down. Who would
have thought, after all, that looking at a room from a different
angle might make it look completely different?

And
then he considered how looking at things differently seemed to be a
theme in his life lately. His view of everyone had changed, it felt,
and his familiarity with himself felt so estranged from what he'd
used to feel. It was like he'd only known himself on the surface,
and not really taken into account some of the things going on
underneath, and it had all just been exposed in some dramatic event.

If
I wrote it down, he thought,
Maybe it would make my head feel clearer.
Draco frowned to himself, and added, Maybe I'd at least
start to understand why I'm doing any of this.
He sat up, and he felt resolve sink its claws into his shoulders.

He
needed a journal.

It
seemed very unmasculine, to him, to keep a journal, though he
supposed lots of men did. He defended to himself that he didn't want
it for the sake of confiding in something; he needed it to find some
clarity.

He
might even start to understand why he felt like he wanted to scream
and cry and rage at Harry every time he thought about him.

*

Draco
hadn't planned on being gone long, so he didn't bother finding his
mother to tell him where he was Portkeying to. He also hadn't
planned on how huge of a selection of blank writing books Flourish
and Blotts had; shelves full of empty books, some with simple charms
on them to prevent the ink from smudging, some with complicated
enchantments for who was and wasn't allowed access to the pages, some
with heavy locks proofed against unlocking charms.

Draco
picked up a book that needed a specific signature to open it. It was
black, and he could feel enchantments woven into the binding.

He
paid the witch working at the counter—a bored looking young
woman who was reading a book on the ethics of Love magic—and
returned home quickly, determined to set it up for his uses before
anyone else saw he had it. Malfoys
were supposed to be above things like journaling; it wouldn't do to
be caught with such an item.

There
was a rectangle of parchment fastened to the front cover, and
according to the small pamphlet of instructions that came with the
book, he had to sign his name there once to mark the book as his.
After that, only his signature on that same square would release the
cover.

Draco
signed his name on the parchment. The signature glowed an eerie
green, then faded completely.

Draco
took a deep breath and stared at the book, unsure of why he suddenly
felt so nervous to commit his thoughts to paper. Then he exhaled,
opened the cover, and began to write.
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More Than Nothing