A/N: Tried to keep this as Canon as possible. Let me know how I did.
At first, the only thing that Draco could think was "Oh Merlin, I'm going to die, I'm going to die," over and over like some kind of sick mantra in his head. Of course, he didn't want that to be the last humanly thing he thought, and hopelessly he let his mind wander to other, more pressing matters. Like the fire currently licking at his heels- not regular fire, that's much too easy, but fiendfyre that Crabbe had miraculously conjured up on the spot.
And then Crabbe. Oh Crabbe, Draco thought, pressing his face against his arm as he dangled off the edge of some moldy furniture hidden away in this room. It's not just the trauma of losing a classmate, but it's losing the boy from first year, confused, young and allowing Draco the lead. Their friendship had never been natural, it was forced, and together they were meant to join in the Dark Lord's cause. But somewhere along the line, things happened- changed. Stranger became acquaintance became bodyguard became friend. Until the end, of course. They were supposed to go out like kings, fighting for their Lord, no matter how twisted the ideal was. Not like this, never like this, as degrading as in a fire that no one knew about besides the six- five- of them, trapped in here.
And, rather foolishly, he felt himself grieve briefly for the room. Sure, it was a big room full of useless baubles and trinkets. But he'd spent the better part of an entire year in here, and it'd become like a second home to him. Along with mending the Vanishing Cabinet, he'd spent hours and hours wandering amongst the towers of hidden things, exploring. Maybe it even made him feel a little less lonely. And now it would be his tomb.
Draco wondered where his parents might be, but he knew he was wasting his time thinking about them. He bit his tongue to keep from whimpering that the last time he'd ever seen them had been under the conditions they had. The Dark Lord flocking nearby, hardly any time for niceties or goodbyes. Though it was that the Malfoy family was never one of much emotion, he knew it would've been grand to maybe hear "I love you" one last time. He could barely remember how long it'd been. And the war was thoroughly getting to the both of them, each sunken, skinny, possibly growing paler and sallow with each day. Though no thoughts of them could compare to Aunt Bella, and her wax-like figure these days. But as soon as his mind trod onto her he stopped the montage of memories and let himself consider happier thoughts. At least, as happy as one could get right before death.
It had been so stupid of them really. They honestly should've listened, not hung back. In times like these, that stubborn leadership was the worst attribute. Now he would pay for it. But what else could they have done? Escaped through Hogwarts castle and just hope that no one would see them, recognize them as Death Eaters, and do away with them? And they wouldn't really be doing themselves any good. Out of the cauldron and into the fire, straight into the clasp of the Dark Lord's hands.
He was starting to sweat rapidly now, and knew he must be close. In his head he could still hear Crabbe's echoed scream. And suddenly he was remembering everything.
First year. Offering his friendship to Harry and being turned down, yet not being quite discouraged. Being sorted into Slytherin and the elation that he'd felt, almost as if liberated- the pats on the back he'd received just for being the Malfoy heir. The jealousy he'd felt at Harry acceptance on the Quidditch team, and not him, though if he was completely honest with himself he needed a fair bit of brushing up. And all those stupid things he'd done just to mess up their plans, rather than spending time on himself like he should've.
Then the heir of Slytherin wreaking havoc at Hogwarts, and the deep-rooted pride he'd felt at having a slight hand in that. No hand at all, to be precise, but he'd been young, and certainly naive. He could recall his exact hatred for all things Muggle at that point in his life, and for many years to follow of course, but that hadn't been the main point. He felt he was making his father proud, which was all he ever strived to achieve.
In third year- it was silly- but all he could think of was that terrible beast. It was weird how his mind wanted to remember the worst part of that year, for it hadn't all been bad. He'd had a few laughs, pulled a few pranks, and he'd won out quite fairly in the end. His forearm began to tingle threateningly, however, and his willed himself to move one.
Ah, the beloved Potter Stinks badges, that had been a tune worth singing to. But when Draco thought of Harry it just made his stomach sink further, for that was the Hero they had all been waiting for, and the prat had just safely escaped this demise that he would now be suffering, and all he could do was patiently wait for the fire to eat him alive.
Before Draco could foray into his sixth year, he heard a shout. Looking up, the first thought that popped into his head was, "that bloody fool," and then, as he watched Harry on his broomstick make a dive towards them, "he's going to save us."
He tried to reach for Harry's hand, but by then it was so sweaty that it slipped right through. Still, Harry didn't relent, and somewhere way, way deep down in Draco's heart, he had a lot of respect for the man. He knew that, had it been the other way around, he never would've looked back. But something had changed.
Weasley and the Mudbl- Hermione- grabbed onto Goyle, and Draco knew he had no time to waste the third time Harry's hand came around. With as much strength as possible, Draco pulled himself up, and in no time was pressed against Harry's back. The only thing going through his head at that point was, "the door, the door, the door, the door," and he hadn't been sure he'd said it aloud, but Harry was definitely going the wrong way.
"What are you doing!" Draco screeched in something akin to a panic. "It's that way!" He realized that being safe from the fire was, at this time, pointless if he was strapped onto the same broom as a martyr; but he was honestly helpless in the current situation, and allowed himself to drop his head onto Harry's shoulder, trying to stifle the tears and the bile from rising any further than they already had.
He gripped Harry's waist then as tightly as possible, his only human connection to the world at the moment. His... savior. No matter how much the idea disgusted him. It just felt nice to hold onto someone when moments before he had been on the verge of death, and had prepared to deliver his final song. He'd barely even noticed when he was slamming onto the ground outside, nothing left but the smell of smoke in his throat and lungs, and the millions of plaguing thoughts on his mind.
"T-thank you." He muttered, but when he looked up he was alone with Goyle, remember Crabbe, being brought back to harsh reality- and he could be sure that Harry had never heard at all.