He'd wait for her, even if it took forever.
So he waited for her in fourth year, when suddenly, overwhelmingly, she was more than the girl he'd teased in class, more than the bushy-haired girl he found new ways to torment. She was coming into the Great Hall, on the arm of Krum, of all people, and it was as if the world had been knocked off its axis, throwing him into a new world of hurt. She was pink, cheeks flushed in the cold December air, throwing her arms around man as she danced the night away.
And later that same night, when she sat crying in the stairwell, hair tumbling down the shoulder he so badly wanted to hold, he turned the corner where she sat hidden, stopping dead at the sight of her. She looked up, lips parted so woefully in a perfect expression of surprise - a little "oh," and the look of a deer startled out of its grazing.
He couldn't find the words to insult her, for the first time felt no need, and instead he had walked up to her, fished into his pocket, and handed her the handkerchief his mother always insisted he carry to formal events. She took it gingerly, eyes wide, and the moon had cast its glow upon her as if it too, was surprised, bathing her in a light so soft he almost said something. Instead, she granted him a taut smile, and he nodded, turning to leave. He risked a glance as he left, and saw her staring down at his handkerchief embroidered in silver letters D.M., tears forgotten in lieu of bittersweet confusion.
After, she was all she could think about. It was as if someone had flipped a switch in his core, igniting something he thought he was incapable of.
But it wasn't love then. It was lingering looks in the hallway, an infatuation badly concealed, questioning glances from his friends.
So he waited.
He waited in fifth year, sneaking glances at her during prefect meetings, knowing he was being obvious. If she happened to catch him, he'd school his expression into one of malice, adopting his familiar sneer and quickly looking away. But he wasn't always fast enough, and he could always tell when she had caught him, her big beautiful eyes turning into pools of confusion. God, he could swim in those eyes.
And when her and her gang of friends started their secret meetings (how foolish of them, really, to go underneath Umbridge's nose like that), he took care to steer Filch away from them, conceding those few extra minutes he knew they needed to escape notice before rushing towards the disappearing doors of the Room of Requirement.
But they couldn't avoid getting caught. And when they were, busted for using Umbridge's personal floo, it was him who grabbed hold of her, who held her tight to restrain her before loosening his grip almost entirely. She'd looked at him in shock, testing the limits of her freedom by ripping her wrists out of his hands. He had met her gaze, unfazed, and breathed quietly into her ear.
"Get her into the forest." He tilted his head ever so slightly towards Umbridge (really, who had let her into a school?) and saw the comprehension flood her eyes, swirling pools of hazel suddenly determined. He'd watched as she acted the part, drawing Umbridge out of the castle. What they had done became clear the next day, when the Daily Prophet had come soaring into the Great Hall, screeching owls bringing the news of Voldemort's return, his father's imprisonment, the death of Sirius Black.
He found out, through the rumour mill, that they'd flown to London on thestral, had battled the Dark Lord, had come out with the scars to show for it. He made up an excuse to go to the hospital wing, told himself it wasn't for her, and crept up to where she laid small against the stark white sheets, paler than he had ever seen her. It had been the middle of the night, yet her eyes had snapped open, searching the room wildly before landing on him. She let out a tiny "oh!" and moved to get up, but he'd held out a steady palm, stopping her.
Slowly, he walked to her bedside table, dropping a single flower - a purple hyacinth - onto it, where predictably, already lay a book. He'd walked out without stopping, ignoring her whispered cries for him to come back, to explain himself.
It was unrequited love then, unexplained feelings he selfishly made known to her.
But love, real love- the kind that left him unable to speak, unable to think a single thought that wasn't intertwined with the very essence of her being; It was love in sixth year, when he'd wake up with her by his side, hiding from the world in the haven they'd made of his hell. She knew he'd been tasked with something, knew Harry's suspicions weren't unfounded. Yet, she indulged him, granted him tender moments and stolen kisses in the golden light streaming through the corridors when no one was around.
He was a man trapped: knowing it couldn't last, that the war was set to begin: a vague expiration date that could happen at any moment, but knowing, too, that he was too possessive to ever let her go. He felt it more than her, knowing it'd be him who'd be the catalyst, the one to throw the wizarding world into chaos. She still dreamt of seventh year, of getting her NEWTS, of catching him in the hallway unaware, while he mourned the loss of the lover still in his arms. So he'd let her sleep tangled in his sheets, cherishing the feel of her skin pressed up against his.
He didn't know quite how it had started. She had sat down at his library table, demanding answers in that condescending tone of hers, and it was as if he had broke. He told her he needed to do something, something bad, something she'd never approve of, but couldn't, knew he'd fail. That when he looked at her, he saw the "good" side, the most blissfully painful reminder of what he couldn't have. Her gaze had softened, she'd squeezed his hand before leaving, and he'd known she wouldn't say anything to Potter about their conversation.
She turned to sending him furtive smiles in the corridor, always glancing around to see if someone had seen, yet he didn't care, because she'd smiled at him.
Once, he'd made her laugh, and it was as if angels themselves had come down to earth to play a melody specifically crafted for him. It was a blur, their sixth year. He remembered the feel of her ink-stained hand wrapped around his, the slight bump in her lip he favored when he kissed her, the way her tresses wound themselves through his finger. And he remembered her panicked admissions, learning that Potter was watching his movements on some sort of map, that they had to be more careful.
But to him, it didn't matter. He was a man drowning, and she was his siren. He took the rushed moments she could spare.
The year wore on, and soon Weasley was with the Brown girl, Lavender, he thought her name was, and Hermione was distant, withdrawn, taken to avoiding him. So he waited. And soon enough she came back, laughing at her jealousy, saying she couldn't believe she ever saw Ron as more than a friend. A temporary lapse of judgement, she called it, and apologized to him, but he didn't need it. She was worth calling his even if just in the few minute increments where they managed to get away.
Things changed after that, though. He could see it in her face. She looked at him the same way he knew he looked at her, like a devoted saint basking in the glow of their idol. They fell into a pattern, for a little while, everything taking on a golden hue. He caught her staring at him in the Great Hall, her face flushed as he lifted an eyebrow in response. They spent more and more time in the Room of Requirement, the cabinet looming over him as he tried to ignore his responsibilities, and she tried to get him to play muggle games with her.
She won out, and soon enough he knew Go Fish and Blackjack, slyly slipping cards into his back pocket when he thought she wasn't watching to get the upper hand. The cabinet was workable, and although uncomfortable, would get the Death Eaters into the castle. So he let it be, until he couldn't let it be anymore.
His mark had burned, and he'd known it was the night, Dumbledore having left the castle with Potter. He rushed to the room and opened up the door, letting Bellatrix and Greyback and the Carrows into the castle he'd come to know as sacred, as it'd been blessed by her smile.
They left him alone in the corridor, and he'd made his way to Dumbledore's office, where he'd found the old man talking as if to himself. He'd thought he'd heard Potter's voice, yet he was nowhere to be seen.
He'd disarmed him, his hawthorn wand vibrating warmly in his shaking hand. Dumbledore's eyes had seen it, of course they had, and he'd offered him a way out, a shot at redemption.
He'd clutched his wand tighter, tears threatening to spill, and he'd started to shout, yelling that he didn't understand, that his parents would be killed, that he wanted nothing more than to run away with her, but they had been born on different sides.
Dumbledore had raised a white eyebrow, eyes open in surprise.
"Her?" he had asked, so much pity and sorrow laced a single syllable Draco almost lowered his wand.
He had nodded, and spoken to the room, hoping, pleading, that it had been Potter's voice he had heard earlier, knowing if it was, his words would get to her.
"I love her. But she needs to let me go."
The Death Eaters had burst in, Bellatrix croning repulsively in his ear, and his wand arm had shook, but he was spared by Snape, who had taken it upon himself to protect him. He was ushered out, leaving the castle by cover of the night, and he didn't see her again until she was in his drawing room.
He'd known, as soon as they came in, that it was them. How could he not, when he'd grown up alongside them? But he knew he couldn't give it away, knew he mustn't reveal who was on the floor of his drawing room. He'd pleaded uncertainty, refusing to confirm his parents suspicions.
But then Bellatrix had burst in, screeching over a sword she'd put in her vault. She'd ordered them to the cellar, but stopped at the last moment, demanding she stay behind. He'd watched her eyes lock onto his, pleading for relief, but he'd stayed behind his armchair, gripping so tightly his knuckles turned white.
It was unbearable, and just when he could take it no more, he was ordered down into the cellar to fetch Griphook. He'd raced down the steps, dragging the goblin up the steps before begging outside the drawing room door to say the sword was fake, to make Bellatrix stop.
And in a minute Potter and Weasley were bursting through the door, and he'd relinquished his wand with little fight, quickly stepping out of their way. There was a tantalizing moment where Bellatrix had her pinned, but then the chandelier was falling, crashing onto the floor, and they were gone, whisked away in the whirl of apparition.
He didn't have to wait long for the war to end after that. It came quickly, suddenly, a night at Hogwarts that left Voldemort dead in the morning. He'd found her, in the heat of the moment, Potter and Weasley by her side, and she'd latched on to him, muttering that she understood, that she forgave him, that it was okay.
They looked at her, shocked, but she'd brushed them off, reaching into that small, beaded bag of hers and withdrawing his handkerchief. She'd pushed it into his hands, leaving an all too fleeting kiss on his forehead, and rushed off, yelling to Ron and Harry that she'd explain later.
He waited, after the battle, standing in the daylight of Hogwart's ruins, and she'd found him, slipping her hand quietly into his. He'd waited for her, for the war to end, but he would have waited for eternity.