Draco doesn't have much left. It's because of this that he takes so much of others. It fills him up.
She was different. He'd take from her. Jeer at her in the halls between classes, old Loony Lovegood; and she wouldn't say a word. Just kept that same dreamy smile, staring at something only she could see, skipping off without a protest as though his words were little whispers fleeting past her. She paid little attention. It bothered him.
He'd seen her, with the Potter boy. Staring up at the sneakers he'd charmed up onto a hooked archway near the Great Hall, smiling, encouraging him even with his own attempt at humiliating her.
He wonders sometimes.
Somewhere inside him, it makes him satisfied to see her wander around barefoot or in a worn pair of socks, knowing it's because of him. A perverse sort of joy in his heart; evidence that he's gone and stolen another piece of someone, but no nagging essence of guilt within him. He can take from her, and she does nothing. If anything, she gives of herself.
It makes him curious.
But he – of course – he's better than that. It's his little secret. It's healing him, he knows, and though he would never admit that he needed it in the first place, he's grateful.
And she merely smiles.