Chicken Soup

The boy's raven locks were sopping; the wet cloth on his forehead pushing them more every-which-way than usual. His usually bright emerald orbs were loosely shut. The skin, normally tanned to perfection from summer work, was pale under the drops of perspiration. His breaths came in raspy, short gasps.

Harry Potter was sick. He had the worst fever he had ever had. As he lay in the hospital wing, he tried to amuse himself with memories of Dudley being ill. Since those instances were few and far between, he became bored quite fast. His eyes fluttered open at a knock on the door. He watched as Madam Pomfrey opened the door and spoke to two cloak-clad figures. Since Harry was "conveniently" placed in the bed farthest from the door, all he heard was, "You have 5 minutes!"

Hermione and Ron walked in. Hermione shushed the grumbling Ron, ("Like 5 minutes can accomplish anything!") and gasped at Harry. "Harry! I can barely see you! You're as stark white as the sheets!"

"Tanks Her...Her...MIONE!" Harry blew his nose, apologizing for the sneeze. "Sowy I habe no contwol ober dis. Dis hasn't eber happened to be afore."

Hermione cooed. "Don't worry Harry. It'll pass. You're in the best hands. Here's your homework, books, some quills, and some ink. You can't let a fever get in the way of your studies. You don't want to get behind just because you're ill!"

Ron rolled his eyes, causing a coughing fit from the direction of the bed. When Harry regained his composure, he gave Hermione a wry smile. Ron couldn't help but laugh.

"Don't let her kill you mate! I need--" Ron's stomach grumbled. "I WAS going to say that I needed a chess partner, but apparently I need dinner. Get well soon, mate! We'll be back tomorrow."

"Tanks Won. Tanks 'Mione. I will." Harry chuckled at his own inability to talk. He watched as Madam Pomfrey led the two to the door. They left, holding hands, in the direction of the Great Hall.

"Honestly. I said 5 minutes." Madam Pomfrey bustled over, propping Harry up on his pillows. "I sent Mr. Malfoy to the kitchens to fetch your soup."

She went to open the door when there was a feeble knock. Harry looked over at the person balancing the tray. He noticed the contrast between platinum blonde hair and the custom tailored, black, billowing robes. Harry's heart skipped a beat as Madam Pomfrey's words sunk in. I sent Mr. Malfoy to fetch your soup. He watched as Malfoy made his way over, tongue sticking out in concentration. Madam Pomfrey slipped into her office.

"Aww... poor Potter. Sick in bed with a fever?" Malfoy had taken on a high pitched voice. "You look terrible," his voice back to normal.

"Shut it, Mawfoy. I'm not wistening. I'm twying to sweep. Go away." Great. I can't even talk.

"You have to eat anyway. You look as if you can't though. Let me help, Potter." His look took on a softer look.

"Why would YOU want to hewp, Mawfoy?" Harry gave him a quizzical look.

Draco shot him a cold look in return. "Because I love you, that's why."

"Ha...Ha...HACHOO! Dat's a good one. I bet you put poison in dat soup." Harry couldn't stop the fluttering in his stomach. Did he say love? "You don't wuv me. Yowr stwaight."

"Nice, Potter. Is that how you fail your potions exams? All three wrong?" Malfoy smirked.

Now Harry was utterly confused. He watched Malfoy laugh, then raise a spoonful of soup. "Would I do this if I poisoned the soup?" He ate some. "Actually, it isn't half bad. I should get sick sometime. You get decent service. Now open up."

Harry just stared. "Yowr Gay?"

"Isn't that what I said? And before you ask, yes. I really DO love you. I've been meaning to tell you. I just never had a chance. Until now that is."

"I..." sputtered Harry. I wuv you too. I aways habe. I was afwaid to tewl you Drawyco." Harry blushed, bringing more color to his flushed face.

"Aww...how sweet. I'm touched Harry." He set down the soup and leaned in. Their lips met for a brief instant. Draco let his tongue explore Harry's.

Harry broke the kiss, gasping. He couldn't breathe. Draco smiled a true, honest smile. Not even a hint of a smirk. "What do you have to say to that, Harry?"

Harry grinned. "Taste like chicken."