Mmm Mmm Good

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear that I do not own Harry Potter and/or any other characters used in this fic. They are all property of J.K. Rowling.

A/N: This fic is a birthday present for my dear friend, Kat! It's 4 chapters long so I should be posting it quickly. BTW, Kat, I want to hear that presentation you did on my fics sooN!


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“Ohh,” Draco groaned, turning over restlessly in his bed. He raised a hand to his head and felt the burning hotness there.

He groaned again and flipped over, feeling suddenly feverishly hot. He kicked the covers off his bed and lay there, wiping away the sweat that glistened on his forehead.

This was the second day he had lain awake in his bed, wavering between feverish heat waves and glacial cold sprees. He didn’t know what was wrong. He knew he was sick; that much was clear. He had no energy to go to Madam Pomfrey, and he would have cursed anyone as soon as look at them who suggested it.

He was a Malfoy, perfectly capable of getting well on his own. His body was structured to cure itself. He had no worries of soon becoming well again.

The only problem was that without any help, it seemed to take so much longer.

Draco had barricaded himself in his room for the past two days, conjuring water whenever he needed it. He hadn’t eaten for several days, having had no appetite. He mostly lay in bed and bemoaned his condition.

Only one had been allowed to come in, and that had been Pansy. She had used her questionable talent to gain entrance to his private quarters in the Slytherin dormitories and had been checking up on him every so often.

At that moment, there was a soft knock on the door. The knocker didn’t bother to wait for admission, merely pushed open the door and strode in.

Pansy went directly to Draco, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. She stood back and placed her hands on her hips. “Draco, you have to get out of here!” she ordered him.

“And go where, Pansy?” Draco drawled.

“To Madam Pomfrey!”

Draco turned his head to glare at her, but was too weak to curse her at the moment. “I am not going to that second-rate Healer.”

Pansy sighed and sat down at the foot of Draco’s bed and placed a comforting hand on his leg.

Draco sighed and closed his eyes for a second as a wave of dizziness came over him. When he opened them, he sighed. “Pansy, I’m fine. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

“What if it doesn’t?” she asked, actually sounding concerned. “What if this isn’t just the flu?”

“It is. Stop worrying,” Draco said firmly, lifting his head to glare at her.

She just rolled her eyes at his refusal to accept help. “Fine, but when you die, I’m not the one explaining to your father why you refused to go to the nurse.”

“Fine,” Draco said simply, wishing she would just leave.

And leave she did. She sighed in disgust and rose from the bed, taking one last look at his profile. She shook her head and left in silence, slamming the door behind her.

Draco winced as it slammed shut, the sound resonating in his head. He raised a hand to his temple, willing the pounding to stop.

He lay there for an hour more, watching out his low window as the sun sank beneath the edge of the lake. When the cool, blue sky fell outside his window, he felt much better. There were no lights on in his room, and it darkened with the sky.

At ten to eleven, Draco was still lying, quite awake, in his bed and staring at the ceiling. He was no longer burning hot, but was feeling fairly chilly. He shivered for a second and reached down for the comforter, pulling it up to his chin and snuggling deeper under the covers.

Kill me now, he thought to himself.

He lay there shivering, thinking that Pansy might actually have been right for once. He turned over and felt a sharp hunger pang in his stomach. He winced and remained completely still, waiting for it to pass.

It was then that he thought that maybe he ought to eat something. Unwillingly, he heaved himself from the bed, still clutching the comforter around himself. He shuffled over to his trunk and pulled out a pair of jeans. He hadn’t actually dressed for several days.

He changed slowly, unwilling to drop the warmth of the comforter. Finally, he was forced to leave it. He threw it on the bed and grabbed his wand, casting a Warming Charm around himself.

He felt marginally better for the moment but knew it wouldn’t last long. Quietly, he crept down the dark hallway and through the common room. He made it out the hidden sliding door that guarded the Slytherin dorms and started down the corridors leading to the Great Hall.

His only sustaining thought was the picture of a nice, hot bowl of steaming soup. He stumbled down the corridors until he reached the brighter lit hallway that held the portraits of food.

He shied away from the torches and made his way slowly to the portrait of the bowl of fruit. Staring up at it, he wondered if he was so desperate to actually go in the kitchens.

At that moment, his stomach rumbled angrily and he knew it was no use. Besides, the picture of soup in his mind was far too enticing to turn away now.

He turned to the portrait slowly, reaching out and tickling the pair that giggled and a doorknob appeared. Draco seized it and pulled open the door.

At once, he was surrounded by twenty house-elves, all clambering for his attention.

“Good evening, sir, what can we gets—” The house-elf stopped abruptly, staring at Draco. “Master Draco, sir!” he squeaked. “Bad Dobby!”

Dobby made a beeline for the nearest table and began banging his head against it. Draco watched in relative confusion as his former slave beat himself.

“Dobby?” he asked, trying to understand as much as his muddled brain would allow at the moment. “What are you—never mind, I don’t even want to know.”

He sunk into a chair by one of the long house tables and raised a hand to his pounding head. The surrounding elves inched forward, wary of Dobby but willing to help Draco.

“Is sir wanting something?” a female elf squeaked by Draco’s left elbow.

“Yeah, can you—” But Draco was interrupted by a human voice rising about Dobby’s continued squeaks of pain as he ran into the table repetitively.

“Dobby, why are you doing that?”

Draco looked up and thought that his week couldn’t possibly get worse. He groaned out loud and let his head fall onto the cool table. It was almost refreshing but for the knowledge that Potter was approaching.

Harry stopped as he reached the grouped elves. His gaze traveled from the elves crowded around a person sitting at the table, Dobby ramming himself into the table, and then the boy. His eyes widened as he recognized the silvery-blond hair.

“Malfoy?” Harry asked, surprised.

Draco sighed and raised his head and Harry saw that he did not look at all well. “God, Potter, is this some sick, twisted game the universe is playing on me?”

“Er… what?”

Draco groaned again and put his head in his hands. “Just leave me the fuck alone, Potter.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment, too shocked. It took him a moment to come to his senses. “Wait, no, I don’t have to leave! What are you doing here, anyway?”

“What is this—twenty questions?” Draco drawled, keeping his head in his hands, shielding his eyes from the light.

“Malfoy, why are you here?” Harry repeated, undeterred.

Draco sighed, annoyed, and glared at Harry. “Do you have to know everything, Potter? Can’t I just come here in peace?”

“Since when have you ever come anywhere in peace?” Harry asked.

Draco rolled his eyes, getting really tired of answering Harry’s questions. All he wanted was some soup. “Listen, Potter,” he said seriously, “I don’t care what the fuck you are doing here, all I know is that I want some fucking soup!”

In a matter of seconds, four house-elves appeared out of nowhere bearing several different kinds of soup in separate bowls.

Draco stared as the elves set down the food in front of him, producing spoons, and backed away. Draco was silent for a moment, then turned to Harry. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Harry merely rolled his eyes and watched as Draco picked up a spoon and began eating from one of the bowls delicately. Harry was silent for a moment, watching the steaming liquid disappear.

“Malfoy, what are you doing here?”

“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” Draco shot, glaring at Harry over his bowl of soup. He was really in no mood to be talking to Harry. He felt sick enough as it was. Having to eat with Harry present wasn’t improving his health. “Why are you here, anyway, Potter? Come to hang around with the house-elves? Hoping their work ethic might rub off on you? Where’s the Weasel? Surely he wouldn’t pass up a chance to stuff his face with food, the barbarian…”

Draco went back to eating, ignoring the outraged look on Harry’s face.

Harry glared at the blond, wondering just why he felt it necessary to be so spiteful. He stepped back and took a moment to survey Draco as he ate.

There was no denying the boy didn’t look well. His skin was paler than normal and his eyes looked tired. He wasn’t keeping up his usual stature, instead hunching his shoulders as he ate. Harry wondered what was wrong with him.

He knew he hadn’t seen Draco around the school for the past few days, but he hadn’t really thought much of it. Ron, of course, had been convinced he was off on some Death Eater mission, despite the fact that Voldemort was dead, but Harry paid him no attention. Ron simply wanted a reason to hate Draco more.

Finding him in the kitchens at nearly midnight was not something Harry had ever been expecting to come across. He usually found the kitchens quite peaceful at this time of night. He came here often. He would grab a bite to eat and shake off the elves. By now, they knew to leave him alone when he came in. He would retreat to a small corner of the kitchen where he had set up something of a reading area.

It was nice, being able to sit in peace and do whatever he wanted without fear of being overheard of interrupted. Of course, now that Draco was here, his evening had been officially ruined.

He sighed as he stood by the table, watching Draco finish the last of the soup in his bowl. He was still curious as to what would force the Slytherin out of hiding and into the lowest form of labor in the middle of the night.

Draco set down his spoon, staring into the bowl. He felt a little better, having eaten, but the pounding in his head was still present. He lifted a hand to feel his forehead and noticed that he was unbearably hot once more. He sighed and reached for his wand.

At his side, Harry visibly tensed at the sight of the wand. Draco glanced at him and gave a dark laugh. “Scared of little old me, Potter?”

“No,” Harry said defiantly, scowling.

Draco wasn’t listening as he undid the Warming Charm on his body. He felt a tiny bit better, but knew it wouldn’t last long.

He set his elbows down on the table and placed his head in his hands, closing his eyes and trying to block out the light.

“Malfoy, are you alright?” Harry asked carefully, taking a step towards him.

“I’m fine,” Draco replied, his hands muffling the sound.

“You don’t look like it.”

Draco dropped his hands in frustration. “If I say I’m fine, Potter, I’m fine!” He pushed his chair away from the table abruptly and stood up suddenly.

He swayed for a second as he stood and, without warning, staggered to the side, losing his balance and collapsing on the floor.

Harry rushed forward, his eyes wide. “Malfoy!” he called, kneeling next to the blond lying on the floor. “Malfoy!”

He looked around, hoping that help might materialize out of thin air, but when none did, he knew he had to do it himself.


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A/N: To be continued... Please review!