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Harry sneezed six times in quick succession and groaned miserably, wishing to be granted a five minute break from the constant stream of mucus. He’d been laid up in bed with a brutal cold for the past three days, desperately hoping the sickness would break in time for his twenty-fifth birthday. But here he was, still in bed surrounded by a growing mountain of tissues, watching reruns of The Young Ones and burrowing in the covers only to throw them off, alternately freezing and burning up from one second to the next.
“Happy birthday to me,” Harry croaked in a voice muddied from congestion. At least the sore throat had disappeared halfway through yesterday. Harry had gone through gallons of hot tea laced with honey and about fifty ice lollies in an attempt to numb his raw throat enough to swallow without pain. Thankfully, it seemed to have finally paid off. He heard a muffled sound from downstairs that might have been knock on the door and sat up groggily, his weak limbs feeling about as stable as warm marmalade running down hot toast. Since his ears felt like they were stuffed full of cotton, he assumed it was just a figment of his cold medicine addled imagination. But then the knocks came again, the raps louder and more insistent this time.
“Go away. Can’t you see I’m dying?” Harry protested dramatically as though the mystery guest could not only hear him from all the way downstairs but also see his pitiable condition. When it started up again, the frenzied knocks impossible to ignore now, Harry was livid. Well…as livid as his current state would allow anyway. He trudged downstairs on shaky legs, his shoulders slumped in defeat as he approached the front door. When he opened it, he was definitely going to violently wring the neck of whoever he found on the other side. Fatigue pulled at his every cell. On second thought…maybe he’d better hire someone else to do the strangling for him. “What in the bloody hell do you – ”
Harry swung the door open to find a stylish Draco Malfoy, razor-cut bangs artfully swept to one side, a pale blue button-down with tiny white polka dots covering his lanky torso. He was laden down with brown paper grocery bags, two large ones under each arm.
“Salazar, I’ve been knocking for five minutes, Potter! I was beginning to think you were – ” Draco’s face contorted into a grimace as he took in Harry’s disheveled appearance. “On second thought, maybe you are dead, and the apparition before me is Harry Potter’s ghost. Blimey, you don’t look so good.
“Really, Draco? You mean I don’t look like I’m ready for a photoshoot in Vogue after three days of hacking my lungs out and blowing my nose until it feels like it’s going to fall off?” Harry rolled his eyes and stepped aside, waving Draco in with a petulant hand.
“Well, it’s good to see you haven’t lost your capacity for witty barbs. You must be at least halfway alive if you can still tell me to sod off.” Draco smiled and walked into the foyer, bracing one hefty bag on his knee as he repositioned the cumbersome bundle.
“Not to be rude, but why are you here? I’m not exactly fit to entertain guests today.” Harry leaned against the banister, that small exchange draining what little energy he had.
“No entertaining needed. Everyone has been a bit worried, myself included. You – ” Draco juggled his packages with a grunt and jerked his head toward the back of the house. “Can we continue this in the kitchen? I’m about to drop these any second now.”
Harry nodded and slowly followed Draco into the kitchen. Draco set the bags down onto the granite countertop with a relieved sigh and began to unload all the items.
“As I was saying, we’ve all been concerned. Saving the wizarding world, fighting dragons at age fourteen, and yet somehow it’s the common cold that has bested you. I figured I’d check in on you.” As Draco laid out celery, carrots, and a package of chicken breast, it dawned on Harry what he was about to do.
“Are you…going to make me chicken soup?” Harry weakly inquired as he plopped down on the round surface of a wooden kitchen stool.
“Don’t sound so shocked, Potter. I’ve been living on my own for several years now. I might not be ready to open my own French bistro, but I can make chicken soup.” Draco rolled his eyes and began opening and shutting cabinets in search of the necessary tools. Harry moaned and clutched his head, which had begun to throb from the banging of the cabinet doors. “Where are your saucepans, Potter?”
Harry pointed to a cabinet below the countertop, and Draco began to root inside, shuffling metal and glass about to find what he wanted.
“Must you be so loud about it?!” Harry collapsed onto the counter and leaned his clammy cheek against his arm.
“Why don’t you go upstairs, take a much needed shower, and I’ll bring you the soup when it’s ready?”
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Draco placed a conciliatory hand on his shoulder.
“Trust me, you’ll feel better.” Draco gave Harry’s already messy hair an affectionate ruffle, and even through the fever in his cheeks, Harry felt a different kind of heat altogether. With both of them teaching at Hogwarts for the past couple years, Harry in the Defense Against the Dark Arts and Draco in Potions, they had grown steadily closer. Harry considered Draco one of his greatest friends now and couldn’t imagine life without the sassy, whip-smart blond git. But lately, their exchanges had grown tenderer. Handshakes and pats on the back had been replaced by tight hugs, and more than once Harry had seen that come hither gleam in Draco’s eyes as their limbs slowly separated, the kind that made Harry wonder if some evening in the future, instead of saying goodnight, they would lean in close, breath skimming soft skin as their lips met. Two years ago, it would have seemed completely implausible. But now that this version of Draco had replaced the one in Harry’s memory, this sweet, loyal friend who did things like showing up at his door unannounced to nurse him back to health, it didn’t sound so crazy anymore.
“You’re right.” Harry began the gradual climb up to the second floor of his house, wishing he was well enough to Apparate the short distance.
***
Harry did feel better after twenty languorous minutes under the warm spray, the steam opening his sinuses and elevating his mood. After he changed into clean pajamas, he gathered all the used tissues into a trash bag to make the room marginally less gross. He slid back into bed, nestling in the pile of pillows, and turned on the telly, happy to see The Young Ones marathon hadn’t ended yet.
Half an hour later, he heard Draco’s footsteps coming up the stairs. He entered Harry’s bedroom holding a tray brimming with soup, tea, and some unidentifiable green concoction in a pint glass.
“While I’m sure this isn’t how you envisioned spending today, happy birthday, Harry.” Draco smiled as he placed the tray on the nightstand. He sat on the edge of the bed and handed Harry the steaming bowl of soup.
“Thanks, Draco. This makes it less of a shit day.” Harry smiled back and ate a spoonful, the warm broth and tender chicken reviving him a bit. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything in at least a day’s time. Draco kicked off his shoes and sat on top of the comforter next to Harry, wrinkling his nose in distaste when he saw what Harry was watching.
“How can you stand this show?”
“It’s hilarious!” Harry protested.
“It doesn’t make any sense! A tomato starts singing for no reason, they cut to another scene before anything resembling a punchline can happen, the pace is erratic. I don’t get it.”
“Not a fan of alternative surrealist comedy?” Harry chuckled. It was so very Draco. He was logical minded and intelligent and although he was a creative man, he wasn’t prone to flights of imagination and frivolity.
“Not at all.”
His hunger fully awakened now, Harry devoured the soup in an instant. Draco took the bowl and placed it back on the tray, handing Harry the glass of mysterious green liquid. Harry made a face, and Draco sighed in exasperation.
“I had a feeling you were going to be stubborn about this. This is my very own special blend. A bit of Invigoration Potion along with a few dashes of Lung Clearing Potion blended with ginger, yogurt, spinach, orange juice, and a bit of cayenne. It will clear you right up.”
Harry continued to frown at it, and Draco narrowed his eyes.
“Or you could continue to feel terrible if you prefer,” Draco scolded. Harry reluctantly nodded and took a small sip. His eyebrows rose in surprise. It was actually quite tasty. “See? I know what I’m doing.”
“You do. Thank you.” Harry finished the drink and handed Draco the empty glass.
“Now that all that’s out of the way,” Draco reached over, plucked a small red box from the nightstand that had escaped Harry’s notice and handed it to him, “a birthday present.”
“Oh Draco, you didn’t have to get me anything.” Harry beamed at him, his stomach churning with butterflies as he opened the box. It was a glass globe that contained a vibrant phoenix feather intertwined with a shimmering silver unicorn hair. The two objects swished about inside of the sphere, fluidly winding together in elegant spirals. It felt alive in his hand, pulsing with calming waves of magic.
“You and I started off so terribly, but we’ve mended the past and now you’re one of the most important people in my life. I kept thinking about my wand and how it responded to you when you needed it. Ollivander always says the wand chooses the wizard, and well…I thought it was sort of poetic…a visual representation of us choosing each other…our wands cores wrapped together.” Draco blushed a deeper red than Harry had ever seen on his ivory skin.
“I mean not like – I don’t mean choosing like – I just meant – ” Draco spluttered, averting his eyes as Harry’s grin widened. Draco losing his composure was a rare and precious sight, and Harry was happy to be the cause of it. Without sparing a moment to think it over, Harry kissed him, threading his fingers through Draco’s silky blond locks. His lips were warm and inviting and made Harry’s whole body tingle. When he pulled back, Draco’s eyes were soft with yearning. They smiled at each other until Harry realized what he’d just done.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I’m sick! I shouldn’t have – ” Harry’s expression turned quizzical. Something was off. “Wait, why don’t I sound congested anymore? Why don’t I feel like death warmed over?”
Draco laughed and stroked a slender hand down Harry’s arm.
“The Malfoy remedy is simply that good.”
“It’s not the only thing that is,” Harry said in a low, sultry tone.
“You’re a hopelessly corny lot, Potter.” Draco shook his head, but he was absolutely glowing.
“And you love it.”
“Merlin help me, I really do.”
He got under the covers with Harry, and they cuddled close, Draco’s arms around Harry’s shoulders and Harry’s arms wrapped around Draco’s slim waist. He nuzzled in Draco’s neck, inhaling the sweet, delicate scent of him.
“Will you stay here tonight?”
“Yes, but only if we change these sheets. I may adore you, Potter, but this bedding has been absorbing your mucus and sickly sweat for three days. I’m shuddering just thinking about it. I may need an acid bath to cleanse myself.”
Harry chuckled against his skin.
“Draco?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t ever change.”