1

"Your friend is a slave driver."

Draco flounced into the living room and dropped himself down on to the sofa.

Harry moved his feet just time. "I like how she's just my friend when you've had a bad day. You knew what she was like before you went to work for her."

"Evil, you mean?" Draco asked as he tried to work the cricks from his neck.

Harry laughed. A low, warm chuckle that twisted Draco's insides in a decidedly pleasant manner. "Drama queen," he teased, and poked Draco's ribs lightly. "Hermione's not evil, she's just a little… intense."

Draco squirmed away from Harry's touch and scowled a little. It was that or let Harry see just how much the slightest touch affected him, and that was a can of worms he didn't want to open. "Semantics," he muttered. "She's a dictator."

"She just likes being in charge."

Draco opened his mouth to expound further on his theories of Hermione's true nature when Harry's last words presented a rather disturbing mental image to him. His words died on his tongue and he gave a very real shudder.

"You okay?"

Harry looked at him with something like concern on his face – obviously Draco looked as green as he suddenly felt. However, he just gave himself a shake and nodded. "Fine." As annoying as Harry could be at times, Draco wouldn't wish the mental image of Hermione Granger in full Dominatrix gear on anyone. Except possibly his father. Only, Lucius would probably enjoy it. And there was another mental image that would keep Draco awake at night.

"You know," Harry said slowly. "If you think about it, you and Hermione are actually alike."

"I beg your pardon?" Draco fixed him with his patented Malfoy glare – it was the sort of glare that had your average witch or wizard cowering in an instant or running for cover, but of course, Harry Potter had never been average in his life.

It wasn't entirely without effect though, apparently. Harry shifted in his seat and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand. "I just meant that you're both really dedicated to your work," he said, and then gave what definitely sounded like a sigh of relief.

It had been many years since Draco had been able to muster any truly negative feelings for Harry. And, sitting on their sofa, in their flat, there was no way he was going to be able to start now. "Sure you did," was all he said, and added a sceptical tone for good measure.

Harry turned back to the flickering images on the TV screen, but Draco could see the way the edge of his mouth curled in a smile that meant he thought he'd got away with it.

"Ooof!" Harry looked from the TV to where Draco's feet now lay in his lap, heels digging into his thighs. "Comfy?"

Draco shifted against the arm of the sofa until he was, indeed, comfy. "Very," he replied loftily. Then, with a wriggle of his toes, he added, "Now rub."

Harry laughed and once again Draco felt a wave of warmth sweep over his body. There was an openness about Harry at moments like these, moments that Draco felt truly privileged to witness, moments that crystallised how hopelessly and utterly in love with Harry Potter he was.

Then Harry began to tickle his feet and all thoughts of romance fled Draco's brain. Harry had discovered this particular weakness of his within days of them moving in to the flat – that had been almost three years ago, and he had continued to exploit it ruthlessly ever since.

"Ow! Stop it, Potter. You bastard." Draco wriggled and twisted, but Harry had a firm hold round one of his ankles.

"Nice try, Draco. But I know how much you– Ow!" Harry's hand stilled instantly and his face went very pale.

Draco frowned in confusion for a moment. He wasn't entirely sure what had brought their brief tussle to an end, but he wasn't exactly disappointed. Then, Harry moved his hand and cupped his groin with it carefully, taking several deep breaths, and it all became very clear. Draco bit his lip and tried his hardest not to grin. "Oops," he offered. "Sorry about that." And he was really; it was just that the expression of utter shock on Harry's face was so amusing.

"You bastard," Harry muttered, stretching himself out carefully. "You did that on purpose."

Draco took a moment to ensure Harry wasn't serious before he tutted loudly. "Now who's being the drama queen?" Then, taking advantage of Harry's distraction, he leant forward and snagged the remote. "I believe it's my turn to choose the channel this evening."

"Isn't it always?" Harry asked, his expression of pain now replaced by one of amusement.

"Don't even try and pretend you don't love it, Potter." Draco scrolled endlessly through the menu in search of something suitable. "My Sex and the City box set was in the wrong order yesterday, and we both know that wasn't me."

An undeniably cute blush coloured Harry's cheeks – not that Draco was of a mind to deny it, to himself at least. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No, of course you don't," Draco replied, finally settling on an episode of Real Housewives. He wriggled his feet again and shot Harry a pointed look. "Rub," he said imperiously.

Harry rolled his eyes and poked out his tongue in reply, but as the strangely orange-looking women on the screen began arguing for the hundredth time, Draco felt the skilful touch of fingers pressing into his tired feet.

"Oh, darling. You look terrible."

Draco scowled his very best scowl at the mirror; she was usually very complimentary, and the last thing he needed was a reminder that he looked as bad as he felt. "Kindly keep your opinions to yourself," he snapped. Or rather, tried to snap. It came out as more of a croak, the words burning against his already raw throat.

Ignoring the mirror's further concerned twittering, Draco lowered his face and splashed it with cold water. The fresh sting helped a little, but the sudden bout of dizziness that followed did not, and he was forced to hold very tightly to the edges of the sink and wait for it to pass.

Finally he dried his face on the nearby hand towel and braved one last look in the mirror. It was not good. His skin had always been pale, but there was an almost deathly pallor to it at the moment – except for the two spots of high colour on his cheeks, a sign of the fever he was undoubtedly running, if the burning of his skin wasn't enough indication. His hair was lank and dull, and under normal circumstances would have Draco grabbing his wand for an emergency Grooming Charm. But right now the act of remaining upright was taxing what little strength he had to maximum – there was no way he had the energy to cast spells.

"You really should be in bed," the mirror said, when Draco finally started paying attention to it again. "Get that nice young man of yours to tuck you in."

Truth be told, Draco would much rather be tucked up in bed with Harry, than by him. But the chances of that happening were about as likely as Draco making it through the remainder of the day without passing out. Because he was at work and bed was definitely not an option, and Harry, whether Draco liked it or not, was most definitely not his.

Draco let out a soft groan and leant forward until his flushed cheek was pressed against the cool glass of the mirror. He ached. Everywhere. And just the bare thought of the mound of reports waiting on his desk for him to go through was enough to make him cry. If only he had the energy.

"Draco?"

The groan he let out this time was a little louder and did nothing to ease the threatening tickle plaguing his throat.

"Draco, are you in there?"

A gentle rap on the washroom door reminded Draco that this was Hermione he was dealing with, and she was nothing if not persistent – she'd set up camp out there if needs be.

"I'll be out in a minute." Draco reluctantly pulled back from the cool glass, his head now throbbing persistently, and the words scratching at his throat on the way out. Carefully avoiding another glimpse of his reflection – the reminder was bound to make him feel worse – he turned towards the door.

Hermione would doubtless be waiting on the other side with demands for updates on work that Draco just hadn't done yet. That, or bearing another stack of reports for him to go through. Neither option was particularly appealing, and Draco couldn't help but wish he'd listened to Harry that morning when he'd told him to stay home.

But it was easy for Harry to say that – no one would question him or his motives. But since the day Draco had strode into the Atrium to start work he had been judged by standards far more stringent than any of his colleagues. He knew people were just waiting for him to fail so they could be proved right. So whilst the prospect of a day in bed had been very appealing, he'd fought too hard to get where he was now and wasn't going to give anyone the chance to say he was slacking off.

With a heavy heart, Draco turned towards the door and opened it slowly.

Hermione Granger had changed very little since Hogwarts. Yes, she'd swapped Gryffindor robes for Ministry ones, and the haircut was a definite improvement, but the hands on her hips and the imperious glare were still the same, as was the effect it had on Draco who, truth be told, had always been a little intimidated by her.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded the instant Draco appeared in the doorway.

Draco really didn't have the energy to play nice today. "It's a washroom, Granger. Surely you don't need me to go into details." Of course, the way his voice cracked as he spoke definitely took the edge off his biting sarcasm.

Hermione rolled her eyes in a way Draco knew she normally reserved for Weasley, and he would have been offended if he wasn't so busy trying to keep down the cough he could feel clawing its way up his chest.

"I mean what are you doing at work; you're clearly not well."

"I'm fine," Draco lied without a hope of being believed. "It's just a bit of a cold."

"Go home, Draco," and Hermione's tone brooked no argument. "You look like… well, shit, frankly."

"Charming," Draco muttered. "I'll have you know—" Draco's sentence remained unfinished though, as the cough chose that moment to escape. He leant forward slightly, one arm cradling the ribs already sore from earlier bouts, and the other across his face as he coughed painfully into the crook of his elbow.

It felt worse than any of the preceding bouts. Draco wasn't sure if that was because he'd tried to suppress it for so long, or if it was just another sign that he was getting worse – either way, each cough felt like someone had taken a very large boot to his torso, and the throbbing in his head increased tenfold as he struggled to gulp in air.

Finally it ended. Draco straightened himself up carefully, trying his hardest not to wince. However dreadful he felt – and he really did – he was painfully aware of Hermione's gaze scrutinising him. Draco wiped surreptitiously at his watery eyes and took a few, discreet deep breaths. "My apologies," he said, his voice raspy at best.

"Go home, Draco," Hermione repeated firmly. "You need potions and rest. You're doing nobody any favours by being here like this. Least of all yourself."

Draco shook his head and then instantly regretted it – it felt like the boot attacking his ribs had moved up to his temple. But before he could protest further, Hermione stepped forward and placed one hand against his forehead. It took every ounce of willpower Draco had not to lean into the cool, soothing touch.

"You're burning up," she said quietly, and there was something about the obvious sympathy in her voice that drained the last of the fight out of Draco's body. "Come on," she added, her hands now on his shoulders, gently steering him. "You can use the Floo in my office; we'll have you home in no time."

Without further protest – because, really, what was the point? – Draco allowed himself to be manoeuvred towards Hermione's door, which was thankfully only a short distance away.

"Harry will be relieved to see you," Hermione commented as she pushed the door open.

Draco turned his head as slowly as he could to look at her. Not willing to risk another coughing attack by speaking, he tried to convey his question anyway.

Hermione smiled softly and held out the bowl of Floo powder for him to take. "You know what a mother hen he is," she said. "He Flooed earlier to see how you were." She gave Draco a gentle push towards the fireplace. "He's worried about you."

As he stepped into the grate, Draco had a fleeting thought that maybe being sick wasn't entirely a bad thing.

Harry was waiting on the other side of the Floo when Draco emerged, his expression a mixture of concern and irritation.

"I told you not to go in today," he said by way of greeting.

"Not helpful," Draco muttered, as he gripped on tightly to the side of the fireplace and waited for the dizziness to stop.

"Sorry." Harry was all contrition now. He stepped forward quickly and put a steadying arm around Draco's shoulders. "I was just worried about you."

"I'm fine," Draco said, for what felt like the thousandth time that day. The shiver that ran through his body at that point did little to support his lie.

"Of course you are." The amusement and disbelief were clear in Harry's tone.

"It's just a cold," Draco protested weakly.

"Draco." Harry stood in front of him now, hands firmly on his shoulders – their faces so close that Draco could practically count every one of Harry's eyelashes. "If Hermione let you leave work early—"

"More like made," Draco muttered mulishly.

"Fine," Harry said. "If Hermione made you leave work early, then you're not fine. So let's stop pretending, yeah?"

Draco recognised easily the determined set of Harry's jaw and made no further protest. Mainly because he knew it would be futile, but also because a very quiet voice at the back of his brain was pointing out that being taken care of by Harry wasn't exactly a bad thing.

He opened his mouth to reply, but instead was wracked with another coughing fit, this one definitely worse than the last. Draco grabbed on to the nearest thing for support, which happened to be Harry's biceps, and leant forward, the top of his head resting against Harry's chest.

It was disgusting. The rattling noises his chest made every time another cough heaved its way out of him would, under normal circumstances, have mortified Draco. The fact that Harry was witness to them only amplified the humiliation.

"Sorry," he choked out, and relinquished his grip on Harry's arms.

"Don't apologise," Harry replied softly, and then settled one of his hands on Draco's back and began to rub. "I don't mind."

The shock of the initial touch caused Draco to still in surprise – or still as much as his cough would allow. But after a few moments he was forced to admit how pleasant it was, that the soothing circles were helping to calm him and make his breathing easier. Plus, it was Harry touching him, which was never a bad thing.

After what seemed like an eternity, the coughing fit came to an end. Draco kept his breathing shallow, not wanting a repeat performance any time soon, and slowly straightened out. His vision was blurry from unshed tears, and he was painfully aware that he had to look terrible – his general vanity was enough to make this a bad thing at the best of times, but that Harry of all people should witness it… But then Draco realised that Harry's hand was still on him, resting lightly in the small of his back, and the look of concern on his friend's face was such that all other concerns fled.

"Let's get you into bed." Harry applied a little pressure to the hand on Draco's back in an effort to get him moving, and Draco knew he'd be replaying those words over in his brain for a long time to come – context be damned.

As there was nothing he wanted more than to climb under his covers and sink down into his mattress – apart from possibly having Harry join him – Draco made no protest. He allowed himself to be guided from their living room in the direction of his bedroom.

"I don't think we've even got any Pepper-Up," Harry said, before adding, "although, maybe you should see a Healer anyway," as he was forced to grip Draco's waist tightly to stop him stumbling. "You really do look awful."

"Thanks," Draco croaked. "I bet you say that to all the boys." As the words left his mouth, Draco mentally kicked himself, then decided he must be delirious to choose this moment over all others to start flirting with his flatmate.

"Only the pretty ones," Harry replied, and his fingers curled just that little bit tighter around Draco's waist, which was just as well because his knees chose that moment to weaken in response to Harry's words.

After a moment of shuffling, they made it through the door into Draco's room, and at the sight of his bed looming so near, Draco felt the last of his fight seep out of him.

"We'll just get you under the covers and then I'll Floo Hermione. She'll know what potions we need." Harry paused then and added, "I'm still not sure we shouldn't call a Healer."

"There's no point," Draco replied croakily as Harry eased him down to sit on the edge of the bed. "Can't take them." And as Harry opened his mouth to argue, he added, "Allergic."

"Allergic?" Harry repeated, his tone sceptical.

Draco gave a slight nod of confirmation as he leant forward to unlace his boots. He stopped halfway, his fingers barely grazing the laces, and made a mental note not to try that again as the room began to spin in an alarming fashion.

Harry crouched on the floor by his feet and batted his hands away. "Let me," he said quietly, and set to work immediately.

It was a testament to how truly rotten Draco felt that he spared only a fleeting thought to the fact he had Harry Potter on his knees – a position Draco's brain had placed him in on numerous occasions. Although, in none of those scenarios had Draco's lungs felt like they were trying to escape the confines of his chest.

"But I've seen you take potions before," Harry argued as he eased the first boot off Draco's foot.

Draco forced his drooping lids open and looked down at Harry's face; he was immensely gratified by the concern he found there.

"Not all potions," he said, then angled his leg to assist Harry with the removal of his other boot. "It's juniper berries," he murmured, losing the fight to keep his eyes open – it was just so much effort.

With his boots removed, Draco had every intention of climbing under the covers fully clothed. He had neither the will nor the inclination to remove them. His fingers were just tugging the duvet – his intent to roll in rather than under – when Harry stopped him.

"You can't sleep like that," he objected.

"Oh, believe me, Harry," Draco replied croakily, "I most certainly can."

But Harry pried his fingers away and smoothed the duvet back down. "Just get into your pyjamas first; you'll be much comfier like that."

Cursing his inability to ever deny Harry anything, Draco let out a disgruntled huff. But his fingers moved to the fastenings on his robes and that seemed to satisfy Harry, who moved away to the nearby chest of drawers.

After some rummaging – and even in his weakened state Draco spared a moment to mourn his once organised clothes – Harry turned back around. Draco's heart skipped a very clichéd beat inside his chest at the sight of his favourite pyjamas in Harry's hands.

To anyone else who asked, Draco Malfoy slept clad in only the finest of silks. Harry Potter, however, knew that deep down Draco liked nothing more than to snuggle up in blue check flannelette. Wild horses would not drag that confession out of Draco, ever, but Harry knew all the same.

Harry took one look at Draco's hands as they fumbled uselessly with his robes and shook his head. The smile on his face, had Draco been inclined to believe his own eyes, could only be described as tender.

"You really are poorly, aren't you?" Harry murmured as he crouched down, once again, between Draco's knees.

Draco's sense of dignity, which would usually have protested vociferously at such treatment, remained surprisingly quiet as Harry unfastened his robes and eased the heavy fabric over Draco's shoulders. It even remained quiet as Harry's deft fingers made short work of the buttons on his shirt and sent that the way of his robes – although the repeated brush of Harry's knuckles against Draco's chest may have been somewhat responsible for his distraction there.

"You're going to have to stand up for this, I'm afraid."

"What?" Draco's eyes widened impossibly as he felt Harry's fingers tug at the waistband of his trousers.

Harry just looked back at him steadily. "I can't get them off with you sitting down," he said patiently.

"You're not getting them off at all," Draco said, and firmly pushed Harry's hand away.

"You've got underwear on, haven't you?"

"Of course," Draco snapped back, his voice cracking in much the same way that had plagued him during puberty.

"Well then, what's your problem?" Harry sat back on his heels and watched Draco with a mixture of amusement and concern on his face.

Even though his head currently felt like it was stuffed full of cotton wool, Draco was still able to realise what a spectacularly bad idea this was, as he rose gingerly to his feet.

"Here." Harry took hold of Draco's hands and placed them on his shoulder.

Draco gripped on tightly and tried his hardest not to focus on the fact that Harry's face was mere inches, and a thin layer of fabric, away from his cock. Which was easier said than done given that the position they were now in had featured very heavily in some of Draco's favourite fantasies over the last few years.

Fortunately for his dignity and Harry's innocence, Draco's body was far too poorly to fully appreciate the opportunity, and Harry managed to ease the pyjama bottoms on to Draco without embarrassing incident.

"There we are." Harry looked up at Draco with a smile that would certainly have sent his head dizzy were his illness not already taking care of that. "Now let's get you back into bed."

Draco slid between the soft sheets of his bed with a grateful sigh. The coolness of the pillows against his flushed skin was like heaven. Draco's eyelids were drooping shut even as Harry settled the covers around him securely, and the last thing he felt before sleep claimed him was the soothing sensation of Harry's hand stroking his hair.

It was dark when Draco next woke.

He gasped into wakefulness from dreams he couldn't remember but knew had not been pleasant, and the sharp intake of breath he took was enough to set his chest rattling again. Draco moved to wrap one arm around his already bruised ribs, but the bed sheets had other ideas. At some point during his restless slumber he had become entangled in them, and was almost like a baby in swaddling.

Somewhere between coughing harshly, panting for breath, and fighting the good fight against Egyptian cotton, Draco found himself on the floor. He went down with quite a thud – the hard wood floors he'd insisted on might have looked good, but they were not kind to hips or shoulders. But right at that moment Draco didn't care about the bruises he would undoubtedly be sporting the next day; he was too busy trying to keep his lungs inside his chest.

"Draco? Are you all right?"

Harry's voice drifted in from the hallway. Draco coughed in reply.

The bedroom door opened then, a bright shaft of light illuminating the dark of the room. Panting breathlessly on the floor, Draco screwed his eyes shut tight against the harshness of it.

"What the…" Harry practically skidded across the floor before kneeling at Draco's side. "What happened?"

Ordinarily the depth of concern evident in Harry's tone would have been incredibly gratifying, but now that the coughing had stopped, Draco's body was busily reminding him just how sick he was. "Fell," was all he could muster the energy to say.

"Did you hurt yourself?" But Harry didn't wait for an answer – his hands were already skimming their way along Draco's limbs as if checking for breaks. He sat back moments later, apparently satisfied all was well. "Let's get you back under those covers."

The hardness of the floor was beginning to register and Draco thought Harry's suggestion had merit, so he placed his hands down and began to lever himself upwards. It would have been a lot easier if every part of his body hadn't ached like it had just been on the receiving end of an Unforgivable, and even more so if the world hadn't decided to move around him.

Draco had barely got his torso off the ground before he was already wondering if he could just tug the sheets off the bed and stay where he was. He was exhausted and it just seemed like too much effort. Maybe he could persuade Harry to pass him down a pillow?

He wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or mortified when Harry decided enough was enough and actually lifted him back onto the bed. His mattress was definitely more comfortable, but still… So he glared as best he could with watery eyes.

Harry just smiled back almost indulgently and began arranging the covers around him. "Don't sulk. You'd have been down there all night if I'd left you to it. Is that what you wanted?"

Draco didn't have an answer to that. Or not one that he wanted to share, anyway. So he turned his cheek against the coolness of his pillow and let out a faint sigh.

"You're burning up still." Draco knew his skin was hot and clammy, but Harry's touch was so gentle that he couldn't help but lean into it slightly. If necessary, he could just blame it on the fever currently raging through his body.

"Too hot," he muttered, and tried, weakly, to kick the duvet from his body.

Harry just smoothed the damp hair back from Draco's forehead. It was a touch so tender, so close to what Draco wanted but knew he would never have, that he could almost have cried. "Stay there," Harry said quietly. "I've got something that might help."

And then he was gone, and Draco lay still in the dimly lit room and waited. He kept his breathing as shallow as possible, tried not to swallow too often, and prayed that Harry had discovered some miracle cure while he'd slept – preferably one that did not contain juniper berries.

Draco was in that much of a daze that he didn't notice when Harry returned. It was only when the mattress dipped slightly and then a deliciously cold cloth was pressed gently to his forehead that Draco realised he was there.

"That better?" Harry asked as he moved the cloth down over Draco's cheeks.

Draco hadn't the energy to worry about his pride by this stage. "'S nice," he murmured in reply, then opened his eyes and let out a distinct whine when the touch stopped. "Hey."

"I've got some medicine for you," Harry said by way of explanation. He cast a quiet Lumos and a gentle light filled the room, allowing Draco to make out the glass bottle in his hands.

"Allergic," he pointed out, and then eyed the cloth in Harry's other hand hopefully.

"It's all right; it's Muggle." Harry put the cloth down on the bedside table, to a murmur of protest from Draco. "I nipped to the chemist while you were sleeping – the woman there said this should help get your fever down."

Despite his head feeling like it was full of cotton wool, Draco knew Harry was waiting for him to make some protest at the suggestion he take Muggle medicine. And were it not for the fact that he felt like he'd just lost a fight with a particularly aggressive troll, Draco might have been tempted. But as it was, there wasn't anything he wouldn't do right now to feel even just a little bit better. So all he said in reply was, "Okay," and then opened his mouth to take it.

If Harry was surprised by his acquiescence, he didn't comment. Instead, he slid one arm under Draco's shoulders and began to lift him up.

"What are you doing?" Draco demanded, though with the current state of his throat, he sounded about as threatening as a fluffy kitten.

"You need to sit up for this," Harry explained patiently. "Don't want you choking, do we?"

And as he most definitely did not wish to have his ribs take any further abuse, Draco allowed Harry to manhandle him until he was propped – rather comfortably, actually – against the headboard and a mound of pillows.

Considering Harry had done all the work, it was ridiculous how tired Draco felt after just that little effort. He lay back against the pillows and struggled to keep his eyes open as he watched Harry unscrew the bottle and measure just the right amount of medicine into a small plastic cup.

The liquid was red and gloopy and had a distinctly unpleasant smell, and it took all of Draco's self-control for him not to turn away in disgust as Harry held the cup to his lips.

"I know it's not exactly butterbeer, but it can't taste any worse than some of Snape's potions used to. And at least this one won't make your ears steam."

Not wanting to dwell on the unpleasantness of it any longer, Draco parted his lips and allowed Harry to tip the offending mixture into his mouth. He swallowed as quickly as he could and was pleasantly surprised to find that the taste was neither as bad as it smelt, nor did it linger in the way most potions did. It was infinitely less unpleasant than a Pepper-Up Potion was, but it seemed to lack the immediate results as well.

"It'll take a while to work," Harry said, as if reading his mind. "Why don't you get some more sleep, and you'll feel a bit better when you wake up."

"Time is it?" Draco asked croakily – going to bed in the middle of the day had completely messed with his body clock.

Harry placed the bottle back on the table and glanced at his watch. "Nearly half nine."

It took a moment or two for the reply to penetrate Draco's brain – Harry's hands were already settling the covers around him when he sat bolt upright. "What?" he demanded, and then was forced to press one hand to his head as it began throbbing madly – clearly sudden movements were not a good idea.

Harry's hands were on his shoulders then, gentle but firm, as they lowered Draco back down into his nest of pillows. "Sleep." It was said quietly, but there was a note of determination behind it that told Draco arguing would be a pointless exercise. "There's nothing that can't wait until you're feeling better."

"'M supposed to meet Pansy and Blaise." It was barely a protest really, because Draco was already shifting into a more comfortable position. "We always have drinks on a Thursday."

"I know." Harry smoothed his hands over the duvet. "I Flooed Pansy earlier and explained."

Draco cracked one eye open in curiosity – though he and Harry had long since overcome their differences, there were still a few areas of tension between him and Draco's friends. "Oh? What did she say?"

Harry's eyes creased at the corners as he smiled. "She wished me luck," he said, reaching out and swiping the cloth once more over Draco's forehead. "Rumour has it you can be a very demanding patient."

Draco opened his mouth to protest but was stopped by two things: the knowledge that Pansy had a point – based on past experience, anyway – and the cough that chose that moment to wrack his body.

Draco leant forward, bent almost double, with one hand pressed firmly against his protesting ribs. His other arm was, once again, pressed over his mouth. "Hurts," he gasped in between bouts, as if the watering eyes and grimace of pain on his face weren't enough to give it away.

"I know," Harry said soothingly, and then his hand was on Draco's back, rubbing slow circles in a way that made him want to arch up into the touch like a petted cat – or it would, if he wasn't currently coughing and snotty and generally quite gross. "I know."

Finished for now, Draco slumped back on the pillows, vaguely conscious of the fact he had trapped Harry's arm behind him. But Harry didn't protest and frankly Draco could barely muster the energy to breathe at that moment, much less move unnecessarily.

"I got you these as well," Harry said, and dropped a box of tissues at the side of Draco. "Figured you might need some."

As Draco had been trying his best not to sniffle and thus disgust Harry further for the last few minutes, he was both mortified and incredibly grateful. But given that Harry had already undressed, coddled him, and carried him like a baby, all in the last twelve hours or so, Draco decided that what dignity he had was long gone.

"Thanks." And Draco reached out to grab a handful of tissues. They felt softer than usual and he rubbed them between his fingers experimentally. "They feel weird," he commented, but raised them to his nose nonetheless.

Harry grinned. "They have some kind of soothing balm in them or something, so they'll be kind to your delicate Malfoy skin."

Draco really wanted to give Harry a jab for that remark, but he was painfully aware that his hand currently held a snotty tissue and there were some things he really wasn't ready to share with anyone, much less the secret object of his affections. So he had to settle for a muttered "Git", but even that lacked any real heat.

Anticipating yet another need, Harry reached over and held the bin up for Draco, just as a yawn cracked his jaw.

"You should get some more sleep," Harry said, returning the bin to its original spot on the floor. "The woman in the chemist said you needed to get plenty of rest."

Draco hummed his agreement – he was currently fighting a losing battle to keep his eyelids open, so he didn't think that would be much of a problem.

"How are you feeling?" Harry twisted till he was almost sideways on to Draco and let his free hand rest lightly on Draco's stomach.

Had it not been for the fact that Draco was aching and tired and his skin burning up, there would have been potential for a very embarrassing situation to arise. As it was, his stomach muscles tightened instantly the moment Harry's hand touched his skin, and his belly flip-flopped in a not entirely unpleasant way. "Like shit," Draco answered honestly, focusing on Harry's question rather than his actions.

"Poor baby," Harry replied, which under normal circumstances would have caused Draco to hex him into next week. But Harry also chose that moment to start rubbing his hand in small circles over Draco's stomach, and all thoughts of irritation fled his mind instantly. Plus, a quick glance at Harry's face showed a complete absence of mocking. His expression, if anything, was a mask of concern.

"I thought you were going out tonight?" Draco was clutching desperately at straws. That whole moment was entirely too intimate, too tender for him to be able to cope with, and he had the very real fear that if it continued, he might, in his weakened state, confess certain feelings he had been trying to hide for the best part of four years.

"Who would take care of you if I did?"

Fuck! Harry really needed to stop saying things like that, because flu or not, Draco was on the verge of doing something very stupid. "I can take care of myself."

Harry chuckled then, low and warm, and his hands kept up their pattern over Draco's skin. "Of course you can."

But Draco's eyelids had already drifted shut and he couldn’t muster the energy or inclination to protest. Instead he let his head loll towards Harry's shoulder in what he hoped looked like an accidental fashion, and gave himself up to sleep.

When Draco woke up next, dawn had long since broken and daylight was doing its best to stream in around the edges of the curtains.

His hopes that sleep would see off the majority of his illness were swiftly dispelled. His nose was stuffier than ever, his throat still raw, and the constant ache in every part of his body seemed, if anything, to have intensified.

But worse than all of that, he felt disgusting.

What he wanted more than anything was to take a shower. The fever had obviously run ragged through the night because he felt hot and sticky and just… disgusting.

But despite his desires, just the thought of dragging himself to the bathroom, of getting in the shower and actually washing himself, was exhausting him.

Draco turned his head to the side, where he knew Harry lay sleeping thanks to the soft snuffling noises he made. The sight of Harry slumbering peacefully on Draco's bed, glasses askew and still fully dressed, caused Draco's heart to swell. Harry had so obviously fallen asleep whilst watching over Draco as he slept and Draco wanted nothing more than to lean over and kiss him into wakefulness – or senseless; whichever occurred first.

Sadly Draco's common sense reminded him what a very bad idea that would be, so what Draco did instead was simply reach over and gently remove the glasses from Harry's face, then place them carefully on the bedside table. Harry just looked too peaceful; there was no way Draco could wake him up to help him to the bathroom. Besides, the potential for embarrassment in that situation didn't bear thinking about.

So Draco pushed himself up in to a seated position, moving slowly so as not to set his head throbbing again. Then, lowering his feet to the floor, he pushed up off the bed.

Whilst his legs held out initially, his balance did not. The movement was enough to set the world around him lurching in an alarming fashion, and Draco groped desperately for the wall in order to stay upright. Unfortunately, in his efforts, he ended up knocking the lamp off his bedside table, sending it, and assorted knick-knacks, crashing noisily to the ground.

Draco knew he should be concerned, because it sounded very much like one, if not more, of his belongings had broken, but the world was still spinning a little too fast for his liking and all his energy was directed towards holding on.

"What the… Draco, are you okay?"

Harry was out of bed and at his side in an instant. Under normal circumstances Draco would have been mortified at how easily he fell into Harry's arms, but right now dignity was the least of his concerns.

"Let's get you back into bed," Harry said softly, and such was his relief at feeling the support of the mattress under his body that Draco didn't even object to being treated like an invalid.

Harry tucked the covers securely around Draco's body and then looked at him in concern. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Draco stopped himself from nodding just in time. "I'm fine," he said. "Just got a bit dizzy."

Harry smiled faintly. "You don't say." He knelt down on the floor at the side of the bed and began returning Draco's belongings to their place on the table. A quick swish of his wand and the lamp was good as new.

"I'm sorry." Draco winced at just how weak he sounded.

"You don’t have to apologise," Harry said, getting back to his feet. "But if you need something, just ask. It's what I'm here for."

"I didn't want to wake you."

Harry shrugged. "Well, I'm awake now. What did you want?"

Draco struggled to keep down the blush he could feel threatening to emerge. Asking for help with this had been okay in the abstract, but now that Harry was in front of him, looking all ruffled from sleep, Draco just couldn't bring himself to say it. "Doesn't matter," he said.

Harry perched on the bed at Draco's side and looked at him with a concern that made Draco's stomach swoop. "Come on," he said, and placed one hand on Draco's shoulder. "I don't mind. Tell me."

"A shower," Draco said so quietly. Not quietly enough that Harry didn't hear him, if the blush spreading over his cheeks was anything to go by.

"Oh, right." Harry rubbed at the back of his neck – a blatant give-away of how he was feeling. "Given what just happened, I don't think you're strong enough to manage that right now. Maybe we could try a Cleaning Charm?"

Draco glared just a little. "Don't even think about aiming a Scourgify at me, Harry Potter. Do you have any idea how bad that is for my skin?" The overall threatening effect was lessened somewhat when Draco finished up with a sneeze.

Harry held up his hands in a placating fashion. "It was just a suggestion."

"It's fine," Draco replied. "Just don't breathe near me anytime soon."

"Drama queen," Harry said affectionately.

Draco chose to ignore it, mainly because he was busy trying to fight the rising tickle in his throat and losing.

"I'm going to grab some of that cough syrup for you," Harry said, after watching him struggle. "I'll be back in a sec."

He was gone a lot longer than that, and Draco was beginning to feel irritated because the idea of medicine was very appealing to him right now. But calling for Harry was out of the question with the way his throat hurt, and Draco really didn't have the energy for a Patronus right now, so he just lay back against his pillows and wallowed in his own misery.

Just as Draco's eyelids were drooping again, Harry reappeared. As well as the familiar bottle of medicine, he was also carrying a large plastic bowl rather carefully.

It was all the energy Draco could muster to raise one brow in question.

Harry flushed a little and seemed decidedly nervous. He placed the bowl at the side of the bed and then turned to Draco. "I thought… well, you can't manage the shower, and magic is out of the question, so I thought…"

"You thought what?" Draco's patience was not at its best when he was sick.

"Ithoughticouldspongeyoudown," Harry blurted out, his cheeks now a fiery red.

The words might have come out so fast that they made Draco's head spin, but he still managed to get the gist of them. Especially considering the large bowl of soapy water by his bed.

"I'm not an invalid," he snapped. Draco was torn between the prospect of having Harry touch his bare skin and the further loss to his much-maligned dignity.

"You can't even stand," Harry pointed out, the embarrassment now faded from his face. "Just let me help."

Draco remained silent for a moment, mulling over his options. But he really didn't have the energy to fight, and he did feel disgusting, so eventually the urge to be clean won out. "Fine," he said, torn between excitement and mortification at the prospect.

Harry simply smiled at him and then set to work with a touch so gentle and skilful that Draco started to think he had missed his calling as a Healer or mediwizard or something like that. Really, anyone with a bedside manner this good was wasted in a joke shop.

Draco was about to point this out, but then Harry wrapped a white, fluffy towel around his shoulders and began to rub him dry oh-so-gently, and it pushed Draco's senses into overload. And by the time Harry had him buttoned back up in a clean pyjama top, and resting against pillows that now wore clean cases, Draco was practically purring in pleasure.

And that was when he realised how fucked he truly was.

After another couple of days under Harry's devoted care, Draco was feeling much better – almost human again. So much so that he could no longer deny it to himself, or to anyone else.

Hermione might have been sympathetic while he was in the grips of sickness, but she'd already been making noises about him returning to work. And as much as Draco was reluctant to quit the haven that his flat – and Harry – had become over the last few days, he knew he couldn't put it off any longer.

Things would only get more difficult with time, and if nothing else, Draco needed to see what kind of damage had been done.

He didn't have long to wait.

"You're ill again."

Draco dragged his gaze away from the goblin liaison report on his desk. If Hermione's words held accusation, her expression, at least, did not.

"What?" The question was in part an attempt to buy himself time, and also because he was only partially paying attention. The blurred figures moving around on the page in front of him were a little distracting.

Hermione seated herself opposite him at the desk. She leant forward and promptly removed the report from under Draco's nose.

"This should have been finished yesterday; you've barely started."

A tiny flurry of panic started inside Draco and it took every last ounce of energy he had to suppress his natural instinct to attack in return. However much relations between them had mellowed over the years, Hermione was still his boss, and there was only one way a confrontation of that nature would end. Besides, she was right. Draco knew it was a simple task, one he could have usually completed in his sleep, but it was hard to concentrate when the words kept moving around on the page.

"It's a little more in depth than we first thought," he replied stiffly. It was unlikely Hermione would buy it, but Draco hoped he could at least buy himself a little time.

"You look exhausted." Hermione placed the report back down on the desk and left the subject alone for the moment. She returned her piercing gaze back to Draco and he squirmed slightly under its intensity.

"I didn't sleep very well last night." Or, at all Draco added silently. The truth of it was that since Harry had returned to his own room, Draco had slept very little at all, and what sleep he did get was usually as a result of sheer exhaustion. Not that he had any intention of telling Hermione that.

"Or any night before that, by the look of it."

"Did you just come in here to insult me?" Draco forced himself to maintain eye contact and ignore the throbbing at his temples. "Because I have work to get on with." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the discarded report.

Hermione was not to be so easily distracted. "Have you been to see a Healer?" she asked, ignoring Draco's last words. "It's been well over a week now; maybe it's something more than just flu?"

"I'm fine!" The words came out a little louder, a little harsher-sounding than Draco intended, but he was tired, his body ached, and he'd had a dull headache for the last twenty-four hours. All he wanted was to be left alone – in Draco's case, misery definitely did not love company. "Now, if you don't mind…" He reached out and picked up his quill again and then looked pointedly at Hermione.

She, however, was not looking at him. Rather, she wasn't looking at his face. "You're shaking," she said, in much the same tone as she might have said you're bleeding – the concern palpable.

Draco followed her gaze down to his hand – not that he had to look to know it was true. The trembling had been there on and off all morning, and was just another reason why he had barely touched that blasted report. "It's fine," he said, doing his best to sound dismissive. "They only had decaf in the canteen earlier, and you know how I like my coffee."

If it had been anyone else, Draco would probably have got away with it, but Hermione was never that easily misdirected. "Draco, you're not fine," she said, and the obvious concern and sympathy in her tone clawed at his skin. "I really think—"

"Will you just leave it?" Draco hadn't meant to shout, but he honestly didn't regret it either. It was bad enough that he felt like shit, that he had the worry of just what that meant to contend with, he couldn't handle her interference – however well-meant it was – on top of everything else. "I said I was fine; let that be an end to it."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Draco's anger vanished, along with any last remaining vestiges of strength. He leant forward, placed his elbows on the table, cradled his head in his hands, and waited for the axe to fall.

Only it didn't. There was a moment's pointed silence where Draco could feel the weight of Hermione's gaze heavy on him, but before either of them was forced to speak and shatter it, there was a soft knock at the door.

Draco sat up instinctively, years of training as both a Malfoy and a Slytherin kicking in. It was bad enough that Hermione had witnessed his lapse – showing weakness to anyone else would be unthinkable.

"Sorry to interrupt."

Somehow Draco's heart simultaneously clenched and sank at the sight of Harry's perpetually messy head peering round the door.

"Is everything okay?" A slight frown creased Harry's brow as he entered the room and gazed worriedly between his two friends. "You were… I heard shouting."

Hermione was the first to recover – naturally. She gave a light laugh and brushed a few stray curls back from her face. "Just a work disagreement, Harry. Nothing to worry about." She got to her feet then, and smoothed out her robes as she stood. "Now, to what do we owe this honour?"

"Huh?" Harry tore his attention away from Draco, who he'd been looking at in concern. "Oh, Draco forgot his lunch," he said, and held out a familiar-looking bag that Draco had last seen on the kitchen worktop that morning.

Something inside Draco arched in pleasure at this show of concern, but he suppressed it quickly, with a bitter reminder that he couldn't afford to indulge such feelings. "Thank you." Draco pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "But you really didn't have to."

"You didn't have breakfast this morning," Harry said, just the hint of accusation in his tone. "Didn't want you missing lunch as well."

"What are you, my mother?" Draco tried to keep his tone light and added a little laugh for good measure, but as he reached out to take hold of the bag, the look of concern still marred Harry's face.

"I'm just worried about you; you don't look well. I think maybe you came back to work too early."

Draco had to turn away from the look in Harry's eyes – it only encouraged thoughts that he was actively trying to dismiss. But then he was faced with Hermione's triumphant expression instead – she was clearly feeling vindicated by Harry's words – and there really wasn't a lesser of those two evils.

"Draco."

Harry reached out and laid one hand gently on his shoulder. Draco might be able to turn away from his words, but his touch was another thing altogether. It was an entirely innocent form of contact, but it set the fire burning low in Draco's belly and his skin practically hummed in response. Draco could feel a sense of almost peace settling over him, and whilst it was a welcome release from his feelings of the last few days, it was too much.

Draco wanted nothing more than to curl into the touch, but he couldn't. He needed to be stronger; he could master this. "I'm fine," he said, for what felt like the thousandth time that day, and stepped away.

Harry's arm fell to his side and there was an awkward moment when nobody spoke – even Hermione remained silent, which was nothing short of a miracle as far as Draco was concerned.

"Okay. Well, I guess I'll let you get on with it then," Harry said finally. His voice was lower than usual, and the obvious look of hurt on his face was like a knife to Draco's chest. But it was a price he had to pay to hang on to what was left of his sanity. So he watched Harry leave, and resisted every temptation that was crying out for him to go after him, to apologise, to never let him go again.

When the door closed firmly behind Harry, Draco sighed quietly – then cursed himself when he remembered he was still not alone.

Hermione was watching him with a speculative gleam in her eyes.

"What?" Draco might not have wanted to unleash his irritation on Harry, but Hermione would make a perfect substitute, the way he was feeling right now.

Hermione gave a slight shake of her head and wore what Draco knew she thought of as her mysterious smile. "Oh nothing," she said, though her tone clearly implied everything. "I always did wonder about you and Harry though."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Draco made no effort to curb the shortness of his tone this time. He crossed the room back to his desk and reseated himself. "Now, if you don't mind, I have work to be getting on with." He picked up his quill and turned his attention, once more, to that blasted goblin report.
  

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