Symbiosis

Hermione was studying on the cream-coloured couch, legs folded on top of one another and textbook on her lap. Their mock NEWTs were coming up. She chewed on the tip of her quill.

A low hum rumbled across the room. Hermione looked up in time to see the stone entrance a few feet away quiver with the haze of Magic. One brick, then another wriggled. Malfoy, a little paler than usual, and Pansy, the perfect, pretty princess of Slytherin walked in. She immediately wrinkled her nose at the sight of Hermione.

“Nice lipstick. Matches your blood,” she sneered.

Hermione had no idea what she was talking about.

“Pans …” Malfoy froze for a moment, grey-blue eyes roaming over her lips, then loosened his tie. He gripped Pansy’s wrist, turning to leave. “You—We’ll go.” He coughed, covering his hand with his mouth.

Hermione uncrossed her legs and slapped her textbook closed. “No need. I have Head Girl duties in less than an hour. Surely you wellbred Purebloods can keep your uniforms on until then.” She didn’t look back and slammed the door to her bedroom.

“Cunt,” Pansy muttered.

Try as Hermione might to study, she couldn’t help but listen to the indistinct voices and coughing outside. Malfoy had been ill for the past couple of days, face gaunt with dark undereye circles. She pretended not to notice. She made a point not to ask how he was or if he needed anything.

Malfoy wasn’t Ron or Harry.

Hermione threw down her books on her black oak desk, then took a brush to her hair that was sparking waves of Magic.

It happened whenever she experienced strong emotions, like when she had her first instance of accidental Magic. She saw some classmates poking a stick at a frog they found, and she screamed, sparks flying from her fingertips. Several children were blown back against the playground equipment. That year was particularly lonely for her. It happened again when she found Ron snogging Lavender in Sixth-Year … and when she was around Pansy.

She stared at herself in the mirror, and found that her Quick Notes Quill had smeared dark ink across her lower lip. “Fucking brilliant. Tergeo,” she grumbled as she waved her wand over her mouth, then threw herself onto her bed.

In Advanced Potions that day, after a particularly nasty coughing fit, Blaise accused Malfoy of having the Curse of the Bogies and coming to class to spread the ‘Muggle affliction’ to the other Purebloods.

“One cannot both have the Curse of the Bogies and be of Muggle lineage, my boys,” Horace corrected as he circulated around their cauldron. “You need a bit more boom berry juice in here. The liquid should form a deep shade of magenta when you’re done.” He tapped his wand against the cauldron with a loud PING, and the fire underneath roared.

Theo snorted, then made a show out of coughing and wiping his nose on Blaise’s sleeve, which prompted Blaise to jump away from them, muttering something about ‘fraternizing with the enemy.’

Granger was certainly correct when she said that they could wait. He wasn’t in the mood with the amount of liquid his face was expelling. They studied on the couch for half an hour or so, going through some potion recipes that Slughorn wanted them to replicate in the next class.

“Acromantula venom?!” Pansy scoffed, “And we have to milk the fangs ourselves? Does Slughorn want to kill us?”

“Seems like it,” Malfoy absentmindedly agreed, flipping through the parchment, “At least they’re spiderlings.”

She huffed.

Pansy’s small warm hand circled his knee, as he crossed over her to grab a quill. She grabbed his silver tie and pulled him into her, while she simultaneously leaned back onto the arm of the velvet couch.

Malfoy kissed back, a soft, lukewarm drag across her plump, red lips. His mind drifted. This position blocked his nasal passage, and he couldn’t breathe. He gripped the back of the sofa to brace himself, as he felt Pansy’s hand underneath his Oxford, feeling his heated skin and tracing down to the coarse hairs underneath of his belly button. He grunted and pulled back to sit at the far end of the furniture.

Pansy's mouth twisted. “You’re never in the mood lately.”

“I’m ill, Pans.” As if hearing his plea, his body shuddered with a deep cough and tried to expel his lungs from his chest. “Near death, even, and I choose to spend my last moments with you.” He gave her a small smirk.

Pansy rolled her eyes, although her sharp gaze softened. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to accost you. I hate Muggle germs.”

He protested, “I didn’t get it from—”

“You live with her. You share the same air.”

“That’s hardly my fault.”

“Nothing ever is, innit?” she said quietly.

Malfoy was not in the mood for this. He rubbed his forehead; his head was heavy and pounding. His ears felt stuffed with cotton. He didn’t know what to make of the unpleasant sensations. “What?” he half-groaned, “I can’t do this right now.”

She stood up and smoothed down her pleated skirt, gathering her books. “I’ll get Kookie to bring you some PepperUp—”

“Granger has some in the cup—” He was wise to not finish the sentence.

“Looks like there’s nothing you need me for then,” Pansy’s lips thinned.

Malfoy’s last cogent memory was Pansy’s black and silver rucksack, as she disappeared through the quivering brick wall.

When Malfoy woke up, he knew he was dying for certain. Drowning. He couldn’t breathe. So this was how it ended. Knocked down not by Voldemort, but some common Curse of the Bogies. How disappointing. What would his Father say?

His mouth felt like it was filled with something dry and furry. Was it Pansy’s hair? Impossible. She left.

His eyes were tacky with sleep. Gross. He was disgusting. No wonder Pansy didn’t want to fuck him. It didn’t matter that he didn’t care so much for it lately. He didn't want to think about it. 

His vision blurred with an orange mass, and his chest felt strangely heavy. At least two stones worth.

He rubbed his eyes again to loosen the stickiness to find Hermione’s beast curled up on torso, purring loudly.

“Hey, hey!” he clicked.

Crookshanks opened one large green eye and flicked his bushy tail against his chin, as if to say, ‘Quiet, stupid face.’ He closed his one open eye again.

The damned Kneazle purred even louder. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He leaned back, head resting on the cushion propped up by the sofa's arm. He needed to rest his eyes, which seemed to be leaking out his life force. He was hot, so hot.

One hand unfastened the top collar buttons; his other one somehow found its way to the ugly beast’s back, threading his fingers through his soft orange fur.

Crookshanks leaned into him, offering him one rotund cheek, then the other, and finally his straggly chin.

He drifted off again, raised legs reaching the other end of the sofa and flexing his toes. His Mother taught him better than that, but right now, he couldn’t be arsed to go to his room. And the Kneazle lying on top of him felt like a comfortable Warming charm.

TSK.
TSK.

“Crooksie, no!” Hermione hissed. “Come on. Off!”

Malfoy startled, encrusted eyes peeling open. An undignified cough had him jerking up.

Hermione was a foot away from him, trying to call Crookshanks away. She wore her dark Gryffindor robes with her hair plaited in two thick braids, face free of the ink he saw earlier.

But his eyes lingered on her mouth.

The Kneazle barely responded. He only yawned, his breath smelling of the salty ocean, and stretched out his thick paws, airing out his toe beans. Then he made several circles on Malfoy’s chest, kneading biscuits into his dress shirt.

He swore—swore—that Crookshanks was trying to push him back down on the couch.

“No, Crookshanks,” her voice lowered to show that she was serious.

Crookshanks blinked at her mistress, ears twitching, his flicking tail hitting Malfoy in the face.

“Nghh uh,” he said, shoving away the Kneazle’s tail.

Crookshanks sniffed indignantly and glared at him, which for some reason, made his stomach drop. ‘Say it's all good, human.’

Malfoy held Crookshanks’ stare for a moment before saying, “It’s fine, Granger. I’m not gonna hurt the ugly thing.”

Hermione stiffened, her chin jutting out. She crossed her arms. “Crookshanks is magnificent.”

In agreement, Crookshanks backed his plump rump under Malfoy’s chin, curling his tail around his neck. ‘That’s right, blond lamppost. Worship me.'

“I don’t want him to bother you. You're ill.”

He hesitated before answering, “He’s not. He’s purring. It’s—nice.”

“Oh.” She worried her lip, like her brain was churning.

“What?”

“There’s this Muggle theory that cats purr on us because they think it’s healing. Considering that Crooks is half-Kneazle and much smarter than the average cat—”

“Says you,” he interrupted.

She scowled but continued, “ —Smarter than the average cat. He might be trying to heal you because he knows you’re sick.”

His head knocked back against the sofa. “Ugh, ‘sick’ is right. The Muggle germs have attacked every orifice. What sneaky people.”

Her dark brows knitted together. “What do you mean, ‘you people?’”

Malfoy sighed, eyes closing again, and muttered, “Great. Not everything is an attack on you.”

“Yeah, just the War,” she slipped in, “Crooks, c’mon. I’ll let you out before I go for rounds.”

“It’s fine. He can stay here. It’s nice, as long as he’s not trying to kill me.” He scratched behind his ears. "I'm a wanted Wizard, y'know."

“I can’t promise that. You have a very unpleasant personality. But no, you’re not feeling well and—” She approached Malfoy and Crookshanks.

He could feel the heat from her thigh radiating off of her, and his fingers tightened against his side. They rarely allowed themselves to be this close. Now he felt the scrape of her short nails against his chest and open shirt as she tried to peel Crookshanks from him. He couldn't muster the energy for a snappy comeback. "You would know," he retorted without bite.

“You’re burning up,” she said matter-of-factly. “You have a cold.”

Malfoy harrumphed, “I assure you I am the farthest thing from cold. OW!"

Crookshanks sank his claws deep into his skin and expensive shirt, resisting the unwanted move.

“Crooks!” she pleaded.

“He clearly doesn’t want to go. Leave him be.”

She huffed, dropping the Kneazle onto him with a loud Oof.

A dry hand pushed his hair back and landed on his forehead. They stared at each other for a moment. 

Malfoy's heart beat wildly. He had to resist leaning into her touch. His cock stirred slightly. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

Hermione seemed just as surprised as he was by her actions. His hair was surprisingly soft, much better without the Sleekeazy potion. She cleared her throat, "You have a temperature. You shouldn't be going to classes," quickly removing her hand.

Before he could say anything, Hermione rounded the sofa toward the kitchenette behind them. Clattering sounds of opening cupboard doors and dishes drifted toward him, then a lovely smell of cream and mushrooms.

It must have been only a few minutes, but his eyelids were so heavy and Crookshanks was purring so rhythmically on his chest.

When Hermione returned, she found Malfoy and Crookshanks wrapped up together and snoring loudly. His nose tucked into the Kneazle’s fur and his left shoulder crooked up to form a makeshift bed for Crooks.

[Image: Draco, dressed in an untucked shirt and loosened tie, is asleep with Crookshanks on his chest. Art by the talented Bellemedusa.]

She felt a soft pang of something that she couldn’t name.

She floated a quilt over them, then left for her patrol with Harry. Parvati was ill, so she was substituting. Same illness as Malfoy.

When Malfoy woke up with Crookshanks still asleep on his chest, he found a PepperUp potion and piping hot mushroom soup under a Stasis charm on the table next to him.