Full Summary: The Battle of Hogwarts was fought valiantly, but in the end, Voldemort managed to pull through. In a world run by darkness and violence, Draco Malfoy thought he was thriving. That is, until a certain Mudblood was uncovered near-death on a snowy February night. She offers him help. Will he accept it? Or is he too far gone?

Rated: T for violence and language.

a.n. Here we go with my second story. I was originally trying to write on two different planes of time at once, but I was having trouble with one of them and decided to publish them separately since this part has been complete for some time. It's not as long as my last story, but I worked a lot harder on it, and I believe it shows. This means you should be on the lookout for a sequel!

I actually finished and edited the entire thing before I trusted myself to post this first chapter. I had to make sure I got all the kinks out. That's right, this story is already complete. I'll be posting about a chapter/day until it's all up for you guys… provided you let me know whether you're reading it and if you are liking it. Enjoy!

The days weren't safe, but they were safer than the nights. Every evening when the sun dipped beneath the horizon, it took with it not only light and warmth, but protection. During the nights, it was harder to see who might be sneaking up on you. It was difficult to get a look at your attacker's face before they struck. There was little chance to protect yourself. The nights were ruthless.

He missed the stars, he realized with a pang as he stood in the crisp February air, his breath rising into the sky in little puffs. He couldn't even remember the last time he had seen them winking down at him. Surely it had been years. Had he seen them since the defeat of Harry Potter? It seemed that the Boy Who Lived (Or rather, the Boy Who Hadn't Lived) had taken all color and joy from the world with his death, draining everything of its vibrance.

But it was better this way, he told himself. This was what he had always wanted. At least, this is what he had always thought he wanted. It had seemed like such a good idea, at the time, to join forces with the most-feared wizard the world had ever seen. It had all seemed like such a fool-proof idea to obtain respect and power. But he wasn't respected anymore, and he had no real power.

Well, at least he was still alive. At least his mother was still alive. At least something good had come from that decision. From what he knew, there was almost no one left on the Resistance's side. They had been picked off one-by-one for two years. They had certainly gotten the worst end of the deal. That's what they get for acting so foolishly optimistic. They deserved what they got for hopelessly continuing to oppose the Dark Lord. But he did miss the stars. The world somehow seemed a lot lonelier without them.

Draco Malfoy trudged his way through the deep snow back to Malfoy Manor, carefully stepping in the tracks he had made moments before. He had only made it half-way to the gate before he decided it was too cold to leave for the night without a hat. A hat would be a good idea, anyway. Not only would it keep him warm, but it would cover his revealing blond hair, keeping his identity a little more discreet. Not that it mattered much. Anyone who was still left alive at this time would be praising him for the damage he was going to cause to humanity. Just as they had every night before tonight for the past two years. Ever since Harry Potter drew his last breath.

His black wool hat firmly in place over his ears, Draco pulled his black gloves on tighter, tracked his mother to the kitchen, kissed her on the cheek, and left into the night. It was just another night of upholding the law of the Dark Lord. It was just another night of trouncing around the streets with Zabini and Nott and Flint and other old friends and classmates. It was just another night of senseless violence and killings and brilliant red blood staining the pure snow.

Once he had closed the tall iron gates to the Manor behind him, Draco easily turned on spot and twisted into space, clenching his teeth, dreading another night of the forced violence that so many others of his kind seemed to live for. If only the Death Eaters had some sort of desk job he could take up.

The events of the night transpired as if they were an old movie; the scenes flashing in and out of focus, some of them more memorable that others, devoid of all colors except blacks and whites and greys and, often, red. Draco moved mechanically, even through his smirks and his taunts, hardly noticing what he was doing anymore. It was all routine at this point. He could have done it with his eyes closed. Flint and Nott and Zabini were with him the whole time, each of them with their own methods of punishment. Flint liked to make the blood flow. He said it was beautiful the way it contrasted the white winter around him. The splatters and smears and patterns were artistic, he insisted. He was excessive with his violence, not caring whether his victim was pure-blood or half-blood or muggle. Nott was more reserved, but he certainly didn't hold back. He ensured that he never touched a pure-blood. He was methodical and followed the Dark Lord's instructions to a T. Zabini and Draco were the most unenthusiastic out of all of them, doing only what was necessary to avoid being brought to the Dark Lord's attention. Neither of them seemed to have the blood lust that gripped Flint so tight. Perhaps they were growing bored of their escapades.

They had been doing the same thing night after night for two years. It was simple, really. They owned the streets at night, and anyone who was stupid enough to be out after the sun went down was fair game. They deserved what they got, really. They were all aware of the rules. When they broke the rules, they had to accept the consequences (which varied from general harassment to a violent death, depending on the general mood of the people that found them). They asked for it the moment they stepped into the night.

Draco was very good a rationalizing his behavior.

If he didn't participate, he would be killed, after all. If he didn't participate, his mother, his only remaining parent, would be killed. The remaining Malfoys were already looked upon with such distaste by the Dark Lord. He still brought up Draco's failure during his sixth year, often at meetings, much to the amusement of the other Death Eaters. He still laughed at Lucius' blunders throughout his reign. He loved to ridicule and humiliate the Malfoys at their gatherings. It was as if he had made a sport out of it.

So Draco went along with the stupid rules, to keep the shame off of his poor mother. She wasn't getting any younger, after all, and Lucius' death had taken a toll on her. He jeered with his fellow Death Eaters and Violence-Lovers alike, keeping the streets clean with their own versions of filth and anarchy, all under Lord Voldemort's not-so-watchful-eye. For if Voldemort watched them too closely, he would likely be angry. They were specifically told to rid the streets of filth. According to the Dark Lord, that didn't include the pure-bloods that got in their way. But sometimes, like in the case of Flint and so many others, the violence seemed to take control of their actions, turning their eyes red and their hearts black, and it didn't matter who got in their way as long as blood was spilt across the pavement. No one worried as much as they should about the consequences of their actions, however, as the Dark Lord always seemed to be gone on secretive solo-missions these days. Because of this, the streets were considered free reign by various gangs.

The sun would be peeking over the horizon in about an hour, and Draco trudged through the dirty slush on the streets, hands shoved deep in his pockets, feeling a chill settle over his body now that the rush from destruction had faded. He was looking forward to showering the filth from his body before laying down for a long sleep. Nott and Flint muttered their goodbyes and disapparated a little early, knowing that they've done more than enough to please the Dark Lord for that evening. Blaise walked next to Draco, silent except for the crunch crunch of the snow under his own boots. They probably would have continued in silence that way, up until they disapparated to go their separate ways, but something was unusual about that night.

They chose to cut through an alley, as they often did, and the atmosphere between them immediately changed. There was a body in the alley, brilliant blood surrounding it, spread across the snow. A distinct red handprint was visible reaching out towards the main roads, telling the story of a final act of desperation. This was nothing new to them, but it was always a little unnerving to see just how careless some of the gangs could be with their work. Bodies were supposed to be disposed of properly; the Dark Lord didn't like them littering the streets. The two young Death Eaters approached it slowly, taking care to evaluate their surroundings. It was possible that one of their own had done this, and therefore they would be in no danger. It was also possible that a rogue group, belonging to no one, was setting a trap for the sole purpose of enjoying the thrill of a fight. Once they had deemed the area safe, they took a closer look.

The body was of a young woman. She was laying face-down in the snow, and though it was hard to tell until they could get a proper look at her, she seemed to be about 19 or 20. Young. Their age. As was habit in these situations, Blaise stuck his foot under her side and kicked her over to face them so they could ensure it was no one they cared about. Draco inhaled sharply through his nose, and Blaise cursed next to him.

Hermione Granger, famous Mudblood, skin tinted blue, laid in the snow looking for all the world to be dead. Her face seemed sunken and thin, the skin stretched tight, as if she hadn't eaten properly in months, and a faint scar ran long down her cheek, beginning under her eye and ending under her chin, but it was still undeniably her.

"He's going to be so pissed…" Blaise muttered to himself, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking unbearably uncomfortable with their discovery. Draco silently agreed. The Dark Lord had wanted so desperately to kill the Mudblood himself. He had sent out direct orders to everyone that did his bidding that, should the Mudblood or Weasel be found, they were to be brought straight to him. Alive. He wanted to tell them personally that they were fools, he said. He wanted to mock them and tell them that they had worked so hard for nothing, and look where it had gotten them. And he wanted to murder them with his by his own hand, proving once and for all that every member of the Golden Trio was a joke. Draco imagined it would be a very satisfying moment for the Dark Lord. He shivered at the thought.

It must have been a group of kids that had found her, he concluded. Anyone else would have immediately recognized her. It struck him as odd, though, that anyone had been able to catch the Mudblood off-guard. Having personally dueled her during the Final Battle, he knew just how fast and formidable her spellwork was.

"Should we… pretend we never saw her? Or take her body back to the Manor?" Draco asked, disgusted, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between him and Blaise. Blood had trickled from the corner of the Mudblood's mouth. It was still shining. This must have happened very recently.

Blaise looked thoughtful for a minute. "We disturbed the scene. We can't ignore her now. He'll know someone messed with the body."

It was unfortunate, but true. Draco would have liked nothing better than to ignore the mess that was lying before them. It would have been one less thing to deal with before he could finally sleep. But Blaise was right. They had turned her over. Their foot prints and red stains in the snow made it obvious that someone had disturbed the scene, and they did not want to give the Dark Lord any reason to think that they had done this and were lying to him about it. Draco shuddered at the mere thought. Deceiving that Dark Lord in any way was asking for a painful death.

"Fine," he said shortly, and with a flick of his wand, the Mudblood rose slowly from the snow until she was levitating in front of them, and then he, Blaise, and the body disappeared back to Malfoy Manor.

Narcissa was shocked when her son returned a half-hour early from his night. It was almost unheard of that he would abandon his work before his time was up. He was such a good boy, working hard to make life easier for them. She was more shocked to see the young Blaise Zabini standing with him, looking grim. It was rare that his friends would accompany him home, for the poor boy was usually so tired he would go straight to bed. But she lost her ability to speak when she saw that they were towing Potter's Mudblood behind them, dripping quickly melting chunks of snow onto her floor, looking stiff and pale and dead.

"What have you boys done?" she whispered, not bothering the mask the pure horror in her voice. Draco knew that in the second she had spotted the dead Mudblood, she thought she was going to be the last remaining Malfoy.

Draco shook his head quickly, reassuring her that they had nothing to do with her demise. "We didn't. We found her in the snow. The Dark Lord would want to see for himself."

She didn't look appeased, but Narcissa relaxed slightly, some tension leaving her face. Still with a look of suppressed horror, she kept her eyes trained on the floating body. "He will be so angry," she muttered, and Draco nodded seriously. She continued, "He is away again, but I will send word to him immediately. You are right, Draco, dear. He would… he would want to know…"

"Wait!" Blaise interrupted her, rudely. Draco turned to tell his friend off for speaking to his mother in such a disrespectful manner, but a look of pure astonishment had come over his face, and so Draco followed his gaze to the Mudblood hovering between them all. The two Malfoys and Zabini watched, as if in a trance, while the Mudblood's eyelids fluttered, though they stayed closed, her long dark lashes gently flickering. A long and very pregnant silence fell between them, until Narcissa broke it, her voice oddly strangled, dripping with panic.

"She's still alive!"

Draco still had not found his voice, and judging by the way Blaise's mouth was simply hanging open, he hadn't either. Luckily, Narcissa continued, though she seemed to be muttering mainly to herself at this point, sound half-crazed and absolutely ridden with terror. It was a habit she had taken up about two years ago, after Lucius' sudden death during the Final Battle.

"We can't let her die in this house… not while the Dark Lord is away… we need to keep her alive, get her a little healthier, so that he can finish the job the way he wants to…"

"Mother," Draco began patiently, glad to hear that his voice was even and calm. He needed to bring order back to the situation."Mother, you are right. We need to keep her alive. Go send word to the Dark Lord, and I will put her up in one of the old servant's rooms. I will tend to her, with the help of one of the elves. Don't worry. I'll take care of everything." His voice soothed her, and she blinked hard, seeming to calm herself and come to her senses.

"Yes, Draco, dear. I will send an owl at once." She left the foyer swiftly at that, midnight blue robes billowing behind her. Draco said goodbye to Blaise and began the tedious process of saving the Mudblood's life.

Keeping the Mudblood from falling over to the edge of death wasn't an easy task, Draco soon discovered. Immediately after depositing her half-frozen body onto one of the old beds in the basement of Malfoy Manor, Draco called for Howwy. Howwy was his favorite house elf. He was very helpful and polite and very rarely did anything that would warrant a punishment. He was a very diligent worker, just as a house elf should be, and Draco knew that he would take great care of the Mudblood.

Howwy had immediately set to work. Having been provided an assortment of potions and other supplies, the short creature stood at the edge of the bed, bandaging this and that and occasionally pouring a steaming liquid down the girl's throat. Draco conjured a chair and sat in the corner, supervising the elf's handiwork. Every now and then Howwy would tentatively suggest that Draco use his magic to heal a particularly nasty wound, flinching as he did so, as if expecting to be kicked for daring to ask such a thing, but Draco always obliged.

He worked through the early morning without rest while Draco sat and watched, almost bored with the situation. Howwy didn't seem to be having much trouble with her wounds, but there were a lot of them twisting angry red over her skin. She hadn't been cursed too deeply. She would be fine. Draco stood stiffly and reached his long arms over his head to stretch. Howwy could finish up on his own, now. His poor mother was probably sick with worry, wondering how the Dark Lord would punish them if they allowed the Mudblood to die while he was gone, and Draco wanted to put her fears to rest before he laid down for a much-needed sleep. He was exhausted. Without a word, he left the servants' chamber.

After the initial healing, the Mudblood didn't require intense around-the-clock care. Draco trooped down to her room three times a day to tip a potion down her throat, but that was the extent of the matter. Howwy the elf, had been a great help, taking over the night shift while Draco left to run the streets. Blaise had also been a huge help. Three days after her arrival, they congratulated each other on her now-stable condition. It was looking as though she was going to pull through after all. The Dark Lord would be immensely pleased. Perhaps the remaining Malfoys would finally be back in his good graces.

It was the evening of the third day now, and as if by habit, Draco was tilting back the Mudblood's head to force another healing potion down her throat. Half-way through, the body stirred, and she began resisting his force, though she was very feeble, as if she had the strength of a butterfly, and her eyes remained closed. Taken by surprise, curious as to whether she would wake, Draco stopped and took a step back, watching carefully. Still she stirred, shifting slightly here and there, for almost five minutes, until Draco couldn't take the boredom anymore. It didn't look as though she was going to wake up. He stepped back up to the bed and tilted the rest of the potion down her throat, watching the florescent green liquid drip steadily to the back of her mouth as he did so. The second the last drop disappeared, however, the Mudblood's eyes flew open wildly, and she stared at him wide-eyed for a long count of five seconds before she tried and failed to leap to her feet on top of the bed. She hadn't even found her footing before collapsing into a heap on the mattress, limbs shaking with injuries and weakness.

Draco retreated once again from the bed, watching her interestedly, a bit surprised at her sudden burst of energy.

Lying on the bed, her hands flew to the buttons on her coat, which they hadn't bothered removing, and she fumbled with an inside pocket, then frantically searched the rest of her person, breathing heavily, clearly distressed. "Where's my wand?" she croaked in a voice hoarse with lack of use. "My wand. Where is it?" she demanded, as if she thought Draco might actually answer her. "WHERE AM I?" she screamed at him, struggling to sit up, and then almost immediately she sunk back onto the bed, though she continued to claw feebly at her pockets for a moment longer, as if hoping she would still find her wand.

Once again, she was unconscious. Draco wrinkled his nose. As least that didn't last long. The Mudblood was a fool the way she had searched her pockets, as if she actually thought they would have left her with her wand. Immediately upon discovering that her heart was still beating, they had searched her for it, and it had been promptly confiscated and hidden in an upstairs closet… just in case the Dark Lord wished for her to have it. He often gave his victims a false sense of hope by providing them with a wand or other weapon. It would make their reunion much more entertaining.

Though it wasn't an issue now, Draco knew that as soon as she could maintain consciousness for more than 30 seconds, she would try to escape. Bloody Gryffindors never thought things through. Draco had charmed the bed in a way that forced her to be on it at all times. There was no way around it since she didn't have a wand. He smirked slightly, as he left the servants' quarters, heading for his own room, thinking idly about how entertaining it would be to watch her make this discovery, but he didn't have time to focus on such trivial things at this moment. He was back in his room now, and he changed slowly into his black night-clothes, lacing up a pair of tall black boots lined with fur and equipped with a formidable steel toe. He pulled his dragon-hide gloves on tight, and covered his head with his hat. It was time for the night now.

a.n. As mentioned, it's shorter than Windows to the Soul, so I am uploading smaller chapters. Next chapter: Hermione becomes coherent.

What are your thoughts on this? Am I being clear? Are you enjoying it? Constructive criticism is encouraged. Please review!