A/N

Hey guys. This is my first fanfic ever, but I've been reading them since I was about 13, and writing stories even before that. Critiques are more than welcome. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: none of my stories have been half as fantastic as Miss J.K.R.'s masterpiece. It's all hers.

Chapter one

Hermione Granger silently cursed at herself as she looked in the mirror. She tried to smooth down the front of the white dress that she wore, but it didn't help. With white tights and white rubber-soled shoes to match, she was quite the sight. After getting over the shock of the dress, she noticed that she was slouching and quickly realigned her spine; she looked bad enough as it was and slouching only made it worse. Well, the hat didn't help much, either.

She had managed to pull her hair back into a neat bun, but the hat took all of the attention away from her hair. That damn hat that Madame Pomfrey had insisted that she wear, with its large red plus sign that matched the symbol on the upper right corner of her dress. Signing up to help in the infirmary had to be one of the stupidest things that Hermione had ever done.

It was the beginning of December - the infirmary's busiest time - and Madame Pomfrey needed all of the help that she could get. Though there were spells to eliminate the ice on the sidewalks and in the courtyards, all of the students were so eager to be on break and away from Hogwarts that they seemed to have lost their minds a bit. Countless students had come in with twisted joints, broken bones, bruised bodies, and pounding headaches from mischievous and unintelligent romps in the snow. Poor Madame Promfrey was getting older and was visibly struggling, so Hermione had offered to help out.

This was not entirely true. Yes, Hermione had noticed Madame Pomfrey's obvious exhaustion of late, but her offer to help out had derived from other motives. These motives were what she was now - still - silently cursing as she smoothed down the dress once more. There was nothing to be done about it, though. The commitment had been made.

She turned away from her mirror and strode purposefully out of her dormitory and down to the common room. She walked through as quickly and quietly as possible, waving politely at a few fellow students who greeted her. There was no time for questions; she was going to be late.

It was a fair walk to the infirmary and Hermione considered turning back several times. It wasn't that the idea of taking care of students with broken arms - or students who might, possibly, vomit or bleed on her - was a frightening idea. She fully intended on exploring her interests in healing after Hogwarts, so this was just a jumpstart on her possible future. It was her motive for being there that frightened her. She couldn't stand not knowing, though. She had to see if her suspicions were correct.

"Miss Granger," Madame Promfrey said, opening the door which Hermione had been standing outside of. The old witch's voice sounded exhausted, but relieved. "You're just on time. Would you like to start with a report?"

Hermione nodded, shoving past her fearful thoughts and pulling something happier to the front of her mind so that she could smile convincingly. Madame Pomfrey walked around the room, stopping at each occupied bed and muttering a quiet report of the student's status. When they reached the last bed, Hermione held her breath. His name had not come up yet, so this had to be him.

"Our last patient is the most delicate," Madame Pomfrey whispered. "As most everyone saw, he was brought here during lunch this afternoon. He's recovering nicely, but very slowly. He hasn't given me any trouble as of yet. He occasionally wakes up, though, and is a little bit confused about where he is and what has happened. If anything gets too out of control, do not hesitate to wake me up. I have complete faith in your abilities, though, Miss Granger."

"Thank you, Madame," Hermione smiled briefly.

"My quarters are just through this far door," Madame Pomfrey continued. "You are free to use my quills or parchment at your leisure. I am not a heavy sleeper, so if the only option is to call my name, that will most likely suffice. Goodnight, Miss Granger."

Hermione nodded politely and watched the short, old witch walk delicately to the other end of the room and disappear behind a door. Madame Pomfrey's desk was small and organized, so it was easy to spot the files lined up against one of the shelves. Hermione considered thumbing through some other charts, so as not to look too eager, but she could not contain herself any longer.

His chart was thick - thicker than all of the others - which only succeeded in strengthening Hermione's curiosity. She laid it down flat on the desk, running her palm along the top of it and then lightly tracing the letters of his name before suddenly jerking her hands back.

This was insane, wasn't it? Volunteering to help people for misguided reasons, lying to her friends about her misguided reasons, and now peeking at another student's personal information? She put her face into her hands and sighed. This had been such a silly idea. What was the point, anyway? Oh, right. It was his damn eyes that had made her do it.

She had been in potions class with him when he was quietly pulled out because, as the person had said softly to him, his father was there to see him. His face had remained completely composed and emotionless the entire time. Except for one fatal slip that, honestly, she wasn't even sure she had actually witnessed. When he had walked by her desk, she would swear up and down that he turned his head ever so slightly and locked his eyes onto hers. She would swear it because she had felt the emotion in that glance. She had shivered because of the unbridled terror that was present in his eyes for that one moment.

His damn eyes had haunted her all through lunch and dinner that day when he did not show up. She saw his face in her dreams and woke up covered in a cold, disgusting sweat four separate times that night. When he was absent from breakfast the following morning - this morning - and was also not present in potions class, Hermione began to panic.

She reached out slowly and traced the letters of his name once more. Draco Malfoy: hater of all muggleborns and mudbloods, son of a deatheater, Dark Lord lover, and self-appointed enemy of the Golden Trio. This had to be some kind of odd obsession that she would snap out of. It was not odd to be worried about him, though. She was Hermione Granger, after all. Even though he was one of the foulest students at Hogwarts, he was not nearly as despicable as his father. Yet. And since she was Hermione Granger, she was obligated to react and respond when someone who was not entirely as loathsome as Lucius Malfoy was clearly in danger and hurting.

No matter how evil he was, she had to believe that there was still some shred of decency left in the boy. He deserved a chance to be better, she supposed. He deserved some kind of fighting chance. And if was she had witnessed yesterday morning was actually a hint of vulnerability and fear, then he was even less far gone than she had assumed him to be.

She stood up abruptly and put the file back. Though technically he was one of her patients for the night, his medical history was not something that she could go snooping through without feeling thoroughly guilty about it later.

She made her way over to his bed slowly, stepping quietly and pausing at his curtain. She had caught a glimpse of him in the hallway after lunch when another Slytherin was helping him to the infirmary. He had clearly had better days. In that hallway again, though, he had caught her eyes for one single moment in time, seemingly pleading with her.

She shook herself out of the trance that she was in and realized that she should probably be bringing something to him, so as not to look ridiculous. She decided on water and retrieved a cup full of it before returning to his curtain. Her hand reached out partially on its own accord and the curtain was pushed back, revealing a sleeping Malfoy.

He looked so peaceful and calm, but also very battered. He was curled up onto one side, grasping a pillow to his chest. His light hair fell over his forehead in a carefree manner as he snored lightly, mouth partially opened. It was the lacerations that bothered her most. They were all up and down his arms, and there were even a few on his pale face. One cut went diagonally from a spot near his ear to the corner of his nose on the right side of his face. Another started at his hairline and ended just below his eyebrow. They were not open wounds, but they looked very freshly healed. She unconsciously reached up and ran her finger along her own cheek and wincing as she imagined the pain.

Then, before she knew exactly what she was doing, she sat the water down on the small table by his bed and sat down cautiously on the edge of the mattress. As soon as she was seated she started to panic. Sitting on Malfoy's hospital bed? Really? What was this assumed-to-be-a-murderer doing to her?

He stirred suddenly, curling his knees up closer to his chest and bumping them against her lower back. She sucked in a deep breath and held back a yelp. The last thing that she wanted was for Malfoy to be awake while she was losing her mind and sitting on a bed next to him. It seemed, though, that he had noticed her presence anyway. She moved to get up as his eyelids slowly drifted upwards, but was stopped by his hand on her wrist.

"Granger?" he asked. It was at that moment that Hermione really began to panic.