His eyes were pained.

This was something that seemed almost mystical to me back when I had first found out. There were a few things I'd associated with Draco Malfoy's eyes -steel, storm clouds, and ash- but never pain.

Yet, his eyes -those smoky grey depths-, they housed pain. It was usually never shown to anyone; always safely contained.

But there were times when his perfect mask would crack, and the pain would peek out over the apathy.

And the boy with the skin as pale as snow would break.


After his mother's passing, Draco refused to live in the manor anymore -he claimed it had too many ghosts, figuratively and literally. He now owned a small apartment outside of Muggle London, which he rarely ever inhabited because he'd gotten into the habit of paying me impromptu visits at my house, mostly in the dead of night.

Sometimes I found him in my living room after I woke up, sleeping fitfully on the old, patched-up sofa. His aristocratic features would more often than not be pinched into a frown, and strands of his usually gelled hair fell across his eyes. I would sweep the platinum locks away, and then cover him with a blanket.

He'd be gone by the time I get back from work, but once in a while, he would stay behind, and he'd conjure a bottle of champagne and pour us both a glass each.

He'd raise his glass to mine, and his lips would pull into a strained smile. If I asked him what we were toasting to, he'd only shake his head and whisper:

"Surviving, Granger, surviving."


I think the most accurate word to describe Draco's nightly visits would be 'strange'.

These visits had some kind of bizarre explanation, usually ranging from, "I found a rather unusual flavor of Bertie Bott's, thought you should try it" to "Granger, I forgot how to order a pizza again," or the extremely rare third explanation.

I would be lying if I said that my favorite out of those three asinine reasons wasn't the third one. He'd come up to me, and tuck a few stray strands of hair behind my ear before saying those magic words.

"I just wanted to see you."

I would also be lying if I said my heart didn't skip a beat at those words and I didn't get lost in those endless grey pools that were his eyes.

And then, for a fraction of a second, the walls would go down, and he would smile -he had a lopsided grin- and the pain in his eyes wouldn't seem so prominent.

But then, as if remembering that he was doing something he wasn't supposed to do, he'd step back and saunter to the sofa, stretching his long limbs over my cushions.

No words would be spoken again that night.