Draco Malfoy— even the name held a stigma. An idea, a connotation. A negative one, at that. You had never spoken to him much in your first many years at Hogwarts, whether it was because of the way he was frowned upon by nearly everyone at the school or because of the grimace that was always held on his face; either that, or a cruel smirk. You always assumed your life was better off without him poisoning it. You were always told not to judge a book by its cover, but you couldn't help it this time around. And you regret that now.

You remember the day that your opinion on Draco changed. It had been in Potions class, just a few months ago, seventh year. You had noticed his silence— you assume most people did. He'd been less cocky, less rude. He'd seemingly given up, always moping around, not paying attention in class. So it surprised you when he spoke to you, stood next to you as you gazed into your cauldron, frustration painted over your features.

"You need more venom," he had said, passingly, glancing into your cauldron before promptly turning his attention back to his own book. You blinked, looking up at him, not quite able to believe that he just spoke to you. More than that, he had spoken and hadn't insulted you. You furrowed your brows at him and when he looked at you again, he had faltered, before speaking once more. "Your potion. You added too little acromantula venom. That's why it's bubbling," he explained, gesturing to your cauldron that had almost boiled over with hot, acidic bubbles.

"Oh," you replied, grabbing the small vial of venom that the professor had provided, hurrying to sprinkle some more into the potion, which instantly began to simmer down and seize bubbling. You let out a small sigh of relief, looking up at him as he hesitated, as if unsure what to do now that he's initiated conversation. "Thank you," you said, and he had offered an awkward, strained smile.

Maybe he wasn't as toxic, as nasty as people have described him to be. And you, ever the outgoing one, wanted to explore that.

You started conversation a few more times. Each time he had begun to shut you down, insisting he had things to do, but soon got sucked into your sentences— you could be quite unrelenting. Talks shared in corridors soon turned into private study sessions in the library, walks along the Dark Lake, and inside jokes. None of which Draco expected. None of which you would have guessed only a few months before. But it was nothing you were angry about.

He started becoming distant with you. Rambling about having priorities that outweighed studying, outweighed seeing you, outweighed everything, he once said. And when you were able to coax him into being with you, even if for an hour or two, he wouldn't laugh at your jokes, wouldn't process questions you asked the first time... he was never there.

And a mere few months later, you understood why, when Death Eaters had infiltrated the school, with Draco's help.

The professors had tried to keep the students out of the battle that had begun, but they couldn't stop all of them from helping with the fight— you were an adult, they couldn't tell you to stand down if you tried. Not when you had no idea where Draco was, if he was safe.

And then you saw him. Standing on the other end. With the other side. And your heart had stopped. The look he gave you, desperate and terrified, had made you want to scream, but all you could do was freeze.

Freeze long enough that you didn't notice a curse flying straight for you.

You heard a shout, saw a body— and watched as Draco absorbed the impact, blocking you from the spell, crumpling to the floor in front of you. And finally you could scream.

"Draco," you begged, dragging his gasping body away from the makeshift battlefield and behind a tree to block him and yourself from any more damage. "Draco—" you repeated, falling to your knees beside him, your heart pounding out of your chest. You had only just started loving this boy— you can't lose him right when you got him.