It was Pansy, the League's vice-president (of course), who found him.

The assembled upper-year Slytherins had waited a good half-hour for their leader to show up, and when he had not, Pansy had called the meeting to order without him, and had presided over it herself, which was something she had never previously had the opportunity to do. She rather relished her time in the limelight that afternoon, but the whole time a niggling little worry was tugging at the back of her mind. It was just so out of character for Draco to skive off a meeting like this. And he had been acting so distant the night before- he had vanished from her after-curfew Valentine party not even an hour into it, and hadn't been seen again since.

What was wrong with her intended?

So just as soon as the meeting concluded, around five o'clock, she made her way to the Head Boy's room and knocked. Receiving no answer, her concern increased a notch, and she let herself in. It was a sign of just how out of it Draco had been that he had neglected to set locking charms about his door, as was usually his custom; he didn't ordinarily like being surprised by anyone, and Pansy least of all.

The first thing that Pansy registered was that the room felt like a blast furnace. Then she saw Draco and a startled cry escaped her. He was so clearly very, very sick. He was lying half off the bed, clad in a white tee- shirt and green boxers (he had kicked off the pants some hours ago) that were both soaked through with sweat, clinging to him. The blankets were twisted and tangled about his legs, his fair hair pasted to his brow with perspiration. He tossed his head fitfully, muttering incoherently as she approached the bed.

"Draco?" she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

Draco's head snapped toward her and those remarkable pale eyes of his opened- but he didn't seem to see her at all. He seemed to be looking right through her.

"Granger?" he croaked.

Pansy recoiled a little at this. He thought she was that bushy haired, know- it-all mudblood bitch? This must be bad.

"No, sweetheart," she said, crossing the last bit of distance that separated them and seizing him, pulling him fully back onto the bed. "There are no nasty mudbloods here. It's me, Pansy. You'll be all right now, love."

She seated herself beside him on the edge of the bed, sucked in a deep breath, and put all of her considerable lung power to work hollering for Crabbe and Goyle. She didn't notice how, even in the throes of delirium, Draco winced away from the sound of her shrilly raised voice. A few minutes later, the approach of lumbering footsteps told her that she had achieved her goal; the pair were on their way.

She had been planning on taking Draco up to the hospital wing, supported between Crabbe and Goyle, but changed her plan quickly given Draco's reaction when they entered the room. He issued what could only be described as a war cry, and attempted to launch him himself at them bodily. In his severely weakened state, all he managed to do was to fall halfway off the bed again, but even as Pansy pulled him back and up once more, he was still straining toward the confused pair of goons, and his intentions were clearly not friendly. So Pansy ordered them to go and fetch Madam Pomfrey instead, and right quick if you please, then settled down to wait with her betrothed until the mediwitch arrived.

The second Crabbe and Goyle left, Draco reached up and cupped her face in his hand. As she leaned down over him, pleasantly surprised by this unusually intimate gesture, he ran his fingers first over her left cheekbone, then across her lower lip, caressing her, but more than that- it was almost as if he were inspecting for damage, or something. There was a burning intensity behind those quartz-colored eyes that she had never seen before.

Fever-induced; it had to be.

"Draco-" she began, but he cut her off.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. And then again, "I'm sorry. They'll answer to me." Then, as she tried to make some sense of these strange words, he blinked, and finally seemed to see her- the first time she felt like he had really seen her since she had entered his room. He let his hand fall away.

"Water," he croaked.

She made a great show of fussing over him, but was secretly quite pleased to have found him in this state. For one thing, it explained why he had been acting so stand-offish the night before. He must have been feeling ill even then; no wonder he hadn't wanted to dance. It was a relief to have that explained away, and, she thought rather hopefully, maybe he had even been attempting to protect her- not wanting her to catch whatever it was he had.

Plus, the fussing itself was enjoyable, and something he never would have put up with under ordinary circumstances. Not one to tolerate being babied, her Draco. (She remembered back to third year, when that horrible beast of Hagrid's had nearly ripped his arm off, and how scared he had been, and how he had welcomed her presence in the hospital wing when she had run to see him after class. But he had grown and changed a lot since then.) The only thing that disquieted her was the fact that by the time Madam Pomfrey arrived, he had called her 'Granger' twice more.

The first time she had thought it a fluke, but now it became clear that something about the mudblood was troubling him. She couldn't imagine what it was. She racked her brain, trying to think whether she had witnessed any recent confrontations between the two of them, but was unable to come up with anything. Well, she'd ask him about it when he was recovered; he was in no shape to explain anything to her now.

Then Madam Pomfrey was there, with Professor Snape in tow for good measure, bending over Draco with a worried expression on her face, clucking to herself as she examined him, Snape hovering, silent and foreboding, at the foot of the bed; his expression as stony as ever, the spark of concern in his dark eyes unreadable to all save those who knew him best. Draco would have recognized it, had he been in any condition to register his mentor's presence; Pansy did not.

Crabbe and Goyle, having dutifully alerted the mediwitch and their Head of House, did not return, showing, perhaps, rather more intelligence than they were generally given credit for...at least, in the inherently Slytherin arena of self-preservation.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head and, without so much as turning, held a hand out behind her toward Snape. Silently and unhesitatingly, he placed a small blue vial in the mediwitch's hand; she uncorked it and, raising Draco's head from his sweat-dampened pillow, poured the contents down his throat.

"What-?" Pansy began.

"Temperature reducing potion," Snape said curtly.

Madam Pomfrey nodded, still clucking away. "What this child needs now is rest, and plenty of it," she said. "Also water- he needs to stay hydrated. He should manage to right himself with the help of the potion, but someone ought to sit with him through the night, and I absolutely insist that he remain on bed rest tomorrow; no classes whatsoever. I'll look him over again tomorrow night before pronouncing him fit for class on Tuesday. Now who will stay with him?"

Pansy's heart absolutely leapt at this opportunity, but before she had the chance to volunteer, Snape said, in a tone of complete finality, "I will sit with him."

Pansy's face fell almost comically at that, though of course she was unaware of this. Snape, seeing her reaction, said coolly, "I can see what you are thinking, Miss Parksinson, and you are to be commended for the concern you show. Already Draco is in your debt for finding him and summoning help. But now he needs someone beside him who will be able to react in a crisis; if his fever spikes, for instance. You have done all that could be expected from you. Now go-" his eyes flicked to the green numbers that hung steadily above Draco's nightstand- "before you miss dinner entirely."

Pansy had no choice but to obey, though she left the room slowly, and with many a backward glance. Madam Pomfrey followed her out.

Finding himself alone with Draco, Snape first banked the fire with a wave of his hand, instantly reducing the amount of heat it was putting out to a more tolerable level. He then turned his attention to the sick boy, peeling away the sweat-drenched blankets that had been tangled about his legs and transfiguring the whole soggy mess of them into a single clean down comforter, which he proceeded to tuck around Draco with a gentleness Harry Potter would never have believed.

Heaving a deep sigh, the potions master then drew over a chair from Draco's tidy desk and seated himself beside his star student, his protégé- the boy he loved like he imagined he would have loved a son of his own. He had known Draco, after all, practically from birth. And never had he seen him this ill. Draco typically was not prone to getting sick. He had been fine yesterday; Snape had seen him at the Valentine Feast in the Great Hall, holding court at the Slytherin table, as usual....

What in the bloody hell had happened between then and now?

He conjured a basin of cool water and a soft cloth out of thin air, dipped the cloth in the water, leaned forward and set it on Draco's forehead. Instantly, Draco's eyes opened and his hand flashed out; he gripped Snape's wrist and held on with a surprising strength.

"Draco?" Snape said quietly, startled but not showing it.

"Professor," Draco said, his pale eyes burning with the same intensity Pansy had witnessed earlier, "it wasn't right. No matter...no matter who she is, it just wasn't right. It wasn't..." he trailed off, and his eyes drifted shut again, but still he held on to Snape's arm. "Blood is blood," he said, his voice fading to a hoarse whisper. "Hers...mine...blood...is blood. It's all the same."

As Snape was puzzling over this statement (did he dare to hope that it meant what it sounded like it meant? He had almost given up hope of seeing Draco become anything more in life than just another of Voldemort's mindless followers, taking countless others with him as he hurled himself toward an early grave. Could it be that this boy- a boy he loved so deeply it hurt sometimes- may yet see the light? 'Blood is blood, it's all the same'...words he had never thought to hear from Draco's mouth, but welcome words indeed) Draco's eyes opened once more. This time, however, they were sleepy, languid.

"Professor," he murmured, "did I catch it?"

"Catch what, Draco?" Snape asked.

"The snitch." Draco's tone was impatient, as if he couldn't believe Snape was being so dense. He finally released his grip on Snape's wrist and stretched out his arm, as if reaching for a snitch that only he could see. "I was diving...it was right there...right there. I was so close-" his brow furrowed. "But then Potter was there...I never even saw him coming...and he caught it, didn't he, professor? Potter always catches it."

Draco's hand fell back to the bed, and the look of resignation on his face twisted Snape's heart. Goddamn Harry Bloody Potter.

"No, Draco, not this time," he said quietly. "You caught it this time. You did well."

A small smile curved Draco's lips. "That's good," he whispered. "Father will be pleased."

Snape grimaced. He knew full well how hard Lucius was on the boy every time he lost to Potter. The taunts and sneers Draco had to endure from his own father, as if he weren't already hard enough on himself. He had even tried to decline the position of Slytherin Quidditch Captain when it had first been offered him last year, feeling, due to his repeated defeats at the hands of the Gryffindor boy wonder, that he hadn't earned the title. But his Housemates wouldn't hear of it and neither, as it turned out, would Lucius. A very strongly worded letter borne by express owl, detailing a Malfoy's familial duty to accept and use to full advantage every honor and title offered him had put an end to Draco's hesitation on that matter.

But this was no time to brood over Lucius' unrealistic expectations of, or frequent cruelty to, his son. Draco needed to be calmed, cared for, allowed to get the rest his body so badly needed in order to recover.

"Yes, he will be, Draco," he soothed. "He will be, and so am I. Now rest. I'll stay with you until you are well."

Draco blinked and for just an instant his eyes cleared; he seemed to be looking directly at his mentor- really seeing him- and his face held an expression of almost comical indignity.

"But I'm fine, professor," he said. "I don't get sick."

Then his eyes slipped shut and he was asleep before Snape could even begin to phrase a reply.

00000

Draco groaned as he woke, near noon on Monday. He was lying on his stomach with his face buried in one of his many pillows; with a grunt of effort he rolled himself onto his back. God, why was he so weak? He felt utterly drained- just the effort it had taken to push himself over left his arms shaking.

"Ye Gods," he muttered aloud in a rusty voice, his face creased into a frown, eyes still shut, "what in the hell happened?"

"I was rather hoping you could tell me that," said a familiar, gravelly voice from his bedside. "I've never seen you so sick. In fact, I don't believe I've ever previously seen you sick at all. So I'm most interested to hear what brought this on."

Draco's pale eyes snapped open, seeking the source of the voice; his mentor and longtime family friend. "Professor," he said, confusion evident in his expression, "I was sick?"

"Indeed," Snape said dryly. "Tell me, Draco, gifted medic that you are, what you would do for someone suffering from a temperature of Fahrenheit one hundred and five?"

"Temperature reducing potion," Draco answered automatically, "loads of water, an ice bath if it went any higher, and- and- wait a minute, a hundred and five?! You can't be serious."

Snape leaned forward, his seriousness written all over his face. "With your training, you should have damn well recognized how sick you were and asked for help," he growled, the anger in his voice making it more clear to Draco than words ever could that his mentor had been worried- no, more than worried, scared- and therefore had to be telling the truth about just how dangerous his condition had been.

"What in the hell were you thinking, Draco Herodotus Malfoy?" Snape continued. "If Miss Parkinson hadn't found you when she did, it is entirely possible that you could be dead right now."

"Pansy was in here?" Draco asked, his distaste clearly evident in both his voice and expression, levering himself up on his elbows and glancing about the room as though expecting to find her still lurking in one of the corners.

His reaction provoked Snape into the barest hint of a smile, despite his exasperation at Draco, who of all people should have bloody well known better how to care for himself. "Oh yes," he replied, "it was Miss Parkinson who came looking for you when you missed your meeting and, finding you here wracked by fever and in the throes of delirium, sent Crabbe and Goyle to alert Madam Pomfrey and myself. She was most anxious to stay and nurse you through the night," he continued, enjoying the look of horror that was spreading across Draco's face, "but I had the distinct impression that you would be...less than enthusiastic about that proposition if you'd had your wits about you. So I sent her off and stayed myself."

Draco collapsed back onto his pillows, his face almost comical in its utter dismay. He ran both hands through his sweat-dampened and sleep-rumpled hair. "Delirious," he muttered unhappily. "Delirious. Bloody hell. Did I say anything? Professor? What did I say?"

Snape leaned forward, looking even more somber and intense than was usual, and steepled his fingers under his chin. "About that, Draco...you did say some- rather curious things."

Draco's eyes slipped shut, a pained expression settling over his face as though Snape's words had been the confirmation of his worst fears. He began massaging his temples with the first two fingers of each hand, as though he were feeling a massive headache coming on. Without bothering to open his eyes again, he said in a flat, dead, tone, "look, Professor, whatever I may have said about Pansy, I know my duty and I will-"

"Not about Miss Parkinson," Snape cut him off. This surprised Draco enough that his eyes snapped open once more, fixing on the adult he trusted most in the world. "Not Pansy? What then?"

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me about one Hermione Granger of Gryffindor House?"

"Granger," Draco echoed, as his encounter with the Head Girl, the reason he had gotten sick in the first place, which he hadn't thought of since awakening, came rushing back in its every minute detail. "Granger. Aw, fuck. Granger."

"Would you care to elaborate on that, Draco?"

Draco paused, gathering his suddenly scattered thoughts and engaging in a quick inner debate over how much to tell his mentor. Snape, seeing his hesitation, decided to take the initiative in the matter.

"Miss Parkinson came back to check on you one more time before she went to bed last night. At that point she told me that while delirious, you had called her 'Granger' no less than three times. And something you said to me shortly after I arrived here certainly caught my attention. You said, and I quote, 'blood is blood. Mine- hers- it's all the same.' I can only assume that you were referring to Miss Granger then as well. Clearly something about her has been preying on your mind. You are under no obligation to reveal to me what that something is, but if you would care to...I shall offer you all the advice I know how."

"Blood," Draco whispered, sounding stricken, and looking suddenly a lot younger than his seventeen years, on account of the naked fear on his face, fear that he would not have allowed anyone but Snape to see. "All the same...oh no. Professor- you won't tell my father, will you? I was sick, I didn't know what I was-" he broke off and swallowed, hard. When he spoke again, his voice was raw- an almost painful sound. "He'll fucking kill me."

Snape sighed and reached a decision that he had been debating over all night long. "I won't tell him, Draco," he said, "you can rest assured of that- if you will do me the same courtesy. You must not, under any circumstances, repeat what I am about to say to you. Do you understand?"

Some of the upset left Draco's face, to be replaced by puzzled curiosity. "You know I can keep my mouth shut, Professor," he said simply.

Snape did know it. He trusted Draco implicitly.

"Listen well," he said quietly, holding Draco's pale gaze steadily with his dark one, "because I am only going to say this once. What you said in your delirium- blood is blood, it's all the same- Draco, truer words were never spoken." He paused for a moment, watching Draco's eyes widen with shock. "It is all the same, Draco," he repeated, "and if I had understood that when I was your age, I believe I would be a far happier man today. I don't expect you to accept what I've just told you out of hand- I understand that it goes against everything you've been raised to believe in and fight for. But think about it. And if you want to discuss this further, my door is always open to you, you know that. Now, however-" his eyes cut to the numbers that Draco's wand continued to project into the air- "I have just time enough to grab a bite to eat before meeting my afternoon class. Moronic lot of Hufflepuff third years."

He got to his feet, preparing to leave. "Pomfrey says that you are under strict orders to rest today," he said, on his way to the door. "She'll be by to check on you around dinner time. It certainly looks to me, however, as though I can expect to see you in class tomorrow; you seem much improved already. And Draco-" he met the blond boy's eyes once more from where he now stood with his hand on the knob- "kindly don't ever scare me like that again."

So saying, he swept through the door, closing it firmly behind him and leaving Draco staring at it, shell-shocked, his mind reeling.