Lavender is the first ingredient, so he imagines it is the most vital. He plucks it from his mother's gardens in the night and spirits it away to his rooms, hiding. Always hiding. From the Dark Lord. From his family. From everyone except for her.
Draco hardly recognizes himself, avoiding the gilded mirrors in the manor as he makes his way through the dim corridors.
When Granger sees him, she no longer flinches away, believing him to be good. Maybe he is, in his own right. He gives her peace, even as he takes comfort from her. It's an exchange really; a bargain. He hopes she would agree, if he only had the strength to tell her.
Reaching through the bars, he presents her cup. She's thin and dirty, but Draco doesn't mind. She's always been beautiful, and the filth can't take that from her. She nods her thanks and takes a sip. "You always make it perfect," she tells him, and he grins at her with affection.
"I wish I could do more," he says, glancing at the bars of her cage, but she shakes her head as she always does and tells him this is enough. It's something at least, in a world when she thought she had nothing.
Potter will come for her, he promises, though he himself has stopped believing it. Her smile is sad, like she knows it's a lie, and she drinks more.
The draught works quickly. She finishes the cup and lies down on her threadbare bedding, relishing in the rest that his potion brings.
He waits, letting the anticipation build, eyes roving her partially bare legs.
When he knows she is out, deep in her magic induced sleep, Draco unlocks the door, looking first left and right to be sure he is alone. If they catch him they might take her away; hurt her. As it stands, they've nearly forgotten her, so Draco has taken her on as his ward, feeding and clothing as best he can.
Cautious, he approaches, caressing her arm, tracing her collarbone, more pronounced than he would like, knowing her meals are not enough. He will give her more, if he can manage it. He would give her a place at his side if he could.
Taking care not to wake her, he settles close on the small bed and sighs into the back of her neck, nose buried in her curls. He smells the lingering lavender from her cup and the sweat on her skin. She can't know that he takes these liberties, pressing into the curves of her and pretending that she is his.
He whispers to her softly, that she is kind and sweet and he loves her; begging forgiveness and expecting none. He lays gentle kisses on her shoulders and pretends they are lying on silk sheets in his opulent room.
Draco sneaks away after a time, letting her rest, and never notices her eyes are open every time as he leaves.