I realize now that it was always there between them, this connecting—no, this wedding—thread, but the thought that it was love that bound these two rivals never occurred to me. No, I always believed that the skein from which their coupling sprung was composed of the arrogant Gryffindor red of his—no, remember: her—anger, or the serpentine silver of unresolved lust that characterizes so many of my own house. A Slytherin such as Draco Malfoy does not love such a one as the Boy Who Became the Girl Who Lived.
It is difficult to see her this way, though I cannot think why; if anything, Potter is greatly improved by the transformation. I always looked upon Harry as a foolish boy—beautiful, naive, and fated to die. But this woman, Harriet, Draco's Darkness, she is a different creature entirely. It is more than the change to her sex. She carries herself as a martinet would, standing like a lightning rod at the head of Draco's pyre, daring anyone to disturb his body. And I can feel the power crackling off her skin from my position here in the shadows. I am loathe to intrude upon her privacy lest she take offense; I would never have constrained myself to be cautious around Harry, no matter the circumstances.
The curse that wrought this change was Lucius's idea. He convinced his master that in the confusion of finding himself herself, Harry would drop his guard and be easier for him to destroy. But Lucius underestimated his boy, the Boy Who Loved Him, and Draco was able to turn the curse to his own "advantage."