Tempting Fate

It began innocently enough, a thought that floated up and popped, nuzzling against Harry’s dream state. He lay in bed, attempting to hold onto the idea, but the sound of snores wafting through the room was soothing and Harry felt his mind start to drift. As his eyes closed, wrapping him in enveloping darkness behind the heavy lids, an image glided in, one that jolted him upright. Roughly scratching his head and affixing his glasses atop his nose, he pulled the room into focus. The cool night air caused a small shiver to slip down his spine and he grabbed at an old robe, edged himself off the bed and onto the cold, stone floor. He wandered over to the large, plate-glass window, stared out into the blue-black sky and released a short, ragged breath that rippled across the chilled pane, forming a crystal mist. With his view temporarily blocked to the outside world, Harry turned back toward the thought that was quickly modifying into a query; one he was itching to dissect.

Were he and Malfoy enemies?

He twisted and bent the idea, flipping it from end to end. He picked at the question and pulled it apart only to push it back together irritably. No matter which way he viewed it, the same answer always rose to the surface. Yes. Something tugged at the base of his stomach. He already possessed one archrival, Lord Voldemort. It was a prophecy he was bound to fulfill; constructed before his time, before his birth. There was nothing he could do to change that fact. After two years of grappling, wrestling and cursing this fate, the burden had hardened into a pressing weight, a constant reminder that he was marked, that he would never be completely free until he faced his destiny. The realization of being tied to a second enemy was suffocating.

Resting his body heavily against the sill, he attempted to peel back another layer, searching for some form of resolution that would calm his brain and allow him to slip back into the comfort of his feather bed. As his lids began to flutter threateningly, another startling question rose up, waking him further.

Was there nothing he could do to change this fact?

This idea intrigued him. Could he, in fact, alter this second, more tangible rivalry, shape it into something softer, friendlier even? He sucked in his breath, stared out into the emptiness and tightened his grip around the robe. Could he and Malfoy ever achieve friendship? Could he cut down on his list of enemies by one?

Harry pawed at his thick hair and yawned. He wasn’t accustomed to deep thinking, especially at two o’clock in the morning. He much preferred tripping over ideas, stumbling across them while coincidentally being in wrong place at the right time. He was all action, heroics and lucky chances and was happy to leave the researching and analyzing to Hermione. But he knew this particular issue was a private one, something he would need to study and explore on his own. Against all better judgment, he found himself clinging to this strange shred of hope and feeling the pressure against his chest lighten ever so slightly. This idea allowed him to crawl back under the warmth of his covers and ease into a fitful sleep. He hoped he would remember this wish in the morning.

*****

Sitting in Transfigurations the next day, pondering his new epiphany, Harry decided the best course of action was to conduct a bit of research to determine whether this idea was, in fact, sane or just a clear path toward a famous Potter/Malfoy fistfight. He had sworn off fisticuffs two years ago when a stronger reality threatened to pummel him senseless. He leaned over to Hermione and bumped her elbow, causing her to smudge the last line of notes.

"What?" she hissed.

Suddenly feeling rather silly, Harry looked down at his scuffed shoes. "Um... hey Hermione. I was just wondering... How do you, y’know, study?"

Hermione’s mouth fell open. "Are you kidding me? Are you really asking me, now, in your seventh year at Hogwarts, to explain the process of studying? Harry, please, I need to get back to my notes before I miss this entire spell." She quickly turned back and commenced, once again, to scribbling madly, though she peered over at Harry once and dramatically shook her head.

Harry turned back to his blank parchment and picked up his quill, though his mind was spinning madly, fighting to keep him on track to the task at hand. He shifted his focus back to Hermione. "Hey," he whispered. "I mean, how does one go about doing research? I have a certain topic I need to explore, but I’m not sure how to begin."

Hermione’s eyes lit up and she squealed silently. "Oh, Harry. I knew you’d figure out a topic for History of Magic. What is it? Tell me."

"I can’t," Harry quickly replied. "I’m still trying to figure out if I really want to make the effort. I just need to know how to start."

Hermione’s stare was penetrating and she spoke slowly. "Go to the library, look up the topic and start collecting facts. Facts are the most important piece of any research paper. Gather the facts and analyze them; make sure they are accurate and necessary for the topic. If you get that part done, I’ll help you write it. I promise." She smiled brightly at him and turned back to her own parchment.

Start collecting facts. That made sense. Harry turned back to his parchment and smiled privately to himself.

*****

Harry spent the whole of autumn observing Malfoy and scrawling coarse mental notes no matter how miniscule they seemed. Each evening, he would nestle into quiet nooks, quill to parchment, jotting each finding to the smallest detail.

Sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room one evening, documenting facts under the false pretense of studying for History of Magic, Hermione sauntered over to the soft leather chair that had become Harry’s nightly studying cubicle and perched herself upon its arm. She nonchalantly peered over his shoulder to see Harry quickly roll up his parchment and shove it in the side of the cushion.

"What?" Harry knew he sounded more frustrated than was expected for such an innocent act. Why did she have to be so nosy? Couldn’t she just leave him alone?

"Nothing. I was just wondering how your History of Magic project was coming along. Did you move ahead with your original idea?"

Harry felt his face redden. "Um... I think so. I mean I’m still doing research. I-"

"You’re still doing the research? Merlin, Harry, I completed my project a week ago. You had better hurry. You’ve only got two weeks left! Just let me have a peek. I’m sure I could help you move it along. I’ve already done that for Ron."

Ron, who had been sitting by the window, playing Wizards Chess with Seamus, spun around defensively. "You did not help me. I just asked you a few questions and you answered them. That’s all."

Hermione straightened up and planted her hands on her hips, "I found the topic for you, Ron. I helped you write your notes. I edited your paper about fifty times. I-"

"Okay, okay. Geez." Ron squared his gaze on Harry. "Take my advice. Do it yourself. You’ll thank me in the end."

Harry grinned at Ron who was immediately immersed in a verbal battle with a very affronted Hermione, unrolled his parchment and settled back into his chair. He knew Ron was in for a long night, but at least it afforded him the extra time he needed to finish both his personal and school projects.

*****
*****

By November, Harry had filled six rolls of parchment with details of Malfoy in various forms. He had gathered columns and rows of facts about the Malfoy family (he knew there was more out there than what he could find in the school library), quotes he had heard Malfoy himself utter, charts and graphs that compared and contrasted each aspect of their personality, all in the desperate hope of discovering the key to unlock the hidden link between them.

One chilling realization that swept the breath from his lungs whenever he reread his notes was the startling color combination reflected in their eyes. Harry's green irises alongside Malfoy's silver-grey ones represented the coding for the Slytherin House. This amalgamation was more than enough proof that Harry should never combine forces with Malfoy. He freely admitted to himself that the disgust stemmed from his own morbid curiosity, the constant ringing question of whether or not Gryffindor was his proper home.

After this discovery, Harry quickly became consumed with their physical variations. Once during a Care of Magical Creatures class when a stupid stunt left Malfoy hobbling around the Great Lawn, cursing under his breath in the morning sun, Harry was transfixed by the glow emanating from the faultless blonde hair. In the warm light, each tendril shone, bright tips dipped in yellow flame, creating a falsely innocent halo around the despicable head. For the first time in two years, Harry felt a burning desire to launch at Malfoy and smash his posh head into the soft grass, disrupting the perfect placement, mussing and smearing the white hair into the soft earth until it remotely resembled his own.

Immediately after class, Harry slipped away from Ron and Hermione and darted into a deserted bathroom. He stood in front of a mirror and studied his stubbornly disheveled hair, pulling down individual strands that willfully sprung back, pointier than before. He turned on the faucet, plunged his hands into the cold water and threaded, tugged and yanked them through his hair, the effect of which only aided in achieving a more tousled, matted appearance. Burning with frustration, Harry drove his hands back into the frigid stream, drenching himself up to his forearms and slapped his hands onto his scalp, pressing his hair down. After a few seconds, he could actually feel the tendrils fighting against the force, pushing into his determined grip. When he released and the locks staunchly bounced back, his only response was that of an exhausted sigh before relenting.

Harry shifted his measured investigation to Malfoy's structural composition. He was determined to note each subtle nuance by mapping the flowing dips and slender curves while searching for hidden marks or scars that might provide a clue to the real Malfoy hidden behind the infamous mask. The best time to achieve this section of his field work was immediately following Quidditch practice when all the teammates pulled off their dirty, sweat-laced team robes and sunk into scalding showers. Malfoy would always choose a shower first, the same one at the left corner, farthest from the door and locker room. Harry would stumble in with the rest of the players who haphazardly draped themselves under showerheads while shouting about bad calls and new strategic moves. He would slip past all of them, step into the open spot adjacent to Malfoy, position his body at a perfect forty-five degree angle and narrowly shift his eyes onto Malfoy's vulnerably open frame to catch quick, secret glimpses; a sharp hip, a long, taut thigh, an arched calf, a delicate ankle. Harry noted these images and immediately folded and tucked them away for late evening study sessions when he could compile his mental notes.

Harry had to be careful during these peeping tom moments. He knew there were many dangerous factors involved with this line of research including but not limited to the fact that he was staring at Malfoy. Naked. He was lucky that Malfoy took excruciatingly long showers, far longer than any other player. Forehead and chest lobster red, fingers and toes pruned, Harry took advantage of the time afforded to him and stole as many glances as he safely could while the other players chatted it up and changed back into their school robes. Malfoy rarely moved when he showered. He faced the wall, leaned his body forward, pressed his pale face against the tiles and allowed the searing water to pound into his translucent flesh until Harry was sure it would burst. It was as if he were attempting to wash away more than just the superficial dirt and sweat; the cleansing Harry witnessed seemed deeper and far more complicated.

Harry had been caught once. He had been careless, too transfixed by his desire to memorize the deep curve of Malfoy's lower back and remember each smooth detail. For that reason, he had not seen the head pull away from the wall and silently twist around, cold eyes locking on his distracted gaze.

"What are you looking at, Potter?" He raised his voice in an effort to publicly reveal the rather embarrassing scenario unfolding between them.

All analytical thoughts melted away at the sound of the slow drawl and Harry felt his naked body flush. "Nothing", he stammered and immersed himself further into the scalding stream hoping it would mask his reaction.

Malfoy narrowed his focus and grinned. "You were looking at me, Potter. What were you staring at? I'm curious."

"Why would I ever look at you, Malfoy? I was just relaxing and basking in Gryffindor's victory." Harry met his gaze and smiled wickedly, "Would you like for me to look at you?"

There was a moment of stunned silence while both men stared at each other, wet, exposed and privately fearful they had lost this particular contest of wills. It was immediately broken by an eruption of laughter, the mounting tension crumbling at Malfoy's feet. Harry observed with relief Malfoy's porcelain skin pinken and sharp eyes dart around at the grinning faces. He smiled back, quirked an eyebrow seductively and laughed along with his fellow Slytherins, but Harry knew he had won that match. As he pushed his face back into the blistering water, shutting off the residual chuckles and scattered applause, a cold shiver dropped down his spine and almost sank him to his knees.

*****
*****

Harry awoke with a start early Christmas morning. He picked at the scattered bits of parchment that had stuck themselves to his cheeks and forehead, remnants of a late night research session. He had spent a large portion of the night dragging his quill across torn pieces of paper in his newest form of information gathering, sketching. It was something he had tried once on a whim when his tired brain refused to supply a descriptive word for Malfoy’s elbow. From that moment forth, he was hooked. He enjoyed conjuring bits of Malfoy out of thin air. It was almost soothing to recreate fragments of the whole; long arms, red lips, shoulder blades, hips. It was also much safer to work with small shreds of parchment, recycling old homework papers and tearing off corners while sitting in class. They were easier to hide from prying eyes, worst of all Hermione who had taken a special interest in his suddenly obsessive study habits. He rolled these ripped fragments up in larger scrolls and tucked them into a hidden compartment he had constructed in his trunk.

Harry knew there was another reason he constructed Malfoy in jagged, scattered pieces. The mere thought of sketching the whole person did strange things to his stomach and caused his head to tighten painfully. He wasn’t ready to link the pieces of the puzzle together. Bits and scraps were easier for his mind to bend around and sift through.

The emptying of Hogwarts during Christmas break provided much-needed study time for Harry who, until now, only got away with stolen moments during classes, late nights in the common room or early mornings behind the canopy. He had even successfully urged Ron to go home to The Burrow and celebrate the holiday with his family. He knew that Ron only stayed on for him, and for the first time since the age of eleven, Harry didn’t feel lonely. With only a handful of students left in Gryffindor tower, none of them seventh years, Harry spent countless hours with his memories of Malfoy. He would lay images across his sheets and ponder, always careful not to place the shreds in any sort of order that resembled a pictorial of the real thing. Sometimes, as his eyelids fluttered closed in the early morning hours, right before dawn, these broken pictures would flutter into dreams, his subconscious opening wide to accept what his awareness instinctually rejected. Harry dreamt of raw, smeared, torn etchings that danced precariously close together, threatening to bind a smooth hand onto a pointed wrist that perfectly fit into a thin arm. Sometimes the real Malfoy, swatches of him, would languidly waft inside his head when his defenses were down. These took their time, slowly and cautiously piecing themselves together. His thoughts, as innocent as he claimed them in the light of day, shadowed his dreams, pinching him in places that made him tuck his legs to his chin and wrap his arms around his knees. He remembered just how Malfoy looked in the shower, soft, wet tendrils melting into a graceful neck, a long, narrow spine that licked down his back, dangerously far. These visions infiltrated Harry’s normal nightmares, transforming the dark images of Voldemort and sickly green light into soft, red lips and stormy grey eyes that pierced him awake, gasping for air.

Harry sat up straight in bed, terrified. Grabbing at his glasses and perching them atop his nose, he pulled in a ragged breath, exhaled and coughed. He wiggled around slowly in the sheets, stopped dead, and tentatively lifted the covers to peek down the length of his body. He saw first hand what he already knew and definitely felt; he was sitting in extremely sticky sheets.

Kicking the blankets to the floor, Harry grabbed at his robe and wrapped it tight, willing himself not to look down. He ran as fast as he could to the bathroom, hoping to return and clean up the mess before the house elves came to change the bed.

Entering the dimly lit room, he crossed to a far end sink and manically grabbed a towel, drenching it in warm water. He closed his eyes and brought the cloth to his stomach, roughly wiping away the residue that seemed to have traveled far into his inner thighs. His mind was still swimming, and he hoped the rough scraping of cotton would drown out the looming pictures that tickled the corners of his fuzzy mind and made his body shiver into the wet pressure of cloth.

The steamy warmth mixed with visions that floated behind the heavy lids was overwhelming and Harry felt himself stir in response. He opened his eyes, dropped the towel and switched the water temperature to frigid. Fingers trembling, he grabbed at his robe and dropped it to the floor, the smooth material slipping down the length of his body and causing a shiver to run up his spine. Everything was spinning, twisting in two different directions, then four, until Harry thought he might black out. Reaching out for the counter, he took his time immersing his hands in the cold water, first one, then the other, allowing the coolness to course through his body, grounding him back to a point where he could focus properly again. When his fingers achieved a sufficient level of numbness, he reached down and wrapped them tightly around the hot skin that immediately softened, falling limp in his palm. Harry closed his eyes and sighed. He was exhausted and utterly bewildered. With his mind finally settling down, he decided to chalk it up to boyish confusion, something that would melt away with self-assuredness and a girlfriend, neither of which he had these days. Cho was the only girl he had kissed, the memory of her tears upon his lips and tongue still burned into his memory.

Standing at the sink, Harry peered into the mirror in front of him. He poked at the dark circles around his eyes and lifted his glasses off the bridge of his nose to rub the two deep indentations. He prodded the contours of his lips, jaw, chin, forehead, the lightning bolt scar that stared back at him, the dark shadow of his future.

He stepped to the right and was greeted by a full-length mirror that sat in the corner. As he stared at his naked form, he watched a blush blossom across his cheeks and chest. Though he had no problem haphazardly ripping off robes with his Quidditch teammates, the act he was now committing seemed almost voyeuristic.

After taking a few moments to adjust to the sight of himself staring back, naked and exposed, Harry automatically began to trace. In the flickering torchlight, he scribbled, charted and mapped; outlining his skeletal structure and noting the blaring faults. His thighs and arms were covered in scars, the effects of Quidditch and more than a few abusive encounters with the Dursleys. He pulled at his hair thoughtfully, flexed his thin biceps, tensed his knobby calves and tightened his back until he was sure muscles would tear. He knew people called him The Golden Boy, but he couldn’t see the connection. He was not graceful or elegant or statuesque. He tripped when he ran, spoke out of turn and didn’t know on which side of the plate the dinner fork belonged. Gazing at his reflection, it certainly did not look golden. It did not look perfect. Not like Malfoy.

Harry had compared himself against Malfoy in every form of research Hermione had patiently taught him. He had also drawn hundreds of pictures searching for hidden clues. Scrolls were hidden throughout his trunk, crammed beneath his mattress and tucked between pillows and sheets. Staring at himself, eyes running over the length of his body, Harry felt his mind click on. He had spent so much time researching Malfoy that he had never actually studied himself. Maybe he held the link that would once and for all answer the question as to whether he and Malfoy were doomed from the start? His mind cleared, the room seemed to brighten and Harry reversed his fieldwork methodology.

With a new hopeful plan, Harry intently stepped up to the mirror and began tearing across the reflection, summoning up torn parchment and stolen glances for comparison sake. He found the ones from the shower most appropriate and began pulling at each, twisting and tipping them perilously close to his own naked body. He imagined the sharp face pressed against the tile, white hair dripping water into his eyes and running down his cheeks and neck. He remembered how stunning Malfoy looked in those quiet moments, relaxed and unguarded. He seemed young and uncomplicated and not at all the spiteful boy that Harry had grown to hate. It was during those moments that Harry questioned whether Malfoy wasn’t just like him, trapped on a course that had already been decided for him. He reasoned their one common bond lay in their future paths, both determined before their birth, one prophesized, the other paved in wealth and power. Were they both mere pawns, kept safe until the pivotal moment arrived when they would be forced out on their journeys, every cell in their body screaming madly? Their lives held life-threatening stakes, interconnected by their hatred and loyalty for Lord Voldemort. He desperately hoped that Malfoy still had a choice. It was liberating to believe that one of them could escape their fate and start anew, untarnished by battles and possible death staining or destroying their bright future. Of course, the question remained: what would Malfoy’s choice be?

Harry looked at his structural composition. He was slightly taller and stronger than Malfoy who overflowed in curves and angles, exquisitely graceful, even when he acted like an utter prat. He compared his olive skin to Malfoy’s white pallor. The skin, paler than any other student at Hogwarts, was utterly spellbinding. He shifted these picture perfect images next to his reflection until they were side-by-side, the true Golden Boy standing slightly to his left, a sneer affixed upon full lips.

Harry wondered how that soft, almost translucent skin might feel beneath his calloused tips. Once in the dark, shielded by a starless night and the thick curtains of his canopy, he had run his fingers lightly across the pillow and wondered if Malfoy could be that soft. Or softer. He imagined running his fingers across the supple surface, the neck and chest, the crease of his lower lip. He visualized his fingers bumping along the downy hair, gently at first, before pressing down, pinkening the skin until it remotely resembled the flushed tone he had seen in the shower during the confrontation that had left Harry shaking for days.

Goose bumps shot down Harry’s arms and he reached up to touch his own chest, fingers flutteringly lightly across his sternum. He imagined Malfoy’s fingers against his chest and arms and legs, touching scars; running nimble tips along the many bruises and scrapes. Harry felt himself stir.

Yes, his hands were especially dissimilar. Harry had spent one entire mealtime discreetly observing those hands, noting each dip and curve as he spread a white linen napkin across his lap. He studied the way Malfoy held his fork, arranged his plate and adjusted his robes, each move meticulous and deliberate. His fingers, like the rest of Malfoy, were the smoothest Harry had ever seen. It was as if he shed his skin like a snake, a translucent glow the only evidence. He consistently looked sinuous, radiant and untouchable.

Untouchable. Harry dropped his hands down to his stomach, rubbing the dark hairs lightly, standing them on end. He dipped further down until he made delicate contact with a hip. Tears welled up, blurring the visual, but he continued to drag his fingers across nerve endings, drawing close circles that grew wider with each turn. What was he doing? Why wouldn’t he stop? He touched himself once, a finger gently stroking the skin that grew hot and hard against the welcome contact. Yes, Malfoy was most definitely untouchable. A salty tear trickled down Harry’s flushed cheek, staining and burning. He drew his hand up and roughly wiped at his eyes, smearing the reminder that everything was crumbling to pieces and slipping out of control. Trembling and nauseous, he dropped to the floor and groped for his robe, cinching it painfully tight around his waist. Then he straightened up, leaned in and took one last look at the boy with messy hair and a messy scar, growing up against the clock and completely lost in a life he could no longer grasp onto.

Running back into the dorm, he bypassed the lone Christmas tree under which sat the few gifts he always received. He threw on his school robes, performed a cleaning spell on the mangled sheets and descended the tower steps. Making his way into the Great Hall, he grabbed a cup of coffee and searched for distraction, relieved to discover a rather heated debate at the Ravenclaw table. Settling in with a few fifth years who were actively discussing their upcoming OWLS, he tried his best to give advice and pat a few backs, though he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering off into dark corners. He dropped his head to the table and began rocking it back and forth slowly; he knew he needed to move on, it was all too much for him to think about what with almost guaranteed impending doom looming in his future. He longed for something simple; something that made logical sense. The shy hand against the small of his back was startling, and he lifted his head to see an attractive Ravenclaw, eyes filled with concern, dark hair spilling against her lips as she bent down and smiled. He stared at the smooth, red, upturned mouth that had begun to falter, the dimple in her cheek deepening. Yes, it was time to put the project to rest and move on to something that finally made sense. He returned her smile and nodded.

*****