That Star Trek movie got me all worked up over the creative potential of slash fiction, and the Harry Potter review put some ideas in my head. So I worked up this little piece for y'all. Just what is the relationship between Harry and Draco? There's more there than plain hate... Let's take a look at a scene not in any of the movies (yet!)
Harry and Ron sit in the history of magic classroom. Harry is hunched over a desk, but Ron is clearly ready to leave. Class has long since ended, and Harry is struggling with a particularly tedious essay.
Ron: C’mon, mate. Hermione can help you out with that later. Let’s go play wizard baseball!
Harry: Sorry, Ron, but I want to do this myself. Hermione said she thought I was functionally retarded.
Ron: That minge! I’ll never understand girls.
Harry: You and me both. Don’t worry. I’ll catch up with you later.
Ron: All right then.
Ron starts to leave.
Harry: Hey! Ron… What’s “wizard baseball.”
Ron: Wizard baseball? Oh, Harry. It’s like muggle baseball, but with magic. I can’t explain it.
Harry and Ron chuckle and Ron’s oafishness. They both know which of them is functionally retarded. Ron leaves, and Harry turns back to his scroll.
Harry: Oh, what good is magic if it can’t write an essay on the gnome renaissance for me?
Harry sighs. He is frustrated and tense. He runs a hand through his dark, tousled hair. His fingers linger on his famous lightning-bolt scar, as his hand moves across his forehead. The scar is tingling.
A door opens silently in the back of the classroom. Although the entering figure is initially obscured by darkness, the white-blonde hair moving through the shadows like the rising moon reveal the intruder to be Draco Malfoy. Draco pads stealthily behind Harry, and places his long, pale fingers on Harry’s shoulders. He rubs the shoulders gently through the thin, regulation school robes.
Harry, unaware of just who the newcomer is: What happened to wizard baseball?
Draco composes his fine features into a careful sneer, and squeezes harder with his hands, rubbing the shoulders almost roughly.
Draco: Oh, I don’t know. It turned out that wizard baseball is a game for wizards too poor and stupid to appreciate the finer wizard sports.
Harry Potter nearly falls out of his desk in surprise. This would have saved him time, as he erupts from his seat, whirling theatrically to face Draco. His scar tingles like crazy.
Harry, sarcastically: And what sports can the “betters” of the wizarding world appreciate?
Draco: Muggle baiting, centaur riding. Goblin races. Nothing you’d know about, with a family like yours.
Harry: Better than a family that licks the boots of the Dark Lor… “Goblin races”?
Draco: Did I stutter, Potter? Do you speak English? Yes, goblin races. We unshackle some of the goblins for an afternoon, and watch as they chase each other across the gardens.
Harry: That sounds like the sort of thing you’d like.
Draco, sneering: Oh, it is. Maybe you’d enjoy it too, Potter, if you could step down from your pedestal.
Harry, his voice dripping with sarcasm: Maybe I would.
Draco takes a step towards Harry.
Draco: Perhaps you should come sometime. There’ll be free food there too, so maybe you should bring your friend, Weasley.
Harry, stepping forward himself: I wouldn’t put Ron through that. And your food would only make him sick.
Draco: Excuses, excuses. Don’t use poor Weasley as a scapegoat.
Harry: I never said I wouldn’t come.
Draco, rolling his eyes slightly: Oh, really? I guess I’ll see you there, then.
Harry: I guess you will.
Draco: Wonderful. I’ll tell my father.
Harry: Do that.
Harry gathers up his things, his eyes never leaving Draco’s. A smirk lingers on Draco’s face as Harry walks by, towards the exit.
Harry, pausing: Draco, maybe you could participate in them sometime.
Draco’s smirk falls with suspicion: Participate in what?
Harry puts his hands on Draco’s shoulders, and squeezes them firmly.
Harry: The goblin race, of course. You’ve got the legs for it.
Draco’s jaws tense, and his face darkens with intense emotion.
Harry, kneading Draco’s thin shoulders: You just need to loosen up a little.
Harry’s hand slowly trails down the side of Draco’s robes as he walks away, a final declaration of confidence and contempt for his adversary.
Draco, softly: You’ll get what’s coming to you, Potter.
Harry, over his shoulder: I hope so.