Chapter Three: Unwell

Harry lay on his bed, velvet curtains drawn, fighting off nausea and anxiety. Was he feeling sick to his stomach because he was anxious or was it still that slightly sick feeling he'd been battling all week? He wasn't sure. He looked at his clock and saw that it was two in the morning. He sighed, wondering if he'd ever get any sleep. Lying in bed with nothing to do but think about what Dumbledore had told him was driving him up the wall. He decided that he'd feel better if he got up and took a walk. He tossed his invisibility cloak over his head and slipped out from behind the portrait of the sleeping Fat Lady. Once out of the Gryffindor Common Room he paced the halls restlessly, unconsciously heading towards the Astronomy tower. He always went there to sit in one of the high windows and watch the stars when he needed to clear his head.

He began to notice that the farther he went the worse he felt. The flame from the torches started to blur into orange-red streaks and the features of the paintings on the walls were smeared so badly he could barely make them out. His ever-increasing nausea was joined by a splitting headache. He had just enough time to picture Filch's expression if he came across a random puddle of vomit in the hall in the middle of the night before he decided he'd better sit down. Maybe Filch would step in it. Leaning against the wall, Harry started to slide slowly down it, consciousness lost before he even hit the floor, unaware that his cloak and slid off his shoulders into a silver pile on the floor.

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Draco Malfoy ran his hands through his hair, uncharacteristically not caring that it now stood up in places. He stalked the silent halls like a sleek, predatory panther, wearing only a navy blue t-shirt and black flannel pants. He usually wasn't in the habit of wandering around after curfew just for the heck of it, but he had to get away from everything. He had to get away from Crabbe and Goyle who, under their fathers' instructions, were pressuring him to pledge his loyalty to the Dark Lord. He had to get away from his father's constant owls demanding what in the hell he thought he was doing. He had to get away from his schoolwork, which was all he had to keep his mind off things, except for Quidditch of course. It was only the first week of school, but he and Granger were already tied for top grades; Merlin save him. His only comfort on that subject was how furious it must be making her to be tied with him. It would do her some good—she needed some decent competition. His godfather, Snape, was the main person who kept him sane. Draco knew that the Dark Lord and Lucius were probably hounding Snape to help convert Draco, but no matter what Snape told them, he was doing no such thing. Pansy also helped some. She had always been his best girl friend—his only friend at the moment—and had also turned away from the Dark Lord's calling. She, at least, had her parents support in her decision, though Draco had to smile when he remember the look on his mother's face when he told her. Tears of joy had filled her beautiful blue eyes, and she had hugged him close, whispering, "I wish you luck, my son. Perhaps one of us can escape this chain of slavery and pain." He couldn't remember the last time anyone had hugged him. It had taken him by surprise. He knew she feared that the Dark Lord would kill him for his defiance, and he planned on living as long as possible just to prove to her it could be done. But she was proud of him and that was what mattered. Dumbledore had promised him sanctuary but Draco never truly felt safe, even in the walls of Hogwarts. How could he, when he had five loyal Death Eaters sleeping in the room next door? Thankfully, Dumbledore had foreseen the danger of putting him back in his old dorm room, and had made Draco Head Boy so that he could use the Head room. Draco was sure that was the only reason; there was no way he could actually have made Head Boy after all the trouble he'd gotten into in the past for fighting with Wonder Boy.

He knew he wasn't really alone, but sometimes—especially late at night—it sure felt that way. He decided to head to the Astronomy tower. Perhaps if the stress got any worse he could jump out one of the windows, he thought grimly. That would be letting the Dark Lord win, though, and he couldn't have that. As he turned a corner, he thought he saw the figure of a person, and he ducked back instinctively. It hadn't looked like Filch, however, so Draco peered back around the wall. It looked as though there was a person slumped against the far wall, and they weren't moving. It was a male person, and almost certainly another student. Draco approached the figure carefully, his silver-gray eyes taking in bare feet, then green-and-blue plaid pajama pants, then a white shirt, then messy black hair—it was Wonder Boy Potter, of all people. Of course. Draco sighed but he couldn't just leave him there. He put his palm against the other boy's forehead, and winced. He was burning up.

"Potter," he whispered, "Hey, Potter. Wake up." He shook the boy slightly, to no response. After a slight hesitation and a deep sigh, Draco bent to pick Potter up. He noticed a silvery gleam on the floor next to Potter's hand and, after running it through his fingers, realized that it was an invisibility cloak. That explained a lot of things. He stuffed the cloak in one of his pockets, then scooped Potter up in his arms. He was a lot heavier than he looked, though, come to think of it, Draco wasn't sure he'd seen Potter much at all this year. Perhaps he'd gained some weight over the summer. Miracles did happen. He adjusted the Potter so that the other boy's head rested on Draco's shoulder. The black-haired boy turned his face into Draco's warmth and groaned softly. Draco's heart stopped, and he froze. After letting out a rather shaky breath and refusing to think about why he had reacted so forcefully, Draco started heading down to the infirmary. He realized that it was going to look very peculiar if anyone saw him carrying the unconscious Boy Who Lived in his arms, but it would look worse if someone found him dead in the hallway and somehow figured out that Draco had been there, too. That's what he told himself, anyway. He refused to think he might actually be worried about Potter's health. He lumbered along under Potter's surprising weight, having to put him down and rest every now and then. After what seemed like ages, he lugged Wonder Boy to the door of the infirmary.

"Madam Pomfrey?" he called softly, trying not to wake up any other patients. There was no answer and the infirmary was dark. Well, it was nearly three o'clock in the morning. Even the indomitable Madam Pomfrey must sleep every now and then. He laid Potter down on the nearest empty bed and knocked quietly on the door to the nurse's quarters. After a moment he heard "Coming, I'm coming." and the shuffling of slippered feet. A very groggy-looking Madam Pomfrey opened the door in a purple terrycloth robe and matching slippers and nightcap.

"Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, squinting her eyes to get a good look at him. "What's wrong?"
"It's not me, Madam Pomfrey, it's Potter."

"Mr. Potter?" she said, looking slightly more alarmed. Oh sure, she worried when it was Wonder Boy who was sick. She hadn't seemed particularly concerned when she had thought there was something the matter with him. "What happened?"

"I don't know," he said launching into the story he had come up with. "I was heading down here to visit you because I wasn't feeling well, and I saw him slumped against the wall. He must've been heading here, too, but he didn't make it in time." It was mostly true, except that neither he nor Potter had been anywhere near the path to the infirmary. He led her over to the bed where Potter was sprawled. The nurse put a hand to Potter's head and Draco heard her sharp intake of breath. She opened his eyes and shined a small flashlight in each one and opened his mouth to look at his tongue.

"Take off his shirt," she said suddenly. "I've got to go get some supplies."

"What?" Draco asked, startled.

"Take off his shirt; we have to get him cooled down."
"Can't we do that magically?"

"Not in this case," she said over her shoulder, and then she was gone. Draco stared at his archenemy for a long moment. He'd hated this boy's guts for almost seven years, and now he was expected to strip him? Draco heard Potter let out another soft moan. Flushing slightly, he took hold of the bottom of Potter's shirt and yanked it over his head. He had some trouble getting his arms out of it, but once he the shirt was lying on the floor Draco couldn't help but stare.

Potter had most definitely developed some muscle over the summer, which explained why he had been so unexpectedly heavy. Draco could see the definition of the muscles in his arms and stomach. He must have spent a lot of time outside without a shirt on; his skin was a dark bronze, contrasted by the pale white line of skin just above his pajama pants. He imagined that the rest of the skin below that line was the same creamy color—whoa Draco. He shook his head. He so should not be going there. He had a hard time believing that the perfect Wonder Boy would veer from the straight and narrow—most specifically the straight—so there wasn't much sense in fantasizing. Even if that wasn't true, it was Potter, for crying out loud. But, Merlin save him, he looked hot. In more than one sense, he noticed with a frown. Already his skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. As if reading his mind, Madam Pomfrey reappeared.

"Here's a bucket of water and a washcloth, I need you to wipe him down. I've got to find a few more things. I haven't had a case of this in a long time."

"Is 'this' contagious?" Draco asked nervously.

Pomfrey gave him a once-over. "You're pureblood, correct?"

"Of course," he said indignantly.

"Then you'll be fine. It only affects those with Muggle blood."

"Wait, I thought Potter's parents were both magical."

"They were, but Lilly Potter was Muggleborn. All it takes is a little blood, it doesn't matter how many generations past." She was gone again. Draco looked at the washcloth in his hand for a moment, then dipped it in the water. Why me? crossed his mind as he wiped the wet cloth down Potter's chest. At the first touch of the cool water, Potter moaned again. He was being a thoroughly distracting patient. He slid the washcloth down his stomach and watched the little trails of water disappear into the waistband of his pants. His fingers 'accidentally' brushed Potter's chest and he shivered. Damn, he must be more tired than he thought. He ignored the fact that he felt wide-awake and alert—and that went for all of him. Madam Pomfrey finally came back, and Draco breathed a sigh of relief. He was hoping she'd let him go now, but no such luck.

"Here, help me sit him up, I need to get some of this medicine down him." Draco watched as she twisted off the lid of a small plastic bottle containing a thick red liquid. Draco picked up the box it came in and frowned at it.

"Isn't this Muggle medicine?"

"Yes, it is," the nurse answered as they raised Harry's head. Madam Pomfrey measured out the liquid in a little plastic cup and tipped it down Harry's throat. "He's got a Muggle virus. It would have been as insignificant as the common Muggle cold if he'd come to me when he first started experiencing symptoms. Of course Mr. Potter has never had a great concern for his own health, so he let it become a full-blown flu virus. At this point, magical methods will have no affect. It's only his Muggle blood that carries the disease, so he has to be treated like a Muggle."

"Um... Madam Pomfrey?" Draco said suddenly, motioning to the still-unconscious Potter. Instead of sweating, like he had been before, he was now shivering violently. Draco had a moment of panic, wondering if he'd cooled him down too much when he'd been wiping him with the washcloth.

"That's all right; that's normal," the nurse reassured him.

"Shouldn't we warm him up, or something?"

"You should get some sleep," Madam Pomfrey told him, directing him to the bed next to Potter. "I'll keep an eye on Mr. Potter." Then her severe tone softened slightly. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter's condition might have been much more dangerous if you hadn't helped him." Draco shrugged, uncomfortable with praise, and crawled into bed, willing himself to fall asleep.