Newt was miserable. He was tired of fever, tired of having chills, tired of being stuck in his bedroom, tired of being green-tinted and *tired of smelling like burned toast all the time.*“It’s not as bad as burned toast. More like roast beef,” Queenie said sensibly as she took the thermometer out from under Newt’s tongue. “Still a fever, honey. Back to bed for you.”“But I’ve got another edition--”“I’ve already sent an owl to Obscurus; they’d rather you get well than send a letter that might be contaminated with dragon pox. Now, drink this potion.” She placed a glass of purplish liquid in Newt’s hand, which he downed obediently while trying to ignore the taste to the best of his ability.“Good. I’ll be back in about an hour with your supper, and once you’ve eaten, I’ll bring in the radio so we can listen to the dramas this evening.” Queenie smiled beatifically at her husband. “There’s a new Beedle during Children’s Hour, but the rest of the evening WWC should be fun.”Newt tried to smile back at his angel of a wife, but he barely had the energy to make the corner of his mouth twitch. It *would* be just his luck to have to cancel his honeymoon with dragon pox.“Silly man, I promised you in sickness and in health not a week ago, and I meant it. When you fall, I’ll always be right there to catch you, even if you’re falling ill.” She gave him a peck on his forehead as she stood to leave. “Now rest. If you fall asleep before dinner’s ready, I’ll wake you.”“You shouldn’t be cooking during your own honeymoon,” he protested miserably. “We should be in Paris in a restaurant or something, not in Dorset with a sick lump of a husband.”The blonde witch turned back towards him, looking like some kind of modern painting framed by the doorway. “You’re the only person I want to be with tonight, honey, no matter where it is. And if it’s our bedroom listening to the radio while you doze, that’s fine by me. Now *rest* before I have to dose you with a sleeping potion.”
