I'm back with an UBER COOL HARRY POTTER FANFICTION THAT EVERYONE MUST LOVE AND WORSHIP AND REVIEW HARHARHARHARHARHARHARHAR.

Ok. No more suger at three o' clock in the morning.

But seriously people, please review! If I have any love in this fandom, then PLEASE review! Out of pity, if nothing else...

It suddenly occurs to you that you and Harry are related.

Distantly, so distant to be almost insignificant, but still related. All the pureblood families share blood; Sirius knew it, you know it, your father knows it and Harry has known ever since that summer at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Harry's father had been a pureblood, was related to your father and your mother somehow, in the insane, convoluted way that all of you are. That means that Harry is related to your parents, and that he is related to you and your brothers and your sister.

And you are both related to Draco Malfoy.

That's one realization that chills your insides. You, Ronald Weasley, related to Draco Malfoy, the boy you hate the most!

And yet, it's true.

The strength of the pureblood families has always been that no two families look alike. That way, no one would be able to come along and obliterate you all. No one would ever look at you and Malfoy and guess that you were distant cousins.

But you think that if someone compared Harry to him, they would guess.

Because Harry is a lot like Draco.

Both pale as snow, so innately graceful that several girls have complained that they would kill to have that kind of coordination. Harry is Draco's distant, distant cousin -- although, maybe not so distant, now that you think about it.

All the families in the pureblood tree know what happened with the Malfoys and the Potters, everybody -- and if you don't know what happened, then you aren't part of the tree. The Potters were some manner of variant, some deviation of the Malfoy bloodline. Some genetic hiccup that put the Potters with black, unruly hair (the utter opposite of pale, perfect blonde) and warm, hazel eyes (so unlike cold grey), which all turned out, to the disgust of the Malfoys, to be dominant genes.

You wonder if Harry knows. If you should tell him.

Then you decide that if Harry found out he was related by blood to the murderess of his god-father he'd probably die of a heart attack, and decide not to, especially since he's down with a flu that Madam Pomfrey can't dislodge.

Ron sat up straighter in his armchair in the Common Room as Ginny passed him by carrying a bowl.

"What's that?" he asked

"Carrot soup for Harry," she said, in the same smug tone she had used on him when she was trying to call him out on crushing on Hermione.

Ron made a gagging noise. "Is that ALL you people think about?"

Ginny frowned, and steadied the bowl in her hands. "What do you mean?"

"Everybody and their dog have been trying to get into the dormitory to stuff soup into him. He couldn't stand any more after that Romilda girl tried to shove some love-potion laced THING down his throat. Promised I'd stay here and fend people off for him." Harry Potter gets the flu, and the whole world starts fussing over him. "He's sleeping right now." Ron took a strange satisfaction in seeing Ginny's face fall at the last sentence.

"Oh," she murmured. "I don't want to wake him up."

Bloody right you don't! Ron thought. "You can just give the soup to Crookshanks, he's been looking peaky."

Ginny gave him a dark look. "Oh. Thank you Ron, THANK you. I don't want to poison Hermione's cat."

"Your cooking isn't THAT bad."

"It's not the cooking," she muttered. Before Ron could question her on the cryptic statement, she carried her bowl of soup out the portrait hole.

Ron looked after her, a strange, possessive feeling fluttering in his stomach that had nothing to do with Ginny, and everything with her spiked soup. He had never thought his baby sister would sink so low.

In a sudden impulse, he decided to go and check on Harry, so he abandoned his armchair, and went up the stairs to the dormitory door.

He placed his hand on the knob, but then hesitated for a moment. Harry was bound to be asleep -- but it wasn't as if he didn't know how to be quiet...

Carefully, Ron eased the door open and poked his head inside.

Yes, Harry was asleep, the stifling hangings pulled back. Madam Pomfrey had said that the best thing for him was seclusion and rest, with lots of fluids.

And he certainly wouldn't get that if people kept on tramping up and down the stairs, trying to feed him god knows what, Ron thought, that angry protective feeling in his stomach again.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him as quietly as he could. Harry, somehow on the alert, even with his dulled senses, registered his presence and shifted.

Ron padded over to him.

His best friend looked the same as usual; out-of-control black hair even more mussed by the bed, obscuring the scar on his forehead, long lashes decorating his closed eyes.

Ron leaned over and pressed the back of his hand to Harry's forehead; still too warm, but not the wild fever that Pomfrey had calmed earlier that morning.

"You know me Ron, I always have to be dramatic..."

Harry had said it with a wry grin, eyes dark with his health. That's you all right, Harry...

At the soft touch, Harry stirred and opened his eyes. Ron pulled back muttering a soft curse.

Harry sat up with some difficulty and smiled at him. "Hi, Ron."

"Hi, Harry." Ron shook his head restlessly. "Sorry for waking you up."

"It's alright. I think I was starting to shift anyway."

Harry really looked like a different person when he didn't have his glasses on, Ron realized. More open, somehow. More exposed.

Especially with that half-sleepy on his face.

Ron realized his mouth had gone dry.

Harry took his hand gently. "Thanks for looking after me, Ron."

"No problem." Ron cursed his voice for being so squeaky.

Harry leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek gently. Then he lay back, turned over and shut his eyes.

It was just the flu, Ron told himself. It was the fever that Harry was still fighting, it had to be, there was no other explanation. It was...It was...

It was a damn sight more than he had gotten out of Harry for the past six years.

Ron privately hoped that the other Gryffindors came down with the flu next week.