Disclaimer: I asked Santa to give me Harry Potter, but he didn't.

Summary: Draco Malfoy writes something that is most certainly not a story. A follow-up to This Is A Story, except in Draco's point-of-view.

A/N: I've had some reviews that asked for a "sequel" to This Is A Story in Draco's POV, so I decided to write in as a Christmas present for everyone! The real Christmas fic may be coming up soon, depending on whether or not I get inspiration. Till then, enjoy this fic and please review.

Important point to note: It is not compulsory to read This Is A Story first, because this can be completely stand-alone, but if you've read both you'll find some interesting similarities and differences.

This Is Not A Story

Stories are the kinds of things you read in books and hear of, passed from generation to generation. Stories are bunches of words that have been thrown together to entertain, educate and amuse. Stories are fake, made-up, and imaginary. This is not a story.

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This is not a story about doing the right thing.

I did the only thing I knew how to do but had never dared to do for fear of what I would see – I looked at myself. For all my life, I had tried to see myself as a replica of my father. He was cool and emotionless, and that had made him, in my opinion, powerful. In these years, I never even stole a glance into a mirror, because I knew that – even though I refused to admit it – my reflection would be something completely the opposite of my father.

Then one day, as war broke out between Voldemort and the Order, neither side good nor bad, I realised that I could go out and be someone I wasn't just because I wanted people to look at me and say, "That's Lucius Malfoy's son." I wasn't even sure if I wanted to be Lucius Malfoy' son anymore. So I fled to the Order, and was called both a coward and a hero. I felt like neither, but at least I was beginning to feel like myself.

As you can see, I did not do the "right" thing, nor did I choose the "right" side. And because of this, I noticed that there was a division of opinions towards me in the Order. Slowly, Harry and Ron warmed up to me, but they never really were my friends. Allies, I made easily, but friends, I made none. You may wonder why this was so, if I had started to really reveal my true self, but I only have one answer for you. It's the only answer I can come up with, and hence it may not be very satisfactory. It is, however, the truth.

I had given up on giving people a good impression.

Perhaps the worst impression I had ever given anyone was the one I had given her. She seemed to hate me even more now that I was in the Order, and I could not comprehend why. But I told myself that I didn't – couldn't – care what she thought of me, or I'd simply be reverting back to my old ways. So I ignored her constant venomous attitude towards me.

When she confronted me one day after the war as we washed the dishes, I was surprised. She told me what she thought of me and I replied her honestly, expecting her hatred towards me to grow. I told her I didn't care less what she – or anyone else – thought of me, and that all that mattered was how I saw myself.

I wasn't lying. I think she knew it, because she smiled at me.

I smiled back.

---

This is not a story which flows with ease.

Awkward was the only word to describe the relationship that existed between us. We weren't enemies, not after the day we had exchanged those secret smiles. We weren't friends, because I couldn't tell her my deepest, darkest secrets, and vice versa. We weren't acquaintances – we had even lived in the same house for over a year.

We were mostly silent, though tolerant, around each other and when we did deign to speak to each other, it was often on trivial and unimportant topics. They were conversations so mundane and insignificant that I often forgot what we had spoken about the second I turned away.

Passing from the stage of awkwardness to something was not something that flowed with ease. No, it barely even flowed at all.

I always remember the analogy of flood waters crashing through a dam when I think about this period of our relationship. All the water – or emotions – had built up behind the dam, until one day, a single drop of water could cause the entire dam to collapse like it had been made of paper all along.

Bridge was a game that neither of us knew how to play, but at least I knew a little more than her. We paired up to play, convinced that we would be able to win. We lost for so many games in a row, I've lost count. She was losing confidence in herself, and she told me that I should just play on my own so that I'd have a better chance of winning. I told her that she wasn't stupid, but that she was being stupid. Then I made her play by herself.

She wasn't too pleased, of course, but when I promised that I'd be behind her to save her if she really made any fatal mistake, she calmed down. That game was excruciatingly long, not only because she took forever to think, but also because I really wanted her to win. I wanted her to see that she could do it, even if it wasn't easy and required a lot of long pauses in between.

The next game was a miracle, because we won.

She hugged me.

And that was the last drop that broke the dam.

---

This is not a story about logic.

Around her, I felt completely thrown off balance. Instead of keeping to myself, like I usually did, everything came spilling out in her presence. Logic told me not to tell anyone my secrets, but I ignored logic because I couldn't do anything except tell her. I told her about my day and the people I'd met. I told her my favourite songs and colours and food and hobbies. I told her about my family, my friend and the guppies that had died two days after I'd gotten them. I told her everything she was willing to listen to, and she was willing to listen to a lot. So I told her everything and anything that I could.

Sometimes I would catch her staring glassily at me, almost as if she wasn't paying attention.

Logic told me that she wasn't interested, but I knew she was. Or perhaps I wanted her to be. So I never stopped talking. When I had run out of things to say, I made up a completely illogical joke about a dinosaur, a dodo bird and a pig. It wasn't even a joke, but she laughed anyway. I knew she hadn't been listening, and I knew that I should be angry, but all I could think about was how gorgeous she was when she laughed.

I wondered what it was about her laugh that made me so intoxicated. Logic told me that there was nothing different about her laugh, because there really wasn't anything special. She didn't even have any funny mannerisms that made an appearance when she laughed. It was altogether not a very spectacular laugh, but I loved it when she laughed.

Then I realised that I loved her laugh because I loved it when she was happy. Suddenly, I realised that I could make myself feel instantly better whenever she was feeling happy.

At that same moment, I realised I'd fallen in love.

---

This is not a story about bravery.

I was mortally afraid of the fact that I might one day lose her, and so I never told her what she really meant to me. In fact, I told her the exact opposite. I wasn't brave enough to tell her the truth – I had started hiding myself, for I had forgotten the kind of heartbreak that would eventually lead to.

Years fell away as I hid in the shadows like a coward, afraid to come out and face his fears, yet afraid to run away. Many men have been so wrongly thought to be brave just because they lacked the courage to run away, and I was one of those men.

The coward I was didn't even dare to let her comfort me like I knew she would do if only I asked her to. When I found out one day, while staying at Grimmauld Place, that my father had died in Azkaban, I placed the newspaper down, pushed my plate away, and returned to my room. I didn't dare to look at her because I was afraid to – I was afraid she might not see the real me inside, silently asking for help.

It turns out that I needn't have feared. She came to my room like she understood how I felt, and perhaps she did. I wasn't brave enough to speak, or to look at her, or to touch her. I hid my face from her and remained silent. But as she told me that I had every right to be frightened and upset, because he was, after all, my father, I felt my façade crumbling before her.

She hugged me, and I let myself be weak in her arms. I would never let anyone see him cry, because I was too afraid of letting my guard down, but that moment I cried and cried and cried. It wasn't something brave, let me tell you this. I didn't cry because I dared to finally let her see my weakness. I cried because I was too afraid that if I didn't, she'd never offer her shoulder to me again.

So, while I cried on her shoulder, I wished that she could be there for me forever, and that she'd always be the shoulder that I'd be able to turn to.

---

This is not a story filled with romantic clichés.

She was the only one who knew that I played the piano, and I wanted it to stay that way, because I thought that playing the piano was girly. But I still played a piece for her, because she asked me to. It wasn't something romantic, but rather something that had just happened. I chose to play Moonlight Sonata, sat down at the bench, and began.

My personal opinion – though I know that she begs to differ – is that I played really badly that day.

As I played, I had to work incredibly hard not to just jump up from my seat and tell her my final secret – that I was in love with her. The piano-playing was not in the least bit romantic, and I did not reveal to her my feeling after I finished my concert for the audience of one.

But when I finished, I saw that she was crying. And I said to her nothing except that she was "such a girl", before I turned away and remained silent after that. She probably thinks I was being cryptic and mysterious, but the truth is far less dreamy.

The truth is that I couldn't say anything else because looking at her made me breathless.

---

This is not a story about miracles.

Each day I woke up hoping that a miracle would occur, and that she would fall in love with me. I hoped that she would tell me that she loved me as deeply as I loved her. But even as I waited, I could sense that nothing was going to happen. I'd look at her, waiting for a sign that she loved me too, but all she'd do was to smile gently, like she always did. So I smile back and wish with all my heart that I'd always have the chance to smile at her and to make her laugh.

Each day I hold in my heart the hope that she'd flash me one of her brilliant smiles as she talks to me and tells me all the little unimportant things about herself that I'll never forget. I never want her chatter to stop, because I love it when she sits next to me and we can just talk the whole day through. But I also want to have lengthy conversations with her that don't end, even when we stop talking, because we'll always know what the other is thinking.

But no matter how hard I wish or hope or pray, nothing happens. I'm convinced that miracles don't happen unless you create one yourself. So I resolved to create a miracle.

If she doesn't ask me if I love him, I'll try.

---

This is not a story about a one-time success.

I asked her if she loved me. She told me I was out of my mind.

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This is not a story about a one-time attempt.

I asked her again. She gave in and said yes.

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This is not a story about a lifetime of failure.

I kissed her.

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This is not a story.

Stories are so many things that this is not, but above all, stories do not contain elements as dark as some of what I have related to you. But at the same time, stories cannot possibly be as beautiful and precious as the real world we experience and the people we hold dear.

This is not a story. It is my life, and the life of the girl I love – Hermione Granger.