#sick!harry

She'd known this about him for years, and when they became roommates in Uni and she'd taken care of him for two weeks when he had a shocking fever the both of them should've known then they were destined for each other. 

She was reminded of this fact when she got home, Y/n had moved into Harry's house fairly soon after the wedding. It just felt right, and now she'd added all her favourite decor from her flat and it felt a bit like the two of them now. Not just him. There were touches of her all over the house.

Flowers in vases everywhere, her knitted blankets lazily thrown over the couch and chairs, her coffee table, her books, her clothes, her smell, and most importantly her. Harry loved having her living with him again, and it reminded him how much he'd miss having her in his home. Sharing a home.

She called out kicking her shoes off and unbundling her scarf, as she walked inside the lounge room. Normally when she got home Harry was on the couch watching telly, napping, strumming his guitar or cooking. But she heard nothing coming from the kitchen, and he wasn't on the couch. 

"H!" She repeated, curiously. She walked upstairs making her way to the bedroom. Surely he wasn't napping in there.

When she opened the door she found her boyfriend rugged up under the sheets. The only giveaway was his brown curls stuck out and the large Harry-sized lump under the dusty blue almost grey-coloured duvet. She walked over and dropped her purse and keys on the floor. 

"Baby," He rasped out. "Is tha' you?" He asked. He sounded breathless and his voice was hoarse.

She kneeled on the floor so her eyes were level with his. "Hi, my love, are you okay?"

He shook his head, as he squeezed the blanket closer. His teeth chattered. "I'm cold, n' my throat hurts,"

His face was pale in colour, a glisten covering his face, and his eyes had deep purple bags. She leaned closer to him and placed her hand on his forehead. He was boiling. She frowned.

"Gonna check your temp quickly, H." She said walking into their main bathroom in the hallway. She grabbed her first aid box from under the sink and dug around. Eventually, she found the thermometer, and some strong Panadol for him. She walked into the room and when she asked him to open his mouth he groaned softly shifting in the bed. Once the temperature came back it read 39.1°, which meant he had a fever.

She sighed. "Oh, H, you aren't well. Do you want some Panadol?"

He nodded, she popped two pills out of the packet and handed them to him. Before rushing to feed him some water. He gulped them down and swallowed with a grimace. She stroked his arm. 

"I'm gonna make you Mum's soup recipe for you." Y/n's mother was a Chef, she made the best food especially when Y/n was sick. One time during Uni Exams Harry called Y/n's Mum and she came down and visited and made a big batch of her soup and rubbed some weird-smelling cream on Y/n's chest and by the next day she was better, it was like magic in a bowl. Y/n didn't know how but she swore Mum's just had special healing powers.

She stroked his forehead, "And then you can have a bath, and you can try and get some sleep."

He nodded.

Y/n quickly made her way to the kitchen and grabbed all the things she needed. Her Mum had given her a book of recipes and she flipped to the page with the soup. Skimming over the words in her mother's soft cursive handwriting.

Slowly but surely she chopped up all the ingredients. It was mainly fresh herbs and vegetables. She put so much garlic she was sure their breaths would smell for weeks. But it always helped with a sore throat and made her feel better. She added lots of onions, celery, carrots, zucchini, and other vegetables Harry liked. Along with some freshly cooked chicken. She let it stew for a while, as the broth got its flavour.

She had a shower and changed into some pyjamas, combing her hair and applying some sweet-smelling creams to her skin while she worried about her sickly boyfriend.

When she checked on Harry he was fast asleep in their bed curled up on her side, hugging the pillow she slept on. She snuck back She flicked on the telly and sat on the couch while the smell of her wonderful soup filled the big mansion of a house. The telly was on some channel playing old reruns of films everyone's seen a million times. It was playing The Princess Bride. Y/n always used to watch this in bed when she was sick it was perfect because the kid in the beginning was sick too.

She loved this film. She'd seen it enough times to recite the words without thinking. After twenty or so minutes into the film, the soup was ready. She turned the stove off and put some bread in the toaster.

Just as she poured Harry his big bowl and coated his golden brown toast in smooth melting butter, she heard footsteps. He was standing behind her, the knitted blanket off their bed wrapped around him like a cape. He looked awful still, and sleepy. But gosh, was he handsome.

"Hi, Gorgeous." He said softly. His voice was hoarse.

She smiled. "Hi, I was about to bring you dinner."

"Heard the telly. Princess Bride?"

She nodded. 

"Let's watch it."

She followed him with their dinner and they ate together curled up real close, the soup was heavenly and warm. It was so soothing and made Y/n feel like she was a kid again. The toast was crunchy and delicious. She had a few more pieces and a second serving of soup.

Harry grew sleepy toward the climax of the film, his belly full and his clammy body warmed right up. It wasn't long until his head found its way to Y/n's lap. She was rubbing his head softly, her fingers running through his curls. He was asleep not long after her touches and when the film ended she got him up the stairs and put him in a quick bath before bed.

She helped him strip and checked the temperature was warm enough in the bath but not too hot. He hopped in and she sat on the floor beside him, making sure he didn't fall asleep in there. She washed his hair massaging the curls of his hair, and cleaned his body of his sweat. Helping him bathe. His eyes shut in contentment. The steamy water had helped him breathe easier, and her soup was doing wonders. 

When he got out after he was all clean Y/n helped him blow dry his hair quickly. His hands slid onto her hips under the big shirt of Harry's she was wearing and the loose tracksuit bottoms. 

This was love. Taking care of him, and not complaining once. That's how Harry knew she was the one.

Once he was dry she applied that cream to his chest that her mother used to put on hers. It was a mix of all sorts of things. She rubbed it gently over the swallows and moth ink and all along his chest and shoulders. 

"Turn around, I'll put some on your back too, H."

She gently massaged the cream onto his back and he sighed. 

"I love you."

She smiled even though she couldn't see him. "I love you too, Harry."

She picked some fresh comfy pyjamas for him and then they went to bed. The whole night she held him close and soothed him when he woke up in pain. For the next few days, she took care of him and held him however he needed. He eventually got better.

When Y/n woke up with the same flu a few days later, Harry took care of her too. Doing all the same things. Even with a red nose and glossy eyes, and she was coughing up all sorts of gross phlegm, she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever laid his eyes on. 

Harry knew he was going to marry her one day.

He didn’t need to wait long for her to accept the FaceTime call—probably already anticipating it after she surely had read the headline of him canceling his remaining L.A. shows. It instantly soothed him as her pretty face appeared on his phone’s screen, though it would be even better if she were right next to him. Harry would never be shy about admitting that he loved when YN took care of him. She just knew the tricks and quirks to make him feel better within hours.

“Hey, pretty woman,” he greeted her with his scratchy voice, sniffling a bit and wrapping himself tighter in the lavender robe he had stolen from YN’s designated spot in their bathroom. She smiled softly at him, but the singer could see the worry lines deepening at the picture of his sick self. “Hey, love,” she returned and cooed silently. “How is my man doing?” Harry could see her moving around before she plopped down onto the comfy couch he missed every time they weren’t in their New Yorker home.

He shrugged. “Feel like shit,” he mumbled and sighed deeply before it tickled a violent cough out of him. Her brows were even more furrowed after he had calmed himself again. “Oh, love… What did the doctor say?” Harry shrugged again, feeling more miserably about his canceled shows and fans than about himself and that nasty virus. “The flu. Not the other nasty virus sneaking around in the open. So, you don’t have to worry yourself to death, darlin’.” YN cocked a brow now, looking at him expectantly. “I thought we knew each other after three years into this relationship, H,” she chastised him jokingly with a chuckle. “Y’know I’m always worrying myself to death when it comes to you, sweets.”

And it was the truth. Even if Harry wasn’t sick, YN worried for him—when he flew, when he went on stage, when he went out with friends and didn’t text if he needed a ride back home, and returned in the depths of night to demand drunken cuddles. However, the latter was such a rare thing he did that it almost didn’t count. And she worried the most when she wasn’t there to comfort and take care of him because she was across the country or the globe. It hurt somewhere deep down in her heart seeing him like that, seeing him suffering alone, without a helping hand to ensure he would get better in no time.

“Did you have some soup, love? Should I order something and let it bring to you?” She already sat straighter just to do exactly this, but Harry already shook his head slowly. “Jeff brought me some earlier. Left it at the door, rang, and bolted like a thief on the run.” He chuckled lowly before coughing again, worrying YN even more. But she chuckled alongside him to keep their conversation as light as usual. “At least someone who takes care of you. Got ya’self a good pot of tea?” Again, the singer nodded, grabbing the sunflower-yellow mug from its designated spot next to the propped-up phone and taking a huge sip. “Even put honey in’nit, but it doesn’t taste even closely as good as yours, darlin’,” Harry admitted and furrowed his brows. “Did I do something wrong? Used the wrong honey? Wrong tea?”

YN’s heart broke once more at the sound of his helpless tone and his sad puppy eyes, feeling the urge to leave everything behind and fly across the country. She already eyed the calendar on the coffee table in front of her. “Did you use the one in the drawer? Right to the stove?” Harry nodded, a sad expression deepening on his face. “Yeah,” he mumbled, crushed. YN cooed again, trying to soothe his mind. “Maybe you let the tea steep too long, lovie. Give it another try later, yeah?”

He nodded again, letting his hand rake through his soft, now messy curls, and the woman knew that he wanted to ask something, that something was on his mind, continuing to bug him. “What’s wrong, H?” YN sat up again and leaned forward, smartphone in her hand and forearms resting on her knees. Harry threw her a look she knew all too well—she saw it numerous times on his face and hers as well. Self-doubt. Easy as that. “Do you think it was a good idea to cancel the shows?” She already wanted to open her mouth to tell him exactly this, but he continued. “It’s the first time in my entire career, and I feel like I let down my fans, of whom many traveled to L.A. just to see me. I can’t imagine the costs for that—well, I can, numbers-wise—but the… the emotional cost, the excitement, some of them probably took off at work and… and… I just feel like I failed them, YNN.”

Her heart ached even more, and YN had to try to suppress the tears trying to invade her eyes. He was always so hard-working, always trying to meet his fans’ expectations and wishes, consistently delivering—not only in his singing but also in his starting acting career. She was always in wonder and astonishment when witnessing the dedication of her boyfriend, but at some point, his body had to cave.

“Listen to me, my love,” she began and staring at her man’s face through the screen. “It was the only thing you could do, the only responsible decision there was. Not only for you and your health but also the health of Mitch, and Sarah, and Jeff, and all the others involved, not to mention the health of your fans. For many of them, you’re a role model, someone they look up to, and now they see that it’s a responsible move to say, ‘Okay, I’m sick, I’m gonna stay home’ because many people already forgot this essential key even though we went through a pandemic and still living in one. And I don’t wanna start to talk about the good you do for your body right now. I’m actually impressed on how long you two pushed through with all that stress and constant traveling.”

YN had only waited for that moment to occur—but had desperately wished for it to happen when she was back with him on tour or at home, not when she was in the midst of wrapping up a new project.

Harry grew very silent during her rambling, watching her closely, a small smile appearing on his handsome face. “How long have you waited to hold that speech, love?” Now it was YN’s turn to shrug. “Maybe a few months?” Harry started to grin at her bashful smile and blushing cheeks, still not believing his luck of having found her in that small bookshop back in London, where she had fervently tried to get a hold of a Jane Austen novel.

His grin morphed into a tender, loving smile, only reserved for her eyes to witness—and maybe some cameras when they walked the carpet together or were seen on their many dates. Harry just loved to spoil his woman, and if it were time with him she demanded she would get exactly that.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and YN smiled back, resting her chin in her palm. “Anytime, H.” She checked the clock and hummed softly. “Get some rest, sweets, yeah? Check the bathroom cupboard with the towels underneath. There could still be some unopened stuff for your cough. If not, text me, and I’ll let something get to you.” Harry smiled wider and took a sip of tea before watching her intently. “How did I deserve you?” YN grinned at him, cocking her head to one side. “Asking myself the same question, love. But seriously, get some rest. And when I say rest, I mean the full blow of bedtime comfort and something on Netflix or Prime.” The singer saluted playfully. “Yes, ma’am,” he grinned before turning a tad serious again. “Will probably watch one of yours, so I at least can pretend you’re here. Miss you, darlin’.”

The tears tried to spill over again, so YN took a deep breath before answering, not trusting her voice entirely. “Miss you too, Harry. So, so much. But I’m faster back than you think, ‘promise. I love you. So, so, so much. Sleep tight later.” Both softly waved at one another. “Not as much as I love you, sweetheart. Have a good shoot later.” With a soft Thanks and See you later’s, they ended the call, and YN plopped back onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling in the lonely, quiet apartment. She knew it was rash and born out of desperation, but she just had to do it.

So, she unlocked her phone again, grinning at the goofy wallpaper Harry and she had taken in front of the Statue of Liberty two years ago and scrolled through her contacts. “Hey, Jenn. I need a massive favor,” she spoke up after her manager had accepted her call.

;

Harry groaned at the feeling of his sore body after waking up from his restless and unsatisfying slumber, and the first thing he did was cough into the crook of his drenched hoodie. He groaned again after he finally could take a fresh breath of air into his constricting lungs and fought his slow way out of bed to shower and change into something not wet.

With half-closed eyes, he walked into the adjacent bathroom, turned on the shower to let it warm up, and shed his clothes and let them pile on the stone floor. He could take care of that later… Or when he felt better, whenever that might be.

He stood rather long under the hot water drizzling down on him like summer rain before Harry could push himself to leave the cozily warm glass cabin and wrap himself in a fluffy towel. Suddenly, a smell wafted into his nose that was clocked before the hot shower, and the scent let him stop in his tracks. It was her perfume—he could name it in a sea of scents if he had to. Blinking, the singer tried to scan the bathroom for the source; maybe he had accidentally sprayed it last night when he searched for the soap dispenser after not turning on the light? Slowly shaking his head, he dried himself and his hair shortly before changing into a new pair of sweatpants, fluffy socks, and a fresh hoodie. Taking out the cough syrup YN had mentioned two days ago, he took the needed dosage and left the bathroom to go downstairs to prepare a fresh batch of tea and maybe something to eat, though he really didn’t feel like it. But he knew what YN would do if she were here.

Harry yawned while slouching down the stairs but stopped at the end of the steps at the sound of used cutlery and boiling water. With growing confusion, the man rounded the corners and was faced with an angel in his kitchen—one of his Pleasing hoodies adorning her body with a pair of sports tights underneath. She hummed along to the tune of the song playing in the background—The Yawning Grave by Lord Huron, her favorite band—while she prepared the can he had used every day since getting sick and had something boiling on the stove. He felt joy rising in him, but the confusion was still very prominent.

Maybe he hallucinated because the fever was too high?

“Is this real, or is this only in my head?” He asked into the room, scaring her in the process of questioning, and with a low shriek and a slight jump, YN turned to him, a hand pressed over her heart. “Stop scaring the living daylight outta me!” She laughed softly as Harry came rushing over to her, grabby hands outstretched and getting a hold of her waist. Pulling her incredibly close to his chest, the man sighed as he buried his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling her signature scent, which always brought him comfort, and tightening his hold on her. “Whatyadoinhere,” he mumbled, almost inaudible and incomprehensible against her soft skin, his eyes closed, his body finally relaxing.

Her fingers inside his hair tickled a satisfied moan out of him and pushed him to wrap his arms even tighter around YN, not wanting to let her go ever again. Her fingernails scratched gently along his scalp, just the way he liked, and he could feel her soft lips peppering kisses over the reachable part of his head. “I wanted to come home next week anyway, so we pushed a bit through the last couple of scenes, and Jenn got me the first available flight. Couldn’t let you be on your own. My heart almost broke when I saw you slouching around during that FaceTime, feeling miserable enough not to deal with taking care of yourself. So, that’s my job from now on again, ‘kay?” More gentle kisses followed her words, and Harry had never felt this loved and cherished. “A goddess and godsend,” he mumbled again against her skin and let her pull his face up so she could face him and see how he held up so far.

YN’s palm laid softly against his forehead—the contact alone almost made him swoon on the spot after so many weeks and months without her—and he watched her expressions, memorizing every single muscle movement all over again. “At least your fever is not too high. The world will look much better after a bowl of fresh soup and a fresh batch of tea.” She smiled up at him before pulling him at his neck down to her, pushing herself on her tiptoes, and softly kissing his warm cheeks one after the other. The tip of his nose was the last part accepting the tender peck of her lips.

She turned again to stir in the boiling pot, and Harry followed her like a puppy, wrapping his arms around her body again and pressing his face against her shoulder. “You won’t let go anytime soon, aren’t ya?” YN smiled a smile full of contentment as she added the noodles to the chicken broth and removed the tea bags from the pot to add the perfect amount of honey. He only shook his head but watched her doings with eagle eyes, furrowing his brows as she prepped him a mug and let him take it. “It’s just how I made it,” he murmured and taking a sip, closing his eyes, and humming softly. Just how he loved it. “Maybe it tasted different because I have a special ingredient, H,” YN chuckled and prepped two bowls of hot soup for them to enjoy as a late breakfast and an early lunch. “Tell me, please. Don’t wanna feel so helpless anymore if you’re not here, and I need your tea,” he pleaded with her, and the gorgeous woman turned in his arm, cupping his cheeks with both hands. “It’s cheesy but super easy.” Her smile made him almost feel healthy again. “I put an ounce of love into it. It’s what my grandma always told me. Everything tastes better when a loved one makes it for you.”

Almost on the verge of crying, Harry put his mug to the side and cupped her cheek, his other arm still tightly wrapped around her middle. “I don’t deserve you, my darling love,” he whispered and pressed a kiss to her forehead, not wanting to risk infecting her as well. YN continued to comb through his hair and rolled her eyes. “How often do I need to tell you that you, Harry Edward Styles, deserve the freaking fucking world?” He shrugged gently before nodding in the direction of the living room. “Cuddle with me, and I may be convinced of it this time,” he smiled, and with one last look, YN covered their soups and took the pot of tea with her. Harry already threw himself onto the couch, waiting impatiently for her to claim her spot, but first, she covered him with their favorite fluffy blanket. She made sure that he was perfectly covered before finally crawling underneath it as well and pressing her body against his.

“Come here, love,” she whispered invitingly, and Harry let his head heavily rest on her chest, his ear over her soothing heartbeat. He closed his eyes tiredly as she started to stroke through his hair again, scratching his scalp and neck, rubbing over his back. YN began to talk in a mumbling voice about everything and anything until she felt him slip back into slumber he definitely needed the most.

;

This got cheesier than anticipated, but this was born entirely from my need for self-indulgence, so we will live with it. Hope y’all enjoyed it! <3 As usual: comments, reblogs, and likes are much appreciated

“Someone’s thirsty,” you joked.

Harry let out a dry laugh.

“You’re not very talkative tonight,” you mentioned bluntly. “Usually you’re talking a mile a minute after a show.”

“Tired. And my throat hurt,” was his raspy response before quickly adding, “but it’s better now.”

“Are you sure?” you asked skeptically. “A few sips of water fixed it just like that?”

Harry nodded before throwing his arms around your neck from behind and letting his cheek rest atop your head. “I’m tired, ‘s all,” he said finally. “And thirsty.”

~~~

Once you were home, the first thing Harry did was sink onto the couch and emit a prolonged sigh.

“Oh, baby. What’s wrong?” you asked, plopping onto the cushion next to him.

“Tired,” he sniffed. “Will you take a shower with me?”

“Why?” you asked cautiously.

“Not f’that reason,” he assured you with a soft but priceless smile.

“You want me to help you wash your hair?” you guessed and he nodded, letting out a soft chuckle.

“Only f’you want to, lovie.” His words were followed closely by a poorly stifled sneeze that you chose to ignore. Instead, you made your way to the bathroom and turned on the shower to ensure that it would be nice and warm once Harry stepped in.

When at last he entered the shower in all his naked glory, he stepped towards you and enfolded your waist in his strong arms. He kissed your forehead a few times before resting his head on it once more.

“‘S so warm,” he mused, planting a few more kisses on your head. “Feels nice.”

“I’m glad,” you cooed, reaching up to ruffle his hair, which was now damp and matted down thanks to the water. You wriggled out of his grasp and reached for your shampoo, squeezing a generous amount onto your hands.

“Bend down,” you instructed, and he obeyed, lowering his head so you could reach all of his hair.

You worked the suds into his hair, using your fingertips to massage his scalp as you went.

His eyes fell shut in pleasure as he enjoyed the sensation.

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” you warned jokingly.

He shook his head and let out a gentle laugh. “It feels so good when you wash my hair.”

“Does your head hurt?”

“A little,” he admitted reluctantly. “Not too bad, though.”

A soft smile spread across your face as you continued working the excessive amount of bubbles into his hair. The shampoo allowed it to stick up in all directions, making it resemble a clown.

“You’re so cute, Harry,” you giggled. “You can rinse your hair now.”

“Already?” he whined, leaning his head back into the warm stream of water, running his hands through his sudsy hair to get every last bit of shampoo out. A few coughs and sneezes escaped him as he emerged from the waterfall, shaking any remaining water droplets from his hair.

You repeated the washing process with a more reasonable amount of conditioner, working it into his hair while she massaged his scalp.

When you finished helping him rinse it out, he wrapped you in another warm embrace, holding you tightly against his chest.

“You’re so clingy tonight,” you noticed.

“S’cuz I love you,” he replied, his voice muffled in your wet hair.

“Are you feeling okay?”

He nodded once before ultimately deciding to shake his head, pulling you closer to his chest.

“Does Jeff know you don’t feel well?”

Harry tensed slightly. “He knew I had a headache before going on, and that my throat was sore afterward,” he said slowly.

“Do you want to tell him or should I?” you asked as you turned off the water.

Harry immediately began to shiver, deprived of the warmth the water had been providing. He wrapped his arms around himself before sidling up next to you again. “Tell who what?”

“Tell Jeff that you’re sick. Do you want to tell him or should I?”

“No.” Harry shook his head, clearing his throat to ward off the persistent tickle that tormented it.

“No what?”

“I just need sleep, Y/N. ‘S all it is. Jeff doesn’t need to know.”

You just shook your head. “I’ll worry about Jeff later. For now,” you trailed off, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. “You’re pretty warm.”

His eyes fell to the ground. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” you assured him quickly. “Come here.”

Harry stepped reluctantly out of the shower, stumbling backward upon moving his head too quickly.

“Careful!” you exclaimed instinctively, reaching out to steady him. “You okay?”

He nodded bashfully as his face reddened in embarrassment. “Sorry, lovie.” He spoke in a lighter tone than usual so as not to strain his fatigued voice further.

“Don’t be sorry,” you insisted. “Dry yourself off and I’ll help blow dry your hair.”

Satisfied, he grabbed his towel and began drying off. Any reason for you to play with his hair comforted him.

You rung your hair out in the sink and slipped into a pair of comfortable, loose-fitting sweats before removing your hair dryer from its place in the drawer.

Harry, still wrapped in his towel, sat down on the closed toilet seat to give you better a better view of the top of his head. You dried his hair as quickly as you could, not worrying about what it looked like. After all, it would inevitably get worse as he slept.

Once his hair was thoroughly dried, you led him into the bedroom, instructing him to lie down on top of the duvet.

He did as he was told, and you worked briskly to cover his body in lotion. The lotion was uncomfortably cold on his abnormally warm skin, causing goosebumps to form up and down his limbs. Despite your haste, you made an effort to massage his sore muscles, causing soft groans to escape his rosy lips.

“I’m cold,” he whined desperately, his voice weak and broken. “I just want to go to bed.”

Your heart flooded with compassion at his words. You passed him his pajamas, which he donned immediately. As he did so, you busied yourself pulling back the duvet and comforter.

Harry wasted no time lying down, curling up into a shivering ball against the cool, white sheets.

Presently, you joined him, positioning your body beside his in an attempt to warm him. Instead, he turned away, curling up in the opposite direction.

“I’d feel awful if I got y’sick,” he explained hoarsely. “I don’t feel sexy anymore.”

“Oh, Harry,” you sighed, enveloping him in a warm embrace against his protests. “How do you expect to get better without snuggles?”

He all but melted into you, embracing you and leaning his forehead into your shoulder as his eyelids fell shut.

“Are you comfortable?” you inquired sweetly, to which he responded with a nod as vigorous as his dizzy body would allow.

Once he was comfortable, it didn’t take long for him to start drifting off. You took the opportunity to text Jeff, who agreed that if Harry was sick enough to admit it, there was definitely something wrong. He agreed to drop off some medicine, as well as other items that would benefit Harry, but until then, you were instructed to give him Tylenol to help ward off some of his discomforts.

You shook his already-sleeping body reluctantly, sighing sympathetically when he let out a disgruntled whimper. His exhausted eyes found yours as he stuffed his hands with handfuls of your sweatshirt.

You apologized profusely for rousing him so suddenly before handing him the pills and a bottle of water, which he downed obediently before returning his head to its place on your chest.

“Jeff’s coming with actual medicine,” you informed him, “but hopefully this will take the edge off your headache.”

Harry gave you a weak smile and a grateful hug, mumbling one last apology before shutting his heavy eyes once more. “‘M sorry I’m sick.”

He had been asleep for less than five minutes when Jeff let himself in with supplies in tow. After one mere glance at Harry’s sleep-distraught figure, it was evident that he wasn’t well at all. Jeff set the bag down gingerly on the bed, whispering some generic instructions before leaving as quietly as possible.

You opened the bag painfully carefully, but the rustling of the plastic didn’t fail to stir Harry from his light sleep.

He looked up at you with glossy, dilated eyes, letting out a few sniffles and coughs.

“Jeff brought this for you,” you said, beckoning to the bag. “Sorry I woke you up again.”

“‘S fine,” he sighed softly.

“He brought some medicine as well as a thermometer, cough drops, and extra tissues. And he left some soup in the fridge for us to heat up when we want some.”

Harry attempted to smile as he tightened his grip around you, burying his face in your shoulder to escape the light of the lamp you switched on.

“I was told not to give you medicine until tomorrow to keep better track of doses, but you were also prescribed plenty of cough drops and extra love.”

Harry brightened immediately, eager for love and an extra something to soothe his irritated throat.

You ripped the package of cough drops open, inhaling their inherently intoxicating fragrance before popping one into his waiting mouth.

He thanked you by managing a weak smile before clacking it against his teeth a few times and lying back down.

“Don’t fall asleep with that,” you warned jokingly.

“I won’t,” he replied, his voice low and raspy. “My head hurts, Y/N.”

“Give the Tylenol some time to work,” you suggested gently, running your fingers through his freshly washed hair.

His eyes fell shut at the sensation as he leaned instinctively into your touch.

“Now I smell like you,” he sniffled, enjoying the attention despite himself.

It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, but it also didn’t take him long to wake up. He found himself unable to sleep for more than two hours at a time. He was hot and cold simultaneously and every muscle in his body seared with a dull ache. Every time he began to drift off, he awoke immediately, needing to cough or sneeze.

After waking up for the third time, he ultimately decided to move to your other side in hopes of finding a more comfortable position to lie in without straying too far from your comforting body heat.

You adjusted the blankets around him as he adjusted his grip around your waist. HJose tired, glassy eyes looked up at you, blinking profusely as a singular tear slid down his cheek.

You used your thumb to brush it from his cheek and his eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“You didn’t think I’d notice?” you asked in disbelief, feeling your heart sink.

He shrugged, trying to blink back the tears that welled up in his eyes, but his efforts were in vain.

“Oh, Harry,” you sighed, massaging his head gently as he leaned into you. “Why don’t you to go back to sleep?”

“I’m too tired,” he complained.

“Too tired to sleep?”

“I can’t get comfortable,” he explained miserably.

“We can watch a movie together if you want,” you suggested.

“That might wake me up enough to sleep,” he said softly, letting out a few coughs as he scrubbed at his eyes.

You couldn’t help but smile, though you knew he was only clingy because he didn’t feel well. You leaned past him to grab your laptop off of the ground, as well as the tissue box, knowing all too well that he would need it. The moment you opened your laptop, a wave of blue light illuminated the room.

Harry whimpered softly, burying his face in your neck as you rushed to turn the brightness down, blinking the dark spots out of your vision after the shock.

“I’m sorry, baby,” you cooed. “That didn’t help your headache any, did it?”

He shook his head, muffling a short set of sniffles into your shoulder.

“What do you want to watch?”

He shrugged. “Your choice,” he rasped sleepily, moving closer to your chest. “I’ll watch anything.”

Your eyes moved from the glowing computer screen to Harry’s sick body, clinging onto you desperately.

You let out a low hum as you shut your computer and carded your fingers through his messy, blow-dried hair “You just want to be held, huh?”

He nodded solemnly, forgetting his signature cheekiness amid his fevered state as unpreventable tears sprang to his eyes for a second time that night.

Wordlessly, your arms enveloped his middle as you held him to your chest.

A shiver wracked his body as he allowed himself to be held, growing warm and tired in your arms. “I love when you hold me,” he muttered sleepily. Had his face not been buried in your chest, you would have noticed a rosy tint creeping into his cheeks.

In the comfort of your arms, he drifted off immediately, finally succumbing to the sound sleep his body craved.

You fell asleep shortly thereafter, waking up what seemed like minutes later to the sun streaming in through the closed curtains. You were sore from lying in the same position for so long, and your right arm was asleep from being under Harry’s weight. On top of that, you were almost sweating from the heat he had generated onto you throughout the night

A brief glance at him, however, told you he hadn’t moved all night. I’m

Based on the light coming in from outside, it was morning, meaning you could administer his first dose of medicine. Moving slowly so as not to wake him, you tiptoed from the room to use the bathroom and freshen up. You took the time to wash your face, brush your teeth, and get your hair out of your face, feeling miraculously put together as you exited the bathroom and headed for the kitchen to fetch him a bottle of water.

In the short time you were gone, Harry had woken up and repositioned himself to be curled up around a pillow, sniffling and coughing into it.

Climbing back into bed, you ruffled his hair affectionately as he let out a disgruntled sigh, rubbing the sleep from his puffy eyes.

“How do you feel, bubs?”

Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste at the pet name. “‘M okay,” he began before clearing his throat and trying again. “I feel like shit.” The throat-clearing irritated his already-sore throat, causing him to cough.

You rubbed his back sympathetically as he sniffled before continuing to rub his eyes.

“I can give you medicine now,” you said brightly. “Hopefully, it will help perk you up and bring your fever down. You’re like a little heating pad right now.”

“A little heating pad,” he repeated, smiling slightly despite himself.

“A little bed-headed, cough drop-scented heating pad.”

He sighed contentedly as your hands found their way to his hair once again. “My head hurts,” he commented.

“I’ll get you your medicine and water. Does oatmeal sound good or would you rather eat something else?”

“Do I have to?” he grimaced before muffling a stuffy sneeze into his pillow.

“You can’t take the medicine on an empty stomach.” you reasoned. “Plus, when was the last time you ate?”

He sneezed one more time before agreeing begrudgingly. “Anything to make me feel better,” he sighed before coughing again into the crook of his arm.

“I’ll be right back. In the meantime, rest your voice.”

Harry nodded, zipping his lips obediently. He leaned back against the cool pillows, pulling the comforter up to his chin. His whole body was tired and achy, and his head was foggy and throbbing. His nose was alternating between stuffed up and runny, and his chest felt tight and heavy. He could barely sit up without his head spinning and almost everything made his feverish, irritable body threaten to burst into tears. He knew he was being clingy, but he could scarcely keep his hands off of you. He needed your warm, comforting body near his more than anything else in the world. Because of that, a sigh of relief escaped his chapped lips when you finally returned to the bedroom.

After setting down the oatmeal and water on the nightstand nearest your side of the bed, which he had inhabited as of late, you couldn’t resist his outstretched arms.

He buried his fever-warmed face in your neck as you ran your fingers up and down his back.

“‘M sorry I’m being such a baby,” he mumbled. “‘S just, I haven’t felt this sick in forever.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him, squishing his dimpled cheeks. “You baby me all the time. Now it’s your turn to be babied.” You looked over his sick body with sad eyes before passing him the bowl of oatmeal from your nightstand.

He stared blankly at it for a moment before raising a spoonful to his lips. He swallowed a few bites wordlessly before lowering the bowl back down to his lap. “Is that enough?”

You shook your head sadly. “A few more bites, baby. Then we can give you your medicine.”

Harry choked down four more bites of the gormless oatmeal before pushing his bowl back in defiance.

You handed him his pills and a glass of water, both of which he downed readily.

Leaning back against the pillows once more, he cast you a forlorn, heart-melting gaze. His eyes were puffy and watery from fatigue, and his lips were chapped from excess licking. His nose was on fire from the number of times it had been wiped and coddled, but somehow, he was still unfairly cute.

“‘F I can’t sing, can we at least have sex or something?” He looked at you with inquisitive green eyes as he awaited your response.

“Oh, baby,” you sighed. “You’re too tired to sit up fully. How do you expect to have sex?”

He shrugged as a look of defeat crossed his face. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “I’m sorry. Just bored.”

“I know,” you pouted. “Is there anything you want to do?”

“We could watch a movie,” he suggested, beckoning toward the brand-new bedroom tv that had yet to be turned on. Harry never failed to cheer you up when you were under the weather, but you weren’t used to being the caretaker. He fell ill so seldom, and when he did, it was almost always mild and gone in a day or two, tops. Now, glancing over his long body, bundled up in blankets, you hoped you could give him a similar assurance.

“Find a movie while I make us some tea.” You passed him the remote from atop the stout dresser beneath the tv before exiting the room. You made the tea hastily, not wanting to leave Harry alone for too long. Because being sick made him especially clingy, leaving for more than a few minutes at a time would cause inevitable whining from him. When you re-entered the room, mugs of tea in hand, Harry wasn’t there.

Your brow knitted in confusion. Poking your head into the ensuite bathroom, you saw him curled up in a heap on the cold tile before the toilet.

A sound of concern similar to a cat’s meow brewed at the back of your throat. You padded over to where he lay and crouched beside him.

He rolled to his side, brushing the hair from his face to make better eye contact with you.

“What’s the matter, baby?” you inquired, concern evident in your voice. “Did you throw up?”

“Not yet,” he stammered nervously. You noticed how his body trembled when he forced himself to sit up. “I thought I ate enough.”

“It could be completely unrelated,” you suggested, rubbing consoling circles on his broad back. You could see the embarrassment and discomfort on his face as he glanced warily from the toilet to you and down to his hands.

“Maybe,” he sniffled in agreement, barely daring to move for fear of getting sick.

“It’ll make you feel better,” you promised. “It might seem gross, but it’s all in your head. I guarantee you’ll feel a thousand times better when it’s over.”

Harry leaned back on his elbows, staring expressionlessly at the wall as his face grew pale. His breathing became rapid and shallow. In one swift burst of strength, he repositioned himself so he was hunched over the toilet, his forearms resting on the rim.

You rubbed his back comfortingly for a painfully long couple of seconds until he finished, shrinking back against the blank, white wall. When you joined him, he wasted no time placing his head in your lap and wrapping his arms around your waist.

You played with his hair in silence, twisting the frizzy strands around your finger and unraveling them again.

“Do you feel better?” you asked lovingly as you continued to twist his hair and stroke his cheeks.

He nodded, his eyes fluttering closed as they welled up with tears.

“Are you ready to brush your teeth or do you want to stay here for a moment longer?”

“Stay here,” he mumbled. “You stay here, too.” He looked at you with tearful puppy eyes before muffling his sniffles into your shirt.

“Oh, Harry,” you cooed gently. “What’s wrong? Don’t be embarrassed.”

“‘S just disgusting,” he spat. “I’m disgusting.”

“Why don’t you brush your teeth?”

“What if I get sick again?”

“Do you still feel nauseous?” you tried to respond calmly to his panic.

He shook his head slowly. “I just don’t want it to happen again.”

“It’s okay if it does. You’ll get better.”

Harry peeled his weak body off the floor, steadying himself on the counter as he reached for his toothbrush and toothpaste.

After a thorough cleaning of his teeth, he retreated to his bed, where he burrowed into the covers in an attempt to soothe his shivering body. He poked his head out from the covers just long enough to unpause The Notebook, his comfort movie, before returning to his cocoon.

A few minutes later, after disinfecting the bathroom, you joined him beneath the mountains of covers.

Instinctively, he cuddled up beside you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and embracing you profusely. He gradually began tracing imaginary patterns on your chest with his fingers, tired eyes half-lidded with sleep.

“You still don’t have any energy, do you?” You frowned slightly as he managed to shake his head.

He muffled a series of three consecutive sneezes into your shirt before sniffling a few times and returning to the patterns he was creating.

“I have your tea if you’re ready for it.”

He shook his head and let one final sneeze shiver out of his clammy body.

“Why don’t you go to sleep while you wait for the medicine to kick in?”

He nodded gratefully, seizing the opportunity to let his heavy eyelids fall shut.

“Baby.” You let out a prolonged sigh. “You don’t need my permission to sleep. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he sniffled hoarsely. “Can you spoon me?”

“Of course, lovie,” you mused sadly. “If only you were smaller, I could hold you on my lap and rock you to sleep like a baby.”

Harry whimpered softly as you removed one of your hands from his grasp to ruffle his hair.

“It’s not my fault I’m bigger than you,” he whined.

You had to laugh at his comment. You placed a cool hand on each of his cheeks, causing his eyes to flutter shut in contentment.

A delicate kiss was pressed to his forehead before he rolled over, finding his way into your eager arms.

He mumbled a word of appreciation as his eyelids fluttered closed for long-awaited sleep.

The next few days were a rollercoaster. You had to deal with Harry being extra clingy and emotional due to having to cancel shows for the first time ever. You spent countless hours curled up beside him as he slept, and you spent many evenings with him either relaxing in the tub or shampooing his hair in the shower. You dealt him tissues and cough drops as needed, as well as heated up the soup Jeff had delivered (which proved to be more than plentiful).

You watched in relief as Harry’s energy and cheekiness returned day by day. Soon, he grew more talkative, and not long after that, he returned to the state of despair he had been in earlier that week due to cancelling shows.

Even while sick, though, he never stopped asking for kisses.

"Thank you?" he mumbled quietly, his voice thick with sleep and confusion.

  "No," you rolled your eyes. "I mean you're hot hot."

"So are you," he rasped. "And I love you so much, but my head hurts, so... shhh," he trailed off, pressing a finger to your lips.

  "Harry," you huffed. "You have a fever. Let me up so I can get you some medicine, you'll feel better."

"No," he frowned, not opening his eyes as he gripped you tighter. "No getting up. Only sleeping."

"You can keep sleeping. I'll be right back, but you need some medicine. It will make your head feel better too," you tried to convince him.

  "No," he whined. "Don't get up, I'm cold."

"Yes, baby, you're cold because you have a fever," you explained again. It was like bargaining with a three year old. "If you let me get you some medicine, your fever will go down and you'll feel much better."

"Can't leave me," he mumbled, already half asleep again. "Please don't leave me."

"Harry," you sighed. You knew he would pout at you if you got up, but you also knew he would feel much better if you got him some medicine.

  With this in mind, you ignored his whining as you pulled yourself away from him. You opened and closed the door quietly, not wanting to make his headache any worse.

  Once you got to the kitchen, you found the Tylenol and a cool washcloth. You also grabbed a water bottle and an orange, in case he got his appetite back. When you opened the bedroom door, Harry hid his face under the blankets.

  "Too bright," he whined.

"Sorry," you whispered, closing the door behind you. "Sit up, baby, you need to take some Tylenol."

He shook his head.

"Harry," you sighed again. He was not fun to take care of when he was sick. "Please? For me?"

He groaned dramatically before sticking his head out of the little cave he had made in the blankets.

You smiled, handing him one of the pills and the bottle of water. He swallowed it quickly, trying to give the water bottle back, but you shook your head.

  "Take a few more drinks, you have to stay hydrated."

He sighed, dropping his head back to the pillow.

  "Harry, take two drinks, or I'm not getting back in bed."

"You're so mean," he groaned, but lifted the bottle to his lips anyways.

  "I know," you said with a small smile. "I'm so terrible for taking care of you when you're sick."

"Mhm," he said, his voice muffled since his face was smushed into the pillow. "There, I took two drinks, please come back here."

You took the bottle from his outstretched hand, setting it on the nightstand. "Do you want the cold washcloth?"

He shook his head. "Just want to hold you, please?"

"Of course, baby," you pulled back the blankets, shushing him softly when he whined at the cold air.

  You settled against him, smiling when he rested his head on your chest. You brought your hand up to run your fingers through his hair as he wrapped his arms tightly around you.

"Feels nice," he murmured.

  You hummed softly, continuing the gentle movements as his soft breaths hit your skin. Before long, his breathing evened out and he was completely relaxed against you. Once you were sure he was sleeping soundly, you shuffled around to find a more comfortable position, still cuddled closely against him. You figured a few more hours of sleep would be good for you, since taking care of sick Harry was a full time job. You didn't mind, though. It wasn't often he needed you to take care of him, and it was nice that he got so cuddly when he didn't feel well.

-----

You woke suddenly to the sound of a door slamming. You sat up, your bleary eyes searching for Harry. He wasn't in the bed, and the door leading to the bathroom was closed.

  You made your way over, but stopped when you heard Harry being sick. You knocked softly on the door.

"Harry? Are you ok?"

"Don't come in," came his quiet voice. "Just let me die in peace."

You tried not to roll your eyes. He was so dramatic when he was sick. Instead, you tried the doorknob. Seeing how it was unlocked, you opened the door slowly to see Harry sitting next to the toilet, leaned against the wall.

He tipped his head back to rest on the surface, looking up at you with tired eyes. "I'm fine, you don't have to be here."

"I'm taking care of you," you reminded him, stepping further into the room. "I'm not just going to leave you alone when you're sick. What kind of girlfriend would I be?"

"A normal one," he replied, looking down at his hands. "It's really fine, and anyways, I don't want you to get sick."

"We've been together every day for the past three months, Harry. If I get sick, I get sick. Now come on, let's get you cleaned up."

He nodded slowly, bracing himself against the wall to stand up. You handed him a tissue to wipe his mouth before he grabbed his toothbrush.

  Once he was done, he looked at you tiredly.

  "I think I'm going back to bed," he said, his eyes drooping.

  "Okay," you nodded. "I'll come with you."

"Really?" He seemed surprised. "You don't have to, it's the middle of the day."

"I don't mind," you said. "Haven't any of your girlfriends ever taken care of you when you were sick?"

"Not really," he admitted with a small blush. "Usually they thought it was gross- because it kind of is- so I just... slept it off by myself."

"Well, that's terrible," you pouted slightly. "This is what they're supposed to do. They're supposed to cuddle you and bring you medicine and force you to stay hydrated even when you don't want to. And I don't think it's gross. It's normal. Everybody gets sick, right?"

He hummed in agreement, pulling you back to your room. "Well, I really appreciate it," he said, flopping down on the bed.

  "Of course," you smiled. "Get some sleep, you'll feel better when you wake up." He sighed softly at the feeling of your fingers brushing through his hair again.

  "I love you so much," he murmured against you. "More than anything. Anything in the whole world, you're my favorite. And... you're so soft. And warm. I just... love." He was barely coherent at this point, but the general message got through.

The next day, another enchanted letter appeared, fluttering through the open window. It landed in Harry’s hand, stretching its wings and slowing before falling still.

Harry felt his heart flutter with anticipation, shocked to find himself looking forward to seeing that beautiful handwriting again.

He unfolded the notes, letting out a small sigh of relief as he looked down at the elegant scrawls of ink.

He first few pages were Herbology notes, the boarder of the pages beautifully illustrated with drawings of fungi—bundles of enoki, rows of hiratake and oyster mushrooms that grew likes rippling shelves on the side of a towering tree, rounded toadstools with bright tops, and clusters of honey agaric. There were notes of which fungi were edible and which were not.

The next page were notes from Potions class. Harry read through them all, turning the page over. He couldn’t help but laugh as he looked down at the illustrtion at the bottom of the page; a rather unflattering animated doodle of Snape blathering on with a seach bubble that read ‘blah, blah, blah’.

When he finished laughing, he drew in a deep breath and read through the rest of the notes, feeling his heart sip a beat as he read the message on the final page—the one line of elegant writing.

Get well soon.

Harry stared at that one sentence for a while.

Finally, he let out a measured sigh and laid the rest of the notes on top, reaching over to his bedside table and picking up one of his notebooks. He opened the cover and set the pages of notes inside, setting them aside where they’d be safe.

The next day, Harry was starting to feel a lot better, even more so when another enchanted letter flew through the windows and into Harry’s hands.

His heart fluttered as he read the beautiful script.

He turned through the pages, reading the notes.

The third Herbology class that week was about flowers, the pages of notes decorated with beautiful illustrations of lilies, jasmine, dandelions, and hawthorn as well as notes on how they could be used for healing and potions.

Among the notes was a pressed hawthorn flower.

Harry gently picked it up off the paper, turning it around in his fingers.

It was beautiful, delicate. The crisp white petals seemed enchanting on their own.

He set it aside carefully, turning his attention back to the letter.

The pages of notes from Potions class were filled with silly jokes and mocking doodles of Professor Snape.

He couldn’t help but smile as he read through the pages, feeling a warmth settle in his chest as he read the elegant handwriting.

“What are you smirking at?” Ron asked as he made his way into the dorm and flopped down on the end of Harry’s bed.

“Nothing,” Harry said dismissively.

He picked out one of the pages and handed it to Ron.

“Does his handwriting look familiar to you?” he asked.

Ron looked down at the page.

“No,” he said, turning the piece of paper over and bursting into laughter at the crude doodle of Professor Snape. “But whoever they are, they’ve captured Snape perfectly.”

Ron passed the letter to Neville.

Neville looked it over, snickering at the illustration before passing it to Seamus who then passed it to Dean, but they all had the same answer: no one knew who wrote the notes.

“Whoever it is, they’ve got to be a Ravenclaw,” Seamus said. “No one else pays that much attention in class.”

“Hermione does,” Ron countered, looking at another page he’d picked up off the bed. “But that’s not her handwriting.”

“Is that so?” Dean said, his voice drawn out in a suggestive tone. He smirked and arched a brow as he looked at Ron.

“Shut up,” Ron replied.

Harry chuckled. He took the pages back, sliding them in place with the rest of the notes.

He flicked to the last page, the same as the last page of all the others.

Get well soon.

The others began to talk about their day but Harry wasn’t listening though; his attention was focused on the pressed flower in his hand. He turned the hawthorn around in his fingers, looking at it with wonder.

“Who are you?” he mused, his voice a quiet whisper.

He carefully set the flower back among the pages, reaching for his notebook and setting the notes aside.

Days later, Harry was finally well enough to join classes, and as happy as he was about being able to leave the dorms and spend time with his friends, there was something that weighed on him. The thought of never receiving another letter broke his heart.

That morning, before breakfast, Harry opened the notebook where the letters had been stored, picking up one of the final pages that read ‘Get well soon’. He stared down at the curves of the lettering, feeling his heart flutter in his chest. He folded up the piece of paper and stowed it in his pocket.

Throughout the day, Harry and his friends would compare the elegant scrawls of writing from the letter to the penmanship of their classmates, but none of the girls’ handwriting matched up.

That evening, Harry, Ron and Hermione were gathered in the Gryffindor common room. Ron was stretched out across the couch in front of the fire while Harry and Hermione sat on the floor.

Harry had brought out the letters in order to show Hermione the notes, hoping she would recognise the handwriting.

“It almost looks like…” Hermione’s voice trailed off. “Never mind.”

“What?” Harry asked, hopeful.

“Forget it,” Hermione said, shaking her head as she handed the page of Potions notes back to Harry.

“Hermione,” Harry pleaded.

Hermione let out a sigh.

“When Malfoy takes notes in Herbology and Potions, he sometimes draws the flowers, herbs and whatnot beside his notes,” she said. “It almost looks like his drawings.”

“Malfoy?” Ron repeated, his voice a mix of shock, disbelief, and disgust.

“But I don’t know what his handwriting looks like and I doubt Draco Malfoy would be sending you letters,  let alone ones that say ‘get well soon’,” Hermione pointed out.

Harry let out a dejected sigh, looking down at the page in his hand.

“Oh no,” Hermione said. “I know that face.”

“What?” Harry asked, looking up at her.

“Harry, you can’t seriously tell me you’ve fallen for someone you don’t even know because they sent you a letter,” Hermione said.

Harry let out a heavy sigh, but he didn’t deny it.

“Harry,” Hermione said, her voice soft but scolding.

There was a heavy thud as a stack of paper dropped between them.

“Bloody hell,” Ron gasped, looking up at his brothers. “What’s this?”

“Samples of handwriting from every house,” Fred answered.

“You’re welcome,” George added.

Harry stared at the pile, his eyes wide with shock. “How did you—?”

“We called in a favour from Cedric Diggory,” George explained. “He put together examples of everyone’s handwriting from the Hufflepuff dorms—guys and girls alike.”

“Ginny talked to Luna and got her to ask everyone in Ravenclaw to write something down,” Fred added.

“We had to bribe Pansy Parkinson to get examples of everyone’s handwriting in the Slytherin dorm,” George said, his voice a little tense.

“How did you know—?”

“That you were looking for who wrote the letters?” George finished Harry’s question. “The whole dorm knows.”

“The whole of Hogwarts knows,” Fred countered teasingly.

Harry looked down at the stacks of paper and then back up at the twins. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” they said in unison.

A couple of others joined them, sorting through the mountain of paper – pages of notes, scraps of paper with things written on them, etc – and comparing the handwriting to the elegant script of the letters.

There were a lot that came close, but weren’t quite right: the slant of the writing wasn’t the same, there wasn’t as much of a curve on the upwards stroke of the “d”s or the downwards stroke of the “y”s.

Harry was about to give up hope when he picked up another page of writing.

His heart stopped, his breath catching in his throat.

He help the page up to the letter.

It was an exact match.

His eyes drifted to the name at the top of the page.

Without a word, he held the page out to Ron.

Ron took it, comparing the writing. He opened his mouth to say something when he noticed the same thing as harry—the name at the top.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

Ron passed the age to her, letting her see for herself, but Harry couldn’t get the name out of his mind.

Draco Malfoy.

The next day, Harry sat alone in the library.

He watched as the light outside the large windows of the library began to dim and the sky lit up with a brilliant display of colours.

He turned his attention to the blank piece of parchment before him, staring at the paper as he tried to figure out what to write.

He jumped at the loud thud of someone dropping their books on the table.

He turned to see Draco pull out a chair a few seats down from him. He sat down and opened the large text books, pulling out his notebook as he set to work writing things down.

Harry looked down at the piece of paper in front of him. He picked up his quill and began to write.

He wrote down two words before sketching a paper crane below it.

He set aside his quill and pushed the paper across the table.

Draco looked up from his work, his brow furrowed slightly as he picked up the piece of paper and read it.

‘Thank you.’