A/N: Bit of a filler. Enjoy. Thanks to all the reviewers. Glad you're liking it so far. :)
After a whole afternoon of being perfectly lazy, Draco went to boys' baths to take a shower and get himself cleaned up all nice and pretty-like. He had a date with Pansy that evening up in the Astronomy Tower.
"Pansy...," Draco sighed. She was all right and everything, and she gave good head...but there was just something missing. Like a dick?
He grimaced. One would think he would have cured himself of this proclivity by now. He'd only spent three years avoiding his instincts and burying his vivid imagination along with its arousing handiwork.
Or, at least, he'd tried.
He shook his head, reflecting on the Pansy situation once more. I'm creative, I can pretend.
Pansy actually did make a rather attractive boy. In his mind's eye, anyhow.
Hmm, she's probably a goddamned carpet muncher. Ah well, whatever. Did I mention she gave good head? Like a piston, that girl....
Draco smiled, his mood now lifted considerably at the thought of what fun awaited him come nightfall. After all, an orgasm was still an orgasm, no matter who brought it about, right? All he had to worry about was afterwards; he had to find a way to escape before she forced him to reciprocate (like the dog she somewhat resembled, she could be quite vicious when provoked...or horny). And he certainly wasn't that creative.
He scrunched up his nose with distaste as he shook his head and uttered a warning to those little grey cells bouncing around in his brain, Yes, my little friends, do not go there.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he turned his attention back to his escape plan. The best thing was probably to take his wand and petrify her if she tried to come after him. Of course, then he'd have to sneak around the common room, avoiding her for three days or risk getting some valuable bits and pieces hexed off.
Or he could tell her he just caught oral herpes that morning. Was there such a thing as oral herpes? Oh well, whatever. Pansy wasn't exactly the brightest bitch in the litter; she'd never think to question it. Yes, that was a simpler course of action. Anyhow, if that failed he always had his wand to fall back on....
Now through with the planning stages of his tryst, he stepped out of the shower -- clad in his ever trusty Slytherin green, monogrammed towel -- and headed to the sink to brush his teeth. After finally dressing (a sacrilege in his opinion, to cover up this heavenly body), combing his hair to compulsive neatness, and finishing up his other little grooming rituals, he went to give the final product a once over in the old glass.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror decorating the wall on the far side of the bathroom and admired the trappings of his clean-cut form. Grey eyes grazed over the length of the glass reflecting, to utter lucidity (an anti-fogging charm had been placed on it), his all-consuming perfection.
He purred with approval and gave himself a wry smirk. As he turned to leave, something briefly caught his eye. Draco did a double-take and froze. Before him, his reflection stared back, with eyes wide and lips parted slightly in shock.
"No...it can't be," he whispered, quiet horror spreading in the reflection of his visage.
Raising his arm, a hand, a finger, he cautiously touched the little bump set on his chin. And screamed. Or perhaps 'shrieked' would have been a more appropriate term.
A pimple.
A...a...pimple?! He, Draco Malfoy, perfect in every way, NO exceptions...he had a pimple?
After staring at it for a moment longer, Draco recovered from his state of shock and rushed into his dorm, to his bed.
He grabbed the silver trimmed hand mirror, which was sitting peaceably on his night table (undoubtedly enjoying its brief respite from work), and brought it up at an angle to his chin.
He could see it clearly now and up close -- a little, red boil-like structure, slightly itchy and looking ready to burst at any moment like an overheated balloon. A breathy hiss passed between the blonde's dry lips.
What do I do, what do I do?! He had never, ever had a zit before. Malfoys did not get blemishes. It wasn't in their genes, nor was it within their spectra of tolerance. They did not get pimples. And more to the point, the best looking member of the family -- Draco Malfoy (need you ask?) -- did...not...get...ZITS!
"It's all right," he gasped in an attempt to calm himself. "It will go away. It won't be there tomorrow...."
Suddenly, he felt quite ill. His brow furrowed deeply, casting his dark grey eyes in shadow.
Sure, Draco's appearance was very important to him, and he was a narcissistic bastard (though with looks like his, who could blame him?). But really, this was a bit silly, getting sick over a stupid pimple.
He tried once more to pull himself together, attempting to ward off hyperventilation by taking deep, guttural breaths. But that queer ache in his stomach remained. He gagged as he felt the acid rise at the back of his throat.
"All right, so no blowjobs tonight...," he whimpered, holding his stomach as he laid down on top of his forest green duvet.
He must have had a fever; he was quite rapidly developing chills, and he was beginning to sweat -- another thing Malfoys did not do.
Two in one day...hmm. Maybe I should go see Madame Pomfrey. Think I might actually be sick.
He groaned as he slipped out of bed and hurried to the bathroom. He grabbed a stall and promptly lost his breakfast (fortunately, he had been too lazy to bother with lunch). Deal breaker. He was sick.
He had been sick plenty in the past, but each of those instances basically boiled down to an odd sleep-deprived, motion-sickness, otherwise known as ditching. But seriously ill? No. It was time to go. He picked himself up off the bathroom floor with some difficulty and exited his stall. And headed straight for the infirmary.
Once he finally reached the facility's sitting room, the wait was negligible. Madame Pomfrey had just finished with a third year whose arm was covered in bubotuber puss lacerations.
Draco grinned mockingly at the injured kid as he walked by. Wouldn't want to be that poor, pathetic son of a bitch, he thought with a short laugh. This only served to make his stomach rumble menacingly.
Madame Pomfrey narrowed her eyes as soon she spotted him. Draco tried to narrow his eyes back, but they only fell completely shut as he winced, his stomach churning once more.
"Can I help you with something Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco scowled at her. "Yes! This is the bleeding infirmary isn't it?! You're supposed to help me...," he trailed off miserably as a chill ran up his spine. "Uhhgh...I'm going to die."
"Mr. Malfoy, if you would calm down...I'm sure it's nothing all that serious. I will examine you and give you a diagnosis. I'm sure it's just the flu or one of the other bugs that are going around."
Draco growled. "I feel like shit, I'm going to die in three minutes. Just give me something to fix it, dammit!"
"Well! I must warn you again, Mr. Malfoy; I do not tolerate that kind of language here. You are ill, so I will overlook this one instance, but do it again, and I promise you'll be recovering on your own, without magical intervention."
"Just...oh, fuck--"
Madame Pomfrey watched as the boy's eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, and his legs went limp, causing him to collapse into a rumpled heap on the ground.
When Draco regained consciousness, he found himself in a bed. An infirmary bed with infirmary white sheets tucked in around his infirmary robe clad body. Madame Pomfrey must have put him to bed and changed him while he had been out. Draco shuddered. He halted his thought process for a moment and sat up. Blinking tiredly, he took a look around.
"Oh, good. You're up."
Draco turned his attention towards the office at the other end of the infirmary and saw Madame Pomfrey heading his way, carrying a tray, on which sat a nice big goblet full of some unknown steaming substance.
She put the tray down on the table next to Draco's bed and looked down at him with her hands on her hips. "You've been out for nearly twenty minutes. What I want to know is what you did to yourself that you should faint like that. Because your illness is, as I said before, not all that serious. I know for a fact you are not particularly vulnerable to fainting spells."
He shrugged. "Well...I didn't have any lunch. And I threw up before I got here. And I've got a fever. I think I have a right to pass out if I like. I'm practically on my death bed!"
Madame Pomfrey let out an exasperated gasp. "Well! No wonder. A boy your age shouldn't be skipping meals. Especially when you're ill."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Getting sick really wasn't on my itinerary today. It was sort of a last minute thing, and I had absolutely no time to plan; my, how embarrassing!"
"You might wish to watch your back-talk Mr. Malfoy. We'll be spending a lot of time together."
Draco's eyes widened. "What? Why, what's wrong with me? I'm really dying? But you said I wasn't!"
"You're not dying!" she groaned for the millionth time. "What you have contracted is a highly contagious virus which requires a stint of quarantine. And that is all."
The cold look in Draco's eyes was enough to tell Madame Pomfrey how he felt about that idea. But he decided to voice it anyway. "You can't quarantine me as if I were some kind of rabid Hippogriff! This is outrageous, you don't even know what you're talking about! You're doing it on purpose! You just want to make me suffer. When I tell my father about this treatment--"
"Draco, please, that is the most ridiculous list of accusations I have ever heard. I am not trying to punish you or torture you," she interrupted in a calm voice. "You need only stay here for a week or two. Your condition is quite serious, though not fatal."
Draco's brow dipped with worry. "What is my 'condition' exactly?"
"You have contracted Varicella zoster, or in layman's terms...a simple case of chicken pox."
"Huh?" queried Draco, shaking his head in confusion. "I haven't been near any goddamned poultry to catch that. Whatever that is. What kind of plebian country bumkin do you take me for? Chicken pogs, indeed!"
The matron sighed. She was obviously a very patient woman, too patient for her own good. Draco meant to give her hell, the bitch, diagnosing him with all kinds of weird tropical diseases that no one had ever heard of. Fuck, she probably made that particular one up herself.
"It's chicken P-O-X. And it really has nothing to do with chickens. It is a highly contagious virus, almost unknown in the wizarding world but quite common amongst the muggle populations. How you caught it, I haven't the slightest," she paused to examine the blank, pasty look on the boy's face. "Have you been to a hospital lately?"
Draco shook his head.
"Have you been near anyone with similar symptoms?"
"No," he replied flatly.
"Well, it only spreads through direct contact, bodily fluids, and aerosol when in close proximity." She paused once more staring at him intently. Draco chastised himself for squirming slightly under her gaze. She was nothing compared to him, he reminded himself. Put her in her place.
But then he noticed the quiver of her lips as she attempted to contain an obvious smile. Draco glared at her. No one laughs at a Malfoy's misfortune and gets away with it. Goddamnit, what the hell was so funny?
"Well, the other common way to catch it...," she paused for dramatic effect, "You wouldn't happen to have been in contact with any young children lately have you?" The smirk broke free on her lips.
Draco's eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped. Children?
"Please answer the question Mr. Malfoy. We must determine where you contracted this unfortunate malady."
Oh, she was going to get it. With a fucking smile on her face...she questioned him while grinning like the idiot she was. She thought it was funny, did she? She would regret it by the end of the week, Draco promised himself.
Instead of answering her taunting question, Draco narrowed his eyes and leveled a question of his own. "You said wizards don't get it. Those kids were from wizarding families. How is it that I caught this thing from people who allegedly don't have it?"
"I didn't say it wasn't possible. I said it was rare. Most muggle children get it when they're young, and only recently has it begun to affect our own youth.
Draco's eyes narrowed a smidgen more.
Muggles were spreading their diseases around the wizarding population, and people had the gall to call him a bigot for disapproving? It was a matter of safety.
We should burn them all, he decided. Or at least the ones going around spreading chicken pox. That was logical. Stupid muggle-loving politicians; always going on about muggles' harmless, gentle natures. Talking them up as creatures that deserved the wizarding world's protection and cooperation. Just because muggle-loving happened to be en vogue at the moment. The nation's safety wasn't a popularity contest! The Malfoys would never give in to such petty political pressures; The Malfoys were real wizards.
Fucking traitors. Pitying Mudbloods and muggles while he, a pureblood, was ill with a deadly muggle disease. Muggle Protection indeed! Some people had no sense of pride. Bastards.
"Do you mean to tell me that those little shits gave this to me?!" Draco raged at last.
"Language, Mr. Malfoy!"
Draco glared at the nurse. "Well don't just stand there. Cure me already!" he snapped impatiently.
Madame Pomfrey frowned. "It's not quite that simple. There is no magical cure for it."
"WHAT?!"
The matron put her hands on the hyperventilating boy's shoulders and shook him hard. "Calm down Malfoy! Breath for god's sake! You're going to be fine!"
Draco took another moment or two to right himself before resuming his glaring. "Well?" he asked shortly, still panting from his episode of panic.
"There is no quick cure. I can treat the symptoms, but you will still require the one to two weeks in quarantine. Other than that, all we can do is let the virus run its course."
Draco sat, blinking blankly. That was it then. He'd be staying in the infirmary for the next two weeks of his privileged, though growing shittier by the second, life. He sighed and scratched his chin, sinking into deep thought.
"NO!"
The blond started and reeled back, his petulant speculations on missing the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend flitting away to be consumed in the cloud of confusion that permeated his head.
"Don't scratch. That's one thing you should not do," said Madame Pomfrey.
"Huh?" said Draco, looking, for once, meek and unassuming. He touched his chin self-consciously, his fingers feathering over the small bump.
"It will only scar if you pop it. You'll only make it worse."
"My zit?" Draco asked, squinting his eyes in puzzlement as he tried in vain to look down at his chin. "You mean this is part of this 'chicken pox?'"
A sly smile lit the nurse's face as she gazed with amusement at her patient. "Yes. Yes, it is."
"Oh." Draco frowned. "Erm...what are the other symptoms?" he asked. Though he didn't really want to know.
The bump on his chin was bad enough. But things could always get worse. That was one thing he'd learned during his time at Hogwarts. And today was turning into an exquisite case in point. Next, he'd be sprouting unsightly spare appendages and growing purple hair out of his ears or something equally ridiculous.
Draco's reluctance to confront his illness seemed to amuse the nurse, for she let out a cheery laugh. "It's not so bad. It's just like having the flu. Fever, fatigue, neusea. I can give you potions for all of those. But we don't want you spreading it, so you'll stay here in the infirmary for as long as it takes you to get better."
"All this over a bloody pimple?!"
The nurse laughed again. Well, this is getting old, Draco mused, folding his arms over his chest with indignation.
"Chicken Pox, Mr. Malfoy. You'll have your homework for the week brought to you. Or if you feel it would be less stressful and in turn more inducive to a speedy recovery, you may go home as well--"
"No!"
The matron raised an eyebrow at the boy, causing a slight blush to tinge his cheeks.
"I mean, that won't be necessary." No, not necessary. But detrimental to his health, yes most likely. Less stressful indeed. What would his father say when he found out his son had a muggle disease? What would that imply?
Like hell I'm going home. No, the infirmary is good enough for me. He shook his head and added outloud in a threatening tone, "You can't tell anybody...not anybody...even my parents, understand?"
"If that's what you'd like. It's really not serious enough to require me to contact your family."
Draco gave her a single nod and slumped in his bed. Now he could relax. A whole two weeks to do nothing. That wouldn't be so bad.
"Now, drink that potion," Madame Pomfrey nodded towards the goblet sitting on his nighttable. "It should put you out until evening, in time for dinner. Then we can get some nourishment into you. Right now you should rest."
Draco nodded curtly, shooting murderous looks at the steaming potion.
"Good." And with that final word, the woman turned and headed back to her office.
Draco sighed, pulling the covers up around him. Chicken Pox. Whoever heard of such a thing. It sounded like some kind of curse, 'a pox on your poultry!' But then Madame Pomfrey did tell him that it had nothing to do with chickens at all.
How confusing it all was. He sighed once more and picked up his mirror from the side table. The silver handle rested in his left hand with a familiar weightiness while the cool metal shine of the mirror's face comforted him. A feeling of calm descended over his bedridden form. At least he'd had the presence of mind, even in his haste, to slip the darn thing into his pocket before leaving the dormitory.
Suffering through a week without his mirror would have proved quite stressful and setback his already diminished health, he was sure. It was not something he was prepared to live without, this mirror. Thank the heavens above, his memory allowed him that bit of lucidity while he was hurling into a porcelain bowl -- but then, how could he ever forget something so important?
Draco settled himself back into the pillows he'd pulled up against the headboards for back support and raised the mirror to his face. The pimple or chicken pox -- whatever Pomfrey had said -- was unfortunately still visible, sitting on his chin and destroying the homogenic smoothness of his skin.
Stupid thing. He touched it, bringing his free hand to his face and running his index finger along the line of his jaw all the way to his damaged chin.
If the little bastard scarred, someone somewhere was going to pay; of that much, Draco was certain. He'd get McGonagall, Ms. Lake, Madame Pomfrey, and, if possible, Dumbledore fired. Maybe that Clive fellow too, stupid oblivious ponce. They would all pay dearly for their sins against the Malfoy name.
Draco squirmed restlessly in the uncomfortable hospital bed. Formerly, whenever Draco got up the will to tell his father that the whole planet was out to get him, Lucius Malfoy always brushed his ranting off as paranoia.Well, let the old man call me paranoid now! He'll be sorry when I die of this. Stupid Father. I'm no fucking schizoid!
Draco harrumphed and glared at his reflection in the silver glass. His left eye twitched before going comically wide right along with the other one.
After a moment's pause, he opened his mouth. And let out a reverberating shriek.
The mirror dropped from his hands and broke into a gazillion pieces on the floor just as Madame Pomfrey came running.
"What is it? What's happened?" she asked, stately concern lining her tone.Draco looked up at her with wide, unusually bright eyes. He opened his mouth but shut it again promptly. He tried again, his jaw working soundlessly for a moment before he finally managed to vocalize his concerns.
"T-there's...there's ANOTHER one!" Draco cried, looking for all the world like a frightened lab mouse that had just discovered an ear growing out of its back.
"There's another what, Mr. Malfoy?" asked the nurse.
"Another...thing on my face...the PIMPLE!"
Madame Pomfrey rolled her eyes. "All right then, let's have a look."
Draco didn't like the bothered tone of her voice -- she spoke as if she saw him as some kind of burden -- but refrained from saying a word as she stepped forward and took his face into her hands.
She tilted his chin up and looked around in the vicinity of the little malignant monsters. "Is that what's got you all worked up?" the matron asked in an amused tone.
She stepped back and smiled at him.
"WELL?!" said Draco.
"It's really nothing to be worried about. It's just the chicken pox. Boils are a prevalent symptom."
"What?" Draco asked with a shake of his head.
Pomfrey laughed and answered in an even more cheerful voice, "As a matter of fact, by tonight they should cover you all over."
"My whole body?!" Draco said, his tone thin and trembling.
The nurse nodded.
"This is so unfair," Draco murmured, folding his arms tightly over his chest and sulking.
Madame Pomfrey sighed and shook her head. "Well at least you've accepted it. As for fairness...I'm afraid viruses are equal opportunity agents."
Draco merely half grunted-half huffed and resumed staring angrily straight ahead at the invisible particles of air that had undoubtedly played an insidious role in this deprivation.
"Take the potion and get some sleep. You'll feel better by dinner," said Madame Pomfrey kindly before taking her leave once more.
Draco grasped the goblet in his hands and glared at it a moment before downing the whole thing in one go. He hacked and fell back against the sheets. In no time at all he drifted off into a deep sleep, dreams of Giant Child-Eating Chickens and broken mirrors dancing their way across the ethereal plane of his mind.
***
Indeed, by dinnertime, Draco awoke to find himself veritably covered in itchy little bumps. Remaining surprisingly calm, he proceeded to crawl out of bed and walk to the bathroom.
Unfortunately the large full-length mirror contained within was just too much for him and he shrieked again.
Predictably Madame Pomfrey came running and gave him a lecture on 'crying wolf' before ordering him back to bed. The blond was so utterly stupefied by his spotty appearance that he didn't even glare as he complied.
"Dinner hasn't started yet, but it will soon. Since you're already awake, a plate will be brought in for you. I would keep you company, but I have work to do."
Draco nodded blankly.
A few minutes after the matron left, a house-elf brought in a plate of food.
"Soup? That's all I get?" Draco said, eying the rich brown broth in a bowl sitting on the plate that was garnished with a few vegetables.
The house-elf shrugged and popped out of sight.
Grudgingly Draco picked up a spoon and finished off his meager dinner. He felt slightly better with the warm liquid in his stomach. Slightly dozy.
"Bitch probably laced it with sleeping potion," grumbled Draco to himself.
He placed the bowl on the table and swung his legs over the side of the bed to the floor. After a moment's pause to compose himself and regain his courage, he stood and treaded over to the bathroom once more.
The mirror was huge and mocking on the wall. He avoided its perverse gaze, sidling past sideways with his back to its reflective surface.
He reached the safety of the first stall and relieved himself. Once more dragging up his virtually nonexistent courage, he stepped out and faced his fears.
The shriek got lost somewhere in the back of his throat as he looked at his reflection, grimacing.
Madame Pomfrey wasn't shitting him; they really were all over. Little red bumps, boils. Draco stepped up close to the mirror and began to strip, which didn't take long considering all he was wearing was an infirmary robe and his boxers.
He pirouetted around, twisting at all odd angles to get a good look at the damage.
It was bad. Everywhere. Draco took a deep breath. There was nothing he could do, so why get upset. At least it wasn't permanent.
Was it?
His eyes went wide just as Madame Pomfrey walked in. She clicked her tongue at him as he scurried to cover himself up, blushing bright red all the while.
Once he was fully clothed, he turned to the matron. "This...this isn't permanent, is it?"
Madame Pomfrey shook her head. "They'll go away. Though if you pop them and make them bleed, they may scar. So no scratching."
Draco's brow furrowed, and suddenly he felt itchy over his entire body. Damn her, I'd forgot that they were so bothersome. Just had to bring it up didn't she.
"Now Mr. Malfoy, back to bed. It's getting late. I left some more sleeping potion on the table if you need it."
Draco nodded before wordlessly padding out of the room and back to bed.
Next Chapter: Draco gets a special midnight visitor. And finds a new way to torture his enemies. And for anyone who was wondering, this will most likely end up as a Ron and Draco story. Thanks for reading!
