He spots a flash of blonde hair as she steps out of the warm glow of the kitchens, the door shutting silently behind her. The hall is shadowed but her eyes find his, unerringly, in the dark. She smiles even as he sneers.
"What do you go in for?" she asks in that lilting accent and Draco hesitates.
He doesn't bring anyone down to the kitchens. He comes for cakes and breads; things he thinks a mother might bake.
Luna's holding the same things - a slice of chocolate cake, a pink-iced bun.
"Nothing, Loony," he says, and walks away.
When she's imprisoned in the manor - in their own house - Draco can't keep away. He's fascinated by her, this glittery girl who refuses to be cowed.
Aunt Bella thinks Luna's crazy, but Draco's seen the way his mother looks at his aunt and he knows what she's thinking.
Ollivander stays back from the door, fearful of the Malfoys, but Luna sits on the other side, hushed words pushing themselves through the gap to Draco, stories meant to calm and aid.
He visits her, every night, without fail. When they escape, Draco only hopes that they keep her safe.
Years later, Draco walks Diagon Alley at night. It's an eerie sensation, but solitude is something he's grown into. He hears the crunch of footsteps in the snow behind him and the movement, to reach for his wand, is a reflex.
He turns and Luna's standing there, buttoned up against the cold, moon shining on her golden hair and pale face. She smiles even when she sees his wand. "How are you, Draco?" she asks.
He doesn't have an answer and she doesn't look as if she really expects one. Instead, she holds out her hand, and he takes it.