for doing this to you," Draco hissed, stalking around the room in anger, "they shove you into the black lake for a silly task, and then screw up the spell to keep you warm?"

If I was being completely honest, I didn't remember much from the past 24 hours. The last thing I remembered was seeing Dumbledore in his office, and the next thing I knew, I awoke in a hospital bed with a case of hypothermia.

I almost died, but I didn't.

Obviously.

"It was an honest mistake," I coughed out, my head flopping back onto the pillow, "I'm fine now."

Draco seethed, "you're not fine."

"Yes, I am."

"Stop being stubborn and let me take care of you, okay?"

Harry was at Quidditch practice, Hermione was in a study group, and Ron was stuck cleaning Snape's classroom, so Draco knew he could visit me without worry of being caught. Not many others were in the hospital wing to begin with.

I just didn't think he'd....do all this.

"How the hell do you make this bloody chicken soup?" Draco said, swearing under his breath and throwing a cookbook onto the floor, "why does everything have to be so damn complicated?"

He had conjured up a concealed-fire on the tiled floor of the medical space, a small cauldron of messed up soup floating above the flames. I'm not putting it lightly. It was incredibly messed up. Worse than Linguini's cooking in the beginning of Ratatouille.

I coughed again, the blood rushing to my face harshly, "Draco, you don't have to make me soup..."

He stopped pacing to look at me.

"Excuse me?" he gasped.

"I'm just saying..."

"I'm going to make you this blasted cauldron of soup," he said, poking his wooden spoon at me, "and you're going to drink all of it."

"Is that a threat?"

"Yes, it's a threat," he huffed, muttering under his breath, "I can't believe they got you sick."

After an insufferable amount of minutes watching him struggle, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, his green tie askew, and his blond hair all tousled, the boy gave up and waved his wand, fixing the soup up by itself. His attempt to be hospitable failed.

He ladled the contents of the cauldron into a small wooden bowl, snatching up a spoon from the utensil table Pomfrey provided.

He sat down next to my bed.

"Eat," he said, pushing the bowl towards me, "but be careful, it's hot."

I picked up the spoon carefully, my hand shaking slightly with pain. Being frozen like an ice cube did some considerable damage to my nerves, and they were hell to work with at the moment. Draco noticed me struggling, and placed his hand over mine, helping me bring the spoon to my mouth.

It tasted delicious.

"Share with me," I grinned, pushing the spoon towards him, "it's really good."

He frowned, his eye twitching in previous annoyance; he was still angry about his inability to cook. Looking me dead in the eyes, the boy let out a dramatic sigh.

"You've got to be kidding me, love," he scoffed, glaring at the metal utensil in my hand, "as much as I love spending time with you, I'm not contracting diseases by sharing a spoon with a sickly person."

I gasped, "did you just say I have diseases?"

"You were floating around in that bloody lake for three hours!"

"Share my spoon, you twat."

"What did I say about you calling me a twat!"

I knew that would get him to open his mouth, because as soon as he started yelling about name-calling, I shoved my spoonful of chicken soup into his mouth. He clamped his mouth shut in defense, but he only ended up closing his mouth with the spoon stuck inside.

He looked at me like I'd just committed a first-degree felony.

I smirked, "drink the soup, Draco."

He shook his head.

"The longer you go without swallowing, the more diseases will crawl off of the spoon and onto your tongue," I teased, wiggling my brows, "now drink the soup."

That shut him up quickly. He nodded his head with haste, downing the contents of the spoon and sliding his mouth off of the metal utensil.

"Now," I said, plopping it back into the bowl, "did you like the soup?"

He stared at the floor stubbornly.

"Draco, tell me the truth."

He glanced back up at me.

"Yes..." he muttered under his breath, "it was delicious."

"I told you."

"Yeah, well, whatever," he said, "that's the last time I'm ever going to cook you something."

"What a pity."

"I'm not a chef."

Before I could respond, a soft dinging noise came out of the clock above our heads, and Draco let out a sigh. It was around lunch time he visited, and his next class would be resuming soon. Lacing his fingers through mine, he kissed the back of my hand, before standing up from his chair and grabbing his school bag.

"I have to get to potions," he said, "I'll bring you the homework straight after, alright?"

I frowned, "don't bother. I can't do it anyways."

"Try telling that to Snape."

"I would, but I'm confined to a hospital bed," I beamed proudly, "would you be a dear and tell him for me?"

Draco rolled his eyes, but I could see the grin already appearing onto his face. More and more, he found my retorts amusing, and that made me confident in my ability to say them. I liked making him smile.

"I'm turning you into a Slytherin, aren't I?" He exhaled proudly, "wit looks good on you."

"Nope! Gryffindor forever, baby."

"I'm not a baby."

"Muggle term for endearment."

"Oh," he nodded, before tilting his head, "I prefer love."

And with that, he made his way out of the hospital wing, leaving me with the promise he'd be back to visit, and a bowl of chicken soup.