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The trouble with getting into arguments with your rival where you end up throwing random curses at one another, is that sometimes you forget what a curse does when you throw it.
That’s exactly how Harry and Draco ended up here, in the Hospital Wing, sitting on the very opposite sides of the bed Madam Pomfrey ordered they had to share.
Harry’s not sure exactly where he heard the spell he threw at Draco, all he knows is that Draco is now slowly freezing over into solid ice—a process that will kill him if it isn’t reversed—and the only way to stop it is if the caster, Harry, thaws him with his own body heat. Madam Pomfrey has informed them both that they’ll have to stay confined to their shared Hospital Wing bed until it’s done, and then closed the curtain around them, apparently trusting that they don’t hate each other enough to let Draco die, and that they do hate each other enough to not be indecent.
Harry’s pride has always taken a backseat—eventually, at least—to his need to save others, but even with his begrudging attempts to just get it over with, Draco has consistently refused.
Draco is now sitting on the edge of the bed, lips and fingertips blue, shivering. His teeth are chattering so loud, Harry’s starting to think they might chip themselves.
“Malfoy, just let me–”
“-- don’t touch me, Potter.”
Even as he snaps back, Draco’s voice shakes.
“Can you even move your feet? Pomfrey said it would start at your feet and freeze upward.” Harry says, starting to feel exasperated. It’s not like he’s thrilled about warming Draco up either, but Draco is really being unreasonable.
“Shut up.”
“Malfoy, you can’t seriously be choosing to freeze to death over, like, a hug,” Harry groans.
Draco shoots him a dirty look, but when he looks down at his blue fingertips he gets that all too familiar cowardly look on his face.
“I’m not going to freeze to death,” Draco denies, shaking, and then thrusts his hands toward Harry without looking at him. “My hands are cold. Fix it.”
Harry glowers back, but wraps both hands around Draco’s, cupping them together. He tries breathing warm air onto them, and rubbing them gently, and it seems to help a little but warming up just his hands is hardly anything in relation to his whole body.
“Will you just lay down, Malfoy? You’re just making this drag out for both of us.”
Draco glances back at Harry, down to their conjoined hands that do admittedly feel much better now that Harry’s holding them, and then huffs, “Fine. But if a word of this get’s out to anyone, Potter, I swear–”
“--It’s not like I want people knowing about this either! I won’t tell anyone, so just shut up and come here,” Harry tugs Draco by his hands, forcefully pulling him to his chest, and then lays down, curling around Draco’s thinner body the best he can. Draco turns his face to hide it in the pillow beneath them, avoiding eye contact as much as possible.
“Merlin, this is so humiliating,” Draco grumbles, but even as he says it he inches closer, practically melting into Harry’s bearhug-type hold on his body, shivering slowly dying down…
Harry isn’t sure how long this is supposed to take, but he decides Draco will probably be able to tell best when he’s ‘thawed’, so Harry just closes his eyes and pretends it isn’t happening.
They both end up dozing off before they’re finished, but when they stir awake as Pomfrey calls from outside the curtain that they should be done by now, insisting they hurry up, it’s clear the spell has worn off. Their (now regular) body heat mingles together, overheating them both, waking up with their robes sticking to them, and their hair plastered to their foreheads. It takes Harry a moment to remember where he is when he glances down and makes eye contact with Draco, whose eyes shoot open wider and pushes away.
“Oh, um, looks like you’re fine now?” Harry says awkwardly, sitting up and moving away quickly. Draco nods stiffly.
“Yeah.”
They make incredibly awkward eye contact for a few more seconds until finally Draco clears his throat.
“Not a word.”
“To anyone,” Harry agrees immediately.