The Fine Line

Part II

It was with a sour face completely unbefitting his outfit that Harry Potter stalked into the Room of Requirements 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 Requirements 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.

[ill.] 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 the 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 Requirements 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 Requirements, between Darkness and Grey.

Though, Harry felt, the hues should be reversed, the palette turned halfway around.

‘Shouldn’t this be your side, Malfoy?’

[ill.] ‘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.’

‘Touché, Potter, touché.’

‘Not yet. First I need to – what was that thing you said? – whoop your arse? So, how about we do what we came here to do?’

‘Why, of course. But do keep from 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 now shone an angry, fluorescent pink.

Harry closed his eyes and found he had quite forgotten how to count to ten.

Why on Earth had he trusted Malfoy to play fair? Why had he expected that insufferable brat to be any different from all the other liars and cheats that 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.

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 the list from Hermione. But just because she was better with words, it didn’t mean he didn’t feel just the same way.

So, there.

Still, an imperceptible shade of embarrassment had crept into his angry red, invisible to any onlooker but pressingly felt by Harry himself.

They were, after all, Hermione’s words. Not really his.

But he did agree fully.

Didn’t he?

Draco’s face darkened.

‘Well, well. You are a quick learner, Potter. Only took you, what, six seconds to figure that out once you’d heard my – infamous name, didn’t it, oh Precious Potter?’

Harry snorted.

‘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.