Draco spluttered. “So you and Ginny?”

“Are just roommates I guess,” she said cheerfully with a cheeky wink.

Fin. 🌈

Just a small one cause I really wanted to write more for #rainbownovember but I’m having a hard time finding the time to do so 🥲

She sighed. “Draco, you do know that homosexuality isn’t a crime, right? At least not in the Muggle world. And after all these years working with me, you should really know better than to expect me to fall for the old ‘we’re just roommates’ excuse.”

“Well,” he drawled, “as I said — tight budget.”

Hermione stared at him.

Draco stared back.

Aaaaaaah my babies

Joyeux anniversaire Len 🫶🏻

I do that too !!! And then I’m like “it’s okay you can laugh — please laugh 👀”

Ooooh I am sat 🤭

I wrote this at 5am, waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in as I blew my noise loudly… so I guess she was also inspired by me 🤭

And apparently, it was also “utterly ridiculous” that in all magical and muggle advancements, no one had invented a real cure for colds, forcing her to—yes—write her will.
/Just in case./

And /he/ was the drama queen.

Fin. ✨

“It’s bloody paradoxical”—cough, sniff, aggressive nose-blow—“that my body needs rest but won’t let me rest!”

Draco merely shook his head and tucked a blanket around her.
Finally, /finally/, he could take care of his witch for once — because all the theatrics were really her body begging for rest, even if she insisted:

It was not just a cold.
It was a full metamorphosis.

Two days later she was cocooned on the sofa with enough essential oils to intoxicate a troll, a half-cut onion shriveling on their nightstand “for air purification,” seventeen soups in rotation, and the energy of a dying star.

He froze mid-sprint. “Granger, you scared the shit out of me.”

“You don’t understand, Draco. I cannot afford a cold. I have no time for such—” she sniffled miserably—“useless biological betrayals.”

“It’s just a cold, darling. Come back to bed. I’ll make you tea.”

Oh, how naïve he was.

“Granger?” He sat up fully.

She stood in the bathroom doorway like a Victorian widow awaiting her tragic end.

“I hate my life,” she declared.

Worry pricked under his ribs. “…Come again?”

“I’m going to die soon, Malfoy.”

His heart plummeted. He jumped to his feet.

“I’ve caught a cold.”

That alone was alarming—Hermione Granger only invoked muggle deities in moments of pure crisis.

Then, late that night, he heard her sit up, blow her nose like a medieval trumpet, and rummage frantically through their medicine cabinet.

“Hermione?” he called, still half-asleep.

No answer.

He’d assumed she’d missed a deadline or gotten her period.

But no.
Something far, far worse was brewing.

They were reading quietly when she coughed once, shut her book with violent finality, and muttered a desperate prayer to “whatever muggle gods handle plagues.”

Then she transformed into the most dramatic creature on earth.
So dramatic, in fact, that Draco—Draco Lucius Malfoy—felt personally upstaged.

He should have seen it coming when she woke up two mornings earlier clutching her throat and whispering, “No. No, no, not right now.”

I’ve decided to buy every sort of herbal tea I can find 👀

Thank you ❤️