A.N: Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for returning to my Dramione story!

I'm sorry for the delay in updating—I had school tests to focus on, so I couldn't post as soon as I'd hoped.

In case you need a refresher, the last chapter introduced Arcane Fever. If you've forgotten the details or if you're new to the story, I recommend checking it out before diving into this chapter.

I hope you enjoy reading!

PART14

As always, Hermione could not win a debate against Harry and Ron. The two of them had ganged up on her, insisting she needed to see Madam Pomfrey, and eventually, she gave in. Her throat was burning anyway, and arguing only made it worse.

She trudged toward the hospital wing, her mind clouded with exhaustion. It wasn't just the fever making her feel off—she had been acting strange all day. Maybe Ron had a point about her losing her senses. The idea annoyed her, but she couldn't deny that something was wrong. More than the fever, she was worried she might let something slip—something about Draco. The thought made her stomach twist. She couldn't afford to be careless.

As she pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey looked up from her desk, immediately narrowing her eyes.

"Oh dear, what's wrong?" the matron asked, her voice warm but firm.

Hermione barely had the energy to respond before Madam Pomfrey stepped closer, scrutinizing her face.

"I—"

"Your eyes," the woman interrupted, her expression shifting to one of certainty. "Arcane Fever."

Hermione blinked. And if Pomfrey had diagnosed it that quickly, it must be well-known. For once, Ron wasn't exaggerating.

She swallowed hard, her throat burning like she had swallowed hot coals. Arcane Fever? Muggle-borns rarely got wizarding illnesses—at least, that's what she had always assumed.

"Where did I even catch this?" she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Hogwarts? But wasn't it supposed to be rare?

"Madam Pomfrey, has this been going around the school?" she asked hesitantly.

The healer sighed, shaking her head as she fetched a small vial from the nearby cabinet. "Yes, indeed, dear. Several first-years in Slytherin have come down with it recently. It spreads quickly among young wizards who haven't built immunity yet."

Hermione's breath hitched. Slytherin?

Her mind raced. Had Ron been right about this too? Had she caught it from Malfoy?

No. That was ridiculous. She and Draco didn't even spend that much time together. Or... had they?

A sudden heat crept up her neck, and she quickly looked away, pretending to examine the neat rows of potions lining the shelves. She couldn't let herself think about that possibility. It was absurd.

Madam Pomfrey, thankfully, didn't seem to notice Hermione's internal crisis. She poured a thick, dark liquid into a spoon and handed it over.

"Here, take this. A little bit of salt and dragon liver should do the trick."

Hermione froze. "Dragon liver?"

"It's just the name of the medicine, dear," Pomfrey said briskly. "Nothing to worry about."

Reluctantly, Hermione took the spoon, eyeing the potion with suspicion. It smelled awful. She wrinkled her nose but forced herself to swallow it in one gulp. The taste was even worse than she expected—like burnt rubber mixed with spoiled pumpkin juice.

She gagged, coughing into her sleeve. "Ugh! That's vile!"

Madam Pomfrey only sighed, unfazed. "Yes, yes, they all say that. Now, lie down for a bit. If the medicine works quickly, you should feel better in an hour."

An hour. That wasn't too bad.

Hermione hesitated before climbing onto the nearest bed, resting her aching head against the pillow. As much as she hated being sick, at least this gave her a moment to think.

Slytherin.

Draco.

No.

She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

She was thinking nonsense. The fever was making her delirious. That had to be it.

Didn't it?

While Pancy droned on about some Gryffindor first-year I couldn't care less about, my eyes stayed fixed on the other table.

She wasn't there.

Where did she go?

Potter and Weasley sat there, oddly quiet. No sign of bushy hair, no frantic scribbling of notes, no self-righteous lectures.

I clenched my fist under the table. Maybe she was just late. Maybe she was in the library, being an insufferable know-it-all. Maybe—

"Oi, you even listening?" Blaise nudged me, shoving a piece of bread into his mouth. "Colin Creevey's at it again. Apparently, he tried to take a picture of Potter while he was eating. Nearly lost a hand to Weasley."

I barely registered what he said.

"I think I'll go," I muttered suddenly, standing up.

Goyle, mid-chew, frowned. "Go where?"

"I— to the hospital wing," I said slowly. The words tumbled out before I had even processed them. It was an excuse, but a damn good one.

"Oh, Draco," Pansy practically purred, her voice laced with concern as she leaned toward me. "Your poor eyes! The first-years are dropping like flies. I'm so worried about you."

I stiffened as she reached for my hand.

"I'll go with you," she declared, already standing up.

Oh, hell no.

"NO way!"

The word shot out before I could stop it. Too loud. Too sharp. Heads turned.

Shit.

Pansy froze, blinking at me like I had just slapped her. "Fine. But why not?"

I clenched my jaw.

Without looking back, I went out the Great Hall.

Draco, this girl holding your hand doesn't actually care about you, a voice in my mind whispered. She cares about the idea of you.

But that shouldn't matter. You should be proud of who you are—the son of Lucius, another voice countered, colder, sharper. My father's voice.

Proud. Arrogant. Loyal. Cruel to the Mudblood.

That is what I was raised to be. That is what I should be.

And yet, I am none of those things.

I have no friends. The people who surround me only see my name, my bloodline. And the person I kissed recently—Merlin help me—is my enemy. A Mudblood. The kind of person I was told to despise, to erase from this world if I truly wanted to follow my father's lord.

But if that's true… then why did it feel like the only real thing I've ever done?

Who am I?

For a moment, I genuinely thought I was burning alive. My vision blurred, and a sharp pain clawed at my wound. I pressed my fingers to my temple, struggling to breathe.

What's wrong with me today?

Without having time to think further, I spotted a girl with deep brown hair standing in front of the broom cupboard, staring at a faint scratch on its wooden surface. Hermione Granger.

But what should I say?

Just act normal, Draco. Cool and arrogant.

I hesitated at the corner, watching her carefully.

Her eyes weren't red like before, but they held a faint tiredness—like the lingering remnants of tears. Still, despite that, she looked strong. Determined. The contradiction unsettled me.

Her uniform was slightly visible beneath her sweater, the crisp white fabric peeking out from the hem. Had I ever noticed her uniform before? Her hair, though still frizzy, no longer looked like a mess. The stray curls that framed her face almost looked...

"Pretty."

The word left my mouth before I could stop it. Worse, I'd said it out loud. Loud enough for her to hear.

She turned, raising her eyebrows. Was that surprise? Or had she not quite caught what I said? Please, let it be the second one.

"Pretty—pretty cold here, isn't it?" I blurted, ears burning.

She smirked. That wicked little smirk of hers. "Oh, is it?" she said, rolling her eyes. "For a moment, I was foolish enough to think you were talking about me."

"I was," I said, fully by accident.

My brain froze.

"Not," I added hastily. "I was not. Of course."

Merlin's bloody beard. What was wrong with me? I shook my head, trying to pull myself together. But when she smirked again, I felt dizzier than ever.

"Anyway," she said, turning her attention back to the corridor. "We're here for a reason, aren't we? We need to find a safe place. This is just a hallway."

Without another word, I started walking, mostly because I was too afraid I'd say something stupid again. I could hear her footsteps following behind me.

"The old Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, isn't it?" she asked as I stopped in front of a dusty, abandoned door. "It was built ages ago, but then they removed the class for space reasons, and now no one uses it—"

"Just get in," I cut off her explanation before she could launch into a full history lecture.

As she stepped inside, I caught another glimpse of her shirt slipping from beneath her sweater.

And for some reason, I couldn't look away.

Hermione stepped into the room first. The air smelled of dust and old wood, a scent so distinctly ancient it felt like stepping into another time.

Draco followed, but as soon as he entered, he stopped abruptly in the middle of the small classroom.

Something brushed against his neck.

"Hey!" Hermione yelped, slapping away the hand instinctively before realizing—too late—that it was Draco's.

His expression twisted in mild offense as he pulled his hand back.

"What the hell, Granger?" he snapped. "I wasn't trying to hex you. I was just fixing your shirt." Then, as if regretting even saying that much, he quickly added, "Never mind."

Hermione blinked. Her hand flew to the back of her sweater, where her collar must have been sticking out. Oh, bloody me.

She turned back to him, guilt settling in. "Oh. Sorry… and, um… thanks."

For the first time, she properly looked at his face. His eyes were red. She had noticed it earlier but hadn't thought much of it. Now, though—

Arcane Fever.

Definitely.

"Just fix it, dolt," he muttered, his voice tight. His face had gone oddly pink, but it wasn't frustration. It was something else entirely.

She hesitated, then tilted her head, an idea forming.

"Oh," she said sweetly, her voice deliberately innocent, "I guess I can't reach it."

Of course she could.

Draco scowled, sticking out his tongue in distaste before reluctantly raising his hand again. With a rough yet oddly careful touch, he tugged her collar back into place, muttering something under his breath.

Hermione watched him, studying his face. This wasn't the Draco Malfoy she knew.

The fever must be making him completely irrational.

But then she remembered what Ron had once said about Arcane Fever:

"You'll start losing your senses! Acting irrational! Making terrible decisions! Fred—no, George—went absolutely mad when he had it! It was chaos!"

So if that was true… then the fever didn't change a person's heart. It didn't create feelings that weren't there.

It just stripped away logic.

Which meant…

A smirk curled at the corner of her lips.

Not because she liked the idea of Arcane Fever, she told herself.

Well… maybe she did. But definitely not because it excited her.

Not because it made her heart pound so hard she could practically hear it.

Come on, Hermione. It's just because she was able to get a perfectly honest answer from him. That was all. The fever forced him to tell the truth.

That was it… wasn't it?

She cleared her throat. "Anyway, let's not forget why we came here today."

Draco let out a short breath, barely a scoff. "Right. My wound. From my father."

His expression flickered—shock, regret, then pain. As if he couldn't believe he'd said it. Or maybe… the wound punished him for it.

Hermione pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to reach out.

"You know," she said gently, "I really need to know more about your father."

His jaw tightened.

"It's just—" she hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I have to understand what caused the wound. If I'm going to help, I need to know."

Alright, logical enough. Good job, Hermione.

But she already knew what he was going to say.

And why is that your business?

But… it didn't come.

Instead, silence stretched between them.

For a second, she thought—just maybe—he was going to tell her. His mouth parted slightly, like he was on the verge of speaking.

Then—

"I… you wouldn't understand," he said, voice quiet. But not soft. Just… tired.

"Try me," she said quickly. "I told you about my parents, didn't I? How they were afraid of me—"

"Oh, so that's why you told me?" His voice sharpened, cutting through her words. "You wanted me to relate? To trick me into opening up?" He let out a bitter laugh. "That's what this is about? Making me talk about him?"

"Draco—"

"You think you understand? That you know what it's like?" His hands curled into fists. "Well, you don't. And I hate when people try to pretend they do. It's pathetic."

The silence that followed was unbearable.

For the first time in a long time, Hermione felt something heavy settle in her chest.

Not hurt.

Guilt.

The same guilt he had just told her he despised.

"I didn't tell you that to get something out of you," she said, voice steady. "But fine. If you don't want to talk, I won't push you."

Draco just stared at her.

"Then why did you tell me at all?" His voice was quieter now, but still edged. "Why tell me something that personal?"

She swallowed. "Because sometimes people need someone to listen."

He gave her a look—cautious, skeptical, unreadable.

"And for some reason," she exhaled, "for me… it was you."

A flicker of something crossed his face.

Then—"Why me?"

Why him?

She didn't know. And judging by his expression, he wasn't sure why he'd even asked.

"You're my enemy," she said finally. "And at the same time… something else."

He narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"I don't know," she admitted, voice softer now. "That depends on you. A listener? A… friend?" She gave a small shrug. "Something like that."

Something like that.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "...Oh."

Silence.

She glanced away, waiting for him to respond.

But then—

A sound. Soft, uneven.

Is he—?

A slow, creeping realization settled in her chest.

He was crying.

Alright, Hermione. Stay calm. A boy is crying next to you.

A boy who happens to be Draco Malfoy.

Is he really?

Yes.

But it's just the fever. That's all.

Still, she couldn't move.

Did she say something? Pat his shoulder? What was the protocol here?

Then—his voice, barely above a whisper.

"I'm really done."

Her breath caught.

Merlin's beard.

This is Draco Malfoy.

And this Fever is… intense.

He ducked his head into his arms, hiding his face.

"I have no one to talk to," he muttered. "They only care about the name. The power. Not me. Never me."

His hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, pressing into his ribs where the wound was.

"And my father—"

He stopped.

Hermione felt something in her chest tighten.

For the first time, she really saw it.

Not the arrogance. Not the name.

Just a boy. A boy who, despite everything, might be the loneliest person in the world.

A.N : What did you think of this chapter? I hope you enjoyed it! Poor Draco… but don't worry—Hermione will do her best to take care of him in the next chapters!

I still haven't decided on the ending—should it be happy or heartbreaking? I'd love to hear your thoughts, so let me know in the reviews!