His eyes slowly opened to reveal what once were shining emeralds beaming with the light of innocence now reduced to lack-luster grass-green irises hardened with the sight of death, pain, and grief among so many other horrors he should have never witnessed. The mop upon his head once adorably ruffled, untamable, free, now hung limp with the appearance of defeat, and then there were his secondhand clothes courtesy of his whale of a cousin. What once appeared to be out of place on someone so lithe, now appeared to blend in with the young man, whose general appearance spoke of pain, heartbreak and loss. He reclosed his eyes once more and continued to swing as if only to keep his feet busy, as if his body was required to be in motion. He was restless, and unsettled.
Harry Potter was the picture of defeat; one look at his eyes was all it took to realize this. Instinctively the young man, watching the other from a distance in the wilting park, knew that this had gone on long enough. Obliviously the death of Harry's not-so-secret dogfather had broken him, reduced him to this state of emotional ergo physical vulnerability. He couldn't bear to see this boy, man by the standards of the expectations upon his shoulders, defeated and he knew that he'd have to help if he wanted sanctuary. He'd have to help if the Golden Trio wasn't caring for their own as they should have. He'd have to help if he wanted the defiant, impulsive, strong Harry ... or rather Potter he once knew to continue on to their next shouting match. Draco Malfoy had set his mind on the rehabilitation of Harry's broken heart and not even the Golden Boy himself would stop him now!