Draco Malfoy was angry. Very angry.
In fact, he was so angry that there was a great number of Hogwarts students, of all houses, staring at his reddening or, now that they thought about it, more like purpling face from the safety of their House tables.
Most Slytherins were looking down at their plates. It seemed as if some wanted to snicker, Draco could tell. He'd have to box their ears a good bit after, he resolved. He might not have the utmost respect of his peers anymore, but he still knew how to physically intimidate them. The idea of giving them a good pounding soothed him, just barely, even as a part of him asked, After what? After you get killed? After you run foolishly—like a bleeding Gryffindor, for heaven's sake—to save the day and rescue the damsel in distress? Are you daft? It's not worth it. Nothing's worth it.
If nothing was worth risking your life for, Draco mused, what was the point of living? Then, with a sound of disgust, he realized how…heroic it sounded. Slytherins were not meant to be heroic. It wasn't attractive on them.
It had all started simply enough: that old bat McGonagall had suggested that Draco get "extra tutoring" for Transfiguration—the one class he would never, it seemed, be able to understand. He quickly agreed, knowing his father would likely castrate him if he brought home any more bad scores,a nd they set up an appointment for him the next Tuesday.
He wasn't feeling particularly bad about it until he saw who it was. For some reason, it had never crossed his mind that his tutor would actually be another student, one of his peers.
At the time, she'd been sitting down, already at their assigned table,a nd all he could see was a haze of red, unadulterated anger directed at that bloody bint of a professor for pairing him with a sodding Gryffindor. And not just any Gryffindor—it had to be her.
But strangely enough, she hadn't at all been like what he'd expected of her. There'd been no annoying exchange of glares or scathing remarks. She'd placed a teapot in front of him and said succinctly, "I want this to be a quill by the end of the hour." And they had started. At first, they hadn't spoken much—it wasn't as if they were on neutral, much less friendly, terms. But slowly, they begain to inch past the obligatory "Hello," "Goodbye," and occasional question or interjection of an instruction or tip.
It had really began when she'd come in crying one day. There was an awful, awkward silence where all was quiet except for her pitiful sniffling. She'd tried to cover it up, of course, but it wasn't as if she was good at that sort of thing. Then, like word vomit, the question had spilled out: "Are you okay?"
Draco surmised that it was at that point that things began to change. She, of course, had sniffled again and said nothing was the matter (as if he would believe that, when she was crying like a little girl), but she'd been more civil. And their customary greetings had extended to "Hello, how are you today." And somehow, in the course of the year, without even realizing it, they had started answering truthfully.
It was around that time, Draco realized with a sudden jolt, that there was no turning back. She had showed him emotion, compassion…and it had lured him in, whether she meant for it to or not. Then there'd been that one incident in the library as their lesson was ending.
He had just transfigured a book into a kitten, and in her triumphant high five, she dropped a quill, and they'd both reached down for it—and bumped heads. Seemingly insignificant, but there in the library, on their knees with the quill between them, they'd stared at each other for a moment before—slowly, achingly slowly—leaning into each other's mouths. Draco wasn't sure who'd initiated it, or why they had both kissed back, but he was definitely sure of the sparks that flew in his head, tingling through his body and his mind.
She sat on his side of the table during tutoring sessions after that.
Looking back, it was all so disgustingly cliché—the fairy-tale bumping of the hands, the random kiss, their utter lack of realization that their behavior and their decisions had consequences, that there was the real world to consider. But they hadn't been thinking about that at the time, and so their relationship had evolved slowly until, by the time school ended, Draco couldn't stop himself.
He did a lot of lying that summer to keep writing to her—she would probably never know the extent to which he stuck his neck out just to keep in touch with her. But on the train ride to Hogwarts, all his carefully fabricated lies fell apart.
They'd been sharing a brief, brief moment in an empty compartment when Pucey—goddamn Adrian fecking Pucey—had walked in and seen them. She'd done a damn good job of trying to cover it up—he could still feel the sting of her hand against his cheek, before seeing that sodding grin on the face of his new worst enemy. And of course, Pucey just had to run to his parents and whine all about it, and of course they'd had to tell his parents. After that he didn't talk much with his housemates, and found a great many cursed Howlers sent to him in private. A great many cursed, loudmouthed, threatening Howlers. But threats to him he could deal with.
This time, they had gone too far. They—the sodding bastards—had taken her. And done who knows what else. Draco looked once again at the envelope and the rough strands of brown, curly hair inside it. He slid the envelope into his History of Magic textbook and stood up, walking out of the Great Hall. Someone was going to have to pay for this. Of that he was sure.
A/N: Toyed with the idea of making this longer, but I don't really know where to take it. I think it's better just as a "randomly decided to sit and write this one night" sort of thing. Please review!!