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Draco looked down at the letter clutched tightly in his hands and felt his excitement start to bubble over. He quickly forced it down; it wouldn't do to show such emotions, everybody knew that. He did, however, let his mind wander just a little bit: him proudly being sorted into Slytherin, his new housemates elated that one so powerful was joining their ranks. He thanked his father for passing along the letter, and promised to do him justice. The only response was a raised eyebrow.
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The Boy Who Lived was the same age as him! Together, they would go so far. First things first though, Harry Potter was speaking with that Weasley runt. That would have to change. Eagerly Draco stepped forward to introduce himself to his new accomplice.
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The Remembrall was surprisingly heavy in Draco's hand while he watched Potter rise smoothly into the air in front of him. That in itself was enough for a shiver of apprehension to make its way along his spine. Potter shouldn't know how to use a broom, let alone be so smooth. Draco steeled himself; if Potter was determined to not join him as an accomplice, then Draco would have to show him up at every opportunity. When Potter inevitably realized that he was in the wrong, Draco would welcome him with open arms. He heaved the Remembrall high into the air.
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Parseltounge! Wonder almost forced Draco's jaw open, but he couldn't stop his eyes widening. Potter could talk to snakes. This was the proof he'd been looking for, there really was a dark wizard hiding inside The Boy Who Lived. His mind was a cacophony of interweaving dreams, all focused on Draco at Potter's side while the world bowed before them. Draco vowed to himself that he would bring those visions to fruition.
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A dull throbbing continuously travelling along his arm and into his brain was what woke Draco up from the potion-assisted sleep he was in. Embarrassment, shame and jealousy were the next things he was aware of. Why Potter hadn't been attacked was beyond his comprehension. The beast was definitely a danger to everyone, perhaps Potter had used some secret dark magic to bend the creature to his will. Potter never seemed to be hiding a dark wizard inside himself, but that was the entire point wasn't it. Draco would overcome this pain and be ready when his Lord decided to do away with his smokescreen and reveal himself to the world.
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The name should have echoed. Dumbledore's voice usually echoed at least a little bit, but this time it didn't at all. Everyone in the great hall was staring over at Potter, and Draco was no exception. Once more Draco was astounded at the sheer ability of Potter. Dark Lord or not (Draco was seriously starting to doubt Potter actually was one) the fact that Potter got across the age line filled Draco with the chilling feeling of fear. Anyone who could beat Dumbledore's magic was someone to be very afraid of. Once again Draco lamented silently that Potter hadn't agreed with him at their first meeting. He watched as Potter began his march to the front of the hall, all the while thinking about how truly imposing Potter could be if he just tried.
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There was a slight gleam where the light reflected off of the badge as Draco pinned it triumphantly to his breast. This would surely show Potter the utter stupidity of his actions over the last few years. Now that Dumbledore wasn't constantly whispering lies and foolishness into his ears he would finally come to understand how wrong he'd been. Draco would just have to convince him was all. Draco was certain of the fact that it would be Draco Malfoy's guiding hand that brought Potter to his new realization.
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Confusion had spread its fog throughout Draco's mind. Dumbledore was making sense. His entire life everyone had insisted that the man was a crackpot old fool, but it really didn't seem like it at all. Dumbledore looked like he was already dying for god's sake! At the brink of death, and still able to speak sense. Conflicting thoughts and feeling tore at each other, a battle that raged across his mind. He suddenly understood why Dumbledore was held in such high regard. A bolt of lightning had flashed deep among buried emotions, illuminating for a moment the vastness of what could have been. No. Still could be if Dumbledore was to be believed. The reasons Potter and his friends had fought so valiantly against Draco and his accomplices were at once clear as day. Four hooded figures barged into the room, and with them fear made it's triumphant return. It flitted across the ravaged field of feelings, emotions and thoughts, all the while pulling along it's veil of obscurity. Where for a brief moment lightning had cleared the fog, the veil now draped heavy and dark. Even then, that instant of clarity that Draco had seen could not be forgotten, only ignored.
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Draco was going to die. Stupid Crabbe! Why would he use Fiendfyre inside of a room? With all of them inside? The fiery creatures were nipping at his heels when he felt a sweaty hand trying to grasp his own. Astonishment and relief forced themselves into his thoughts, and away they were zooming, Potter's back the only solid support in his smoke-addled mind.
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This was the fifth door to be slammed on his face, and the rage inside of him churned violently. No home, no power, no money, no family and no hope of employment. What was expected of him? How was he supposed to go on like this? Everything lost because his father decided He Who Must Not Be Named was a better lot than everything else. No backup plan, no secret hidden funds, nothing. The swirling rage inside of Draco gradually began to recede, leaving room for something far worse: the aching cold of despair.
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Draco knew he looked terrible when he knocked on the door. He also knew that he felt so much worse inside. All of the things that made him Draco scooped out, leaving barely a husk behind. The door opened silently, a wand already pointed at him. “Why did you save me?” Draco rasped to Potter “What possible reason did you have?” The wand was swiftly tucked into a pocket and Potter stepped back to let him in. Draco didn't move, just stared with all the emptiness inside of him into Potter's eyes. “How could I not?” Potter responded quietly, his arm showing the way to the warm comfort of a hearth fire and its armchairs. “When you would have died?”
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Draco kept telling himself to leave. In the mornings when he got up and in the evenings after dinner, he would tell himself to leave. He always stayed. He wasn't sure what made him stay, but he would invariably wake up in his bed at Potter's house the next morning. Potter had guests over often, mostly that French half-blood Veela and the Weasley girl. The Weasley girl kept calling the French one “Phlegm” and her response was always a light chuckle and nuzzling into the girl's neck. The whole thing always elicited a feeling in Draco, one that he couldn't place. It wasn't disgust, as it should have been, and it wasn't him lusting after the Veela. It was maddening, not knowing what he was feeling.
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Weeks later Draco realized the feeling that Fleur and Ginny elicited in him was longing. Not for them, but for their interactions. He wanted someone to be with him like that, to hold him, to laugh with him, to cry with him, to be with him.
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Draco lay on his bed in Harry's house with closed eyes and a smile on his face. Elation, joy and relief burned their way through his veins as he remembered the kiss. It was everything he had been hoping for, he just really wished that Harry hadn't immediately locked himself in his room afterwards. He really wished Harry had realized that not only had Draco not complained, but he'd kissed back! Stupid Boy Who Lived.
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Ginny squealed when she heard the news. She and Fleur were incessantly ringing the doorbell just over a minute later. Their satisfaction burst out of them the second the door opened in the form of Ginny screeching “Which one of you took so long?” “Harry.” Was Draco's calm reply. Contentment welled up inside of him as he snaked his arms around Harry's waist. Fond amusement was the only response to Draco burying his face in Harry's neck. Draco let the feelings bubble over, there was no need to hide them now.