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Chapter One

Sunday 16 February 2003: AM

Draco is rudely awoken by a repetitive banging on the front door of his townhouse, followed by a heavy thump and slide against the thick wood. He fumbles for the silver watch on his bedside table; its luminous hands show 12.33AM. Dead of night, in other words.

Who the fuck is at my door at this hour? he wonders sourly. Given that his last visitor was... yeah, he can't remember the last time anyone visited him socially. The wards around his property are otherwise undisturbed; perhaps it is merely a disoriented drunk blundering about?

Flicking on the lamp, Draco snatches his wand before he stumbles to the closet and grabs a thick woollen robe, hastily shrugging it on to cover his boxer shorts-clad body. He hasn't heard another sound since the thump and slide, but a distinct feeling of unease is pushing away any last vestiges of sleepiness. He ignores his slippers, yielding to the growing instinct to make haste.

Even half-asleep, his usual grace does not desert him as he pads quickly down the staircase, his long, elegant bare feet barely making any sound against the polished wooden treads and floorboards. He activates the porch light with a soft 'Lumos' as he decisively opens the door, wand at the ready, to discover -

"Granger?" Merlin's balls, is that really Hermione Granger slumped against the lintel in an ungainly heap? He rubs at his eyes, wondering if someone is playing a prank, or if he needs a stronger light.

But Draco would recognize those chestnut locks anywhere; he spent long enough fixating on them from his seat in the back of hundreds of Hogwarts classrooms Granted, they are nowhere near as bushy or unruly as he remembers; despite a few wayward strands, they are bound in a mostly smooth chignon low on her nape. His eyes travel lower, assessing her closed eyes and waxy pallor. Her legs are awkwardly and coltishly sprawled beneath her, but her upper half is curled in a defensive foetal posture, with her arms wrapped around her stomach. She is wearing a long-sleeved burgundy dress that would be best described as demure, had her legs not been sprawled askance. Draco averts his eyes; realizing just how high her skirt has ridden up her shapely, stockinged legs makes him feel… he settles on uncomfortable.

A blast of cold air slaps him and he is unpleasantly reminded that he is standing bare-footed on the stoop in the middle of a London night in February. And Granger isn't even wearing a coat – she must be half-frozen. Or worse.

Draco reaches out to check her pulse before hesitating, instinctively slipping his wand back into his dominant hand and whipping his head to check his surroundings. His rapid but thorough inspection shows nary another living creature in the immediate vicinity; and the quiet "Homenum Revelio" he casts fades into the gloom without a reaction.

If this is a trap, it is a well-crafted one, he considers. Draco pockets his wand again and sighs, crouching before the unconscious witch.

"Granger? Granger, wake up," he speaks firmly. His breath stirs a wisp of nut-brown hair against her forehead; she frowns a little, but otherwise evinces no response. Her lips are tinged blue and her breathing is erratic. Well, that decides it – she needs medical attention, at the very least.

Before he realizes he's made the decision to help his historic antagonist, Draco is sliding his arms beneath her legs and shoulders and lifting Granger in one smooth movement. Her head lolls against his neck and he cops a mouthful of silky brunette hair before her face drops to his chest. He adjusts her slight weight and moves back through his open front door, his quick mind running through his available options. Should he Apparate her straight to St Mungo's? Call a Muggle ambulance? Call the Ministry? Why the fuck is she here?

"Don't you dare die on me, Granger," Draco warns the insentient witch in his arms. He can already envisage the headlines: 'Golden Girl Granger Found Dead in Former Death-Eater's Home! Another Malevolent Malfoy Headed for Azkaban!'. He grimaces. They'd likely leave out the "former" qualifier, he cynically amends.

His feet have automatically carried them up the first flight of stairs; Draco wandlessly turns on the other bedroom lamp and prepares to transfer Granger to his bed when she moans softly and shudders.

Draco stills and tips down his head; her dusky eyelashes are fluttering open like frantic butterflies. His own heartbeat inexplicably races as he breathes, "Granger?".

The witch whimpers again and manages to fully open her eyes. In a fascinated corner of his mind, Draco notes that her orbs are not a solid block of brown; there are three or four similar but distinct striated shades (chocolate, amber, whiskey and walnut?). He's never been this close to her before to take proper stock of their variegated colour.

Those same eyes widen in first recognition, then panic, as Hermione whispers, "Malfoy... didn't know where else to go... he drugged me – he roofied me-" Granger struggles feebly against his hold; her extraordinary utterance shocks Draco badly enough that he almost drops her. Drugged her? Roofied her?

What in the name of Salazar is going on here tonight? Granger's pupils are mere pinpricks against that expanse of brown iris. She clumsily thumps a hand on Draco's bare chest. His woollen robe has slipped, and her touch sparks a strange flare against his pale skin. Suddenly, Hermione stops thrashing and cries in pain.

"I feel funny," she whimpers piteously. She raises her head on a wobbly neck; Draco is stunned by the misery in her gaze.

Which is how Draco Malfoy is still clutching Hermione Granger to his chest when the woozy witch vomits all over him. Copiously. Wave after wave of disgustingly warm, sticky, smelly puke. Draco instinctively shuts his eyes and mouth as the foul liquid splashes across his face, neck, chest. Even his ears and platinum hair don't escape the spew-a-thon. Granger retches and heaves for what seems an eternity, though it could not possibly have lasted for more than a minute.

Draco cautiously opens his steel grey eyes again when he feels Granger flop back against his torso, exhausted by the ordeal of regurgitation. She has also managed to bathe herself in vomit, unsurprisingly. A few stray globules roll onto the wooden floors. Delightful.

"Granger? Granger!" Draco is about five seconds away from utterly freaking out.

"Wake up, woman! Who drugged you? I need to take you to a healer – St Mungo's, or would you prefer a Muggle ambulance? GRANGER!" Draco considers lightly shaking her but rejects the idea in case it triggers the Almighty Spews again.

Hermione opens her sad eyes to mumble, "Not St Mungo's. No ambulance. Can't– can't risk it," she slurs, head lolling unsteadily again.

"Granger - don't be a fool – you said yourself you've been doped. I won't chance you dying in my bloody house, for Merlin's sake!" Draco expels an angry breath through his flared nostrils.

"S'alright. Can feel… most of it's left my system. Promise me, Malfoy. No hospitals." Draco recognizes her insufferably bossy tone from their school years. Even sick as a dog, the witch's strong will reigns supreme. He gives her a grudging nod, conceding to her demand.

"Fine. No healers. But if your condition worsens, I'm taking you straight to St Mungo's." Draco sighs, turning on his heel to head for his adjoining bathroom, as Hermione fights unconsciousness long enough to slide a soft hand to his vomit-spattered cheek.

"Thank you, Malfoy." Her hand traces the faint blond stubble on his jawline, her fingertips grazing the edge of Draco's mouth as her energy fades and she succumbs to oblivion. Draco shivers and pretends that his cheek and mouth are not on fire from her careless touch, as he gently lowers Granger into his claw foot tub and carefully props her head against the lip. He exhales heavily again as he considers the best way to manage this bizarre, confusing mess.

What a strange bloody night.