The universe was laughing at Ron Weasley. There was no other explanation.
A week of anticipation, all leading up to this—Hogsmeade, butterbeer, a break from school, maybe even a chance to snag some of those limited-edition Chocolate Frogs that made your tongue turn blue. And instead, he was stuck in a hotel room with Draco bloody Malfoy, both of them too sick to move, sweating and shivering in separate beds that may as well have been the bars of a cell.
Ron groaned and flopped back against his pillow, only for Malfoy to make a sound of pure, unfiltered misery from the other side of the room.
"If you’re going to die, Weasley, do it quietly."
"Right back at you," Ron muttered, yanking the blankets over his head in protest.
It was cruelly ironic. The professors had taken one look at their fever-flushed faces that morning and declared them unfit to go to Hogsmeade with the rest of the class. And because the only available lodging was the tiny, questionably hygienic inn near the village, they had been unceremoniously dumped in the same room with strict orders to rest and take the potions left on the nightstand.
For the first couple of hours, they had tried ignoring each other. Then the fever had worsened.
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HOUR FIVE: THE SWEATING
Ron woke up to the sensation of his own sweat pooling at the base of his spine, drenching his pajamas. His hair stuck to his forehead, and his skin felt like it had been set on fire from the inside out. Across the room, Malfoy wasn’t faring any better—his usually pristine shirt was dark with sweat, his face an unhealthy shade of red. He was fidgeting, shifting restlessly like he couldn’t find a comfortable position.
"Too hot," Malfoy muttered, kicking off his blankets, only to shiver violently a second later.
Ron snorted weakly. "Welcome to hell, Malfoy."
Malfoy groaned and pressed a clammy hand to his forehead. "If I die, tell my father to sue the school."
"If you die, I’m looting your trunk first."
Malfoy made an indignant noise but didn’t have the strength to argue. He rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut.
Ron sighed, peeling the blankets off himself with difficulty. Every movement sent waves of nausea rolling through his gut. His shirt was soaked, clinging uncomfortably to his skin, but the mere thought of getting up to change it was laughable.
Instead, he flopped his arm over the side of the bed, grasping blindly for the damp cloth Madam Pomfrey had left them. He found it, barely, and half-heartedly tossed it in Malfoy’s direction.
It landed on Malfoy’s arm. He cracked an eye open and sneered. "Was that supposed to be helpful?"
"Use it or don’t," Ron mumbled, already fading back into fevered exhaustion.
A few minutes later, he heard Malfoy sigh and press the cloth to his forehead with a barely audible, "Merlin, that’s better."
-----
HOUR EIGHT: THE NAUSEA
Ron woke up dizzy. The ceiling tilted dangerously as he opened his eyes, and his stomach churned in protest.
Oh no.
He barely had time to roll onto his side before he was scrambling weakly for the edge of the bed. The wave of nausea hit him full force, and suddenly, he was heaving over the side, his entire body convulsing.
It was humiliating. Absolutely miserable. His throat burned, his stomach muscles clenched painfully, and all he could do was hold onto the mattress like it was the only thing keeping him from falling off the planet.
A groggy, disgusted voice cut through his suffering. "Oh, for Salazar’s sake—"
There was rustling from the other side of the room, followed by the sound of something being dragged across the wooden floor. A few seconds later, a wastebin appeared beside him.
"Use this, you absolute animal," Malfoy muttered. He sounded like he regretted getting out of bed at all.
Ron barely managed a weak glare before he grabbed the bin, retching miserably into it. Malfoy let out a suffering sigh and shuffled back to his bed, collapsing dramatically. "If you’re going to die, at least aim away from me."
Ron didn’t have the energy to respond. He wiped his mouth shakily with the back of his hand and slumped back against his pillow, boneless with exhaustion.
After a moment, a glass of water appeared on his nightstand. Malfoy wasn’t looking at him.
"Drink," was all he said.
Ron did. Begrudgingly.
HOUR TWELVE: DELIRIUM AND FEVER DREAMS
Somewhere between fevered sleep and wakefulness, Ron heard Malfoy mumbling. At first, he thought Malfoy was talking to him, but when he cracked his eyes open, Malfoy was staring at nothing, his breathing shallow and uneven.
"I don’t—no, I wasn’t—" Malfoy’s voice was soft, fever-slurred. His fingers twitched against the sheets. "Don’t—tell my father—"
Ron swallowed thickly. He recognized the fever-dream haze well enough. He’d had his own fair share of them, after all.
"Malfoy," he croaked.
No response.
Ron groaned and forced himself upright, ignoring the way the room swayed violently. He fumbled for the damp cloth, dunking it in the water basin before pressing it to Malfoy’s burning forehead.
Malfoy flinched but didn’t wake. His breath hitched, and his brows furrowed, his fingers twitching like he was trying to grab something.
Ron sighed, shifting the cloth to a cooler spot. "Bloody hell, Malfoy. Didn’t peg you as the talking-in-your-sleep type."
Malfoy made a small, distressed sound in his throat. Ron hesitated before muttering, "You’re fine. Just a fever. Go back to sleep, yeah?"
The tension in Malfoy’s shoulders eased a fraction. Ron didn’t let himself think about how weird this was—taking care of Malfoy, of all people. Instead, he settled back into his own bed, too exhausted to do anything but close his eyes and let the fever pull him under again.
THE NEXT MORNING
When Ron woke up, the fever had finally broken. His body still ached, but the awful burning heat had cooled to a manageable warmth. He cracked one eye open and immediately groaned at the sunlight filtering through the window.
Malfoy was still in bed, looking half-dead but notably less feverish. He groaned and rolled onto his side, cracking open a bleary eye.
"If you ever tell anyone I let you put a washcloth on my face, I’ll hex you into next week," he muttered.
Ron snorted, voice rough from sleep. "Like I want anyone knowing I spent the night playing nursemaid to you."
They stared at each other for a beat before Malfoy sighed and closed his eyes again. "This never happened."
"Agreed."
Of course, when they finally made it back to Hogwarts, neither of them mentioned the fact that—just for a moment—they had taken care of each other without wanting to hex each other into oblivion.