Draco Malfoy is a Healer. Healers don’t get sick. So no, Draco Malfoy, a Healer, is not sick. At all. Now if he can only get Potter to believe him.
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“That’s thrice now,” Harry mutters as he enters the doorway, “You know, if I keep being stood up, I’m going to start thinking that you really don’t want me around...”
“I messaged you,” Draco points out, “Doesn’t count.”
Harry nods. “Should I even ask?”
Draco shrugs, plopping down on the couch. He tries to keep the furrow out of his forehead as it throbs; if he doesn’t know any better, he’d think that someone let a bludger loose in his skull.
“Where’s Gunther?” Harry asks, settling on the loveseat in front of him. He looks around as if asking it's whereabouts alone would somehow summon the diricawl from out of his hiding place.
“Prowling about, I’d wager.”
“I brought some treats for him,” Harry grins and raises a paper bag.
“You really do spoil him too much,” Draco sighs, parts-exasperated and parts-amused.
“It’s the treats or my cuffs,” Harry chuckles, “Or my trousers.”
Draco nods absently. And regrets it. He shuts his eyes. Oh Merlin, his head is pounding.
Draco snorts. “Well, that’s terribly charming. Must you always have such a way with words?”
“I’m serious,” Harry says, and Draco can practically hear the worried frown on his face. “Are you alright?”
Draco opens his eyes. “Oh, wonderful. Spectacular.” And he is fine. He is completely alright. It’s just a little headache. He can handle it. “Have you eaten yet? Do you want some tea? Coffee?”
Eyes speculative, Harry shakes his head slowly. “No, but some coffee would be nice.”
Draco stands up then almost immediately, his hand shoots out to grip the arm of the couch. Is it just him, or has his floor suddenly been transfigured into his mother’s disastrous attempt at a Christmas pudding?
Calloused hands are steadying Draco in a heartbeat. “Draco?” Harry sounds alarmed. Cold fingers rest on Draco’s forehead and he shivers slightly.
“Why are your hands freezing?” Draco mutters, flinching away from said fingers.
“They’re not,” Harry says. Now he sounds upset, Draco thinks, but he can’t be arsed to check for sure because he fears that if he opens his eyes right now to the bright lights in his sitting room— why did he even have so many lights open?— his pitiful excuse of a snack may very well make a re-appearance. And as fond as he thinks Harry is of him, Draco doesn’t think that he’d appreciate sick down his front. “You’re burning up.”
Draco frowns. Shakes his head. Spin-spin-spin. Stops. Fucking headache. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” Harry argues. Draco feels his hand on his shoulder, trying to push him back down on the soft, plump couch. “Lie down.”
Draco bristles. Honestly, is he not the Healer here? He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself, thanks. “Really, Harry, I’m perfectly fine.” He shrugs out from under Harry’s hands and starts toward the kitchen. He wobbles. The room spins around him. And Harry is suddenly gripping him, hands bracing around his waist.
Alright, maybe he isn’t perfectly fine.
He leans against Harry as he allows himself to be directed back to the couch.
“Yup,” Harry mutters wryly as he deposits Draco gingerly on the soft cushions, “Perfectly fine.”
“Sod off,” Draco scowls. His head throbs.
He hears Harry sigh as Draco stretches out on the couch, vision swimming as he attempts to open his eyes but only ends up scrunching them close again. Draco sinks into the soft pillows, grudgingly accepting that he‘s not going to be able to go anywhere tonight. Even as he’s trying to convince himself that it’s not the end of the world if he’s stuck on his couch on a Friday night with no one else but a flightless bird and his… someone, for company, he still feels put out and grumpy and the way he's scowling only serves to worsen his already massive headache. He’s awarded with cool hands brushing his hair away from his forehead, anyway, for his efforts to look at the bright side, and he leans into the touch involuntarily. The cool fingers are a pleasant contrast to the stifling heat inside his head.
“You should have told me that you weren’t feeling well when you texted,” even as he’s chiding Draco, Harry’s voice is soft and soothing, like the way his thumb smooths away the furrow on Draco’s forehead.
“Mmm—” Draco can’t even find it in himself to keep up the scowl. Not when Harry’s fingers are weaving magic against his temples, against his forehead, diluting the pain— the steady, rhythmic motions making it something more bearable. “Good.”
“I’m good with my hands, yes,” Harry quips, amusement covering his concern just for a second.
Draco can’t even reach for the energy to dispute that. It’s true after all.
Harry’s fingers slide from his temple down to the sides of his neck, and stretches along Draco’s shoulders, pushing and loosening knots that Draco doesn’t even know he has. Harry’s thumbs circle just below his nape and presses just so, drawing a low, satisfied groan deep from Draco’s chest. “Oh, fuck me, that feels brilliant.”
A rather throaty chuckle sounds and Draco shivers from the warm, moist breath that fans just inches from his ear. “I’m not opposed.” The magic fingers disappear and Draco almost whimpers at the loss. However, even if he’s feeling out of sorts, he still has his dignity left, thank you. “But as much as I want to, you’re not exactly in shape to, um, fuck.”
Draco’s eyes fly open and he tries not to cringe at the renewed spark of pain that crashes within the confines of his skull. He scowls. Or at least very much tries to look pissed off. Judging by Harry’s concerned look, he’s doing a rather poor job of it. Draco lets his eyes fall shut. “Fuck you.”
“Not in shape to do that either.”
There’s a shuffle by his side, a rustle of fabric, then the sound of footsteps receding, only to be followed by the clanking and clanging of what Draco can only assume as kitchenware in the next room. Draco frowns, even as he snuggles into the comfortable pillow by his side. “Why are you destroying my kitchen?”
“Ha, ha,” Harry’s voice sounds from the kitchen, dripping with sarcasm. “You don’t need my help with that.”
“It’s survived this long, hasn’t it?”
Draco pretends he doesn’t hear that. He wants to lift his head and look at what Harry’s doing in there, but his head is heavy and his body has decided to become useless and jelly-like. “What exactly are you doing in there?”
“Freeing another house elf,” Harry snorts, and Draco swears he can feel Harry's exasperated glare all the way over here. “What do you think? I doubt you’d eaten yet and you need to drink medicine.”
“I’m not sick,” Draco repeats stubbornly. It’s just a headache. Honestly.
Draco hears the sound of the stove coming to life, and the sound of slicing and liquid flowing only serves to heighten his curiosity. “You know,” Harry says, conversationally, as if they aren’t a room apart. “They say that Healers are the worst patients.”
“I’m not a patient because I’m not sick.”
“And as much as I like you, Draco,” Harry continues as if Draco hasn’t even spoken, the gorgeous bastard. “I’d really rather not be subjected to your mood swings right now. And Merlin only knows how being sick makes that worse.”
Draco huffs, only mildly offended by being brushed off like that, and decides to ignore his… to ignore the git that’s stolen his kitchen for now. Anyway, the sounds of life coming from the other room are almost comforting— a stark contrast to his otherwise usually silent flat— and he lets the tinkling and clinking and sizzling quell his irritation for now. He doesn’t know when the ignoring has shifted to dozing off though, but the next thing he knows there’s a cool hand on his forehead again and the smell of something quite appetizing that’s assaulting his senses makes him blink his eyes open. His forehead is slightly damp and so is the rest of his body. His shirt is starting to cling to his skin, making him feel sticky and too warm and bloody uncomfortable and no, he is not sick.
“Here.” Draco looks to his side and regrets it immediately when his vision swims. He feels like he’s taken a bludger to the head, which is probably a bit dramatic because Draco doesn’t know how a bludger to head feels like. Maybe he should ask Harry. He’s been hit with a bludger before.
“Soup,” Harry answers simply. He places the bowl down before he helps Draco sit up against the pillows.
Draco bristles but goes along with it, knowing that even if he protests, it wouldn’t really change anything. Potter’s stubbornness can give Draco’s a run for his money. Still, he can’t help but feel a tad bit annoyed. “I’m not an invalid, you know. It’s just a headache. I still have full and intact motor function.”
Draco can see the way Harry rolls his eyes at him before he retrieves the soup bowl and settles on the floor, cross-legged, just by Draco’s head. “Well, I’m glad being sick hasn’t robbed you of your pleasant personality.”
“Shove off,” Draco mutters, still a bit cross, “And I’m not sick.”
Harry huffs. “You need to eat. And then I’ll get you some Pepper-up and a change of clothes. You’ll soak through those at this rate.”
“You just want me naked.”
Harry pauses. He glances up at Draco from underneath long, thick, beautiful lashes with an exasperated look on his face but the exasperation quickly shifts to what Draco can only describe as fondness, and Draco thinks he really must look miserable if Harry is looking at him like he’s some sort of wounded puppy. Harry scoops a spoonful of soup and prods lightly at Draco’s mouth with it. Draco stares at him, a bit dumbfounded, eyebrows shooting up and mouth opening with shock. Harry takes this as assent and pushes the soup-filled spoon past Draco’s lips. Draco tries not to splutter in indignation. He’s not a child. He can take care of himself. Fuck Potter and fuck his sodding soup and fuck—
Draco blinks, surprised. “You know how to cook.”
“Well, I did make you soup,” Harry scoops another spoonful and Draco opens his mouth willingly this time, distracted by how said soup tastes so delicious. There’s a small, pleased smile on Harry’s lips and bugger if Draco doesn’t think it charming. “And you don’t hate it seeing as you’re eating. So. I suppose I do.”
They’re quiet for a few minutes as Harry scoops more soup and feeds Draco, and Draco lets him. There are worse ways to spend his Friday evening, he supposes. Staying at home and letting Harry Potter feed him home-made soup seems as good as any.
“This still doesn’t mean that I’m sick.”
Harry merely quips an eyebrow and shoves another spoonful of tasty soup in his mouth.
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You can also find this fic on Ao3!^^
