There was never any doubt as to where Draco Malfoy would place himself in the coming war. People saw a reflection of his father, a pale, sneering young man who never admitted defeat. He was the perfect self-contained Malfoy, and that was all. No one remembered him by name. He was the latest Malfoy, the latest in a long line of dark and malicious wizards.
No one but Harry Potter had seen the boy crying. No one but Harry Potter had seen him falter in the face of death. No one but Harry Potter saw indesicion flash in those emotionless eyes. No one but the dead and the deatheaters. Sometimes Harry thinks that he should side with the majority. The boy was trouble. He was snide, cruel, ruthless.
But Harry couldn't forget how beautiful Malfoy had been with tears rolling down his cheeks. Malfoy. The latest in a long line of dark and malicious wizards. Draco. A lonely child pushed into an impossible situation. Sometimes Harry referred to him as Draco in his mind. Sometimes he wondered where Draco was, whether he was safe, whether he had been punished for not following through.
Sometimes Harry wondered whether Draco would be as cold as he looked, whether his hands were like ice. Sometimes Harry wanted to warm those hands, just to see if the warmth would travel to Draco's eyes. Sometimes Harry wished he had never seen Draco cry, never blurred the boundaries by wanting to soothe him. Wanting to touch him.
At night, when he prayed, he prayed for Ron and Hermione, for the Weasley's, for the Order. He prayed for Remus, and in memory of Dumbledore and Sirius and Cedric and his parents. And sometimes, when he remembered, he would silently pray for the latest Malfoy with the haunted eyes.