Rivaling Affections

Chapter 15

Draco woke with a headache that seemed to split his skull down the center and shatter it into a million pieces. His face felt flushed and swollen and his eyes were dry and scratchy, though not as much as his throat, which felt like someone had scrubbed it with sandpaper. He tried to summon his wand, but the infernal stick just clattered against his nightstand and remained stubbornly out of reach.

He was able to make out the familiar guest room he'd been sleeping in for several weeks now, but couldn't remember going to bed.

His voice didn't work well enough to enunciate the spell properly, which meant it was going to be a long day to say the least. He certainly didn't feel well enough to brew himself a remedy potion, as he hardly had the energy to ply the covers from his sweat-soaked skin.

He groaned to himself, not understanding how he could wake up so suddenly sick. Draco tried to recall what he had done the previous night, if he had eaten anything foul or seen anyone else that had been feeling unwell, but there was an inconvenient blank space where the previous night's memory should have been.

That fact made him wary and he tried to call for Harry, but quickly realized that Harry was the very last person he wished to see him in his current state. He knew he must look a horrid mess, and if he wanted any chance of winning the Gryffindor professor over it was not through bogey laden kisses or sniffled declarations of love.

Then the part of the evening he did remember flooded back to him, and he recalled Harry storming out of his office. The exact details were hazy, but he was fairly certain Harry had been in a snit over misunderstanding the reason Draco wanted to use one potion or another; he began to wonder if it wasn't, in fact, Harry who had left him in his current state.

However, he quickly banished that thought as it seemed vastly out of character for the Gryffindor professor; no matter how angry he may have been, Draco was sure that Harry wouldn't intentionally hurt him.

The door opened a moment later and Andromeda glided in with a grim smile. "How are you feeling this morning?" she asked as soon as the door clicked shut behind her.

"Peachy," Draco rasped, but even the delicious sarcasm he so loved to take part in was lost to him as he could barely mutter even that simple word without it sounding broken.

"I see your illness has not reduced your impertinence," his Aunt replied with narrowed eyes.

"I need a pepper-up potion," Draco complained, but Andromeda simply shook her head.

"It's a common muggle flu, Draco. Potions will do no good for it, best not to waste them," she explained as if to a small child.

"Rubbish," Draco disputed, his voice low and gravelly from the illness. "That's an old wives' tale."

"Well, unfortunately for you, I'm an old wife, so you'll abide by what I say," she countered with crossed arms and a very 'don't bother trying to argue' glare. 'Unless, of course, you feel well enough to take care of yourself today," she dared.

"I'm not a child," he growled, or at least attempted to: instead it came out as a sort of strangled gasp.

Andromeda ignored him and instead waved her wand, opening the doors and levitating a glass and pitcher into the room. Within moments, Draco had a glass of pumpkin juice hovering over him, waiting patiently for him to accept it. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of not taking the goblet just to strain his obstinate Aunt's magic. In the end, however, it was a gamble that he wasn't willing to take because he'd rather drink the liquid instead of wearing it.

He took the offered drink and sipped from it gingerly, the slightly spicy fluid tingling along his throat and somewhat soothing it. "Where's Harry?" he asked, hoping that the man wouldn't just pop in unexpectedly.