Fever

He's not sure how it happens, not sure of much of anything about the fever before or during, barely even believing the contentment that he finds with the after. He can barely recall the start of it, a creeping warmth that comes from nowhere, washing over him suddenly, strangely comforting in the cold dark of the castle in winter, until he finds himself searching for cool spaces and curling up to sleep on the ledge by the window, window open and swirls of cold blueish snow as his blanket, then he is carted off to the infirmary by his worried dorm mates.

It goes on for months but time seems unreal and everything condenses, one day flowing into the next. Night and day the same swirls of color and feathers and streamers of silk flying from every surface. The world is covered in flames of all colors, the voices of those who come to visit him flow from their mouths in oranges and yellows. There are feathers of all colors on Dumbledore's head and Harry wonders when he traded his old hat for this strange new one. Deep purple flames of concern dance between Hermione and Ron mixing swirling patterns with the orange of their speech and he can't focus on the people, just the colors around them.

On an especially red day he walks, stumbles and is carried from the large purple-blue expanse of the main infirmary to a small round room, tendrils of emerald green teasing the place where wall meets ceiling, the edges of the two small windows burning with blue.

And then inexplicably it isn't Madame Pomfrey or Hermione by his side but Draco, and for some reason he actually thinks of him that way, not as Malfoy, but as Draco. Something shifts in his mind, something more than just the colors that relentlessly spring from every surface, something that he's not even really aware of until it's gone, or it's arrived, he's not sure which. Though everything else is hazy, though he can't seem to wrap his mind around coherent thought, there is one that springs to mind that he can hold on to, it is a revelation of sorts, a realization that puts everything in a strange new light, not unlike the green fire burning on the walls. He doesn't hate Malfoy. Maybe he never did.

He opens his eyes to a pale face in the riot of swirling, burning color, cool silver and tinted porcelain, an anchor in the waves of flame that threaten to overwhelm him. He accepts Draco's presence right along with everything else, all the strange colors and sensations chasing through his brain, the part of him that might have protested long since lost to delirium and muddled by the new thoughts that seem to have sprung from nowhere.

It is a dream to go with all the rest. Dreams of a giant golden Snitch guarding a tiny green and silver dragon he has to capture. Dreams of soaring above the castle in lazy loops, higher and higher with each turn until he is lost in the feathery clouds. Dreams of a thousand miniature dragons with the wings of butterflys, a swirling cloud of color, leading him out over the blue-green ocean. All dreams are of flying, there's not one that doesn't involve a broom or the delicious feeling of flying under his own power, wings he can feel but cannot see sprouting from his back. He imagines they must look like the pale blue wings that Draco sometimes wears.

In a more coherent moment he tries to ask where the others are, what has happened, but the words won't form, they get lost between his brain and his tongue and all he can do is gaze at Draco's cool silver grey eyes as he holds the mug to Harry's lips and let the warm bitter tea fill him with green green soothing light, smooth and comforting. The touch of Draco's hand sends cool blue flames licking up along his arms, soothing the heat, leaving pale blue handprints everywhere he touches.

Hand reaching for hand and holding on, holding to the cool skin that begins to bring all the colors back to where they should be, save the threads of silky aurora borealis that flow from him at Draco's touch, blues and greens and a bit of pink around the edges. Hands almost lovingly brushing dark hair off his sweat slicked forehead and wiping it with a cool cloth. Holding on to that hand for longer everytime until finally Draco doesn't move to the cot on the opposite side of the room but stays, and strokes the aurora from his skin all night. The softness of fevered kissing is forever mingled with the bitter green taste of the soothing tea in his mind. The kisses drawing and entirely different sort of fire from his body.

Later he finds out that it was Voldemort. It was all Voldemort, the fever, the reason why he could not quickly be cured, even Draco's presence. He is strangely grateful to him, something he will never admit to anyone else, and hardly even to himself. The attack had come soon after the fever pulled Harry into it's colorful depths. As the wards were slowly dismantled from the outside normal routine ceased, most of the Slytherins slipped out under cover of darkness. All energy was concentrated on shoring up the wards and creating new ones, mishaps abounded, counter spells broke through. Harry was stable, if delirious, and Madame Pomfrey was called to tend to those with more immediate needs, Hermione to work on the wards and Draco, being the best at medical magic after Hermione, was left to tend to Harry.

The first hazy memories of them together are brilliantly colorful and almost unreal, always tinted with the smooth blue-green of oceans he's only seen in his mind. A delicious dream he never wants to wake from, another world. The memory is there everytime they kiss, and when Draco runs his cool hands along Harry's body coaxing moans, like silk, from his lips he can almost see the aurora. When he closes his eyes dangling out over the precipice of ultimate pleasure it is there on the back of his eyelids dancing and calling to him, his body fevered with passion. And when he crashes over the edge Draco is there, his eyes the cool silver grey of reality, bringing him back again from a place he could not leave on his own.