His nose was blocked, his grey eyes watery. The great Draco Malfoy had fallen for the flu. His usually pristine hair was mussed; his nose was rubbed raw by cheap tissues. The Slytherin Sex God looked a proper mess.
Awoken again, he was tired, he was sick, and he could hear footsteps approaching his bed. "Pansy?" he called feebly presuming she was missing her daily shag.
"No? Blaise?" he asked, the silent figure, wondering who else could be wanting his body so early in the morning.
Not a sound but the footsteps and Draco's sniffling could be heard until he asked again, his voice shaking with uncertainty, "Crabbe?, Goyle?". The footsteps slowed, coming to a rest at the foot of his bed. Sweat was beading on his forehead, his hands were shaking. He was nervous, he was scared.
He could hear them breathing beyond the velvet green hangings. He knew they were there; they were chuckling; laughing at his expense as he wiped his nose for what seemed the millionth time. "Who's there?" he called, scared by his own wavering voice.
As the curtains spread open, Draco's breath was stolen. It was her, the girl of his dreams, dressed in black leather; wearing nought but panties and a bra. It was Professor McGonagall carrying that whip, about to spank him.
"You've been a very naughty boy…"