The Floo Flue
Fever set in with the speed of a rushing storm, and Hermione found her teeth rattling as chills and sweats swept through her. Atrix faired no better. Shaking as he bundled them both in coats and blankets. Exhausted from this meager activity they collapsed in his sitting room alternately sneezing and moaning.
“I think my sandwich tasted off,” Atrix groaned.
“Mine tasted normal.” Hermione labored through the scant words miserably. She wanted nothing more than to be home, in her bed, where she could be miserably sick with her own things.
“Need to,” Atrix paused as if talking were an effort, “get to . . . hospital.”
Hermione lay her pounding head against the couch arm from which she resented its expensive leather for the sin of not being her cloth couch.
“No Floo . . . no magic . . .”
“Have . . . a . . . Thestral,” he sneezed back.
The last thing Hermione wanted to do was crawl on the back of a ghost-bat-horse and hold on all the way to St. Mungos. Curled into a ball she closed her eyes as heaviness sapped her strength. Were they going to die? She wondered. Cut off from magic and sneezing themselves to death? Did I survive the war to die like this?
The embarrassment was acute.
“Thank y-achoo-ou Wink-achoo-y, please, the Thestral—ACHOO—saddled.” Atrix sneezed at someone. Hermione hadn’t registered anyone else in the room but she’d been sneezing so often it was no surprise she hadn’t heard them come or go.
“My house-elf—” A peppering of small sneezes “—saddling Ivan. Can you stand?”
Hermione hadn’t known the pain a sneeze could bring. Her lungs ached, her forehead felt ready to shatter, and her eyes ran steady with tears. But she forced her legs to shuffle and leaned on Atrix as they trooped the ungodly distance through his estate out to the front door.
A plague of sneezes on the ridiculous length of steps to get to a front door in these rich-blooded estates. If they’d been to her flat they would be outside in a manner of ten strides. Around step thirty, grace deserted her. Atrix was somehow towing her along beneath one arm. Dully she managed a bow for the Thestral, going to one knee, and taking an embarrassing measure of coaxing from Atrix to get up again.
“Nope, no luv, that’s for Hippogriffs. You really are completely out of it. Luckily, I’m feeling a bit stronger,” Atrix chuckled, banding an arm around Hermione’s middle and directing the Thestral. The lurch skyward nearly cost Hermione her dinner and she passed out somewhere between wing beats and the watery blur of starlight.
Achoo To You
Hermione woke to the snap of fingers in her face. Her arms suspended between two broad shoulders as she fell off a Thestral.
“Granger?” An unpleasant man caught her and persisted in throwing words at her. Hermione sneezed. Her throat, nose, and brain sorely abused.
“Look at the state of you.”
Ah, yes, the unpleasant man was Malfoy (Hermione perceived through watery eyes.) She must be out of her mind because she also felt relieved. Malfoy would sort things. He may be an utter git in every way, but he was a proactive and productive git.
A protest died between her brain and mouth as he swooped her up against his chest. Her head spun like a whirligig and she bent her strength against the urge to vomit all over his pressed robes.
Did he deserve this last reservoir of her strength? No. But her heels certainly did at the insensible sum of eighty pounds.
Atrix slipped from the Thestral and began petting and praising Ivan for getting them here so quickly.
“This must be some terrible dream,” Hermione decided, cradled in Malfoy’s arms. He was so warm. He smelled of clean laundry, parchment paper and . . . fresh bread? And she needed to stop burring her nose into his chest—and she would, she would. Once her head stopped spinning. He was just so warm. Her fingers fisted his shirt closer to her nose.
“What have you done to your heels?” Malfoy hissed into her curls. “Traipse through a desert recently, Granger?”
Her foot was turned this way and that. Some bit of magic expelled the sand from her stalkings and toes. She might have groaned at the relief of one irritant—the sand had been driving her mad in the back of a list of far more important grievances.
“SandWitch shop,” Hermione corrected, squeezing her eyes shut. This was not the conversation she expected to be having, she thought drowsily as Malfoy carried her into the hospital. Three punctual sneezes saw her through the lobby.
“What!”-sneeze-“are you doing here, Malfoy? I thought you were baby—achoo—sitting.”
“Interesting you ask, Granger. There seems to have been another mass crime. And all the victims have been flocking to St. Mungos. I had to fly Aunt Andromeda and her entire cards group in. They’re currently sneezing just down the hall.” Malfoy had the audacity to shove a handkerchief in her face, muffling her next three dizzying, teeth-rattling sneezes.
The green silk smelled surprisingly fresh. Spring, and morning after rain. Nothing like his expensive French perfume from school.
“How trying—Achoo—for you.”
Malfoy turned her back to her feet where she clung embarrassingly to his arm for balance, snotting into his kerchief. She quashed a whiney thought that wished he’d pick her back up again. The world didn’t whirl so noisily when she could hide her face in a surprisingly muscular chest.
“I thought you said you had work. What sort of work were you and Mr Rosier at? Sand and soot and a magical cold,” Malfoy griped.
“It was a work,” triple sneeze, “and it was dinner.” She also wanted her eyes to stop watering half a minute so she could use them. Above all, she wanted to never sneeze again. Her thoughts rattled around her skull as another painful sneezing chain buried her face into her hands.
Someone (horrifyingly, Malfoy—most likely) mopped at her teary eyes (horridly gentle), then pressed a second soft square of fabric into her hands. Was he made of handkerchiefs? She groaned into it, dizzy.
“And why aren’t you sick, Rosier?” Malfoy sneered away from Hermione. But his voice sounded loud as a thousand hissing snakes.
“Well, I am—was—obviously!” Atrix protested. “We both were.”
“I see,” Malfoy said coldly. “You aren’t going anywhere until we find out why you seem better.”
“You can’t detain me, Malfoy. Last I checked, you worked for a bank.” Atrix straightened his jacket as though Malfoy had assaulted it.
“Do shut up.” Hermione moaned clutching her forehead as she had one clear, urgent thought. “Malfoy!” she blindly yanked at his jacket. “It has to do with the Floo.”
“Yes, some beastly Muggle flue, no doubt,” Malfoy drawled.
Sneezes echoed throughout the hospital as Hermione found no open seat to collapse in.
“Not a flue, the Floo!” Hermione groaned.
“That’s right.” Atrix propped her back up. “We were fine until we took the Floo home. That was the last time we could use magic. Look-I really must go see to Ivan, if you’ll be alright for a moment, Hermione?”
“Go,” Hermione waved him away. She didn’t want to be here any more than Ivan the Thestral. Why make the poor thing suffer? She just wanted the world to be silent. But all around she could hear the buzz of exclamations and sneezing.
“Excellent taste, Granger. Are all your dates this eager to escape you?” Malfoy sneered before turning away again—presumably to detain Atrix. “The beast can wait a moment—how is your magic now, Rosier?”
“Now?”
“Yes, magic, now?” Malfoy snapped his fingers.
“Well I, I’ve been too busy to check.” Atrix shuffled about in his pockets and brought out his wand. “Tergeo,” he waved at Hermione.
The wet handkerchiefs in her grasp felt dry once more but had also lost their spring-rain smell.
“Yes, see, all back,” Atrix replied stiffly. “Now, I really must send Ivan away. He hates a crowd.”
Hermione’s head was too stuffy to much care where anyone went.
“I’ll need a statement before you leave,” Malfoy interjected. “Or I could send Potter around to pull the memory if you’re in such a hurry to be gone, now.”
“Not necessary. Besides, Hermione was with me since before the Floo’s flue. Why don’t you have Potter shut the network down before everyone arrives at St. Mungos?”
“What? Shut down the Floo? Are you mad?” Ron hollered.
Hermione gave up on standing as Ron’s booming voice sent the world into a tailspin. She promptly made to lay down on the floor.
“No, you don’t, Granger. It’s filthy down there.” Malfoy scolded, scooping her up once more.
Covering her ears Hermione gave up on dignity, sneezing into his chest and covering her ears. Distantly she thought she felt Malfoy patting her back and murmuring comforting nonsense into her hair. Absently she thought it was rather nice. He was being rather nice. But then, she couldn’t feel more wretched if Voldemort were cuddling her. So she didn’t bother muddling it all out. She snuggled into the heat and sturdiness of his chest and sighed in relief as the world spun just a fraction less.
Nurse Malfoy
What a disaster. Malfoy glared at the ceiling still cradling a half-comatose Granger with nowhere to put the witch. He should have let her lay on the floor, but some impulse—probably the expensive silk of her skirt—had him snatching her from the boot-skidded luxury vinyl.
Pacing before his Aunt’s sick room, Draco scowled about the cramped hospital room and reasoned: Andromeda already had to share her sick bed with Apolline Delacour (each woman propped against opposite bed posts with an unused game of cards spread between them.) He certainly wouldn’t inconvenience his aunt with yet another witch.
Molly Weasley (their third player) could be heard sneezing instructions for Ron (who currently wasn’t even present) from the bed next door. His Aunt’s mysterious fourth bridge partner, a goblette named Mossmedow, hadn’t suffered from the sneezing fits and had gone promptly home to cook up a mushroom soup for her fellow, ailing gamblers.
Ron had taken the notion of a Floo flue and stampeded off with it to his fiancée as if Daph could fix the world for him. A problem of her choosing—as Draco saw the Weasel.
Andromeda’s house-elf, Trinket, opened his aunt's sick room like a villa in need of airing out. She then set out a chair for Draco, followed by a stack of his monogrammed handkerchiefs. Draco swapped them out of Hermione’s fists and could swear she sighed in something like contentment. A bizarre heat tingled through his blood at that thought.
Every few seconds Hermione’s hair shook. Her face and red little nose rubbed against his chest as sneezes rattled her bones. Her panting mouth burned through his linen shirt. Draco's fingers tightened, collected the warmth and curve of her legs through the silky fabric. The scent of her flowery shampoo helped to block the antiseptic reek of the hospital (he told himself) as he leaned his face into her curls taking a seat with her half in his arms, half on his lap.
He found himself murmuring into the witch’s mane, lightly rocking her—and stiffened at the realization. Her fingers twisted in his shirt front, that small little nose and hot mouth brushed bare skin. Draco swallowed an oath.
This was fine. His fingers flexed on her thighs, on the back of her neck. This was nothing he hadn’t already done for Teddy when the poor lad caught a cold . . . not that he’d ever done this for a witch before. Not that he would ever think to do this for his Aunt or Mother. Theo . . . He’d probably hold Theo like this—the wanker was such a baby when he caught cold.
Draco scowled at the ceiling finding himself caught in a battle of loathing. Half determined to drop the witch in some unoccupied corner—but his hands refused to LET GO.
Why should he? He was being helpful, wasn’t he? And if, theoretically, he did enjoy the feel of her in his arms—who wouldn’t want to cuddle an attractive, needy witch? And with her magic gone, he could praise her for ‘being such a good girl, she was doing so well, hush, she was lovely and needn’t worry, he had her, and she needn’t worry,’ and she didn’t heed a word of it—she probably couldn’t hear or process the drivel leaking out his mouth as he murmured over her hair. Such foolish things. And her mouth branded him like fevered kisses across his chest . . . It was all rather comfortable (for him.) And it wasn’t as if she weren’t clutching at him for more. Delightfully greedy of her.
Daphne came by several times to apologize for their lack of beds. She didn’t blink an eye at his bundle of Granger. The waiting rooms overflowed and a suspicious number of ill wizards and witches traipsed through the condemned entrance of Purge & Dowse Ltd. Soon Muggle London would begin to notice. What were Pot-head and Weasle-bee doing about it?
Draco shifted in his chair, blocking access to his Aunt’s door, his long legs sprawled across the entrance. Andromeda looked near death. And her half-veela/card-shark/bridge partner faired no better. Both women sneezed feebly into their kerchiefs. The Aurors still had nothing to explain why those recovering were recovering.
“Does she need anything?” Daphne asked quietly on her third round handing out blankets and handkerchiefs.
Malfoy grimaced. What she needed was a cure—but that wasn’t going to walk over and deliver itself. He nodded towards his aunt's room, “Extra blankets if there are more to spare.”
“Of course. Do you need anything? Coffee?” Daph asked.
Malfoy tried to speak quietly, noticing Hermione flinched at every loud noise. “Any news?”
Daphne relayed that Ron, Harry, and Longbottom brought in more sick witches and wizards from across the country every half hour. Emergency owls had been dispatched warning against the use of Floo transportation. And so far, only seven other witches and wizards had made full recoveries. Those had been whisked away to the Ministry to comb through their memories and hopefully find a linked remedy.
Draco settled in for an endless night and had just closed his eyes when the sharp crack of low heels on vinyl alerted him to the approach of a grave, middle-aged witch. Reddish-blond hair tightened into a knot with stray curls springing free.
Glancing down at a letter in her hand, she paused as she approached Draco, nose lifted as she skeptically assessed Granger’s sneezing hair.
“Mr Malfoy. Is that Ms Granger you have there?”
Granger groggily lifted her face only to bury it back down—her small nose poking at him.
“Madam Edgecombe,” Draco inclined his head. “Do you have news of what’s gone wrong with the Floo network?”
“Nothing is wrong with the Floo.” Madam Edgecombe sniffed. “What’s gone wrong must be a contamination of Floo powder. As the Department of Magical Transportation has already informed the Minister, if you want to find a cure we suggest investigating Faux Floo and Floo-Pow—or the Wildsmiths—as to what’s gone wrong.”
“I see.” Draco’s eyes narrowed in thought.
“Or perhaps we should be asking Ms Granger?” Madam Edgecombe sniffed and held out the letter.
An opened letter addressed to Granger. Draco raised his eyebrows. Granger groaned unintelligibly into his chest.
“Is it customary for you to snoop through private mail?” Draco asked snidely, snatching up the letter and opening it himself—having to tilt his head to get past Granger’s curls.
“It is when said letters show up every time we run a Floo diagnostic.” Madam Edgecombe replied dryly, opening her purse and removing a bundle of the same letters. Each one addressed in fancy lettering to a Ms Hermione Jean Granger.
“Well, obviously it’s sneak-proofed.” He scanned the letter, muttering Revelio and Specialis Revelio. “Short of The Thief’s Downfall, I suppose there is no getting at the contents ourselves.”
“Yes, very enlightening. Of course my Department wouldn’t think to cast a Revelio spell—or do any research before searching out the recipient like an owl,” Madam Edgecombe said dryly.
“Well, you’ve done a slow job of it, given the size of the stack,” Draco drawled over Granger’s sneezing.
“We would like for Ms Granger to open the letter, Mr Malfoy. If you would allow her to do so now?”
“Right, Granger, you’ve a job to do. No rest for the dying. No, hush, darling. No need to speak intelligibly either.” Draco tugged one of her fists from his shirt and slapped her hand upon the parchment.
Both he and Edgecombe leaned close to watch.
Nothing.
Madam Edgecombe pressed her thin lips together unsatisfied.
“Well—” Malfoy smiled icily. “It seems Ms Granger’s admirer isn’t going to make this easy.”
“I can wait.” Madam Edgecombe crossed her arms, leaned against the wall, and stared into the middle distance. Clearly waiting for Draco to do all the work. Granger obviously couldn’t—she was strangely content to nestle into Draco’s chest like a blind, sick, kitten. Her sharp little nails dug into his chest. A blind little lion—Draco self-corrected.
He sighed, loud and put upon, before he settled deeper into his chair and dawned a pair of reading glasses—witch in one hand, wand in the other, puzzle of letters charmed to float above Granger’s hair. He wasn’t particularly put out by his situation—but he didn’t need either witch to know that.
CRACK! Malfoy stuck his nose into his Aunt’s room. Trinket bore a platter with bowls of soup.
“Mistress Tonks! Oh, my, what else can I do?” Trinket fretted, rushing to his aunt. “I’ve brought Mistress Mossmedow’s mushroom soup.”
“Thank yo—achoo! Thank you Trinket.” Andromeda pet Trinket’s hands with a wan smile.
“Let me help you!” Trinket fixed both ladies up with silken napkins and began to spoon soup at them with frightening vigor.
“Thank you, Trinket, I think I can manage.” Andromeda wiped soup from her chin, a little flustered color returning to her face. Poor Madam Delacour waved away the soup looking gray.
“No dear, non merci.” Apolline sneezed politely into her kerchief.
“Oh, Draco, darling. Make a note to thank Mossmedow for me? I’m not feeling up to . . . Actually, I’m feeling much better. Are you feeling better, Apolline?” Andromeda managed to take the bowl from Trinket and sip at her spoon. “Draco, darling, give that poor witch in your arms some soup. It’s done my head a world of good.”
Madam Delacour dabbed at her watery eyes. “Is it the soup? Yes, yes I’ll manage a small bite, merci, Trinket.” She smiled wanly at the house-elf. Then dabbed at her mouth delicately. “Merci, Merlin. I was about ready to ask the doctors to jinx me into a body bind just to stop sneezing.”
“Trinket shall get more!” Trinket clapped excitedly and CRACK’ED away.
Both women in bed winced at the sound. Hermione pressed her hands to her ears. Madam Edgecombe yawned daintily into her gloved palm.
Trinket was back a second later, and Draco almost dropped his armful as the little house-elf popped up at his side, shoving soup at him.
Draco scowled and shifted Granger to one thigh. He leaned towards the soup and sniffed at it. He couldn’t sense magic. Just a musty umami.
“Mushrooms?” He asked incredulously.
“Here, Master Malfoy! For your witch!”
“She isn’t my witch!” Draco snapped—though his tightening grip belied his protest.
Trinket flinched.
Roused by injustice, Hermione raised her red face to glare disdainfully up at Draco with frightful bloodshot eyes. “Don’t—Achoooo!” Her mop of curls shook like a tree in a monsoon. His handkerchiefs—which he had charmed to stick to her face, covering her nose and mouth like a veil, blew away. “—be rude! Thank—Achooo—” Draco shoved the letter in her face to keep from being sneezed on. “—you! Trinket.” She managed almost unintelligibly. “What . . .” Hermione held up her fist full of kerchief and letter expecting to muffle another sneeze, and shuddered in relief as she tentatively finished her sentence. “What sort of mushrooms?”
“I . . . don’t know.” Trinket’s eyes went far wider with horror at Granger’s polite question than she had at Draco’s snarl. “I’m s-sorry.” Tears welled in her big eyes. “Trinket will find out!” The elf fretted and CRACK’ED away again.
The tray of soup left mid-air crashed to the floor splattering hot brown everywhere. Malfoy shouted a spell being used to such mishaps. But a puddle still spread like brown sewage beneath his chair.
Madam Edgecombe’s lip curled.
“Well done, Granger.” Malfoy smiled smugly. “You’ve terrified another house-elf.”
Granger flushed. “I was only being polite!”
“Yes . . .” Malfoy frowned at her, hiked her further up his chest, and peered into her face. Her color deepened. “You haven’t had any soup either and you haven’t sneezed once since speaking with Trinket.”
Granger’s red eyes widened, tears still slipped off her long lashes like dripping diamonds.
“We have to—”
“Thank the house-elfs,” they finished together.
“What’s that?” Madam Edgecombe skirted the puddle of soup to peer at the letter crumpled with Hermione’s fist full of handkerchiefs.
She unrolled the crumpled paper. Hermione’s brow furrowed. Draco leaned into her back, shoving her hair to one side of her face so he could see better.
“Looks like your pen-pal isn’t done with you yet.” Draco drawled. The letter was written in the same hand as all those scavenger notes she’d collected.
"Your Helpful Elf"
Much obliged are we to the helpful elf, whose services abound,
Appariting about at thy master’s command.
Assisting all your whims, in your quests, in your chores
What wouldn’t you do, helpful elf?—if your Master’s magic turned sore?
Merci, Grazi, Xiexie! Sing, whisper, cry, pray,
Or perhaps sneeze away!
You’ve the key to your bind. (But we can’t read your mind!)
Arigatou, Danke, Asante!
No potion awaits, not a cure you can brew,
When spells start to twist, all your charms go amiss.
Whatever shall you do to relieve this snafu?
Be grateful to your helpful elf!
Spasibo, Gracias, Dank je, Kiitos, Tak, Salamat!
Or wither and drop! Let your throat lining pop!
Merci, Grazi, Xiexie, Arigatou, Danke, Asante!
Draco frowned and picked up a second letter. It remained blank.
“Sneeze on this.” He ordered.
Hermione glared.
“A fake sneeze, Granger.”
With an annoyed glower, she rubbed her abused throat and primly pronounced, ‘Achoo’ at the paper with the accuracy of a spell casting. The same poem glowed into existence upon the parchment.
Draco tried, as did Madam Edgecombe. Their respective letters remained blank. Unease trickled through Draco’s bones. Someone had gotten ahold of his witch’s—he Occluded that thought—of Granger’s hair, or eyelash, or spit. Something to key the spell to her personally.
Just like the Jack-o’-lantern.
Draco shot to his feet and charged down the hall only to pause when Hermione yelped in surprise. Right. He was carrying a witch. He retraced his steps and dropped Granger into his vacated seat.
“You sit.” And he did not miss the heat of her in his arms, across his throat.
“But I—”
“Best get started. I’m sure the Auror Department will want copies.” Madam Edgecombe dropped another stack of letters in Hermione’s lap.
“Sit and sneeze,” he snapped and draped a blank letter over her rosey, upturned face. He waited only a moment to make sure he didn’t need to use a sticking charm on her feet. She crossed her arms, head tilting back, not bothering to pull the paper from her face as she sighed ‘Achoo’ with all the enthusiasm of a first-year losing House points.
Smiling at her annoyed huff, Draco leaned down by her ear.
“Good girl.” He grinned and turned on a heel to the symphony of her outraged growl—which turned whimper—likely from her sore throat. He should have Trinket fetch her some honey lemon water. A skip and a hum to his step, he entered the chaotic reception room—always happy to outsmart Potter and his lackeys. Speaking of, the Weasel, the Saint, and their Bottom, staggered through the front doors, carrying in another batch of helpless victims.
Smug as a cat with a fish, Draco called out, “Oi, Pot-head. You’ve got mail.” He snapped Hermione’s mail out, having himself a re-read as Potter narrowed his eyes from across the busy lobby.