"Sorrow is a fruit: God did not make it grow on limbs too weak to bear it."
-Hugo
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The look on Harry's face was priceless, thought Malfoy, smirking, but it also gave him a sting he could not well define. He resisted the urge to look back, terrified of looking concerned. Instead, he entered the Great Hall with the usual swagger, and seated himself between two Slytherin girls whom he knew were harmless. Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle, he noted, were glaring at him threateningly from a few seats to his right, a look blaring 'traitor' slapping him on the face.
He arched an eyebrow at them, as if he could not care less, and looked away.
How much longer was this going to last?
Malfoy resisted the urge to sigh. As much as he would like to, he could not act "soft" among the Slytherins, or anyone for that manner. He decided on depicting himself aloof, while deep inside he was pondering deeply.
His life depended greatly on the measured steps of care that he took; he knew that the Slytherin commonroom was now a den of snakes. He tread carefully over their tempers because now that he was a traitor… he did not have the influence he once had. They could very well stab him in the dark while he was asleep.
But Malfoy was well prepared. He had cast his bed curtains to wail and shriek when it was not he that manipulated them; he also had a Shield Charm surrounding his space. He trained himself to sleep lightly, so lightly that he barely just skimmed through his subconscious. He would awaken at the slightest disturbance.
He still could not, however, show his ties with Dumbledore or with Harry. No one but the Order itself knew of Malfoy's involvement, and Dumbledore warned him to be extra careful for now.
"We'll think of a way to keep you safe at Hogwarts," Dumbledore had said lightly, "but for now, bear the Slytherins until Christmas comes. I hear you shall be the only sixth year in your dorm by then."
As Christmas drew near, he felt the strain unwind; slightly. Tomorrow all the Slytherins his year would be gone. He would be safe for the meantime.
Malfoy looked up, suddenly remembering to get some food on his plate. Instead of glancing at the sandwiches, however, he found himself looking straight at Harry.
Harry was peculiarly silent, and kept his head down. He did not look at his plate; he was staring at the mahogany table, boring a bright-green stare through it. Malfoy wondered idly if Potter was thinking about the insult on his parents. There was absolutely no way to know.
The blonde started sensing regret inch into his core, and he did his best to push it away. He did not mean those spiteful words, but it was habit; he had been a Malfoy for too long. Spite was in his blood.
He watched as Harry declined having to talk with the other Gryffindors. Malfoy watched him spoon his food, thinking deeply, just like him.
And Malfoy knew, deep in his charcoaled heart, that he felt sorry.
For the first time in his life.