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The truth of the matter was that Draco loved her. He had always loved her.
He loved her when they were 11, watching her get sucked into a friendship with Potter and his moronic ginger sidekick that he knew would only end in trouble. He loved her, questioning everything he had been taught, because she was smart and quick and better than everyone else.
He loved her when they were 12, and he knew his father was up to no good with that diary. When he ripped the page out of the book in Flourish and Blotts, and kept it until he could find a way to pass it to her undetected. When she stood tall and proud and defended her friends, and he threw the most unforgivable word in her face. He loved her as her eyes filled with tears and she ran away, and he hated himself for the person he had to be in front of the world. When she was petrified, and he would find ways to sneak into the hospital wing to see her. She was asleep, he kept telling himself, and cried himself to sleep again and again.
He loved her when he watched her run into Potter and Weasley's arms when she was saved, and accepted that it could never be him.
He loved her when they were 13, and he watched her as she started looking more and more tired, and appeared out of nowhere in classes she couldn't possibly be in. When he saw her show concern for him when that stupid bird attacked him and nearly took his arm off. When she visited him in the hospital with a basket full of fresh apples, and he pretended to be asleep. When his father inevitably took things too far, and the stupid bird was sentenced to death.
He loved her with a passion he did not understand when she punched him square in the face, her rage like a storm you could not look away from, and her touch that changed him without her ever knowing.
He loved her when they were 14, and he watched in horror as his father and his friends started setting innocents’ tents on fire. When he tried to warn her, in the only way he could. When that reporter started weaving stories of romance between her and Potter, and his chest started burning with a jealousy he had never experienced nor expected. When she walked down the grand staircase in her periwinkle gown, when every person in the room stopped and stared. She was beautiful, of course, but Draco thought she was always beautiful.
He loved her as she smiled and twirled on the arm of Victor Krum, and he dreamt that it could have been him instead. When the moronic ginger made her cry, because she had dared to think of herself for once in her life. When he had passed her a handkerchief with a quiet “Chin up Granger, the Weasel is not worth your tears.” before silently stalking away in the stunned silence that followed. When he watched her disappear into the Great Lake, and prayed to Muggle Gods he did not believe in for Krum could save her before it was too late. When she was brought to after the longest hour of his life, and he accepted once again that he would never receive a hug from her.
He loved her when Potter wept over the still body of Cedric Diggory, and Draco knew that the world was about to grow dark and cold, and his love for her would make her life infinitely more dangerous.
He loved her when they were 15, and his father swore fealty to a maniacal madman who wanted her dead. When Dolores Umbridge, a woman who could only be described as evil incarnate, became in charge of their school, and the halls of Hogwarts were just that little bit less safe. When he watched her defy Umbridge anyway, and fight for what she believed in and what was right.
He loved her when he sat at the table across from her in the library, pretending to study but watching her furiously absorb knowledge as it was her lifeline. When she would look up and nod her head in greeting, and immediately look down with a sad smile on her face. They had a silent respect for each other, an understanding that things said in public were never what they meant, and words did not cut deeper than knives. He loved her when he found out she had been hurt during his father’s ill-advised trip to the Department of Mysteries, and waited in agony to hear that she would recover. When he screamed in his bedroom and raged against their lot in life; against the adults who should be protecting them, but were instead leaving children to fight their battles; against his parents, who had put him against her before they were even born, and had sealed his fate before he ever had a chance to choose.
He loved her desperately, and hopelessly when his father was arrested and sent to Azkaban, and he was Marked to take his place.
He loved her when they were 16, and he was given an impossible mission he knew he never could and never would complete, and resigned himself to his fate. He loved her as his skin turned grey, and his clothes went loose, and he wasted away in the halls of the school that had once been a haven. When his only friend and confidante became a ghost, and he felt like he had joined her in the land of the dead already.
He loved her as his life fell apart, and he worked night and day to find a way out, or a way to bungle his mission up enough that the adults would notice and offer him help. When they never did, until it was too late anyway. When he watched her cry over stupid Ronald Weasley, and his stupid girlfriend. When he couldn’t make himself stay in the shadows, and offered her his handkerchief again. When she looked at him in silent gratitude, when he walked away.
He loved her when he worked tirelessly to keep his mind protected, so he could keep her safe within it. When he watched her fall into the arms of the Weasel, and knew that although the moron would never be good enough for her, he was infinitely worse. When Potter sliced his chest open with a curse, and he was lying in a pool of his own blood, his eyes on hers. Hoping that this is how it ended for him, cut in a bathroom by his classmate, instead of fed to a vicious snake having failed to become a murderer. That maybe, just maybe, his mother would be spared if he didn’t really fail his mission after all.
He loved her when he woke up in the hospital wing despite his hopes not to, and he saw her sitting quietly in a chair next to his bed. When she squeezed his hand, eyes red and puffy, a whisper in the darkness of “I am glad you are alive”. When he woke up later, no chair by his bed, convinced it had all been a dream and she was never there to begin with. He loved her when he made the most unforgivable of choices to let Death Eaters into the school, hoping to keep his mother safe long enough for her to find a way out of the country and into hiding. When he stood on the top of the Astronomy Tower, facing Dumbledore over an impossible task, and lowered his wand. When help was finally upon him, but not in the face of salvation from Death or the old man in front of him, but in Severus Snape, who did what Draco could never accomplish.
He loved her when he was dragged away into the night, to his home that was no longer a home, and a future that was darker than the darkest void.
He loved her when they were 17, and their deepest nightmares became their reality. When he lived under the same roof as the monster hunting her and her friends. When he watched in silent horror and submission as unspeakable evils were committed in front of him by people he had been raised to respect. When his lunatic aunt “worked with him” to make him less weak, and tortured him because his curses just wouldn’t catch. He loved her when he secretly listened to Potterwatch hoping for a sign, anything to let him know she was ok. When her face stared at him at every corner of every street from an “Undesirable No. 2” poster, and he was once again praying to anyone who would listen that she stayed a wanted “criminal” and not a captured prisoner. When he returned to a school she should have been Head Girl of, but she was not there, and monsters roamed the halls and classrooms.
He loved her when he volunteered to cast the Cruciatus curse on his classmates as an example, knowing that he was saving his friends from having to experience the horrors of hurting another human, knowing that he didn’t mean it, his curse was weak and wouldn’t really hurt; praying that his classmates were smart enough to pretend along with him. He loved her as he lived his nightmares in the day, and found no reprieve in sleep - for the things he’d seen in his waking hours were haunting his nights. It was a hopeless world they lived in, their only salvation resting in the hands of a 17-year-old boy and his friends. They were all children, carrying the fate of the Wizarding World on their shoulders, and Draco hoped against hope that Potter could succeed. He knew that, if he did not, she would never be safe again, and so he hoped and listened and waited until he could find a way to help.
He loved her when all his prayers turned to dust, and she was dragged through the gates of Malfoy Manor and under the wand of his ruthlessly insane aunt. When he knew that it had all been for nothing - she would soon be dead, and so would Potter, and so would the hope of the entire world. He loved her when, in blind panic, he raised his wand to stop Bellatrix, and his mother whispered in his mind that there was another way. When he silently cast a numbing spell on her to stop the pain from his aunt’s torture, and then sat still as Potter wrestled the wands from his hand.
He loved her as he watched her disappear, and a chandelier crashed to the group. When he sat there on that same ground, in the same room she had been tortured, in the room she had bled on the floor, on that same floor, as Voldemort cast Cricio after Crucio, and he just wished he could have done more to help her. To help all of them.
He loved her when he was recovering from the after effects of the curse, with tremors in his body, when his mother was suffering too. When he thought that, although life would have been easier for them all if he had not loved her, it was worth it anyway. It was worth it all, for loving her had made him a better person, had brought light into his life where there should have been done, had given him purpose and hope in a world drowning in despair.
He loved her when he was sent back to school with strict orders to stay out of trouble, and he went to find Longbottom instead. When he offered him his hand, his apology and his support. When he heard that she had broken into his aunt’s vault in Gringotts, and knew that Potter was done hiding. He loved her when he could feel in his bones that the time to take an active stand was coming, and he was done hiding too. When her, Potter and Weasley tumbled into the Room of Requirement through the secret tunnel, and the school prepared to fight.
He loved her when he tried to stop Crabbe and Goyle from thwarting Potter in the Room of Hidden Things, and when the unstoppable blaze of Fiendfyre engulfed everything around them. When she and Harry came back for him, and saved him from the inferno. When he watched them watch a dark smoke escape from a once beautiful diadem, and felt that something evil had been destroyed, the world a slightly brighter place because it was gone. He loved her as they fought their way through the halls of Hogwarts together, as he blocked spells aimed to hurt her. As he defended her friends too - not because of who she was but because of who he wanted to be. When an explosion rocked everything around them, and Draco cast a shielding spell without a moment to second-guess himself. When the stricken faces of Fred and Percy Weasley appeared in the aftermath and looked at him as if they had never seen him before in their lives. When Fred stood up from the rubble, shook the dust off of his clothes and offered him his hand in gratitude.
He loved her when they walked into the Great Hall and were met with the bodies of their classmates and their relatives. When he was confronted with a striking grief over the cousin he had never known, and would never have the chance to. When Voldemort’s voice pierced the mournful silence, and a demand for Harry’s life was made again. When he asked Madame Pomfrey if there was anything he could do to help the wounded. When the Healer looked at him surprised, but directed him to the nearest wizard in need of a healing charm. When his healing spells worked, strong and sure, in a way his curses never had.
He loved her when he saw her crumble to the ground when Voldemort announced Harry Potter to be dead. When he saw the last of his hope, all their hope evaporated in the blink of an eye. A hissed “Harry Potter is dead”, and the knowledge that none of them would ever be safe again. When she stood up anyway, despite the news that their world was over, resolution in the square of her shoulders and conviction in the fire burning in her eyes. When he knew that she would fight anyway, against all odds. When he stood next to her and she reached out to take his hand, hers - small and warm and determined in his own.
He loved her when they walked together in the courtyard, defiance in his stance when he ignored the call of Voldemort to join his ranks and take his “rightful” place beside him. His place had never been beside him, and he was finally able to declare it. If they were all going to die anyway, he wanted to die by her side where he belonged. Protecting her, as he had done in any way he could since he was a child.
He loved her when Voldemort raised his wand to curse him for his obstinance. When he prepared for his faith. When Potter jumped out of Hagrid’s arms and back into the fray. He loved her as he fought with her against his aunt, determined that not a single hair on her curly head would ever be harmed again by his family. When his spell stunned Bellatrix, and Molly Weasley’s finished her with a flash of green.
He loved her when she kept gravitating towards him in the battle, never more than a metre away, when he could feel her in his bones and his soul and in everything he was. It was like the universe was finally content on holding them together, after holding them apart for centuries.
He loved her when they found themselves alive and quietly together in the aftermath of the battle for their lives and for their world, with Potter victorious and the future brighter than he ever thought it possible. When his mother walked to them through the wreckage, and greeted her like an old friend. When Narcissa thanked her for keeping her son safe, and giving him a reason to fight. When she looked at him with wonder in her eyes, and he looked back with the single-minded purpose to be honest and never hide again. When he brought her hands to his lips and whispered apologies against her skin. For every nasty thing he’d ever said in the name of keeping up appearances. For not doing more to help in the Manor. For allowing his familial prejudices to ever get in the way of doing the right thing.
He loved her when she took his face in the palms of her hands and told him he had done the right things when it mattered. When she told him she knew he had been there for her in the shadows, silently doing his best. When she smiled timidly and suggested that perhaps it was time to to step into the daylight.
He loved her when he pulled her into him and brought her lips to his. When she clung to him as if he was the one holding her steady through all of it. When he ran his hands through her curls and found them more glorious than he had even imagined. When he held her close and swore to never let her go as long as she would keep him. When they walked away from the battlegrounds together, hand in hand and heart to heart.
He loved her then, and he loved her now when he was 22. When every dream he never dared to dream became his reality. When he watched with tears of adoration in his eyes as she walked down the aisle towards him, a smile on her face and love in her eyes, surrounded by an ocean of enchanted flowers floating in the air. When Harry placed her hand in his, and murmured that he better make her happy or else. When she stood beside him and promised to love and cherish him in this life and the next. When he kissed her as his wife, and told her he had always loved her and he always will.