The Fine Line

Part 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 equivalents), Draco Malfoy was wont to brood on extremes: Politically incorrect politics, whether to hate or love, whether to suck up to professors or 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 would certainly not say ‘Yours.’ Because that was supposed to be a secret, wasn’t it? It wasn’t prudent, after all, to reveal ones devious plans beforehand. Especially not ones that involved the stealing of something quite so...

Precious.

Precious Potter’s precious heart.

‘Cheap shot, Potter. Cheap and tawdry.’ Okay, just a little turn then; a 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 Requirements 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.