He'd not believed there was any part left that was soft in him. Soft was for sissies and namby-pamby boys. He'd never been soft, except maybe over his Mum, and that was all right—it was expected. No, he'd never before been flayed wide open and left completely gutted either, not even when Potter had pulled his temper tantrum and told Draco he was downright, outright hated.
It had only served to fuel his anger, that. Made him more determined. He'd something good, he wasn't letting it go. Wasn't allowing Potter the chance to muck it up, either.
They all wanted better things, didn't they? The ones who'd made it, who'd lived? Even the defeated, even them, they wanted it as much as they desired their next breath. And Draco was no exception. He'd make hay, he'd live it up, he'd drink deep of his days because he had them to quaff.
Potter—Harry? Harry had given them him. Harry had given him…so much. And then Harry had taken it all away again.
Sliced him cleanly off at the knees even as he'd been grabbing after it, believing he had it.
It, it, it—was it pain, this? Was that how one defined the indefinable?
Draco and pain—he'd never considered it in quite this light. It had always been physical, mostly, and to be brushed off. Or his pride, perhaps, that had taken a beating, but he'd learnt pride was false coin and that wasn't so bad a lesson, after all. Vastly practical. He'd made good use of it, cheers.
But never had Draco been so aware of that strange space in his chest, or that empty room in his head, or his stupidly naïve, absurdly ridiculous assurance that if he simply kept at it—at it and at it, never flagging—there'd come a time he'd win. He'd win.
He'd won nothing. Naught. Potter was…Potter was his Boggart.
