Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, JKR does.
He watched her every day at breakfast, always taking the same seat so he could conceal his interest in the Gryffindor table behind the large pile of toast that was usually in front of him. Most people had a particular chair that they stuck to, so this didn't look suspicious. He just had to make sure he wasn't caught staring.
She always sat in the same place too, with Potter and Weasley. He watched her laughing, smiling, rolling her eyes at them when she was irritated in the way some girls did, that would have looked patronising coming from anybody else but not her. He watched her and felt sick with jealousy, wishing he could just walk over there. Just talk to her for once, with no one else around. Just smile at her, even. If he could have one chance to show her what he was really like, that he wasn't like all the others, that his mocking remarks about her were only a disguise. That he understood her, respected her, liked her for who she was. He didn't care who her parents were, what kind of blood she had, and he never had. He just had to pretend.
Slytherins didn't love Gryffindors. Purebloods didn't love Muggleborns. Those were the rules, and he had to obey them. He'd been obeying them his whole life, hiding his true self for the sake of blood, of convention, of family and appearances. With the Dark Lord back it was even more important to follow the rules.
She reached for a piece of toast at the same time as Potter, and their hands brushed together. He had to look away, staring down at his own hands, which felt as though they were burning. He hoped no one would ask him what was wrong, that his expression was as blank and controlled as it always was. Never give anything away, that was what he'd learned, what his father had taught him. Never show weakness, never show emotion. That was how a pureblood and a loyal follower of the Dark Lord behaved. If his father ever knew about her… His hands trembled, remembering punishment – beatings, jinxes. The Cruciatus curse itself, once. That was when he was younger, of course, before he'd learned to play the game as well as he did now. These days he was a model son, he was friends with the right people and his father was proud of him. He'd been told that the Dark Lord was pleased with his progress, that he would receive the Mark as soon as he left school, and he'd pretended to be grateful, waiting until late that night when even the house elves were asleep before running to the bathroom and being sick.
If it ever got back to his father that he was in love with her, with a filthy Mudblood and a Gryffindor at that – if anyone ever knew – then he'd be killed. Coldly and painfully, tortured until death began to seem like a release, because that was what happened to blood traitors. Those were the rules, too.
She got up from the table, tossing her hair back over her shoulder, that long, thick hair that he'd longed so often to touch. He wanted to run his fingers through it, wanted to gently cup her face in his hands and draw her close to kiss him. He dreamed of that hair. He loved her. He loved her. He –
"What are you staring at?"
The cold, contemptuous voice broke into his thoughts and he jumped in shock. "Nothing," he said quickly, too quickly. "I just – do the Gryffindors get more toast than us, or what?"
"I expect so," Draco sneered, "they're Dumbledore's pets, aren't they? Jesus, Goyle, is that all you ever think about?"