Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Co. belong to the almighty JK Rowling without whom all our lives would be drabby.

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December Lullaby

Chapter One

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Hermione Granger had never had a worse day. Sure, it had begun just like any other – she had woken to the third ring of her alarm, brushed her teeth with the vigor her parents had always insisted upon, and taken a very relaxing bubble bath, before showing up precisely five minutes prior to the start of Transfiguration with all of the necessary supplies lined neatly upon her desk. She had raised her hand a total of eleven times throughout the hour and a half, answered fifteen questions correctly, garnered no less than thirty points for Gryffindor, and was in such an elevated state of mind until the middle of Potions when all of a sudden everything went so terribly wrong.

Professor Slughorn, being as old as he was, had come down with a severe case of pneumonia and was being tended to by Madame Pomfrey in the hospital wing. And the school, being in the state it was now without Dumbledore, had decided that the only available substitute was none other than Argus Filch. Harry and Ron had groaned at this turn of events; Filch was, after all, the most despicable human left at Hogwarts after Snape's flight. Hermione, however, had been willing to look on the bright side of things. At least it was better than Peeves, right?

But ten minutes into the lesson, Hermione was sure Filch could give Snape a run for his money. After Ron and Harry had failed their seventh attempt at the elixir, despite Hermione's constant whispered directions from her nearby brewing station with Lavender, Filch had decided that enough was enough. They had wasted the entire supply of Boggleweed, broken at least a dozen flasks, and even managed to destroy a portion of the dungeon floor, when he finally decided he wanted to explore the limits of his now very much increased authority.

"Two seventh years can't even brew a simple Bowman Elixir." He had closed in on them like a predator about to make a final attack on its prey. Mrs. Norris purred at his feet, wrapping her tail around his dirty black boots. "How pathetic."

"We'll manage just fine, seeing as how we're not squibs and all," Harry had retorted with a certain irritability in his voice.

"Detention," Filch had sneered in their ears. "Nine o'clock – my office – I have no toleration for tardiness."

And then – right then – Hermione's perfect day had turned into her worst nightmare.

The plan had been flawless. Ron had been patrolling the north corridor near the Slytherin common room five days ago when he'd overheard Crabbe and Goyle whispering about a secret student meeting for supporters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The meeting was to take place at midnight on the first of December in the forbidden forest – the instructions were to "follow the red markers" which Hermione speculated to the boys would be some form of blood. And just like that, the three of them decided they would go to this meeting, secretly of course, and see once and for all just which students at Hogwarts were actually on the Dark Side. The forest was, of course, forbidden, not to mention extremely dangerous, but with the three of them looking out for each other, it would be manageable. Besides, Harry had been feeling useless lately – unable to find any of the missing horcruxes - and this was certain to quell some of his frustration.

But now, Ron and Harry had been given detention by Filch, and most likely would not be available until the early hours of the morning, especially if Filch wanted them to re-sort and categorize all the "dangerous" items confiscated at Hogwarts for the past two centuries.

And today was December first.

So that was why Hermione Granger was currently hanging off a flimsy tree branch hanging weakly over a vast canyon Merlin-knows-where in the forbidden forest, tired and wandless, with only the wolves' cries to keep her company.

And the wolves' cries were not very good company, especially as they were getting louder and louder with every minute.

If only she could reach just one more inch…oh it was right there!...just a fraction of an inch…almost…

She hadn't started out this way, of course. No, she'd started out with a fresh pair of jeans and a nice maroon sweater Mrs. Weasley had given her for Christmas the year before; and she had had her wand. After an hour of wandering in the forest, winding around here and there, wondering where the hell those "red markers" were, she had finally heard some whispered voices to her far left. Muttering a quiet "Nox!" she had eagerly followed those voices, which sounded remarkably like Pansy Parkinson and Milicent Bulstrode, near the edge of a canyon for nearly half an hour before it happened.

Hermione Granger, Fearless Gryffindor, had tripped over a stone – a stone – and in an effort to catch herself, she'd let her wand slip from her hand and go tumbling over the edge of the canyon into the depths below. Fortunately, it had not fallen all the way; a small ledge a few meters down had caught it, and it was now sitting on that ledge, half of it hanging over the edge, waiting for just the right amount of wind to blow it away into the canyon below. Just when she had been ready to give up, a small fledgling tree growing sideways a few feet from the spot at the canyon-top had given her an idea.

A very poor idea, it turned out to be.

Ten minutes later, Hermione was hanging precariously from that same little tree branch, suspended in midair, struggling to reach the tip of her wand.

If only the branch had just a bit more give…she was so close…

Using her legs to propel her, fingers outstretched, Hermione reached out one last time – and knocked her wand straight off the ledge. As she watched helplessly as it disappeared into the dark gorge below, she was practically ready to follow it down there. With a small whimper, Hermione set to climb up the branch – there was nothing else she could do now – her best chance was to find her way back to Hogwarts and to procure a new wand from Hogsmeade at the next available time.

Struggling, and using every bit of fiber left in her body, Hermione finally lifted herself over the canyon's edge. What she would give to have Harry and Ron here with her now! If they had been able to come with her like they had planned, the three of them could have arrived at the secret meeting very much unscathed and been able to take away a load of information to use against the Death Eaters. Even if they'd been unable to find the location, at least she wouldn't have been wandering around the forbidden forest past midnight without a wand.

As she winded around tree after tree, the wolves' cries had faded into silence, and she heard the faint, but unmistakable roar of a river. With only moonlight to guide her, she set off in that direction, noting that she had crossed a river on her way there, and that arriving at the river would mean she was that much closer to Hogwarts.

While she had been in her attempt to retrieve her wand, her body had been working at an accelerated pace, unable to feel the chill of the night air. But now, after wandering in the forest for a short period of time, letting her body slow down a bit, she realized that it was very cold. Very, very cold.

As the chilly breeze swept past her again, Hermione folded her arms around her chest and breathed on her hands. Suddenly, she wished she had brought gloves – or even worn another jacket to keep her warm. Her nose, her fingers, her ears – oh, her ears – they stung with such biting pain she was sure they were ready to fall off. Without second thought, her hands flew to the tight ponytail at the back of her head, but the stubborn hair band would not come off without a fight. Tugging fiercely, she managed to work the rubber band off although quite a few brown hairs came away as a result. The newly released hair fell forward, covering her ears, providing some amount of insulation from the night chill – for once she was glad her hair was so abundant - and Hermione went back to breathing on her hands as she neared the river.

Suddenly, she caught sight of a speck of light in front of her. Its hooded bearer was moving towards the river, and she knew it had to be another Hogwarts student. With the fact in mind that the person could only have been there for the Death Eater meeting, she knew the student was not someone who she'd regularly consort with. She had no idea who specifically it was and had no desire to approach foresaid person. However, Hermione had no problem following the wandlight and using it to her advantage. It would take her back to Hogwarts where she could take a warm bath and thaw her fingers, which was all she cared about at the moment.

Hurrying along to follow closer, she wobbled unsteadily from foot to foot, using the tree trunks to support her when she felt her feet could no longer carry her. It was perfect until –

She stepped on a twig and it cracked resoundingly in the air, splitting the silence.

The man – she was sure it was a male – carrying the wand froze in his steps. Hermione didn't move an inch – hopefully he would ignore the twig and move on, perhaps thinking it was just a stray rabbit – but she had no such luck.

"Nox!"

Everything went pitch black. Before Hermione's eyes could adjust to the darkness, she heard footsteps nearing her.

"Lumos!"

And there, standing right before her eyes, was the last person Hermione had ever wanted to see. The perfect way to end a perfect night. She cursed silently under her breath.

"Well, well, if it isn't Mudblood Granger," Draco Malfoy drawled, studying her debilitated form from head to toe. He was donned in a hooded Death Eater-esque cape that contrasted fiercely with his blond hair.

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" She retorted, as displeased to see him as he was to her. "I always thought ferrets were more like, you know, daytime creatures."

"Don't provoke me, Granger," he warned with an edge of malice in his voice. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

He circled around her like a hawk, examining every inch of her from her scratched face to torn jeans to wandless hands. Hermione did not give this much thought; instead, she was eyeing his wand with a peculiar expression –

And suddenly she was on top on him, struggling to pry away the wand that meant her very survival. She knew that under these circumstances, she – being very much alone and wandless – provided a good target. What better than to end a Death Eater night than a mudblood killing? Draco Malfoy would have no problem Avada-ing her for sure – he had proven his depth of involvement Voldemort's circle when he led that troop of Death Eaters into Hogwarts not more than half a year ago. That night had ended with the death of Dumbledore. The mere thought ignited a fresh wave of fury inside of her.

"Take that, you bastard!" She slugged him hard across the face.

"What's your fucking problem?"

"You're the – ow!- problem, you pathetic excuse for a human being!"

"Watch – ugh! - your mouth, - shit! - Granger! Keep your hands off me, you – shit - fucking mudblood!"

"Screw you and your pureblood shit! It's all your fucking fault!"

Draco's surprise at hearing Gryffindor's Golden Girl use such profanity delayed his reaction and gave her an advantage. Next thing Hermione knew, she was standing up and had the wand in her possession, and she hurried to cast a spell.

"Petrificus Total - "

He attacked her from the side, and the force of his lunge sent the both of them flying down the bank of the river. When they landed, it was he who had the wand in his hands, bent over her thin frame, but she only used this chance to slug him hard in the stomach with her knee. As he doubled over in pain, she crouched over him trying to beat his face and retrieve the wand at the same time. He was clearly at a tactical disadvantage, and he knew it. Within seconds, she would have the wand again…

The wand flew out of his hand and soared high above them, heading toward the river –

Hermione was on her feet and as the wand sunk into the waves' clutches, she dived in, unable to think clearly, prepared to fight tooth and nail against nature for the small piece of wood that meant her very survival.

She regretted her decision almost immediately. The icy water devoured her, little needles pricked every inch of her body, and then everything began to turn numb. It was so cold – socoldsocoldsocold…

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"Wake up – wake up! You alive in there?" Draco Malfoy exclaimed impatiently as he prodded her unconscious form with a muddy stick.

Just great – the Dark Lord had instructed them to work stealthily and to stay under the radar for the time being as they gathered forces, and the first thing he does is cause the death of a mudblood! Well, at least it was Granger, that no-good, smarty-pants, Weasel-lover. Draco Malfoy leaned against the trunk of the enormous tree he was sitting under and glanced towards the brunette witch lying a few feet away.

Draco was proud to say that he himself had planned this meeting on the Dark Lord's orders. In the past months, he had become quite an important figure in the Death Eater circle, accredited for bringing Death Eaters into the school and even – partially – for the death of Albus Dumbledore. Potter had his own group of anti-Dark Lord vermin at Hogwarts, and Malfoy had set out to create the equivalent for the Dark Lord. This was their fourth meeting, and the most successful so far; they'd discussed their plans for the next year as well as learned some useful tips to help them lie under Veritaserum. How the mudblood had gotten wind of it Draco wasn't exactly sure, but he was certain one of the members of his little squad had gotten careless. And that carelessness was why he was sitting here in the middle of the forbidden forest only a few feet from one of the three people he despised most at Hogwarts. He wondered if she'd been present at the meeting – if she'd heard anything important. Dammit – it was all their fault – it had to be Crabbe or Goyle who let it slip; they were the dumbest idiots he had ever known.

Last year at this time, he'd been a poor frightened boy on his first assignment from the Dark Lord. That one year of experience had taught him more than he'd learned his six years at Hogwarts combined. He had killed – yes, he had that summer, and it'd gotten easier and easier every time so that now it seemed…well, not so bad.

But he certainly wouldn't have actually killed her though. It would have caused too much unwanted attention and suspicion – something the Dark Lord couldn't afford at a time like this. Besides, he didn't care much for blood theory anyhow. Sure, he was naturally superior to all of the half-bloods and mudbloods because of his pureblood lineage, but aside from calling them a few names now and then and making them feel inferior, he didn't care enough to kill them. There was no point doing so – they would be useful slaves after the war or – he smiled - well, he'd been with quite a few very talented half-blood women. And as for hating them? Well that was expected of him, of course, and he strove not to disappoint.

Hermione Granger was entirely safe; he would not have harmed her. The Obliviate Charm was as far as he would have gone, and that was only if she'd heard anything important from the meeting. Forgiving her for being such a nuisance was another matter.

Without a wand – thanks to her – he wouldn't be able to return to Hogwarts until the morning – if he didn't freeze to death first. Wandering around the forbidden forest alone and wandless especially at night was practically suicidal. So why had she been in that very peculiar situation before running into him?

She'd put up a surprisingly good fight, Draco thought as a familiar coppery taste lingered in his mouth and he wiped his bleeding lip with the sleeve of his cloak. Most of the people he knew would have gone running the other way in a similar situation. An image of Pansy Parkinson trying to pick a fight with Harry Potter brought a welcome smile to his lips; she was too delicate for such a thing. The little mudblood was certainly a surprise; he never knew she had it in her. She could fight relatively well, her magical abilities were certainly extraordinary, especially for her kind, and she had nerves of steel. Come to think of it, if she wasn't so low-born she'd be quite an asset to the Dark Lord's circle.

Draco wrapped the cape tighter around his body. The night was unusually cold – he knew winter was approaching but the extent of the chill surprised even him. To his side, the brunette witch stirred and entered a fit of coughs as water seeped through her pale pink lips. Her breaths came out as silver-white wisps against the frosty night air. With abated breath, Draco Malfoy prodded her with the stick again, and she moved, confirming that she indeed was still alive.

Thank God…

The last thing he needed was a mudblood death on his hands – he'd had enough trouble getting out of last year's fiasco. After a whole summer of written confessions convincing the ministry that he had been under the Imperius Curse, they'd finally allowed him to return to school, although he was largely hated by the Hogwarts population for his role in Dumbledore's death. The Slytherins, though, were proud of him. Besides, it wasn't like he wanted to be at school anymore – the Dark Lord had instructed him to return so he could rally new supporters and eavesdrop here and there. Most importantly, if he wanted to be a powerful wizard – and he was certainly on his way there - he knew he needed his last year of schooling.

"Granger?" He tapped the stick on her arm, hoping to rouse her further.

She opened her eyes wearily, as if some heavy weight were pulling them down, and she surveyed her surroundings. Her eyes landed on him – and at first it didn't register, but then –

With a burst of energy, she sat up, shivering in the dark of the night. She eyed him with revulsion and hatred, and she made a move toward him, as if she wanted to finish the beating that she'd started earlier. Unfortunately, her body was in a much weaker state than her mind. Their fight earlier had been draining; the various bruises and cuts on her face and the rest of her body spoke well of the physical toll of their prior engagements. She trembled so severely that with each attempt to stand up she only fell again. Her clothes were soaking wet, which, paired with the chilly night, only furthered worsened her situation. Drained of energy, she finally settled to sitting a few feet away from him.

There was a period of silence, where she took frequent sidelong glances at Draco, as if hoping he'd explain what the hell was going on, why she was there with him, or just anything. Saysomethingsaysomething…her glances said. Even in the current situation, Hermione was too proud to start a conversation with – with that ferret.

Draco's lip twitched as he tried to conceal a smirk, noticing her fruitless glances – if she wanted to know, she'd have to ask him.

Hermione's lips opened a fraction of an inch – glancing over, Draco's smirk widened – she was so close.

"S-s-so, w-where've you t-taken me?" Her voice quivered in rhythm to the shivers that were taking hold of her. She talked in the other direction, as if trying to pretend he didn't exist.

"You really ought to more thankful, Granger," he said, turning to her. "If I hadn't dragged you here after you washed up on the bank - "

"W-well, that's really c-courageous," she said sarcastically, the tremors meddling with her tone. "B-because dragging s-someone w-would be like r-risking your l-life- "

"Well, in your case, I had to touch your mudblood clothes – who knows what kind of diseases I've contracted –"

"D-don't worry, M-Malfoy," she fired back, shivering. "I'm s-sure w-when you d-die, V-Voldemort will m-make y-you a right l-little m-medal of h-honor for being s-such an effing - "

"Next time the Dark Lord calls a meeting, I hope he uses you as the mudblood sacrifice – hey, Granger – hey – what's wrong with you now - "

Hermione, who had been sitting leaning against the tree, had slumped down sideways in the middle of his speech and hit her head on the side of his leg.

"I-I-I c-can't," she muttered quietly, her eyelids heavy, "I can't - "

"Granger?" he asked timidly. Taking in a sharp breath, he set his hands on her shoulders and helped her sit up before shaking her somewhat vigorously. "Granger – hey – wake up – look at me – hey – what's wrong – hey-"

"I'm cold."

Her simple words had a childish, innocent tinge to them; it was something that had eluded him for the longest time and he felt a sudden wave of nostalgia.

It was then that he finally noticed that in addition to the chilly night air, her clothes were soaking wet – she'd been in a river after all – an icy river. Seeing her lying there, so hurt, so tired, so weak - touched him deep inside in a place he never knew existed. She had been so brave before – when she fought him – and talked back to him – and now – she was so helpless – lying against his arms - lying against her worst enemy's arms, and unable to do anything about it. Unaware of what had taken hold of him, he was suddenly struck by a feeling of respect for this little Gryffindor. God damnit – why did she have to be so fucking brave? Turning her over, he noticed that her lips had turned a faint purple color, and it was then that he realized just how close to death she was. No, he couldn't let her die – he wouldn't let her die. She was his responsibility now.

Draco peeled the heavy dark cape from his shoulders with resolve. A strong gust of wind assaulted him and he almost had a notion to put it back on – but, no, she needed it more than he did.

"Look, Granger, you're going to have to take your clothes off – those wet clothes – they'll just make you worse – hey, Granger – do you hear me?"

She shook her head with surprising vigor. "N-no."

"Granger, look, you're going to have pull yourself together or else – well, you have to and that's all there is to it." He pulled her face up to his and looked into her eyes. "You can have my cloak – but it won't do much if you're still wearing wet clothes – look, you've got to take them off – do you hear me?"

After a long pause, as if hoping he would take it all back and suggest something else entirely, she nodded. "'kay."

When she didn't make any move, but just stared quietly back at him through heavily lidded eyes, he nudged her arm. And then – only then did he realize – oh, how could he have been so stupid! Sighing, he turned around.

"All right, is this better?" He heard some weak shuffling behind him. "If you" - he smirked - "need any help -"

"No – d-don't." Came the surprisingly firm reply. He'd scared her after all. He was sure she'd never been so exposed in the presence of the opposite sex before.

"Honestly, Granger, there's no need to be so modest," he said, a drawl creeping back into his voice, "you haven't got anything worth looking at."

There was some more shuffling behind him and then he heard the heavy swoosh of the cloak. Aware that she had finished, he turned around and saw that she had wrapped herself, somewhat clumsily, in the thick material. To her side was a soggy pair of jeans and a muddy sweater. He saw no sign of –

"Granger, maybe you ought to – uh – take it all off." He meant it in a good way, but it sounded so wrong coming out of his mouth that he was sure if she in her senses, she would have slapped him. Hoping to remedy it, he muttered, "You've got to take everything wet off."

Too tired to argue with him, and as Draco surmised, quite delirious, she nodded. Moments later, a pair of panties and blue bra joined the jeans and sweater on the ground beside her. Instinctually, Draco bent over and pulled the cloak tightly around her; if he was going to give up his cloak for her, might as well have her be as warm as possible.

Sliding himself next to her, Draco leaned back against the tree and breathed heavily on his hands. It would be many hours before the sun would rise, and he prepared himself for a long – and cold – night.

"It's – uh- it's a clear night."

He could feel her nod her head against his shoulder.

"See the stars up there, Granger? Mother used to tell me," he chuckled slightly to himself, "She used to say that every time someone does a good deed, a star lights up in the sky – mind you, I was very young – I mean, who would believe something like that," another chuckle, "but she insisted it was true, and I used to always stand at the balcony and wonder how I could procure myself a star – you know, so then I could tell people 'Hey that's my star, isn't it pretty?' – I mean, that's pretty ridiculous – actually, that's really ridiculous - I don't even know why I'm telling you this – well, I suppose it's all right seeing as how you won't remember any of this tomorrow, anyhow – but, I mean, I know what stars are – I know it's not true – but you know if it were" – laugh – "I think I deserve a really big, shiny star for this – do you think" - he paused - "Granger?"

She didn't stir. He turned his head toward her and saw that in her sleep, a lock of curly brown hair had fallen in her unusually pale face. Unaware of what possessed him, he gently reached out and pulled on the curl. It was soft – like silk – and bouncy. He tucked the strand behind her ear and then ran a finger down her cheek. It was incredibly smooth, like porcelain, and as cold – as cold?

Draco Malfoy sat up abruptly. "Granger? Granger, wake up, Granger!"

As he grabbed her shoulders to shake her, he realized that she was no longer shivering – it couldn't be good. And her lips, they were so discolored – purple – and her face so unnaturally pale and clammy – no, she couldn't be dead – he put a finger under her nose – yes, it was there albeit uncommonly slow - and her pulse – wine-red blood pumping through her veins as fiercely as his – was terribly slow and lethargic.

"Granger, look, you have to wake up," he pleaded as he patted her cheek a few times.

Her head bobbed and she crinkled her nose slightly before her eyes finally began to open, little by little. "Malfoy?"

He took her hands into his, noting how cold and delicate they had become. Without another thought, he rubbed her hands between his palms, creating some heat from the friction. When it was not enough, he breathed on them.

"You can't – you can't die on me, Granger," he said, as breathed on her hands again.

None of it seemed to be doing any good; she was slipping away and there was nothing he could do about it. It was all his fault; he should have noticed her wet clothes immediately and he should have gave her his cloak long ago – and now it was too late. No, no, he wouldn't let her die. She was Granger. She would die on the battlefield. Or on a rescue mission. Or while spying on the enemy. She would die saving other lives. She would go down fighting to the bitter end. She couldn't die – not like this – not like this.

Oh God, but none of it was doing any good. He jumped to his feet in overwhelming frustration and paced the soft forest ground, knowing that every minute wasted could mean her life.

"Merlin, Granger, you've got hypothermia!"

And then it hit him. But it was – she would never allow it – it would go beyond anything – oh, what the fuck, she was going to die - who gave a damn if she wouldn't allow it!

"I know you won't like this," he said as he quickly began to unbutton his shirt, "But it has to be done, Granger, you know as well as I do," he tossed his shirt aside and started on undoing his belt, "Your core temperature is down way too low, Granger," he threw the belt on his shirt and fumbled with the zipper on his jeans, "and if I don't do anything about it, you're going to die," his jeans joined the rest of his clothing, "so you just have to trust me."

Clad in only his green boxers, he knelt down by her side, peeled off the cloak, and thrust his body against hers. It was cold – so cold it nearly took his breath away. No wonder she was slipping away – he threw the cloak around the both of them - he hoped it wasn't too late.

Her eyes fluttered open at the sudden intrusion, and she attempted to push him away with her hands planted firmly against his chest.

"I won't let you die, Granger, I won't, but you'll have to trust me, okay?"

After a moment of silence during which she contemplated whether it was worse to freeze to death or endure one night naked in the arms of her arch-enemy – she carefully eased herself toward him, setting her head on his chest, near the crook of his neck. However, Draco was certain that if she was in usual senses, she'd have picked the former.

Her body was so cold – cold and soft. With one hand on her hips, he let his other arm snake around her, lassoing her firmly against him so that every inch of their flesh met, letting his body heat do its magic to save her. Her breasts flattened against his upper abdomen, and he could feel her heartbeat against his own – it was faint, but nonetheless it was there. This had to be a new sensation for her – he doubted that she'd ever been so close to any man before or been held like this – this tender way he was holding her now.

Her hands traveled uncertainly from his chest down toward his abdomen where they slid to the side, settling there, holding on to him as if for dear life. Draco had never felt more important – more needed – in his life.

When she closed her eyes, her eyelashes brushed against his skin in a way that sent chills down his spine – like the way her breath felt on his chest, or the way her heart beat in rhythm to his, or the way her lips lingered against his skin even in sleep.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. No, no, he couldn't – no! Here he was, with a naked girl in his arms – no, no, he couldn't think about that – couldn't betray her trust, no matter now his hormones raged. He spent the next five minutes conjuring up unflattering images of Snape and Hagrid in lacy red bras and feathery boas – it didn't take his mind off of her, but it was better than nothing.

A strong gust of wind swept past them, and the trees rustled noisily in the night. She stirred in her sleep, but did not wake.

"I won't let you die," he whispered gently into her hair.

With these last words, Draco Malfoy closed his eyes and slipped into the realm of dreams. His whispered promises lingered for a moment in the air around him before they were whisked away toward a sky of bright, bright stars.

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A/N: So…there's chapter one. Reviews would be appreciated! Have a nice day!