Authors Notes: Halfway through chapter three, but finals are upon me. We'll see if I get anywhere with it in the next week.
Chapter Two: History, MysteryDraco Malfoy had led a less than glamorous life. The death of Voldemort and eventual witch hunt of all of his former followers had led to a state of near orphanage at an early age, with both of his parents essentially dead after being sentenced to the Dementors Kiss. By some strange luck, The Boy Wonder himself had asked for a pardon for Draco, and by the grace of some divine power -or perhaps the paperwork was merely lost in the ministry, with all the arrests and reparations happening at the time- it was granted. Draco, curious, had pursued Potter for several years after that, seeking contact, desiring to thank him, or at least understand why? Harry had politely deflected all of his attempts, and politely gone on to live a polite existence, politely deferring his fame, politely marrying Ginny Weasely, politely accepting it when she left him for no obvious reason, politely pursuing a career hunting exotic creatures, and eventually, politely being frozen solid by a basalisk in the middle of Australia.
Draco, meanwhile, had lived in near constant agony that Potter would not permit him to repair his pride through a thank you, or even deign to spar verbally with him through carefully placed insults. Indeed, Potter became immune to him, and simply stopped noticing, and it was only until the ugly reality of it sunk in that Draco realized how desperately he wanted him to notice in the first place. Ever since that first day on the train, when Draco had tentatively presented out his hand and offered friendship, to have it rejected, his life had been spent being preoccupied with the whereabouts, doings, and ways to get the raven haired, green eyed enigma to acknowledge his existence.
Frankly, the whole thing embarrassed him.
He remembered flashes of green, as his life flew by in it. Was it not emerald green eyes peering at him, all at once full of impassioned fury and righteous pity, it was the green of the skin of the monster that destroyed his family, the "Dark Lord," or the flash of the curse that had brought worlds down around him. Green never led to positive memories, no, his miserable existence was reflected in the sickly green tiles of the floor of the hospital he worked in, and wallowed in.
He came to hate the color, with time, even as it was "his" Slytherin color.
Draco remembered the day the papers blared "Savior of the Wizarding World Frozen!" and the tearful parade as the freshly imported stone 'corpse' of Harry Potter was carried down the streets of London. He remembered the silence those few days, the knowing looks exchanged between strangers, the weeping young women as they mourned the loss of their imaginary icon. He remembered sitting down in the middle of Saint Mungos at midnight, eyes too weary and shocked to cry, and sure that he alone was the only one that mourned the loss of Harry The Prat, while the rest of the world wept bitter tears for something he merely represented.
And that night, he apparated away from everything he knew, moved into a small flat in Muggle London, and translated his mediwitch skills, along with some carefully placed bribes and forgeries, into gaining a successful reputation as one of the best Emergency Room Doctors in all of the UK.
And he remembered standing in the changing room, ready to take off the scrubs from a hard ten hour shift, exhausted and ready for a day of rest, and the yelping from his beeper announcing a level one, a life-or-death admit. And as he ran down the hall, his life kept coming in flashes of green as unwelcome memories flew past, until, bursting open the trauma room doors, his eyes fell on the most unexpected figure bleeding profusely on the table. So help me God, Harry James Potter, I Will Not Let You Die.