The colors red, white, and pink were everywhere. She couldn't escape them if she tried. At first, Hermione felt confused by the sudden onslaught of the colors; then she remembered what month it was. i February, /i she thought with a groan.

She wanted to run from her office but knew she couldn't. She hated Valentine's Day with a passion, and the second war had not helped this sentiment. Her view of Valentine's Day would always be marred by the deaths she had seen during the years of the second war. Bill Weasley had died last Valentine's Day. She hadn't been horribly close to the man, but she had seen him as a sort of distant brother, as well as a friend. She had spent that Valentine's Day crying and mourning, as she had the rest of the war.

She felt a sick, heavy feeling in her stomach as she dropped down in the chair behind her desk. A few interoffice memos were flying above her desk, so she snatched them out of the air and started a pile on her desk.

Frank poked his head in her office door and said, "Hermione, meeting in half an hour."

She nodded. "I know." She knew her tone was brisk, but the memories that flashed through her mind made it hard for her to care.

After the second war had finally ended, everything was a reminder of the war, death, and destruction it had wreaked. A simple song could bring tears to her eyes. She had sunken into a small, but deep, depression. It seemed to override all the good things that were happening like holidays and weddings. It was rare that she genuinely smiled or laughed.

Harry had made it through the war with only mental and emotional injuries, but they were as serious as if someone had paralyzed him. He was the same Harry, and she knew that, but her friend seemed to have changed before her eyes. It was a slow change, subtle at first, but once the war had ended, it was unavoidable to notice the seriousness of the transformation. He was darker—more reserved.

Scars were carved into the world from the devastation and death of the war. Death. The world screamed "Death!" loudly and painfully in the hearts and minds of those who witnessed the war and its aftermath. She had seen plenty of death to hear the screams with each step she took. It echoed, haunting her.

She went through the next week ignoring the colors and trying to ignore the symbolism behind them. Brushing aside the ache that grew as Valentine's Day drew closer, Hermione made plans to work late in the office that night. She wanted to spend the night alone so she could lick the wounds she couldn't heal by herself.

A few days before the approaching holiday, an owl was waiting for her when she woke up. She read the note quickly, allowing a ghost of a smile to flutter across her lips before shutting down again.

i Hermione--

I'll be at our normal place tonight at seven. Meet me there.

Draco /i

It was simple. Informal. It held promise. Draco had been shunned by everyone after the war. He had been in great demand during the war for his inside information on the inner workings of the Death Eaters and the plans that were hatched. In the wizarding world, he was a pariah, unwelcome and unwanted.

Knowing what she did about his actions and involvement in the war, Hermione couldn't find it in herself to ignore him like the rest of the world. When she allowed it, her heart bled for him. He didn't want her sympathy, only a bit of companionship now and again. She was happy to give in to his desire for her company.

He worked at Saint Mungo's as a Healer, having learned the value of a life during the war. He'd also learned the importance of family after losing all of his. His father died in the middle of the war, but he didn't die honorably. He escaped from Azkaban, where he might have been kept alive, and died trying to fight for the dark side. His mother had been a causality of war, having never chosen sides. She had protected Draco as much as she could, but she couldn't save herself.

The Slytherins Draco grew up friends with either shunned him for his direct involvement in the Order of the Phoenix or were Death Eaters themselves—dead or spending life sentences in Azkaban for their crimes. No Death Eater escaped punishment thanks to the combined effort of Draco and Snape. They were spies, and it surprised everyone that they pulled off their act so well. They had to kill in the name of war, but Hermione could still see the lives he had taken haunting his every move, leading him to save lives as a Healer.

She respected him. She even liked him.

There was more to him then what seemed. He covered his true side, his light side—his softer side well—but he couldn't hide it entirely. Not from her at least. During their times together, he had allowed her to see under his mask of indifference and professionalism to view the i real /i Draco—the man that he truly was and yearned to allow out.

She met him happily on the roof of her flat at seven that night. The roof allowed them privacy as well as a safety net. It was public, despite its private appearance. The pair needed—wanted—a buffer between them to help their friendship grow without getting out of their control.

Draco arrived shortly after her. "Did you wait long?" he asked in way of greeting.

She smiled and shook her head. It was nice to hear his voice. It was deep, throaty, and sexy. Trying to be discreet, she slid her glaze over him. He was the same as he had been since the end of the war. Sharply dressed in tailored set of dress robes, his white blonde hair was combed into the perfect wave. His silver eyes seemed to see right through her.

He allowed himself a second to smile before his face went back to its almost-constant, expressionless mask. He still tried to keep up appearances with her during the first part of each meeting, but she knew he would drop his guard soon. She was waiting.

She drew up two chairs and settled herself into one. She looked away from the empty chair until she heard Draco sit down. She didn't know why, but he seemed more comfortable when he didn't think she was aware of his every move, which she always was.

"What are you doing this week?" It was the normal question. The friendly banter would fill the comfortable stillness until one of them cracked; then the conversation would grow deeper until they broke.

"Nothing. It's Valentine's Day in two days," she said conversationally.

He chucked. "I suppose it is."

"You can't miss the colors and decorations," she said, turning to him.

He looked back at her with a small smile playing on his mouth, indicating his amusement. "Someone could, if they tried."

"And you try?"

"I don't have to try."

"You're just naturally unobservant," she said, trying to be sarcastic.

He shrugged, obviously bored with the topic already. "Are you going to a party?"

"No. I plan to bury myself in work until the nightmarish day is over." She was always honest; she had nothing to hide from him.

He nodded. "Good plan. A girl like you wouldn't have a date anyway."

"Ha ha," she said without humor. "Do you have one?"

"No."

She looked away as her mind wandered, without her permission, to the possibility of being each other's dates.

"I have no plans either. I guess your day will be more eventful than mine."

She allowed silence to envelope the pair. It wasn't comfortable, but they were enough at ease with each other that it wasn't awkward. "Valentine's Day isn't what it's cracked up to be anyway." The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop her thought from escaping.

"Oh?" He seemed intrigued, but didn't dare show much interest. He never tried to show too much interest in what she was saying. Years of death had made him afraid to care for someone in fear of loosing them. Draco kept everyone, even Hermione who was the closest person to him, at a safe distance to avoid what he seemed to think as the inevitable—the pain. Hermione suspected that he wanted to try to shield her from who he still saw himself as—a murder and a pariah.

She stiffened. "Yes. It's overrated."

"I agree. It's also commercialized. Muggle-ized."

"That's not a word," she retorted, trying to ignore the insult to Muggles.

"It is too."

Hermione sighed, knowing when to argue and when not to. Suddenly his company felt more welcome. The idea of Valentine's Day, a day that reminded her of what was lost in the war, was frightening in itself. The idea of spending it alone was terrifying. She resisted the urge to offer an invitation for him to spend the night with her as he filled the air with mundane banter she didn't feel obligated to pay attention to.

"Have you seen Potter lately?"

The random and abrupt change of topic jarred Hermione out of her thoughts and back to Draco. "Harry? No, not in weeks at least."

"Interesting…"

Hermione knew that Draco never mentioned anything by mere accident. He knew something, or he was up to something. "What about Harry?"

"He's getting married. On Valentine's day." He chose his words carefully, watching for her reaction.

She didn't know what she felt, learning the news. She knew she had distanced herself from her friends from school after the war. It had been hard to face the reality of the war, let alone with constant reminders around. The fact that he hadn't told her of his impending wedding still stung. She hadn't thought she'd cut herself off so completely.

"You didn't know?"

"How did you hear about it?" She knew she was being defensive, but for some reason, she failed to stop herself.

" i Daily Prophet. /i The announcement was in there this morning. Apparently they got engaged last night."

Hermione felt relief flood over her. There was still a chance the owl had yet to arrive with her invitation.

"I wasn't invited," Draco said, stating the obvious.

Harry still hated Draco over their animosity during their school years. It was a petty and immature grudge, but Hermione thought Harry had the right, considering the hardship he had faced.

"Neither have I," she offered.

"Yet," he amended for her.

She shrugged. "Maybe I won't be."

"I doubt that, Hermione."

She eyed him carefully. His expressionless mask was still firmly in place, but there was something glinting in his eyes that he didn't hide. It was affection. She smiled. "I don't think I'd go if I was invited," she mused out loud.

"Why not?" Draco seemed genuinely surprised by her statement.

"I'd rather spend the night with you."

The sentence hung between the pair. Hermione waited with bated breath for him to answer, to respond, to acknowledge her words in some way.

"Then I'll meet you … at your flat at seven on Valentine's Day." His words were even and collected. She turned back to him, and he just looked at her, a soft smile on his lips.

She smiled back. With only a moment of silence, she continued her part in the idle chatter to fill the silence.

Without drawing attention to his movement, Draco's hand reached out and took Hermione's. The warmth of his touch surprised her as well as the smooth feel of his skin. Despite their alone time together, they rarely touched. This seemed intimate to her, but it was welcome. She squeezed his hand in return without missing a beat in her story.

When Hermione went back to her flat two hours later, an owl with an invitation to Harry's wedding was waiting for her. With a sad smile and the feel of Draco's hand in hers still on her mind, she wrote Harry a quick note saying she couldn't come on such short notice, but she wanted to keep in touch better. She meant her words—she wanted to keep in contact. A shadow of Draco's warmth still lingered on her hand as she watched the owl fly back to Harry with her denial.