Chapter Four: The Too-Fine Line

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 decorated 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. To his annoyance, he didn't really understand why; 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, which left little 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 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 in such a state 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 if I hear anything about you working with Death Eaters, I am grounding you!” 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 looked 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 he 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 record. 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.