Eep! Too much coursework, too little time...and unfortunately it's coursework that's going to get me into university, not slash :o(. But here we are, much belated...

Title: Idioteque (5/?)

Author: Jendle

E-mail: jenny.preston@virgin.net

Disclaimers: Not mine, JKR's, except for the title which is also the title of a song by the god-like geniuses Radiohead. Please don't sue me cos I'm skint enough as it is...

Spoilers: Don't think so...not yet, anyway.

Date: 18/12/01 (apologies to anyone reading via ff.n, I forget things easily :o( )

Summary: Draco is staring at Harry, who is staring at Seamus.

Warnings: Slash. If you don't like, don't read.

Archive: Yes to the (possibly mythical) HPSlash archive, anywhere else just ask.

Notes: This is my response to a challenge, which went thusly: 'Draco threw back his head, laughing insanely until he realized the whole class was staring at him and sat down, blushing wildly.' And I have no idea where I found it, so please don't ask...

*

*

Three weeks of stealing glances and angsting later, Harry had come down with flu. Hermione took one look at him when he came down to the common room one morning and dragged him straight off to the infirmary, where his sneeze-punctuated protests fell on deaf ears.

Less than half an hour after he had got up that morning, Harry found himself back in bed, with Madame Pomfrey hovering around complaining that the whole school was going to have it soon at this rate.

"What?" Harry asked blearily.

"You're not the first one...Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell are in the next room, and half the Slytherin Quidditch team turned up five minutes ago," she said as she left the room.

Through the half open door, Harry heard a familiar drawling voice protesting that there was nothing wrong with him, before launching into an impressive coughing fit.

"Nonsense, boy. You're lucky - there's still a bed left. I don't know what I'll do if anyone else comes down with anything," Madame Pomfrey said.

Harry looked at the empty bed next to him with a growing feeling of dread. His fears were confirmed when the door opened fully and Madame Pomfrey ushered Malfoy in. The two boys looked at each other in horror.

"No way," Harry said, at the same time as Malfoy said flatly, "You have got to be kidding."

"It's the only empty bed," Madame Pomfrey assured them. Despite further protestation, she shooed Malfoy - Draco - whoever, Harry told himself, into the empty bed and left the room.

*

Draco couldn't bring himself to say anything, let alone make a suitably sarcastic remark. To be honest, he felt like the invisible gnomes with a feather in his throat had invited their extended family and friends over to bash him over the head with mallets and use an achier version of Cruciatus on his legs and arms.

"Malfoy," Potter - Harry - whoever - said in some kind of greeting, and blew his nose loudly.

"Potter," Draco replied, trying to sound cold but only managing blocked up.

"Must have been the match last week," Potter said. Was he trying to make conversation? Madness.

"Are you trying to make conversation, Potter? I wouldn't object, but I thought we were supposed to be worst enemies." This lengthy speech set him off into another coughing fit.

Potter considerately waited until the fit had subsided before replying. "I can't be arsed. I ache too much to care about the bizarre supremist opinions of your father."

Draco was affronted. "Don't you think they might be my bizarre supremist opinions, too?"

"No. I shouldn't think you'd have the brain to think about it enough to be anything more than a sheep." This time it was Potter who had the coughing fit.

"Great," Draco said. "Not even my worst enemy will take me seriously." He closed his eyes.

"I need a drink," Potter said.

Draco looked pointedly at the jug of water on the table between their beds. "Don't think I'm getting it for you," he said.

"I was thinking of something a little more alchoholic," Potter replied.

"I hope you know I'd help if I could. I'd love to see you with a hangover if you've already got a headache anything like mine," Draco said.

Potter made a face, and the attempt at a conversation seemed to have failed. Well, it had been nice talking to him without the Weasley and the Mudblood around, even a conversation as forced as this one.

No, it hadn't, damn it. The only thing that could be bordering on nice at the moment was some kind of admission of a lack of hate, for starters. And perhaps a miracle cure for flu, as well. But flu aside, why did Potter hate him? Or why didn't he, if the Mudblood was to be believed?

The flu must have been doing weird things to his mind, because then he asked, "Do you hate me, Potter?"

Potter looked surprised. "Do you hate me?"

"This is ridiculous. No, I don't." Fool. If he thinks you hate him, you'll be fine. Now all you can do is go for strong dislike.

"Neither do I."

"So why do you and Weasley act like you do all the time?"

"Um. Self defence, perhaps. Not trying to sound like a toddler, but you started it. And I think Ron probably does hate you."

Draco blinked. "I started it? Who was it that said, and I paraphrase here, 'I can choose my own friends, thank you' and wouldn't shake my hand?"

"Who treated the first person who'd bothered to make friends with me like shit?"

"It was for your own good, Potter. You'd be perfectly safe now if you'd started off on the right side."

Potter snorted at this, which led to a brief coughing fit. "Still expect me to believe your idea of the right side, Malfoy? If you'd thought about it, you'd know that Voldemort is obviously the wrong side to be on," he said when he'd finished.

"Sanctimonious bullshit," Draco muttered, but half heartedly. He had been thinking about it, and conceded that there might be something in what Potter and the Mudblood had said, not that he would admit it. Not yet, anyway. "You know what your Mudblood girlfriend said to me a few weeks ago?"

"Excuse me?"

"The Mudblood. Granger. Hermione, if you must."

"My girlfriend?"

"Whatever. The point is she said that everyone was a Mudblood somewhere along the line."

"I know, she goes on about it enough. Why was Hermione talking to you?"

"To tell me you fancied me," Draco said, forcing himself to look calm and unconcerned.

Potter burst out into another coughing fit. "She what?" Draco decided to treat this as a rhetorical question. "She told me you were in love with me!"

Draco raised an eyebrow. You don't give a shit, Draco, he told himself. Fortunately, very much like a well-timed plot device (Draco was fascinated by the tricks of Muggle literature), Madame Pomfrey bustled into the room with two steaming bowls of soup.

"Lunch, boys," she said. "Mind you eat it all, you need to keep your energy up to fight the bug."

*

*