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Draco Malfoy had learnt from a very young age and at his own expense that life could be pretty unfair.
It had been unfair the day he was taught that well-mannered boys did not play in the mud, nor did they complain when forced to stand still for hours during society events.
It had been unfair the day he met a young boy with glasses and watched his outstretched hand be willingly ignored—passed over in favor of a freckled one.
It had also been unfair the day he discovered that “sharing a dormitory” meant squeezing into a space with five other boys—some of whom clearly didn’t understand the concept of propriety that Draco had at this point become an expert in.
And if he weren’t feeling so uncharacteristically low, he, who his friends thought was a ray of sunshine—and it hardly mattered that the declaration had come between two rounds of coffee-flavoured Firewhisky shots—he might have taken the time to extend the list indefinitely.
But at the moment, there were more pressing concerns.
For example: how come that he felt both feverishly hot and bone-chillingly cold at the same time? That his throat was so sore he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover a Kneazle had been sharpening its claws on it?
And, Merlin, his sheets—his poor, poor silken sheets—were far too warm and clammy to be considered anything close to comfortable. This much sweat could ruin them, and he’d have to wait weeks for new ones to arrive: they weren’t common linens. They’d been tailor-made in France by a craftsman his mother swore by.
It was enough to bring him to tears—which, even by his admittedly dramatic standards, might’ve been a touch excessive. Thankfully, there was no one around to witness his moment of weakness.
Through the cloud fogging up his brain, Draco eventually remembered that perhaps all those weird and uncomfortable details were due to him having a fever. An awful, common cold-induced fever. That would certainly explain the sweaty sheets. And his throat burning. And the urge to weep over fabric.
It had once happened to him at Hogwarts. He’d spent the night in the utterly deserted infirmary. No other patients, no one to complain to. No private room, as shocking as it was. Not even a single Potter to annoy, which, considering the amount of time he seemed to spend in the infirmary, had been very surprising. As well as disappointing.
Back to the present, Draco was summoning the will to drag himself to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was conveniently at this moment that he caught sight of a note on the nightstand, next to a cup of steaming herbal tea and a magically lit lamp.
I’ll be back shortly with a Pepper-Up. Don’t forget to drink!
Oh, dear, sweet Pansy. His flatmate and longtime friend must have been in a rush when she wrote it; her usually pristine handwriting had devolved into something closer to scribbles. No doubt that she’d been eager to relieve his pain. Draco sighed, slightly content to see that, at least, there were some people on whom he could always count.
He took a sip, and then another. She’d added a hint of honey to the beverage, which soothed the raw ache in his throat almost instantly.
Sweet herbal tea always made Draco drowsy—she must have done it on purpose, knowing it would help him rest while she ran errands. She knew him by heart. He was asleep within seconds, though not before turning to the other side of the bed, where the sheets weren’t as damp.
When he surfaced again, it was to a delicate touch on his shoulder and a soft voice murmuring through the haze.
“You’ll feel better in a few hours if you drink this, love.”
Oh, no. Given the rasp in Pansy’s voice, it was clear—she’d probably been contaminated. He’d likely soon have to take care of her in return, but really, what were friends for if not to suffer through plagues together? They’d once spent a whole week buried under three layers of blankets, with no other company than each other and their newly acquired Muggle TV—that their parents knew nothing about. All because they’d contracted the flu. They’d been expert of MasterChef ever since. It had also taken them a few spells to get rid of the many tissues laying at their feet.
Keeping his eyes closed, as he simply didn’t have enough strength to open them due to his head pounding like a cursed drum, Draco drank the potion offered to him in a few gulps, while a gentle hand ran through his hair, then traced along his jaw. He couldn’t help it—he leaned into it.
And promptly drifted back to sleep, unbothered by his now fuming and almost whistling ears, courtesy of the Pepper-Up.
He didn’t sleep long, however. Thank Merlin for that: he was having feverish nightmares of Quidditch matches lost because of his poor performance, gigantic peacocks mocking him, and deep, troubling dark waters. He much preferred being awake.
The fever was apparently still raging, though. Two major clues gave it away: Draco’s head weighing a ton, and Pansy who sure as hell was not looking like herself.
No, she looked alarmingly like a certain Wizarding Hero, with whom she shared only a hair colour.
Draco burst into maniacal laughter—which was not a good idea when his throat had been burning just moments earlier.
Potter-Pansy rushed to his side.
“Are you alright?”
Between hiccups, Draco managed to gasp out, “You look like Potter.”
“What do you mean?” she answered, clearly puzzled.
“I mean Potter. You look and sound like him,” he chuckled. “His hair, his eyes, even his glasses.”
His whole clothes, actually—though they seemed to fit him better than Draco remembered. And his jaw, shoulders, hands, and other highly interesting parts, but there were some things Pansy didn’t need to hear. Or hear repeatedly. Honestly, Draco shouldn’t be blamed for the declarations his martini-addled brain made sometimes.
Pansy sat on the bed, right next to him, and broke his train of thoughts, but not before he noticed the characteristic Potter-ish crease between her eyebrows.
“I think you’re delirious.”
Of course he was. She was looking like Harry-fucking-Potter. Pansy could be a bit obtuse when she wanted to be. Like the time she accused him of stepping over her foot at the Yule Ball, despite it being impossible given how many more hours than her he’d spent learning to dance over the years. However, Draco would never dare bring the subject back on the table, because he loved her, of course. And because he meant to live a little longer.
“This is so weird,” he said instead. “This fever is so weird.”
“I can imagine,” she answered.
“I hate being sick.”
At that, she started running her hand through his hair again. The sensation was so soothing that Draco felt like his scalp melted. He closed his eyes.
“Except when you do that,” he continued. He had to compliment her if he wanted her to keep going, right?
“Though it’s a bit weird,” he added.
“The fever?”
“No. You being gentle with me. I mean, not you. Potter.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, “why”? He’s Potter,” Draco pointed out, opening his eyes again.
“And?”
So, she was both obtuse and vicious.
“And it’s utterly inconceivable that Harry Potter would be massaging me like this—by the way, don’t stop, it feels incredible. But as I was saying… inconceivable that Harry Potter would be massaging me considering how much he dislikes me.”
Draco had to admit he was quite proud of managing such a long sentence in his state. His mother would be proud too, he was sure of it.
“Oh, does he?”
“Pansy, I love you, always have, always will, but you’re being cruel, making fun of me like this right now. You know exactly how it is between Potter and me.”
She chuckled, in the exact same way that Draco could hear Potter do quietly whenever Weasley made a decent joke during some unbearably dull speech. His feverish hallucinations were apparently quite convincing. He had to give some credit to his brain.
“Remind me again, please? I feel like it’s always changing.”
“Now that’s an outrageous lie.”
Pansy looked at him so expectantly that Draco couldn’t help but oblige.
“Well, first of all, he’s always glaring at me.”
“Glaring?”
“Of course!” he insisted. “Glaring, scowling, side-eyeing, you name it!”
“Mmh. Are you sure it’s negatively? He could be just looking,” she mused, shrugging her shoulders.
“Come on,” he replied, perplexed. “Potter, looking at me just for the sake of it?”
“Well, you never know.”
“Alright, then how about the fact that he’s always making fun of me at work, sometimes even in front of others?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, saying that “it’s a good idea, Malfoy”, “I wouldn’t have guessed that Auror-red would look good on you, Malfoy”, or wondering whether I’ve ever heard of an obscure Muggle group, when he knows that it’s highly, highly, unlikely.”
It was again quite the lengthy declaration for someone bedridden, but Draco had always possessed a natural talent for what he would call “providing commentary”—and what others sometimes wrongfully and unjustly called “complaining”.
“And have you ever considered that he might be, you know, sincere?”
“That’s preposterous,” Draco replied. He would have crossed his arms to make his point clearer—if only he’d had the strength.
“You and your long words,” she muttered.
Pansy, muttering? She was probably starting to feel unwell. Hopefully, the Pepper-Up would heal him quickly enough for him to take care of her in return.
“Also, he’s never—not even once—offered me a drink, but he’s done it for everyone else at the bar,” Draco went on. “He’s even offered you one!” he cried.
The exclamation rendered Pansy so dumbfounded that she actually stopped caressing his hair. It would have been almost comical, if the matter weren’t far too serious for Draco to laugh. He’d thought about it endlessly, but he never came up with a good enough reason for Potter to buy Pansy a drink and not him—she wasn’t his colleague, after all. He’d even wondered whether Potter was interested in her, an idea so alarming he’d quickly forced himself to let go of it. Potter and Pansy would never work together.
“When did he…” Pansy started.
“Two months ago,” Draco cut her off scornfully—and certainly not with a sulk. “You and I were talking. He dropped his glass on the way, it was a mess. He gave you yours and left abruptly to get another one.”
“Oh. I see. But then you left.”
“We left,” he corrected her, brows furrowed. “You wanted to go talk to Ginny Weasley but you’d drunk so fast that it would have been no use.”
“Oh, that’s why. I’d always w…” Pansy didn’t finish her sentence.
“You’d always what?”
“Er—wanted to talk to Ginny,” she stammered.
She must have been further gone than he thought, if it made her lose the ability to enunciate properly. Pansy was usually nothing if not eloquent.
“I’m sure you’ll succeed soon,” he reassured her, patting her hand.
She turned her palm towards his, catching his fingers, and regarded him with soft eyes.
Draco was suddenly reminded of three things:
One, she still looked and sounded like Harry Potter.
Two, Potter had never treated him like this before.
Three, though Draco had never admitted it to anyone—and he was fairly sure that no one could have ever guessed—he very much wanted him to.
In addition to that, he became aware both of his rising fever despite the potion—as he was feeling unbearably hot—and of the sensation of warm metal against his skin, where Pansy’s ring finger touched him.
Pansy was wearing a wedding ring.
Which meant that Potter was wearing a wedding ring.
Draco’s eyes widened.
Surely, he would have heard of Potter getting married. He read The Daily Prophet every day. Sometimes, he went as far as to browse Witch Weekly—after all, there were a few pieces of advice amidst all the gossip, and one should always yearn for knowledge. There was no way for the one and only Harry Potter to get married without it making the front page of every single wizarding paper. Without Draco hearing about it. No fucking way.
So, Potter wasn’t married. It was just a regular ring. A golden regular ring. That he happened to wear on his ring finger.
Some people did that. Many people, in fact. Plus, what if the ring finger meant nothing to Muggles? Or what if, to them, the ring finger was the index finger? Or the middle finger?
Unaware of his internal debate, Pansy was now softly brushing the back of his hand with her thumb. With Potter’s thumb.
Things were taking a turn far too chaotic for Draco’s poor brain cells, which were already busy fighting against the sickness.
His growing panic must have shown on his face, as his vision was suddenly obscured by a pair of green eyes, almost black under the dim light, and they were not Pansy’s. A concerned voice rose up in the air.
“What is it? The fever again?”
At the sight of Potter—well, Pansy, but Potter—worried for him, Draco couldn’t do anything but nod miserably.
Potter was way, way too close.
It would be fine if it were Pansy. And it was Pansy.
But it was also Potter.
Right now, it certainly felt too much like Potter.
Or not enough like Potter.
Maybe—definitely—more the latter.
Fuck if Draco knew anything anymore.
“Maybe you should try to go back to sleep,” Potter murmured, switching the light off with a flick of his right hand.
Indeed, perhaps he ought to rest if he wanted to keep what was left of his sanity.
So, Draco nodded once more.
“It’ll be better in the morning,” Potter added.
He seemed to hesitate and then brushed Draco’s hair one last time, before getting up and closing the door quietly behind him. The room suddenly felt empty.
Draco was fairly certain his face had turned every shade of red imaginable.
Merlin, he’d have to go over everything with Pansy again tomorrow. She’d have a field day hearing him describe in detail what hallucinations his clouded brain had come up with. But that would have to wait until he was feeling better—and until he could forget the whole absurd notion of Potter ever being married. And the even more absurd notion of Potter nearby, caring about him.
What if he could never face Potter again at work without thinking of him holding his hand, looking at him so tenderly? Perhaps he ought to avoid him for a little while, just long enough for his mind to settle. That would be more prudent. Potter would no doubt laugh at him if he ever found out about this.
It was rather unfair of life to make Draco dream of a world in which Potter wouldn’t.
Hours later, Draco awoke to the sun warming his cheek, the scent of sweet English tea in the air, birds chirping beyond the slightly opened window, and the cool feel of refreshed linens around him.
His ears had stopped steaming, which meant that he’d finally shaken off his cold.
Only, Pansy had nothing to do with it.
Pansy hadn’t lived with him for ages.
With his head no longer derailed by fever, a few realisations began to surface. One of them surpassed them all.
Harry Potter was indeed wearing a wedding ring last night.
Draco knew it for a fact, because he gave it to him.
For the second time in less than one day, he started laughing maniacally, hand pressed to his forehead to brush away the strands of hair tickling his eyes.
His fit of laughter had barely subsided when Harry—and definitely not Pansy—appeared in the doorway. Draco couldn’t help but smile at the sight. With his hand braced on the doorjamb, Harry grinned just as widely in return.
“Feeling better, I reckon?”
“You’ve no idea,” Draco replied—no sign of a sore throat anymore.
“You know, I think you had a very wild night,” Harry teased, stepping closer.
“Again, you’ve no idea,” Draco chuckled.
“I wonder if it was the same for Ron.”
Harry now sat on the bed, his thigh grazing Draco’s through the cover.
“How so?” Draco asked.
“Well, he got sick too. Hermione called. Turns out spending two hours in the cold without any Warming Charms will do that to you. Isn’t that—how do you say it? Oh right: preposterous?”
“Excellent use of the word, darling.”
“Got a great teacher,” Harry said with a shrug, still smiling.
He added, “I’m not sure I even want to know what you two were talking about, sloshed as you were.”
“I believe some things are better kept secret,” Draco declared.
He couldn’t admit that he had no memory of it—except, that is, for a heated debate regarding appropriate names for a Crup. If Ron couldn’t see the potential of “Count Simon, Third of his name”, that was his loss. “Max” was way too common.
Draco raised his hand until his fingers found one of their favorite place, the warm skin at the nape of Harry’s neck, just beneath his hair, and drew him closer—finally close enough.
“Is that so, uh?” Harry murmured, lips barely moving.
He then removed his glasses and set them on the nightstand—as usual, far less carefully than Draco would have handled any of Harry’s possessions.
And in the endless second before their mouths met, in that fragile moment when Harry’s pupils were so close, so inviting that nothing else could possibly matter, it occurred to Draco, for the millionth time, that life couldn’t be that unfair if it had given him this.
A world in which Harry laughed with him.