Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter in any way, shape or form. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The same applies to Peter Pan.
"Let it never be said that you're not the one for me, Parkinson," he says, smirking in silent mirth.
"And let it never be said that I am," she answers, obviously sure of herself.
She had every right to be, of course. She knew him well enough to know that he would be just as amused as shocked at her nerve. The gall of that girl - well, it wasn't surprising. Perhaps he ought to try and scold her, to try and see whatever sense was left in the high spirited companion by his side.
But no, she was his and he knew she was merely teasing him. And even if she tried to deny it or hide her feelings, they would always be this way. Drinking butterbeer under the Quidditch bleachers, chanting 'Weasley Is Our King', every time the oaf stalked by. They were perfect - a match made in a proverbially dark little heaven.
He's perfect for her and she for him. They'll bicker all night long in the Common Room, shouting insults into the dead of the night. And he'll force his way into the Girls Dormitory, just before sunrise, so he can return her copy of Quidditch Through The Ages and wait for her to apologize for calling him a sullen brat.
But she won't.
She doesn't give in too easily - contrary to popular belief. She has her own set of morals and beliefs, regardless of what the world thinks of the Slytherins and their general attitude. Never will she let Draco get the best of her, not when she thinks she's right and not when she can watch his cheeks tinge pink in frustration.
"You like to watch me squirm, don't you?" he'll ask as they sit in front of the fireplace, alone to the dead of the night.
"Of course I do, Malfoy," she'll say, stifling a giggle at his quirked eyebrow. "I've no greater joy in life than seeing you lose."
"But I don't! Not ever!" he'll object, and she'll merely smile sweetly and silently applaud his ignorance.
And they ponder the meaning of life, of death, of war and peace. They'll sit for hours conversing, trying to make sense of the world they live in. They questioned their beliefs, but only with each other, and only when they were sure that nobody else will overhear. There is trust in this cynically guarded friendship. And there's curiosity. They're teenagers, after all. They're supposed to not know the answers.
"And we're not always wrong, are we?" she asks him. "We're not always the nasty ones."
"I'm not too sure," he concedes, lazily draping his arm over her shoulder. "Sometimes it becomes far too confusing to tell."
And confusing it was. There were no answers waiting for them the next morning, when they awoke. They don't really understand the hatred that was directed toward them day after day. Their unsurety doesn't stop them though, from taunting the Gryffindors and laughing themselves hoarse at some others misfortune.
They're not evil children, nor bratty or self indulgent. They just like a good time and don't care as to whose expense it is. Children are like that. Rich children, prominent children, callous children. But they're not horrible to all and therefore refuse to be thought of as such.
"But we're the smart ones, aren't we Malfoy?" she'll ask, her face weary and tired. "We have all the answers already."
"No, Parkinson. Ravenclaw's have the answers -- Slytherin's make the questions."
And he never does make sense to her, but then again, almost everything in the world confused her. She doesn't understand why her parents bicker and her teachers look down upon her. She doesn't understand why he likes doing his homework in silence and away from his friends, or why he refused to come play in the newly fallen winter snow.
But there's something about the way he speaks to her, and the way he watches her from across the common room. When everybody leaves, they'll sit back to back in front of the fireplace and he'll smile genuinely, telling her about his mother's latest letter and how well she's doing. And Pansy will hold his hand and give it a soft squeeze, telling him that Narcissa will be fine and that he'll be fine and that someday he'll realize that.
"You don't know that," he insists. "For all you know, I could die the next day and things will have never changed."
"Don't talk such nonsense," she'll whisper airily, trying to conceal her shock. He's not usually this blatantly depressing. "You'll live longer than us all, out of pure spite."
And he'll grin, because it's true. And he'll kiss her cheek and head upstairs to bed, leaving her in front of the fireplace on her own, soaking up the bronzy glow and humming a soft tune under her breath. She likes the silence, but she likes it even more when he's there to share it with her.
She'll eventually go to bed as well, and the next morning, everything will be the same once more. He'll sit with her at breakfast and shoot death glares over at Potter, trying to find some new flaw in The-Boy-Who-Lived, before they head off to lessons. And once the day is through, they'll return to that bleak, dark dungeon and play their little games.
They'll argue into the dead of the night and apologize before the sun has been given a chance to rise. He'll kiss her cheek once more and she'll laugh, telling him to go to bed and stop floating himself over the slippery slide steps; that Professor Snape would be hardly impressed if he were to catch him and that she's far too tired to put up with him for the rest of the night.
"Do you love me, Parkinson?" he'll ask, sneering as she tries to direct him out the door. "Do you love the fiend who teases and torments and who doesn't give a damn about the world?"
"No, Malfoy," she'll drawl with a yawn. "I don't love you, not when I ought to be sleeping and you persist in keeping me awake."
"Liar," he'll proclaim, before kissing her gently and waltzing out of the room. He, Crabbe and Goyle will spend the rest of the night feasting on chocolate frogs, before finally falling asleep their dormitory and she'll be left to make the excuses to their teachers the next morning as to why they're once again, not paying attention in class.
"I don't see why I bother," she'll say. "After all, you never learn."
But she doesn't expect him to. They're still just teenagers, they're supposed to make mistakes and cause trouble. And secretly, she relishes his mistakes because they always make for something new to tease him with and another story from which they'll tell a few weeks later in the common room.
His stories are always exciting, the ones that aren't true that is. He heard them from Theodore, who heard them from Blaise, who heard them from so and so Hufflepuffs - and apparently the stories are Muggle stories, but that doesn't matter. All Muggle stories evolved from magical legends, so he doesn't feel stupid, or out of place when he tells her them.
And he speaks of this one boy, Peter Pan. And he says that the boy took Wendy and her brothers to Never Land. He says that they fought pirates and swam with mermaids - that that Peter wanted to stay a boy forever and never have to grow up, so he would always be that young, adventurous boy that he was.
And secretly she believes that he'll be her Peter Pan, and he'll whisk her away to the place where she could have great adventures and be young forever. She'll be his Wendy, his companion, and they'd fight pirates and swim with mermaids.
But she doesn't tell him of course, because then she would be merely acting childish and Draco doesn't care for childish behavior; unless it's his own, of course. But it doesn't matter that he's not Peter and that they'll never escape this land where nobody cares for them and loves them as much as they do others or themselves.
Still, they're not alone. They have each other and they have their stories. They have those nights in the common room where they'd talk one on one and nobody would know how much they ached inside.
And so she asks him one night, as they sit alone, back to back, reading through copies of Quidditch Through The Ages and Witch Weekly, "Is this it, Malfoy?"
And he looks over his shoulder at her pale, calm face. Her crystal blue eyes so questioning and unsure.
"Is this what?" he urges, and she sighs in exhaustion.
"Is this how we'll always be? Sitting together, reading together, ignoring the fact that the world hates us, together?"
Without another word, he turns to face her and he brushes he honey-brown curls out of her petite face.
"I wouldn't want it any other way, Parkinson," he says surely. "Just you and I, what more do I need?"
Nothing more, nothing less.