A Bonus Round piece for the Houses Competition!
House: Ravenclaw
Bonus Round 2
House prompt: Sometimes the right decision is the hardest.
Personal prompt: Now hit with this illness/disease, they'd never be the same.
WC: 1592
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"Don't come near me, you are disgusting!" Draco shouts, leaping away from me. I just laugh, half-high on Calpol and not enough sleep. I reach my arms out to him in a childlike fashion. The duvet falls from around my shoulders, leaving my skin cold. For the moment, I don't mind. "No, Hermione. No!" he continues, running backwards towards the wall of the bedroom, and quickly grabbing a tie from the door handle, throwing it around his neck. I'm sure he'll put it on after he leaves the house.
"I've got a cold!" I dispute, catching the smallest of smiles gracing his features. "I haven't got the plague. Be mature, Draco."
I sneeze loudly, then shuffle back into the duvet, revelling in the warmth of it. Involuntarily, I shudder. Three days I've had this so far. Three days of sneezing, being unable to breathe, and coughing up foul phlegm every half an hour. Three days of desiring only soup, toast, and the comfort of my bed (and of Draco, though he near-fruitlessly tries to outrun the virus). Three days of forgoing work and doing the easy thing of ignoring everything. Draco dons his cloak, raising his hand in goodbye.
"If you need me," he begins, edging towards the bedroom door. "Call for Weasley. Or Potter. Or even Ginny."
"Draco!" I laugh, throwing an easily-dodged cushion at him. He smiles, then scowls as I sneeze onto the sheets.
"I love you. I'll see you later. Get well soon."
Then he's gone.
The problem is that Draco is determined to remain uninfected, being the immature hypochondriac that he is. He went so far as to sleep on the sofa last night, only braving the infected area to get dressed for work this morning. I can't go into work because I am barely lucid. Mostly, I've been watching television and old movies, reading, and knitting jumpers and scarves. I spent four hours colouring-in yesterday. It was great. However, I haven't told Draco that I spent the day on the couch that he slept on last night. He isn't aware that he is doomed to feel sick, groggy, and absolutely foul in four days time, when the cold is fully developed.
Every morning, there is that sense of stress of having too much work. The decision of, do I choose to work, or do I simply sleep until I feel better? Of course, not working increases my stress every day, and the avoidance of it is a bad decision. But... Sleep...
I wind down deeper into my slumber, pulling the sheets over my face to hide from the bright light that threatens to cause spontaneous combustion. It feels as though seven hundred kilos are weighted on my sinuses and several hundred more are resting against every inch of my forehead. I reach blindly for the tissues, getting another wave of nausea as the sneeze freezes halfway.
Last week, they let children into the Ministry for a school trip. The trip happened to be one which I had coordinated as well. Some geniuses decided to invite a bunch of First Year Hogwarts students, as well as those families who home-school their eleven-ear-olds. As ever, these children were riddled with germs that my body could not handle. Thus, I am gross. Apparently.
Obviously, Draco told me I should be in contamination in St Mungo's. Obviously, I told him that he was ridiculous.
Sometime in the early-afternoon, I shuffle from between the sheets and rise like the undead, having heard a horrendously noisy tapping against the bedroom window. Labouring and coughing, I open the latch, allowing the eagle owl to flutter inside. It's Lancelot, Draco's owl, carrying a small parcel and note. I read the note quickly, then unravel the packings.
'Don't infect the owl, D xx'
Charming.
However, he soon slightly redeems himself with the warm tomato soup he sent from the city. Lancelot returns to Draco after a treat, leaving me to wander downstairs with the soup, pairing it with some buttered granary bread. It's not a difficult dish, and not completely tasteless. Therefore, I'm happy.
Finally, I sit down to do some work. Because I am far too tense to not work. and it might actually be easier for me to get through it before sleeping again.
Three days of doing nothing has done nothing good for me. Well, except feeling slightly more relaxed about work. Having missed three days, I know I will be incredibly frustrated if I avoid doing anything for another whole day. So I elect to open the mounting stock of files, pull out a quill, and set up a roll of kitchen roll with Olbas oil for my drizzling, blocked nose. The menthol might make Draco dizzy, but it does a damn good job for my sinuses.
As soon as I settle down, the rain begins to patter lightly outside.
File number: 846, Code: Fortuna, Department: 340
07/06/2017
Reference: File 635 – The Winchester Agreement
The State of California wishes to pursue the Winchester Agreement in accordance with Agua Treaty, following from May 19thmeetings at the Ministry of Magic, UK. Minister Jordan Sherbatsky reviewed statements taken at the Meeting, and has therefore extended the stay of Prisoner 451 under the Helsinki Protocol. Having convened with the United Nations, both Zone 14 and Zone 3 have met and –
Within ten minutes, I am fast asleep. Turns out, the better decision is to sleep things off and not to overthink about work when sick. Even if it is near-impossible for me to relax. Yet again, a loud bang wakes me up, the parchment roll toppling from my chest and onto the floor. My eyes blink furiously fast, adjusting to the light, as Draco storms in with the torrential rain. He's dripping wet, hair clung to his pale forehead, and cloak wrapped around him tightly. He shakes off the excess water, scowling.
"You look a little damp dear," I tease, yawning. Draco barks a short laugh and dries himself with a spell. "Why didn't you apparate home if it was this bad?"
"The neighbours would ask questions," he says, pulling off his cloak and loosening his tie. I roll my eyes at him. He chose to take the muggle way home, even though it meant getting sick? Kind of a stupid thing to do.
"I thought you didn't care?"
"No. I think they're all idiots," he argues.
"So why- "
"I didn't feel like it," Draco snaps, running a hand through his hair. "I was tired, and I was dizzy. I wanted to be on a train, and walk. Your stupid… Muggle… Ah-methods!" he sneezes violently, twice in a row. Then, wide eyed, he stares at me. One finger pointed poised to declare me a monster. "You," he says. "This was you!"
If I am going to be clear about anything, it is that Draco Malfoy is a drama queen. Of course, next morning I am awoken to the dulcet sounds of his yacking coughing, sneezing, and unmanly groans of despair. Unfortunately, while Draco is ill, I cannot be in the same room as him. While he is busy hiding beneath the duvet from the light and sinus headaches, I am out of bed and feeling cheerier than I have done in days.
"I'm dying…" comes Draco's voice from beneath the sheets. I just laugh and go to brush my teeth. "Hermione, get a Healer! I feel as though as Basilisk bit me!"
"You've got a cold, Draco," I murmur, touching his feverish forehead as it pokes out into the open.
"No! I'm dying. I can feel my breathing getting worse, and my heart is faster, and I'm hot and cold all at once!" After getting no sympathy from me, he presses on. "Hermione, I can barely even feel the rest of my body. Balance and proprioception have gone out of the window! I've probably got days, if not hours, to live!"
"You are so ridiculous," I tell him, smiling. He groans and sneezes thrice in a row. "Draco, let go of me," I laugh, as a cold hand shoots out to pull me closer. It's tricky to wriggle free of his grip. "I need to get to work. Either get off, or get up!"
"Hermione," he begins, coughing. "Surely you want to stay with your beloved? You don't know how much longer I'll last…" he finishes ominously.
"You're going to be fine," I pat him genially on the arm. He coughs phlegm onto the sheets. "That's disgusting."
"I know! Look, do you see the blood!" I stare down at it. Nothing. Such a drama queen. "Please, stay?" I sigh heavily. "Draco Malfoy, brought down by phlegm and snot…" he mutters darkly.
I laugh again.
"Merlin," I mutter, trying to stop the grin from spreading further across my features. "Yes, Draco. You are dying. You'll be changed forevermore by this deadly disease." I pause, hoping my sarcasm makes him laugh rather than makes him mad. He frowns. "Now, would you like some soup?"
"Yes please."
Sometimes, I suppose, the hardest decision of them all is the one to grow up,and be mature. Even if it means Draco Malfoy has to succumb to soup and accept the fate of being brought down by the common cold.
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