It wasn't the war that had changed him. He had been changing since he first accepted the Dark Mark, since the Dark Lord first told him his mission. Since he was told what he had to do in order to save his family.
He thought he could do it; Draco Malfoy had not been raised to back down from challenges. He was a proud Pureblood Slytherin, and he could do this for the Dark Lord. He could.
Draco scoffed at the memory, taking a long swig from the fire-whiskey bottle in his right hand, feeling the familiar sear burn down his throat, warming him from the inside out. But he was still cold. He couldn't shake the memories of that year, no matter how many others passed by.
Looking back, he should have known it was impossible. He should have realized that it was simply a trap to give the Dark Lord an excuse to kill them; what sixteen-year-old boy could even have a sliver of hope in killing the greatest wizard alive? The answer was simple—none. He, at least, hadn't. Back then, of course, he would have protested that Albus Dumbledore was getting soft in his old age, that he wasn't such a great wizard after all. Now, however, he knew better.
He would always be haunted by the memory of the look in that old man's eyes as he gazed at the teenage Draco, those eyes that had lost their twinkle, but were still knowing, endless. He knew that Draco couldn't do it, that he wasn't a murderer. Somehow, somewhere inside him, Draco knew that, too. Subconsciously, but he still knew it.
His attempts to kill the Headmaster had been feeble at best; poisoned wine, a cursed necklace. They showed more about his blatant disregard for whoever may get in the way of his mission than any real determination to fulfill it. Draco would always have to live with the memory of who he had been back then, that selfish, cowardly little boy who suddenly had the weight of many peoples' lives thrust upon him.
That was what had started the change. The moment he saw the green light hit the wizened old man, something in him rebelled, stood against everything that he had been taught in his life. That wasn't to say he had the courage to actually do something about it.
Now, though, Draco Malfoy was a different person. He had been saved by the person he once despised the most, and he was married to the woman who he had only ever despised, believing somehow that she was different, that her blood meant she bled anything other than red. But he had seen her blood, and heard her screams in his home when his own aunt tortured her with the Cruciatus curse.
Perhaps that had also been a changing point. He heard her cries, her agony, and he didn't feel pity. He felt horror, and he felt scared; scared that that would happen to him as well someday, when the Dark Lord finally decided to finish him off.
"I'm going off to bed. Don't stay up too long." Said the voice of his wife, and Draco felt warm lips press against his cheek. He watched as the bushy-haired witch made her way through the door of his office, towards the bedroom that they had been sharing for the last two years.
Draco looked after her, the cold office seeming to reflect his own desolate emotions. He was haunted by his past, and yet…
"Out of darkness comes light." He whispered, his voice lingering in the air like a spell as he stared after the witch for a few more moments before setting the bottle on his desk and standing, following her into their bedroom.