That she might deem it naught beside

The moment's converse, in her eyes

I read (perhaps too carelessly)

A mingled feeling with my own;

The flush on her bright cheek, to me,

Seem'd to become a queenly throne

Too well, that I should let it be

A light in the dark world, alone.

~_~_~

Draco was disgusted with himself. To be such a complete sap – and without even getting any physical recompense for it either. It wasn’t as if he was actually getting anything but pain from this, actually. No higher emotions, no pride, no satisfaction, no soothing in his soul or changed outlook on life.

He got nothing from this hopeless infatuation, nothing at all. And he never would.

-_-_-

He wasn’t quite sure when it began. He knew for a fact that in the beginning, he had hated her. She was a Weasley, worthless, weak; he never looked at her but to sneer and quickly look away again, in disgust.

He still did hate the Weasleys. He hated them all, all but her, and it might seem odd that he was living with them, despising them as he did, but it was just more evidence of his pitiable state.

Not, of course, that anyone would ever get wind of it. Draco wasn’t about to open any of his walls, not a crack. That had happened once already, and look what it had done to him – defected, poor (by his standards, anyway, which were admittedly higher than anyone else’s), trapped in a dingy old house with a bunch of Gryffindors who despised him (not that it wasn’t mutual), and for what? For the empty dream of a girl, not even a particularly remarkable one at that, who had smashed through his walls in a few short moments, crashed into his head and heart and flipped everything upside down.

No, walls were very important.

-_-_-

He wasn’t sure when it began, but somewhere along the way, he simply began to notice her, and at some point after that, notice turned to admiration, admiration to infatuation. The one thing he was sure of was the moment when infatuation became love.

It was a tiny moment, an instant. But it was an interaction between the two, which was rare; and a deep, meaningful one, which was rarer.

They were in the middle of a raging battle when her red hair caught Draco’s eye. Sneering, he raised his wand at her, taking a moment to admire the ferocity in her expression and determination in her eyes. His mouth was already forming words, light crackling around his wand, when it happened.

Suddenly, her eyes widened, and she leapt at him. At first, Draco thought it was a tackle, an attempt at forcing his wand away from her before the spell connected. His face twisted in disgust, even more so because it had actually worked: he hadn’t expected such a crude move, and Draco tripped back in surprise. He laid flat on his back, winded, his wand flung just out of his reach.

And then a whiz of green light erupted just barely over both their heads, shooting past to hit a wall and gouging out chunks of stone. Avada Kedavra.

Draco’s eyes swung back to those of the girl above him, wide with realization. She flushed crimson – then elbowed him, knocking the remaining air from his lungs, and punched him in the nose.

“Idiot,” he dimly heard through his gasping pain. “Are you blind or just that bad at dodging? Remember,” she mocked, snatching his wand off the floor and turning back to the action in time to stun someone shooting the Cruciatus curse at the Longbottom boy, “constant vigilance.”

Traumatizing memories of flying through the air, squealing and bouncing, trapped in a tiny furry body, rushed back. And Draco hated that girl, that girl who had just saved his life and then left him, in pain but uncursed.

Hated her, but puzzled over it later. He considered the spell she’d saved him from in the first place, thought about his family and the Death Eaters, and wracked his brain for just one person who’d have done the same.

-_-_-

The rest of his story is full of torture, angst, self-doubt, and all those typical things. The only really important moment is when Draco Apparated onto the lawn in front of the Weasley family home, knocked on the door, and asked for their daughter.

He supposed he ought to be grateful that the one who answered was the mother; she was noticeably more tolerant of him than the rest. It didn’t matter though, as he was still subjected to confinement, searched, questioned, and it was a full two weeks before he actually made his way to the real Order headquarters. Even then, none of them trusted him.

He still hadn’t spoken to Ginny. And he was impatient. He had questions, ones only she held the answer to. They were suspicious of him, however, and didn’t let him see the girl – and so it was only when she died that he heard any news of her.

-_-_-

It had happened while she was protecting Harry Potter. Draco had still been in lock-up in the ancient Black manor, and the most of the Order had been out fighting, doing something they wouldn’t tell him anything about. And the way she went was a simple killing curse, which she had thrown herself in the way of. Potter had survived to fight another day, mourning his girlfriend, and all of the Order hated Bellatrix Lestrange with a frenzy bordering on insanity.

Draco was probably the only person who, upon hearing the news, grew furious with the girl herself.

How could he not, though? All this time – all these months, those agonizing thoughts, her eyes playing through his mind, that flush, that look she’d had, that hope, the shifting of everything he knew. And it was all just practice for Potter?

Draco cursed her name to the depths of hell, and was the only one in the manor to get any sleep that night.

-_-_-

Draco sat in the dining room the next morning, pale-faced and glaring coldly forward. He handed a long list to the first person to walk into the room. He remained silent as it was perused. All he could offer about the Death Eaters, Dark Lord, and even his own home, where he knew their camp was based, was on that list. He stared straight ahead, gritted his teeth, and hated Ginny Weasley intensely. He hoped she burned.

Severus Snape eyed Draco for a long time. Then he deliberately placed a hand on the teenager’s shoulder, and squeezed it tightly. Before Draco could react, his old Head of House had left the room, list in hand.

Draco breathed in deeply through his nose, shuddering, and let his head drop to the table.

-_-_-

So now Draco works with the Order, saves Potter’s life time and again, saves Muggles and Mudbloods, and sits next to Snape at mealtimes. He doesn’t talk that often, and is concise and to-the-point when he does.

He doesn’t have nightmares. Instead, Draco lies flat on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, running through that moment over and again, trying, trying to find a way it was different, special for her. Each time, he goes to sleep dissatisfied.

He knows they still lock him in at night.