Summary: Draco is ill, and Harry always looks after his partner.

Rating: T

Notes: HPDM slash. Established relationship. This is a response to the prompts 'Quarantine' and 'Snowflake' on LJ, with the condition that both boys are Aurors. Enjoy :)

Quarantine

Draco scowls, and a strand of silver hair slips over his eyes. "Malfoys do not sneeze, Potter." He sniffs, "Don't be ridiculous." Harry bites his lip to stifle a laugh, slipping an arm around his partner's waist and gambling that Draco will allow it to remain there long enough to get him to the sofa. He does (just about), and reluctantly permits Harry to throw the hideous tartan blanket that the brunet adopted last year over his shoulders.

"I don't need that monstrosity over me, I'm not cold." Draco announces, pulling it tighter around him just in case. Harry nods indulgently, resting a palm on the blond's forehead for a moment and sighing; Draco's skin is flushed and clammy despite the December cold outside, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, and his nose is red and sore. Dressed in a white T-shirt and dark pyjama bottoms (both Harry's, he notices, and slightly too large for the man's slim frame) he looks oddly... innocent. The brunet's eyes fall on his partner's bare feet and he smiles a little, worried.

"Stop thinking, Potter." Draco instructs, suppressing a yawn, "You'll hurt yourself." Harry chuckles, ruffling the blond hair, and escapes the man's indignant wrath by disappearing off into the kitchen. He deftly opens a tin of soup (Chicken, Draco's favourite) and starts heating it on the stove, humming quietly to himself and thinking about Christmas. It's a week away, and today's disaster essentially gets them off work three days early – God. Today's disaster.

He recalls Draco sprinting alongside him through Diagon Alley, chasing a fugitive, steps exactly in time. Harry and Draco have been the strongest Auror partnership in the Elite Squad for five years now, and he's never come so damn close to losing him as he did today; in his mind's eye he sees the fugitive shouting a curse as he was hit by one of Harry's, sees Draco crumpling to the cobbles, lying prone and still with his eyes screwed shut... Harry shivers, thankful that all Draco needed was three days quarantine for curse damage (apparently, Harry couldn't catch the curse – he'd missed the details, too busy holding his partner up to really pay attention to the Healer).

Harry starts as the soup starts smoking, pouring it into a bowl and heading back to Draco. He stops in the doorway of the living room, smiling – the man is fast asleep, snoring slightly through parted lips, stretched out on the sofa with the blanket wrapped around him. Harry perches on the end of the sofa as Draco stirs and glares at him drowsily.

"Sit, Potter." He orders, resting his head on Harry's lap when he does and sighing contentedly. "Soup?" The brunet inquires, playing with his partner's hair, and the blond lifts his head, narrowing his eyes. "Chicken?" He asks suspiciously, and at Harry's nod he squirms upright until he's resting with his back against the brunet's chest.

Harry dips the spoon in the soup and holds it up to Draco's lips. "You know, Potter, I'm actually quite capable of feeding myself." The blond protests, and Harry can hear the glare in his voice. "I know." He responds, chuckling quietly as Draco drinks the soup, licking the tip of his thumb in half-hearted protest.

The glow of the lamp beside the sofa slurs the lines of the room, and Harry starts out of a doze. The bowl is empty on the ground beside him, and he stares out through the window and laughs in delight at the flurry of snowflakes dancing down. "Draco!" He whispers, glancing down in surprise at the lack of response to see the blond fast asleep on his shoulder; the man's long silver hair has somehow gotten lose from its ribbon and spills over both their backs, and he's smiling in his sleep. Harry presses a kiss to Draco's forehead, smirking when he sneezes, then mumbles something incoherent and presses his face further into the curve of Harry's neck. Curious, he tilts his head down to catch what his partner is saying.

"Happy." Draco slurs. Harry pulls the man far too close to him, the room blurring ever so slightly as he smiles and kisses the top of Draco's head. Drifting back to sleep, he thinks that he never really expected this - to end up with this job, to fall in love with this man, even to live through the War. He never expected to be this lucky. But he is.

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