Saturday, After Midnight…

Hermione was mad. Fuming mad. He'd tried to pull one over on her. Her! Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, and he'd tried to trick her!

Well, she wouldn't be falling for it again any time soon. No-sir-ee! She would not be manipulated by some conniving, spoiled little brat!

She turned beneath her covers again, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable.

But then, he had looked rather ill… maybe she was too harsh when she said those things?

NO! They were all true, every single word she'd said. He was such a weakling! He'd deserved everything she'd told him. …Hadn't he? OF COURSE HE HAD! "You're being stupid, 'Mione," she whispered to herself. "He's been mean to you since the day he met you. Let him get better on his own!"

…

…

She turned over again.

…

"That's it!" she yelled, throwing her covers away from her, stalking towards her door like a crazed woman with a mission. "I'm going to give him a piece of my mind," she vowed as she stomped down the stairs to their common room. "I'm going to tell him that he won't beat me, that I'll never listen to his lies…"

She broke off when she saw the empty sofa, and the resulting pile of lifeless limbs on the hearth by the fireplace, which flames had died out long before.

"…Again…? Malfoy? Are you alright?"

This time she didn't even get a grunt as a reply, just the quick, unsteady hitched breaths that hissed in through his mouth like they pained him.

She instantly moved to help him, but suspicion cut her off before she got any closer. What if this was just another trick? He'd expected her to come to him like an obedient puppy before, hadn't he? What if he'd expected this to happen too?

"Malfoy, if this is some trick, so help me…"

Just quick, laboured breath as an answer.

"Malfoy, you're scaring me. C'mon, Ferret, say something."

Was it just her, or were those breaths getting faster and more unsteady? He'd asphyxiate himself if this kept up…

One more step to make sure, then. "Malfoy, you're such a little wimp. And your hair is such a mess – messier than – than Crabbe or Goyle's! I should go get a camera, or something, and show it to all your friends – if you have any!"

No reaction.

Okay, if Hermione wasn't worried before, she definitely was now. She quickly made her way over to him and dropped to her knees, reaching for his face to turn him onto his back so she could see how bad he really was – and promptly snatched back her hand as though burnt.

Shocked, she hesitantly lowered her hand again to his forehead, and exhaled with misery.

He was burning up, far worse than she'd expected. And his symptoms… his symptoms weren't like those with the flu in the Hospital Wing. There was vomiting, there, and rashes, but Malfoy didn't seem to have either of those. In fact, if she didn't know better, she would even say that it may have been some sort of hex that made him this way…

He coughed slightly, very weakly, and that brought Hermione out of her reverie. Thinking of all she'd learned with Madame Promfrey, as you had to learn some semblance of Healing to research medicines, Hermione quickly whipped out her wand and levitated her patient to the sofa again, then raced to the bathroom between her room and his, grabbing a clean cloth on the way to the sink.

When she came back, she held a dripping, ice-cold cloth in her hands and gently laid it out on Malfoy's forehead, grimacing when his brow evened out with relief. No doubt he was in some sort of pain now, whether it be a headache or simple muscle aches from the cold, but Hermione couldn't try a relief spell while he had a fever.

Fevers were testy in the Wizarding world. Most healing spells required some link to the receiver's mind, which made comatose or psychologically-damaged patients very hard to work with, resulting in a low-success rate. Fevers that became so dangerously high usually came hand-in-hand with nightmares, and any magic on a receiver wracked with so much negative energy could end up with very bad results.

Hermione frowned as she grabbed Malfoy's wrist to get his pulse – which was fluttering far too quickly and far too weakly for her tastes – for his skin was, coupled with being clammy, absolutely freezing. She quickly thought about a warming spell, then drew a blank when she thought about whether or not she could do so.

She had the text floating in her mind's eye within a second. "When the patient is afflicted with a fever, the proper course of action would be to… to… to – what? Any magic allowed? Will it – further – addle his brains? What?!"

Biting her lip, Hermione struggled with what she should do, and then her problems resolved in an instant when she glanced down at the sofa, and her eyes met –

Hazed, pained, silver ones.

"Malfoy? Can you hear me?" She kneeled down beside the sofa near his head and gently mopped the cloth on his forehead, grimacing when she felt what had been an icy cloth now a worrying warm one.

He didn't seem to notice she was there, but kept staring up at the ceiling with confused and – was that a bit of fear she saw there? No, couldn't be – out-of-focus eyes.

"Malfoy? Ferret? Come on, say something," Hermione found herself urging again.

He remained frustratingly silent, and at first Hermione began to get doubts about his sickness again, until she saw a sight that made her freeze to the very bone.

Very slowly, she saw his hazy eyes glisten with unshed tears, and though none fell, Hermione found herself brushing his haphazard blond hair back from his face, murmuring softly, "Draco?"

This time, he gave a slight shudder and his silver orbs painstakingly focussed on her, then his flushed cheeks and chapped lips worked together to form a sneer. "Granger? What…?" He coughed, then his voice became smoother. "What gives filth like you… the right to call me… by my first name?"

Hermione snatched her hand away and stood, an angry blush on her cheeks. "See if I ever help you again, you prat!" Then she turned on her heel and made her way back to her room, cursing her stupidity the whole way.

"A Malfoy… would never need help from a filthy Mud–" He gasped, choking like a fish out of water, and Hermione turned to see what had happened. Malfoy had his hands clasped around his head, and she saw him rip open a scab on his lip, making fresh blood drip down his chin.

Blanching, Hermione all but leapt back down to his side, prying his hands away from his face, which was scrunched up in agony. Frightened, Hermione barely noticed his grip tighten painfully around her hand as his back arched.

"Malfoy, what's the matter? Are you alright?"

Then his hand fell away from hers limply, and all Hermione could do was stare.

He was out cold.

Again.

Hermione contemplated dumping him off at the Hospital Wing to get him off her hands for good, but realized that McGonagall would know she'd shirked on her responsibilities. Instead she slipped away down the hall to Snape's stores, hoping no one would notice a few adrenaline potions missing.

She was quite certain Malfoy was going to keep her up for a while.