Work Text:
Draco had known from the moment she’d sneezed. Once, sharp, into her sleeve on a Tuesday morning, that the tide was turning.
Hermione Granger didn’t get sick. She didn’t allow it. Illness, in her mind, was something that happened to people who didn’t wash their hands properly or stood around outside in the wind like idiots. Not to her. Not to someone who kept three backup potions in her desk and layered her warming charms like armour.
So when she came home that night with glassy eyes, flushed cheeks, and a complaint about how “everything’s just… itchy, and I can’t think straight,” Draco had immediately cancelled their dinner plans.
She didn’t even argue.
That was when he knew.
By Wednesday morning, she could barely speak. Voice hoarse, limbs heavy, forehead clammy. She shuffled out of bed in his ratty oversized jumper, her curls sticking up like angry moss, and sniffled miserably as she reached for the kettle.
And Draco, who would never admit to enjoying someone else’s suffering, lit up like it was bloody Christmas.
“Oi,” he said, taking the kettle out of her hands before she dropped it. “You’re not allowed to touch anything in this state. You’ll get your germs on it.”
She scowled weakly. “I can make my own bloody tea, Malfoy.”
“You could. Before you became a tragic Victorian heroine.”
“I’m not,”
“You are,” he said, cutting her rebuttal off, leading her gently by the shoulders back to the bed. “Look at you. Pale, sniffling, trembling with doom. You should be writing letters in ink and coughing into lace.”
She unwillingly slumped onto the bed. “You’re a pest.”
“I’m a treasure, and you know it.”
He kissed her forehead wincing a little, ignoring her half-hearted attempt to swat him away.
“You’ve got a proper fever,” he murmured, brushing her curls back. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, love?”
She blinked up at him, watery-eyed. “Didn’t want to fuss.”
Draco gave her a look so incredulous it bordered on theatrical.
“Hermione. You fuss about me when I so much as sigh too hard. D’you really think I wouldn’t want to return the favour?”
She gave a sheepish shrug. “Old habits.”
“Well, time to break them. Scoot.”
He had her tucked into bed properly within ten minutes. Blankets layered, pillows fluffed, socks charmed warm. A tea tray floated in behind him like it was personally offended she’d dared to stand up in her condition.
She watched with eyes barely open as he arranged everything with perfect precision.
“You enjoy this,” she accused.
He grinned. “I love this.”
“You’re unwell in the head.”
“No, you’re unwell. I’m having the time of my life,”he joyfully said with a smirk.
He sat beside her and pressed a phial into her hand. “Pepper-Up first. I’ll chase it with lemon-honey.”Hermione’s face screwed up in disgust.
“Don’t make that face. I put cinnamon in it.”
Hermione squinted at him. “Are you trying to seduce me while I’m half-dead?”
“I’ve seen you take down three Ministry departments on four hours of sleep and a hangover. This is nothing, sweetheart. You’ll be up correcting my grammar by tea.”
She laughed, a hoarse little rasp, but a laugh nonetheless.
By Thursday, the fever broke. Hermione was still knackered, sore, and spectacularly bad at resting. She could compete and win the Olympics for it.
“I could check my parchment box,” she mumbled, reaching for her satchel.
Draco caught it midair with a flick of his wand. “You could also fall down the stairs and crack your skull. Doesn’t mean we should do things.”
“Draco,”
“Hermione.”
He leaned over her, eyebrow raised.
“Don’t make me sit on you. I’ll do it. Happily. And I’ll read you dreadful romance novels while I’m at it.”
She snorted. “You wouldn’t.”
“I once recited the entire content of Witch Weekly’s Top Fifty Love Spells just to get you to stop working through a migraine. Try me.”
She sighed and flopped back into the pillows. “You’re relentless.”
“And you’re mine to take care of. So yes, I am.”
That evening, he cooked.
She dozed in and out of sleep to the smell of garlic and onion and something buttery. When she woke properly, he was sliding a tray onto her lap with the flourish of someone who’d absolutely made too much fuss, but didn’t care.
“Chicken soup,” he said. “Real chicken. Real soup. Not that awful packet rubbish you hoard in the pantry.”
“Emergency provisions,” she mumbled.
“Emergency bollocks. This is proper.”
She sipped carefully. Her eyes closed.
“…That’s obscenely good.”
He grinned, smug. “I know.”
“You’re never allowed to say you can’t cook again.”
“I only cook for you,” he said, kissing her hair. “No one else deserves all that bloody effort.”
She turned her face up toward him, slightly flushed and bleary. “You’re not just saying that because I look pitiful?”
“No,” he said honestly. “I’m saying it because it’s true. And also, yes, you do look pitiful. But it’s adorable.”
“Stop.”
“You stop.”
By Friday night, she was well enough to sit in the lounge. Still bundled, still pink-nosed and groggy, but improving steadily.
He sat beside her, arm around her shoulders, gently stroking her hair back. She rested her head against him, sniffling occasionally, fingers curled in his jumper.
“Being ill is rubbish,” she muttered.
Draco kissed her temple. “You’re brilliant at everything. Even this.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You let me take care of you. That’s everything.”
She smiled against his chest. “You really do love it, don’t you?”
He tilted his head. “Granger. Caring for you is my favourite bloody thing.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m completely mad for you. Of course I am.”
She looked up, cheeks still flushed with fever. “Even like this?”
“Especially like this.”
“Why?”
“Because you always take care of everyone. Of me. Of the world. Letting me do it for you, it means you trust me. And that’s…” He exhaled, a little rough around the edges. “That’s more than everything.”
Hermione stared at him, eyes soft and glassy. Then she kissed him, slow and tired and grateful.
“You’re mine,” she whispered.
He pulled her closer, forehead to hers.
“Always.”