"God, what now?" Draco muttered groggily, as he was suddenly and violently wrenched from sleep- if you could even call it that.

Really, it hardly passed for sleep at all; more of an uncomfortable sort of doze on the cold stone floor of the dungeon classroom. He sat up slowly, blearily; his entire body felt cramped from lying in the same position for so long, curled up against the damp chill that pervaded the room. One hand went to the back of his neck, which felt particularly sore. He winced as he turned his head this way and that.

Fucking Crabbe and Goyle. This was their entire fucking fault. And Weasley, damn his freckled hide straight to hell. Were they ever going to get theirs, he thought furiously, for the umpteenth time that night. He ought to have been in his own lavish bed of silk and brocade, in his private Head Boy room, deep under the covers and dreaming sweet dreams of beating Potter to the golden snitch.

Instead here he was shivering on the floor of the potions lab, chilled to his now aching bones, slipping in and out of a miserable pseudo-sleep and right when it felt as though it might have been deepening to something remotely resembling a state of true rest, he had been startled back to full awareness by-

Granger. Crying out, apparently in the throes of a nightmare.

He looked across the classroom to where she huddled underneath his cloak. Yes, the Gryffindor mudblood royal-pain-in-the-ass otherwise known as Hermione Granger was underneath his bloody cloak.

Why? At this point, he couldn't even begin to say. It had just...seemed like a good idea at the time. When he had carried her into the room, the first thing he had done was to lay her just inside the door and leave her there in order to prowl the lab's perimeter, looking for any other entrances that would require locking. As he had done this, he had noted signs of a struggle- apparently the Head Girl had managed to hold her own against Crabbe and Goyle...for a while, anyway. Not bad for having been ambushed. He had found her wand- in two pieces, on the floor- and had mended it easily. By the time he had returned to her side, she had been, though still unconscious, shivering so severely her teeth had begun to chatter- and a flush had been rising to her cheeks.

Oh, this is great, he had thought; this is just abso-fucking-lutely perfect. Now the mudblood's getting sick on top of everything else.

Squatting beside her, he had immediately felt a deathly cold draft sweeping in from the corridor, under the crack at the bottom of the classroom door. He had unwittingly laid her directly in its path. Cursing violently under his breath, he had once more gathered her into his arms (still without ever pausing to consider that there were other methods of transporting her- methods that would require little to no physical contact between himself and this inferior being, this "mudblood") and had stalked with her to a far corner of the room; the area most removed, as best he could tell, from the draft.

There he had lain her gently on the floor, then removed his cloak and wrapped it tightly about her- not just covering her her, but... cocooning her within it. She was a slight thing, and it was quite a voluminous cloak; he had a lot of fabric to work with. The effect he created was something akin to that of a Muggle sleeping bag. Not that Draco had ever seen one, or would have recognized the comparison.

This done, he had retreated to the far side of the room, muttering all the way about idiot Head Girls who are meant to be so goddamned clever, yet go patrolling enemy territory alone at night, and without a cloak of their own, in mid-February. Eventually he had settled down in the room's second least drafty corner, and this was where he found himself now, body aching with cold, face feeling suddenly hot and flushed so that when he pressed his hands tentatively to his cheeks, his fingers felt like ice.

Which could mean only one thing. That in trying to prevent the mudblood's coming down sick from the draft, he had succeeded in condemning himself to that very fate.

GODDAMN IT.

And still she was thrashing and crying out on the other side of the room. Lowering his hands from his fever-flushed face, he listened with some interest as she shouted, her voice cracking,

"Harry! Ron! Where are you? Help me! Help!"

Suddenly she sat straight up, gasping. He watched as her dark eyes opened, wide with fear and disorientation. With a soft cry of distress, she wrenched her arms free of his cloak, staring uncomprehendingly down at the unfamiliar garment. She was breathing hard as she raised her eyes again and scanned the room.

But she didn't see him, in his distant and shadowy corner. Draco decided that a gentleman should make his presence known, so he seized a large wooden ladle, used for stirring potions, which lay nearby and threw it at her. "Over here, Granger," he drawled simultaneously.

Her head whipped toward the sound of his voice just as the ladle, barely missing her, impacted the wall beside her. Her eyes first went even wider, then narrowed to furious slits.

"Malfoy," she spat. "What is going on?"

"And a good morning to you too," Draco said calmly. "Surely you haven't forgotten your encounter last night with a couple of...associates of mine?"

He watched the play of emotions on her face as her memories returned in a rush. Anger, then dismay, then a dawning of wonder as her hands pressed themselves once again to her ribcage- that area that had sustained such grievous damage the previous night- and found herself more or less whole. True, she winced slightly, but her awestruck expression remained.

"Malfoy," she said again, but now her tone was hesitant, unsure. "I thought- I thought they had hurt me badly. I couldn't stay upright, I couldn't...I couldn't...breathe...." She trailed off, looking at him uncertainly.

"They did hurt you badly," Draco said flatly, "and all your own fault, too. Yours and Weasel-boy's. I hope you'll think twice before you go patrolling alone again, just so that Weasley can get his rocks off."

The wondering look on her face vanished at that, to be replaced by an expression of shocked outrage, and she opened her mouth for a heated retort- probably, he thought with distaste, a shrill exclamation of 'how dare you?' or 'well, I never!' But he continued before she had the opportunity to say anything.

"You nearly died, or so it appeared to me," he said, in that same flat, emotionless voice, and her mouth shut again with a snap. "You should count yourself very lucky that I'm well-versed in medical magic, and had no particular desire to see two of my friends (but they're not really your friends, are they? a corner of his mind whispered traitorously; not in the truest sense of the word....) expelled."

She was now staring at him as if he had grown a second head.

"You healed me?" she asked at length, incredulity clear in her tone.

Draco said nothing, just looked levelly back at her. He didn't like repeating himself. Plus, the answer was patently obvious. Really, and she was meant to be so smart.

"But," she said, after the silence had spiraled out and out, "you're not in Magical Medical Studies. How- how did you-?"

He sighed. "Of course I'm not in that ridiculous class. There's not a thing being taught in it that I don't already know. I'm field-trained, Granger."

Her eyes widened. He literally saw the understanding click in her mind. "The Death Eaters," she breathed. "You're- you're training to be...some sort of Death Eater medic?"

Draco bristled at the disgusted look on her face. "Not training," he snapped. "I'm trained."

And found himself growing more irked by the second as her face dissolved from disgust into sadness and she shook her head slowly, saying only, "oh, Malfoy."

"Save it, Granger," he snarled. "I'm not interested. I'm not of age to fight yet, but I can still help the fallen. Those bloody Aurors don't pull their punches, you know. They're just as vicious as we are in battle. And what's so damn wrong with having a cause I believe in, anyway? You can't condemn me for that; you're the same. It just so happens that our causes are diametrically opposed to each other, but I would die for mine and I get the distinct impression that you would die for yours as well."

"Because mine is right!" she shouted suddenly, vehemently, catching him off- guard. He hadn't expected such an explosion from her. But it only took him an instant to gather his wits about him and throw her heated words right back at her, in a mocking, singsong voice-

"Because mine is right! Really, Granger, everyone at this poor excuse for a school carries on like you're some sort of prodigy, but shouldn't a truly clever person be able to come up with a more compelling reason than that? Because yours is right." He snorted. "Of course you would believe it's right; you're a mudblood."

He noted with some amusement that she looked angry enough to physically launch herself at him. Damned ingrate that she was. He had healed her, after all. That should have been good for something. But no, she had shown not an ounce of gratitude. Probably her Muggle upbringing, he reflected. Muggle children must not be taught manners. Still, he wasn't particularly spoiling for a fight with her at the moment. His brow creased as he pondered why this should be the case. He had never turned down the opportunity for some good verbal sparring with her before. (He actually liked that she could usually keep up with him in an argument- which was why he had been so disdainful of her outburst a moment ago. He knew she could do better.)

So then, why not now? Oh, no. It couldn't be that he was still feeling protective toward her as a result of seeing her so vulnerable last night and then healing her, could it? He had hoped that those feelings would have worn off by now. They had already caused enough trouble- one only needed to look at him sitting cold and sore and slightly feverish on the hard stone floor instead of fast asleep in his soft, warm bed to see that- and yet, that faint protectiveness that had compelled him to lock himself in the potions lab with her, instead of washing his hands of her and going to bed, lingered on.

Whether for that reason or for some other, deeper one not even guessed at as of yet, he found himself wanting to smooth things over with Granger. So, he paid her the highest compliment he knew how.

"It's really kind of too bad you are a mudblood. Though I'll never tell you as much again, you are smart, and you proved last night that you're tough as well. I never would have guessed how badly hurt you were from the way you were acting. (Well, he thought, until I went and almost killed her by yanking her up like that....) You would have been an asset to our side, Granger."

She stared at him for a long moment in utter, blank astonishment. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

"It's really kind of too bad you're a heartless, evil bastard, Malfoy," she finally rejoined. "You clearly have incredible natural healing abilities. You would have been an asset to our side."

They lapsed into silence. There seemed to be nothing more to be said. They were at an impasse, and they both knew it.

Eventually, Hermione asked the time, adding, in a voice that was suddenly strained nearly to the breaking point, that she no longer had a working wand of her own.

Draco pulled out his own wand and gave it a causal flick. Shimmering green numbers appeared in the air, hanging there until he dispelled them with another flick of his wrist.

5:48am

"And by the way, here you go," he said, and tossed her her wand.

She caught it reflexively, then stared at it for a long moment in complete open-mouthed amazement. Draco's lip twitched unconsciously in what may just have been the beginning of a true smile as he watched her. She was sort of pretty, he mused, when her face was open and unguarded like this- not closed and hostile as it usually was whenever she encountered him around the school, flanked by her two lackeys just as he was usually flanked by his.

But when she looked up and met his eyes again, he saw that the open expression she had been wearing had vanished; her face had snapped shut like one of those many books she was always lugging around. His response was immediate and reflexive; any hint of a smile was wiped from his features and his own expression went blank as he felt his defenses snap into place.

"There's no way you should have been able to mend this so well," she said. She spoke evenly, but nonetheless Draco- observant to a fault- could detect just a hint of accusation in her voice, her eyes. As he watched, she leaned over to the side and placed the wand gently on the floor, as far away from herself as she could reach. "You used dark magic," she said. "You must have. I don't trust it. I don't want anything to do with it."

And her words stung him. They actually stung him- even with his defenses up. What the hell was going on? He was, for a moment, caught between hurt at her accusation (even though it was true- so he had used a spell not taught at Hogwarts- what of that? It wasn't as if he had boobytrapped the wand or anything- he could have; he could have and he wished for a fierce, angry moment that he had- but he hadn't) and surprise that her accusation hurt. He wasn't supposed to allow the words of a mudblood- of someone so far beneath him- to hurt.

What was the matter with him? He decided that it must be the fact that he was sleep-deprived and becoming increasingly feverish by the moment- all thanks to the fucking ingrate over there who had just thrown his good intentions right back in his face.

That's what I get, he thought bitterly, for ever letting my guard down. Well, it won't happen again, that's for sure. Not for one goddamned second.

"Use the wand or don't, Granger," he snapped. "It's all the same to me. It should be rather amusing, actually, to see you try to struggle through classes without it, right through to the Easter holidays, which is the next time you'll have a chance to go to Diagon Alley and replace it. I shall be most interested to see what sort of excuse you think up for refusing to handle a perfectly good wand. Or perhaps you'd prefer to snap it again and tell everyone what really happened last night."

He was pushing himself to his feet as he spoke, and was gratified to see the brief yet intense look of panic flit across her face at those words. "How about it, Granger?" he taunted. "Going to come clean and face the consequences? Let Weasley face them as well?"

"Your nasty friends would have to face the consequences too," she growled, hiding her panic behind anger. "And the consequences for them will be far worse than for Ron and me."

Draco, now leaning indolently against the wall, graced her with a fluid, one-shouldered shrug. "This is true," he conceded, "but the thing is, Granger, though Crabbe and Goyle can be quite useful to me at times, I don't value them in the same way I think you value Weasley. I will go only so far to protect them. I covered for them last night by healing you myself instead of turning you over to the proper authorities, but I'm not going to attempt to forbid you speaking about what happened or anything. Frankly, I think they probably deserve to suffer some consequences for what they did to you. I don't condone hitting girls. It's low."

Holy shit, had he just admitted that to her? Not only that he thought her friendship with Potter and Weasley a truer one than his own with Crabbe and Goyle, but even that he considered what they had done to her wrong? The way in which her eyes were widening said that he had.

"So the choice is yours," he concluded. "The wand is as it ever was. I have not altered it at all. Use it or not, I don't care. As for me, I'm cold and sore and tired, and I'm going to bed."

He stepped away from the wall, and was surprised and alarmed when he swayed briefly on his feet, as if dizzy.

Oh, not good. Not bloody good at all.

"Malfoy?" The voice which had, so far this morning, shouted, snapped, growled at and accused him now held a new tone- that of concern. He gave his head a quick shake to clear it, got himself under control, and raised his eyes to meet Hermione's, across the room. He saw that she too had stood. The concern he had heard in her voice was mirrored in her face.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Oh, how he hated being caught by her in a weak moment. Hatedhatedhated it.

"I'm fine," he ground out from between clenched teeth, but even as he said it he knew it wasn't so.

He was sick.

Even as he stood there, he could feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat, could feel the approach of fever-induced chills.

Bloody hell.

He had to get out of here, away from her. He made for the door, muttering, as he went, a counter-spell to the locking one he had used previously.

Just as his hand closed on the knob, however, she stopped him once again.

"Malfoy." Her voice was soft- so soft he barely heard it. For a moment he considered proceeding as if he hadn't heard it; just walking through the door and leaving her there without a backward glance- but then, almost against his will, he found himself turning once more to face her. She still stood in the same spot, but was now holding his cloak out to him.

"You'll be wanting this back," she said. He said nothing, nor did he move to take the cloak from her outstretched hand. Just looked at her levelly- or as levelly as he could, anyway; he was starting to shake. He hoped fervently that she wouldn't notice.

Hermione shifted from foot to foot, made uncomfortable by his lack of response. Finally she said, in that same soft, hesitant voice, "listen, Malfoy, I- I just want to say that I- well, thanks, that's all. You...um...you really helped me out and...I'm grateful. Thank you."

Again, silence reigned for a long time. Then Draco crossed the room to stand directly in front of her. Still without a word, without a pause to analyze his own actions, he pressed the tip of his wand gently to her discolored cheek, then to her cut and slightly swollen lower lip. She looked up at him with wide, solemn, unflinching eyes. When he drew it back again a moment later, her face was unblemished.

"Keep the cloak, Granger," he said, his voice betraying his bone-deep weariness even though he had not intended it to. "It's still cold, and you have a longer walk than I do, back to your golden Tower. Anyway-" and he turned once again toward the door- "I have a dozen more just like it."

Then he did leave, without a backward glance. He never saw how very long she stood there, staring after him, conflicting emotions playing across her face. He never saw her wrap the cloak about herself once more, then bend down and pick up her wand, slipping it into her pocket before exiting the room herself.

00000

By the time Hermione left the potions lab to begin her long trek upward to her own room, Draco had nearly reached his.

Entering, he pointed his wand at his private fireplace and muttered "Incendio." Immediately, a lively fire sprung up in the grate. He sank to the edge of his bed, ran both hands through his baby-fine silvery hair, and bent to remove his boots. Once he had kicked them off he stood and shrugged out of his clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap on the floor. He had been planning on slipping into bed wearing only his green silk boxers- that was how he usually slept- but the chills that had been threatening hit him now, washing over him in a sudden and violent assault.

"Goddamn it," he swore through gritted teeth- if they hadn't been gritted, they would have been chattering- and Accio'd himself a pair of soft, jersey- knit sleep pants and a white cotton tee-shirt from his wardrobe. He pulled them on and climbed into bed, shivering with increasing violence as he pulled the covers up around himself.

On his nightstand, his wand automatically went into alarm clock mode, as it had been programmed to do whenever set there, and shot the shimmering green numbers into the air some three feet above itself, where they hung and would continue to hang until such time as he picked the wand up again.

6:13am

It being Sunday, he was free until two o'clock, when he was supposed to preside over the monthly League of Young Death Eaters meeting. He was president, of course; not truly by choice, but simply because he was, well, Draco Malfoy. It was expected of him, by his family, by his Housemates- hell, probably by Dumbledore himself. It was his job, just as being Head Boy was his job, just as marrying Pansy and eventually producing a pureblooded Malfoy heir of his own was his job.

So- two o'clock. That still gave him several hours in which to rest and fight this damn thing off. He would not succumb, he would not! He was Draco Malfoy; he didn't get sick. Especially not helping ungrateful- well, belatedly grateful- mudbloods.

That was the last coherent thought he had as he drifted off into a troubled, fevered sleep.

For despite his protestations to the contrary, he would not fight this thing off. The battle had already been fought- and lost. He was sick. Oh, yes indeed.

His temperature spiraled ever higher that long day as he tossed and moaned and sweated, wracked by chills even though the magical fire he had started in the grate, never abating, kept the room steeped in a sweltering heat.

In all his strange, delirious dreams, the one image that stood out most vividly in his fevered mind was that of Hermione's face- her face, that could be so pretty when it wasn't wearing that expression of hostile disdain she seemed to reserve especially for him. Her face, which had been so battered when he had found her last night. And the blood- that thin ribbon of blood that had trickled from the corner of her mouth, bight Gryffindor scarlet; not muddy at all, as far as he could see, but as red as a jewel.

As red as his own.

He missed his meeting.