Even after making unconventional snow angels in the blanket of white and melting what remained, Draco's and Hermione's night still didn't end. They had haphazardly dressed, donning once again their masks –not to hide from each other, but from everyone else.

Their hands had been interlocked as they traversed the halls, eyeing passersby who encouraged their frivolity with gentle head nods, winks, and knowing smiles.

That night as they travelled through the castle (or during the wee hours of the morning, rather) Draco had glanced down at her from his periphery. With her mask on he had tried to pick out the features that belonged to her and, for the life of him, couldn't do it. Perhaps it was the title of her name that had made him oblivious to the physical traits that his heart, mind, and body had yearned for the moment he'd set his eyes on her.

He had scoffed on the inside, and it pained him to think that something as insignificant as a name could cause blindness.

But wait, that wasn't true wasn't? While it had made him miss out on could-haves and what-ifs, titles had hardly made him invisible. Draco was a blaring memory for all those involved in the war and he made everyone miserable with his presence.

Except maybe her…? Draco had thought, and still thought, as he stared up at the ceiling above him, very aware of the brunette whose sleeping form was resting on top of him.

They were in the Room of Requirement. When they had left the grounds and entered the castle, neither had spoken. Neither had left the other's side nor aimed their walking towards their respective Houses. Their steps had been in tune as they finally halted. While neither had voiced what they needed, a door still appeared before them and they slipped themselves inside. What they saw was a mélange of their subconscious –their desires transformed into a tangible space.

Never once had Draco ever thought that silver and green and red and gold would look so good together.

And now here they lay, Hermione sleeping soundlessly with Draco as her pillow and his arms wrapped around her. He didn't have a clue what time it was, and a clock wouldn't appear in the room because he didn't want it to. He couldn't help but think that the moment they left whatever spell that had charmed them last night would break instantly.

For her.

So some say, people don't change. And it was true, some didn't. But war had a way of reshaping an already cut mold. Sometimes it was for the worse, and sometimes it was for the better. In Draco's case, it was definitely for the better.

Now, he wasn't going to say that he had been a troubled teen who had made all the wrong choices. No, every decision he'd made he'd done because he had honestly believed he was doing the right thing and because he had enjoyed it. Thinking muggleborns were inferior. Being the worst bully in history. Believing that his father was right. Believing that Voldemort was right and that they had to do away with the "mudblood problem." Everything had been fine until sixth year when the beginnings of a war began to take flight.

He didn't know why (and sometimes he still tried to figure it out), but the thought that he may actually have to shed some blood to turn the world into what the Deatheaters wanted hadn't even crossed his mind. Draco had been (and still was) capable of doing terrible things. However, even then he wasn't able to bring death to anyone. It seemed so...unnatural and against the laws of man.

It was that thought that had stopped him that night. Not cowardice. It was a rational thought process that had tugged at the chord of his humanity and it hadn't stopped being strummed since. With every act of cruelty he had bared witness to it sobered him. Couldn't there be another way? These people –muggleborns, squibs, blood traitors, and the like –they would be subject to them one day if everything went according to plan. Shouldn't there be some sort of mercy?

Apparently not.

There wasn't mercy for anyone. Not even for the people who served that snake-like dictator.

Draco had watched the deterioration of his father and saw himself in his place. The same disheveled appearance. The same haggard look. The stress neatly written across his features.

Was it worth it?

No, it wasn't.

It wasn't worth his health. It wasn't worth his life. And it wasn't worth his parents' lives either. It's what motivated him to lie to his aunt about Potter being in their Manor. Granted, he did go after him in the Room of Requirement, but that had been wholly out of fear. His mother had lied about Potter being alive. What would have happened to her if somehow Voldemort didn't die?

In the end they and his father had walked away –from the battle, yes, but not from punishment. His father was currently in Azkaban where he was destined to spend the rest of his life unless his parole -the hearing for which would be held sometime in the next seventeen years -got him out. His mother had managed to escape the once Dementor-ridden prison due to a testimony from Potter. Her particular sentence was one confined to her home for five years. Considering the vast nature of the Manor (the grounds excluded) it was hardly a punishment.

As for Draco, he had managed to escape any reprimand at all. Once again his family had Potter to thank for that –that and a whole bunch of utter nonsense about him being "impressionable" and "doing what he did because of his family." However partially true that may have been, the bottom line was that Draco had made some horrible choices and ignored every chance to walk away until most of the damage had already been done.

Although Draco hadn't been given any Azkaban time or house arrest, the cruel glares, huffs in his direction, ignoring his presence, the hateful comments, and other things, those had been (and still were) punishment enough. He had never felt so alone or alienated in his life. Always on top, always the one to turn to, that's what he was used to. Not the degradation. Oftentimes he wondered if this was what the muggleborns felt like when he tormented them.

Over the years Draco's thoughts would drift over to the witch who was currently nuzzling her cheek onto his chest. He thought of her the most because he had taunted her the most. A witch who, had her blood not been "dirty" and even despite her House (although better yet in Slytherin), she would've been a perfect match for him. Her intelligence, wit, and resourcefulness were endearing qualities smeared by the picture of imperfection that had clouded his judgment. But he hadn't been brought up to see her that way. Still couldn't see her that way.

At least not until last night.

Last night had tainted his ugly image of her clean. The only stain that remained was his fear that her image of him was marred beyond hope. Well, maybe not all hope. Even after his mask was gone she had still let herself be enveloped by him. Maybe then it would be okay? He wasn't asking for a relationship –Merlin forbid. He didn't take such steps lightly nor had he ever had the pleasure of pursuing such a path. Besides, he was a realist, and he knew that one night of sleeping with someone didn't mean you were conjoined at the hip. Last night –including the short conversations, the dancing, and the walk –had been the first time he'd been close to anyone in three years. It had felt good and chased his loneliness away. If he could keep any portion of that, no matter how small the fraction, he would die for it. Even if it only started and stayed with her friendship.

Draco prayed that she would be receptive to it and soon flinched in anxiousness when she began to stir.

Author's note: Well, obviously this isn't a one-shot anymore :). After posting this my imagination started to run wild and I couldn't help myself. Your reviews also helped with that :D, so clap yourselves on the back!

The story won't be very long (maybe four, five chapters?) as this is a very critical look at a specific moment in Hermione and Draco's lives. The chapters won't be very long either, but I would hope that the whole "quality vs. quantity" thing comes into play here.

Thanks SO MUCH for the support for chapter one. It really does mean a lot.

Until next time :)

-WP