A/N: This is the result of spending a day reading slashy goodness (there’s just so much stuff out there... and so much of it is just too damn poignant to resist). I should warn you, it’s, erm, a bit weird for me, though. It won’t happen again, Ma, I promise ::g::

Summary: Draco Malfoy does not believe in anything. Incredibly slashy overtones.

Rating: PG-13, because Draco sometimes has dirty thoughts.

Disclaimer: Nothing you see below is mine. More’s the pity, of course.

Belief in Blurred Lines

by: Hayseed (hayseed_42@hotmail.com)

Draco Malfoy does not believe in anything. He does not, in fact, remember a time in which he did.

Beliefs are far trickier things, he has decided, than anyone around him chooses to admit to. They lack the surety of fact. They are refutable, they are arguable.

They are powerful.

Draco has told himself that while no one in his right mind would sacrifice his life for the undeniable blue of a cloudless sky, any number of men would and had driven themselves mad and died for beliefs that facts have long since goaded into amusing academic anecdotes.

They are dangerous. Unsafe.

And Draco far prefers his safety, his sanity, his salvation. Beliefs have none of that, he knows, so he prefers only to acknowledge truths well proven.

He likes well-defined things. The clean, straight edges of a life uncluttered by belief.

He likes preparing the ingredients for a potion, slowly and methodically, the exactitude required by the strict formula a comfort to him. He enjoys the actual process itself -- forty-three turns clockwise precisely, one more or one less ruining the entire design. It does not matter what the final result is, it is the means to the end that Draco concerns himself with.

Classes like Herbology, or Defense Against the Dark Arts, or even -- all idiotic, incompetent teachers aside -- Care of Magical Creatures frustrate Draco to no end. Here, there is no true formula for success. His sharp lines blur and become indistinguishable as some plants wither under his ministrations and others thrive. As one day, a creature will approach him and butt his hand with its head in search of affection, and another, that same creature will leap forward and sink its teeth into his palm before he can even attempt to touch it. He no longer tries to be friendly toward Hagrid’s beasts, unwilling to tolerate even a hint of capriciousness in his life.

Not that part of his life, anyway.

The idea of Houses at Hogwarts appealed to him immensely as a little boy. Partitioning the students, each according to their measure. He would know his enemies, he would be able to identify them without even having to speak to them. Blue blood and dirty blood, green and red and blue and yellow. Draco liked drawing lines even then.

He knows better now, of course.

He knows about the darkness of night and how it turns all of his lines into shadow. He’s seen his housemaster, skulking off into the black, with a white mask under his arm and a look of terror in his eyes. Snape, of course, does not know what Draco has seen, and Draco has never had any intention of telling anyone. Neither Dumbledore nor the Dark Lord himself could pry secrets from Draco Malfoy’s mouth, not with the most undiluted Veritaserum or fiercest Cruciatus curse.

He’s felt his father’s arm wrap around his shoulders at certain special suppers, with watching eyes and mouths praising the Malfoy devotion to family. Felt Lucius’ hand give his upper arm an affectionate squeeze and heard his mother call to him with a loving smile on her face. “Draco,” she would say, drawing his name out playfully, “Dray-y-co.”

He cannot bear the sound of his name from other lips. If Draco thought much about it, he would realize that he cannot even think of himself as Draco. But, of course, if he does not reveal such secrets to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he certainly does not tell himself.

Don’t think about it, Malfoy, he chides himself as his father stumbles past his doorway late at night, not even giving him a second look. It doesn’t matter anyway, Malfoy, he thinks as he unwraps a specially crafted set of Chaser gloves and matching Quaffle that he knows his mother told the elves to place at the foot of his bed on Christmas morning. He’s a cold bastard and she’s an unfeeling bitch. They deserve each other, Malfoy, and you do your best to make them miserable, like a good little boy.

Draco likes to swear. It smacks of something that would make the entire line of Malfoys arch a collective disdainful eyebrow at him. He rolls over whole strings of curse words on his tongue as if they were the finest of Shakespearean sonnets.

It is why he provokes Weasley and Potter and Granger as often as he does, and Weasley most of all. Weasley will swear at him, allow him to unleash the streams, the oceans of filth his mind has accumulated.

Neither Potter nor Granger is half as much fun. Too self-righteous and worried by far. Potter considers himself above sparring with Draco any more and contents himself with snarling ambiguity, with sideways looks and snide remarks. He has, Draco supposes, bigger things on his mind.

And if he does not, Granger most certainly does. Hovering and twittering, she reminds him of a bird, flapping her hands about until even Draco himself is ready to grab them in his own fists and scream at her to shut her god-damned, Mudblooded mouth for thirty seconds.

He suspects, however, that he does not want to fight with Granger. That she, even more than dim, potty Potter, is the most dangerous thing Gryffindor has to offer. Potter’s glances speak to distraction, Granger’s to consideration. If there is anyone at Hogwarts who will ask Draco where his loyalties lie, it will be Granger, he thinks.

And perhaps he would answer her. Maybe, if she asks nicely enough, he would even answer her truthfully.

But if Potter is not worth the effort, and Granger seems to be too much effort, Weasley is just right.

Draco has not read any Muggle fairy tales. Or wizarding ones, either, come to think of it. So this irony is entirely lost on him.

But that does not take away from the truth of it. Draco enjoys Weasley’s lack of ambiguity, the clear hatred in his eyes as he lunges toward him, wand forgotten and fists flying forward. He does not recognize the feeling in the pit of his stomach when his lower lip parts under Weasley’s knuckle, but he does know that it is good.

Draco licks the blood from his split lip and smiles at him. Laughs coldly and releases another expletive volley, raising his own hands. Lucius Malfoy -- Draco cannot bring himself to think the word Father -- duels with a wand in hand, but his son pprefers to grapple with Weasley with bare fists, hands curling around shoulders as they wrestle each other to the ground and continue to exchange blows.

Weasley is bony and tall and a spectacularly inept brawler, but Draco suspects he is little better. Two pureblooded boys, taught to fight with their wands, are not destined for particularly skillful boxing matches, but they both give it their level best.

And Weasley’s eyes twinkle as he punches Draco in the gut. His eyes sparkle to the brightest of blues, almost taking Draco’s breath away.

Draco, of course, does not allow himself to consider this. To believe this.

Because Weasley’s stomach muscles are entirely too tight. The lines are too well-defined for Draco to bear.

He cannot think about blue eyes and red hair and pale, freckled chests. About long legs and bony hips awkwardly thrusting.

It is better to keep the lines where they are and to blacken Weasley’s eye.

Draco fights with Weasley at his every opportunity and pushes all images of bare skin and thrashing limbs to the back of his mind. But sometimes he watches Weasley’s tongue curl over his teeth and wonders what that tongue would feel like touching his own lips.

Sometimes, in the dark, Draco believes in Ron Weasley.

And he does not ask himself if Weasley believes in him, because he does not like enduring blurry lines any more than he already must.

FINIS