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Draco knew something was wrong the moment Hermione didn’t arrive.
She was never late—not to Ministry briefings, not to dinner, not even to the quiet, unspoken ritual of meeting him on Thursdays at the little café off Charing Cross Road. Especially not when she had sent an owl that morning confirming the time.
He checked his watch again.
Ten minutes. Fifteen.
The tea in front of him had long since gone cold.
By twenty minutes, he was already on his feet.
Hermione didn’t forget things. Hermione didn’t lose track of time. If she said she would be somewhere, she was there—prepared, composed, already three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
Unless something was wrong.
He stepped out into the street, pulling his coat tighter against the wind, mind already racing through possibilities. Work emergency. Magical mishap. Some bureaucratic disaster that had swallowed her whole.
Or—
His stomach dropped.
He turned sharply and Apparated.
⸻
Her flat was quiet.
Too quiet.
Draco knocked once, sharply, then again when there was no answer. “Granger?”
Silence.
A cold thread of panic slipped under his ribs.
He reached for the handle, hesitated only a second, then muttered a soft unlocking charm and stepped inside.
“Hermione?”
A faint sound came from the bedroom—a rustle, followed by a muffled groan.
He crossed the flat in seconds and pushed the door open.
Hermione was curled beneath a mountain of blankets, hair a tangled halo around her head, skin flushed. She blinked at him, eyes glassy with fever.
“Draco?” she rasped. “What are you—”
“You didn’t come,” he said, already moving toward her, the words sharper than he intended. “You didn’t answer your door, you didn’t send word, and I thought—”
He stopped himself, breath catching.
She looked awful.
Not injured. Not in danger. But pale and shivering, her voice rough, her movements sluggish in a way that made something protective and deeply instinctive surge up in his chest.
“Oh,” Hermione murmured, squinting at him. “I meant to send a message. I just… fell asleep.”
“You’re ill.”
“Brilliant deduction.”
Draco ignored the weak attempt at humor and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. She was burning.
“Merlin, Granger,” he muttered. “You’re feverish.”
“It’s just a cold,” she said, trying to wave him off. “I didn’t want to make a fuss.”
“A fuss?” His brows shot up. “You vanish, fail to appear where you said you would be, and I find you half-delirious under a pile of blankets, and you think that doesn’t warrant a fuss?”
She gave him a tired look. “You’re hovering.”
“Yes,” he said flatly. “I am.”
He straightened, already scanning the room like a general assessing a battlefield. “When did this start?”
“This morning. Maybe last night.” She coughed, wincing. “It’s not serious.”
Draco was already moving.
He vanished into the kitchen and returned moments later with a glass of water, a warming charm flickering faintly around it. “Drink.”
Hermione blinked. “I can get it—”
“You can barely sit upright.”
“I am perfectly capable—”
She tried to push herself up and immediately sagged back into the pillows with a groan.
Draco arched a brow. “Compelling argument.”
She glared weakly at him but accepted the glass, taking a few slow sips.
“Good,” he said, softer now. “Again.”
He didn’t move away as she drank, watching closely, as though making sure she didn’t disappear on him if he looked elsewhere.
When she finished, he set the glass aside and adjusted the blankets with careful precision, tucking them around her shoulders.
“You don’t have to do all this,” she murmured.
“Yes, I do.”
“Draco—”
“You take care of everyone else,” he interrupted, voice low but firm. “You solve their problems, carry their burdens, fix things before anyone even realizes they’re broken.” His hand paused, smoothing a curl back from her damp forehead. “Someone should be doing the same for you.”
Her expression softened, exhaustion and affection mingling in her eyes.
“You’re going to catch it, you know,” she said quietly.
“I’ve faced curses more aggressive than a cold.”
“That’s not the same.”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But I’m staying anyway.”
He moved to the kitchen again, this time returning with a steaming mug. The scent of honey and herbs drifted through the room.
She raised a brow. “Did you just make tea?”
“I’m not completely useless,” he said dryly, though there was a faint flush high on his cheekbones. “Drink. Slowly.”
Hermione obeyed, watching him over the rim of the mug as he fussed—straightening the pillows, adjusting the temperature of the room, casting a quiet diagnostic charm under his breath.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said softly.
He glanced at her. “You’re ill. I’m allowed.”
“I mean… this.” She gestured weakly. “You, worrying like the world’s ending.”
His mouth tightened.
“You didn’t show up,” he said, more quietly now. “Do you know how unlike you that is? I kept thinking—what if something happened and I wasn’t there? What if you needed help and I didn’t know?”
Her chest ached at the raw honesty in his voice.
“It’s just a cold,” she repeated gently.
“Today, yes. But it could have been anything.” His gaze dropped briefly, shadows flickering across his expression. “I don’t like not knowing you’re alright.”
Hermione reached out, catching his hand before he could retreat.
“I’m alright,” she said. “Especially now.”
He looked at their joined hands, then back at her, something soft and vulnerable breaking through his usual composure.
“You’re terrible at asking for help,” he murmured.
“So are you.”
“Touché.”
He sat on the edge of the bed then, finally still, his thumb absently brushing over her knuckles.
“Is there anything else you need?” he asked. “Food. Potions. I can Floo St. Mungo’s, have them send something stronger—”
“I need you to stop pacing,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “And maybe stay. If you don’t mind.”
Draco stilled, as though the request had caught him off guard.
“Stay?” he echoed.
“Yes. You make excellent tea, apparently. And you’re very good at… hovering.”
A reluctant smile curved his mouth.
“I can do hovering,” he said.
He shifted, settling more comfortably beside her, careful not to jostle the blankets. Hermione leaned slightly into him, head resting against his shoulder.
After a moment, he lifted a hand and began gently carding his fingers through her hair, slow and soothing.
“You’re warm,” she mumbled.
“You’re on fire.”
“Details.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft and fond.
They sat like that for a long while, the room quiet except for her slow breathing and the occasional rustle of blankets. Draco didn’t move, didn’t pull away, content simply to be there—watching, waiting, making sure she was alright.
Eventually, her grip on his hand slackened, her breathing evening out as sleep pulled her under.
Draco studied her face, the tension easing from his shoulders as he saw the fever begin to break.
“Rest, Granger,” he murmured, brushing a light kiss against her temple. “I’ve got you.”
And he stayed exactly where he was, keeping watch like it was the most natural thing in the world