An: Not mine. Not my characters. All belongs to JK Rowling

Chapter One
The beginning

For the second time that day Harry Potter found himself distracted. Horribly distracted. It wasn't that he'd usually pay much attention in class, but today was the worst.

His distraction came to light the second time Hermione had asked him if he was okay. He had wanted to reply with a generic 'fine', but then his brain actually kicked in. Did he feel fine? He did, didn't he? Did he?

Now that he was truly thinking about it, he did not feel fine. In fact, the more he focussed on it, the worse it got. This nausea, queasiness…

"No…" he answered slowly, "No, I don't think so. Maybe I'm getting ill?"

Hermione seemed, for once, to have forgotten class, and looked at her friend worriedly. "You do look quite pale, Harry. Do you need to go to the hospital wing?"

Harry didn't think so, but as the nausea got worse, he had to swallow down the bile that was starting to rise in his throat. "Yes," he replied quickly and then bolted from class, without looking back. He hadn't asked McGonagall if he could go, and he hoped Hermione would take care of it. She probably would.

Once he was out of the stifling class, he breathed a bit easier, and the nausea lessened. But instead of nauseous feeling, he now felt a strange hollowness. Something was missing, he knew that much. It was an unconscious feeling, something that came from the depths of him mind, but he knew it was true. An empty space in his mind, that had to be filled. Harry didn't really know what that meant, though.

It was then that he remembered he had promised to go to Madam Pomfrey, so he started climbing the stairs to the wing.

By the time he got there he was decidedly out of breath and he was sweating profusely. Definitely not good, he thought. Quidditch had presented him with a healthy amount of muscle and quite a bit of stamina, but his body all but seemed to have forgotten that.

When he walked into the hospital wing, he was relieved to see it empty. It would do no good for people to see him like this. Rumours were a thing easily spread in this school.

Having heard someone come in, Madam Pomfrey came bustling out of her office. Then her worried expression morphed into one of exasperation. "Mr Potter, I thought you'd make a new record. Two weeks and three days. Just one day more and that would be longest time to never see you!"

Harry managed a smile, but perhaps it came out more like a grimace. At this, the nurse quickly became professional again.

"Dear Boy, what's up with you?" She asked, as she drew closer to him, seemingly wanting to examine him from all angles. "You are positively grey!"

Harry had steadily been feeling worse and worse, and his knees took that moment to give out. He collapsed awkwardly on the hard floor, letting out a small cry when his back hit the floor, hard.

"Oh!" Pomfrey quickly walked over to him, and with some effort, picked him up, and put him down on one of the hospital beds. Then she immediately became throwing spells over him, assessing his health.

"Mr Potter, what happened? What got you in such a state?" She asked, her tone quite a deal softer than normal, for which Harry was grateful, since his ears were ringing.

"I don't know," he said quietly. "Felt fine this morning, then I got-" he coughed and Pomfrey seemed grow even more worried, "got this extreme nausea in class. That's when I decided to come here. Going up the stairs didn't really work out fine either," he finished lamely.

Pomfrey ran another spell over him, but didn't seem satisfied by the results. "I don't know what's up with you, Potter. The scan shows a light case of the flu, but that shouldn't have such an effect on you as this."

Harry nodded, but his head didn't seem to like that, and he got into another coughing fit. This time he saw some deep red spatters appear on his white linen sheets. Pomfrey seemed to notice as well.

"That's it. I'm getting the Headmistress."

Harry wanted to protest and say that wasn't necessary, but his vision began swimming, and it wasn't long before he passed out.

He woke to some quiet murmuring close to his bed, and tried to open his eyes to tell Ron and Neville to fuck off, but he found his eyes were glued shut. At least, it seemed that way. His head was pounding and he couldn't breathe easily. The nausea was definitely back, and so was the need to cough.

Then he noticed this wasn't his bed in Gryffindor Tower. It was much too sturdy to be, and smelled to much like… hospital. All the memories came rushing back then, and he realised the voices next to him were those of Madam Pomfrey and Horace Slughorn. Harry felt very uncomfortable.

Still, the Slytherin part in Harry chose that time to act up, so he kept his eyes closed, pretending to still be asleep. Next, he zeroed in on the voices, trying to make sense of what they were saying.

"-unusual, not quite sure what it is," said the pompous voice belonging to Slughorn.

"Well, something needs to be done. We can't just let him lie here, and see him fade away."

"It's already started. I don't know what to do, you don't know what to do, Minerva doesn't know what to do…" Harry started a bit at this, "What else can we do?"

"I don't know! Just make some potion or something that will make him better!"

"Easier said than done."

"We need to at least get his friends up here. They must be worried like no tomorrow."

Footsteps announced that his eavesdropping was over, as the nurse and potion master moved away. Pomfrey to go find Ron and Hermione, and Slughorn to… Yeah, what?

Just what the bloody hell was actually going on here? This morning he had felt fine, and now… this. And what was 'this'? For all he knew, he had the flu. But a flu didn't make one pass out or cough up blood. Did it?

Pomfrey had said something about fading away… Was that what was happening to him? Now that he had done what the world had wanted him to; destroy Voldemort, was he simply of no more use, was his time over? Surely not.

No. That was not it, Harry was sure. But then what had caused this? No one seemed to know. Not even McGonagall or Slughorn… Now that was a worrying thought.

He was shaken from his musings as the doors of the wing opened once more, and this time he heard three sets of footsteps. He was still feigning sleep, deciding that would be best for now.

He was sure one of the steps belonged to Hermione, and, opening his eyes just a fraction, he was proven right. A worried Hermione was making her way over to him, and next to her a pale Ron. Harry closed his eyes again.

"He is still unconscious," said the nurse from behind them, her voice full of sympathy. For whom, Harry wondered. Him, or his friends that had to see him like this?

Hermione took his hand, and it took all of Harry's willpower to not react, or give a squeeze. Unconscious people didn't squeeze other people's hands.

"Oh, Harry," she sighed.

Ron was now standing on the other side of the bed, opposite from Hermione. Fortunately, he didn't take Harry's hand, and Harry was just the slightest bit grateful for that.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Ron. He sounded concerned, and just a bit fearful.

"As I told you when I came to get you, we don't know. Professor Slughorn and Headmistress McGonagall are working on a cure as we speak," she tried to say reassuringly, but Hermione, ever astute, didn't take the bait.

"How can you make a cure for him when you don't even know what's wrong with him?" she asked, and Harry silently agreed.

At least, he was silent, until the need to cough became too great, and he let out a strangled sound.

Immediately all eyes were fixed on him, and Hermione's grip became painful. "Harry? Are you awake? Come on Harry, say something!"

Yeah, I'm awake, Harry tried to say, but instead giant coughs began to rack his body, and his eyes jumped open. He doubled over in his bed, wrenching his hand from Hermione's.

It seemed to take ages for his body to calm down, but when he finally did, he noticed a pair of hands were slowly rubbing his shoulders. Too firm to be Hermione's, he deducted they must be Pomfrey's, and he was surprised. The nurse was serious about 'her children's' health, yes, but she never got quite so compassionate with them. Once again Harry was a special case.

"Are you all right, Harry?" She asked kindly, sounding like a true mother.

He nodded before taking a few deep breaths and lying back down, his breathing still a bit erratic.

"Yeah, I think," he said, trying to steady his irregular breathing.

That answer seemed to trigger Hermione's frivolous need to know everything, and soon he was barraged by questions. "Harry, what happened? Did someone hex you? Why did you never tell us you were feeling unwell?"

"Hermione-" he coughed again, "Not so fast. I never told you because I was just fine this morning. I told you in Transfigurations that I was feeling ill, didn't I? I don't know what happened, okay? Maybe someone hexed me, maybe I've just got a bad case of the flu."

Madam Pomfrey frowned at this. "I think we can be sure it's not a bad case of the flu, Mr Potter. Your scans show you should be feeling perfectly fine, which you are clearly not."

"But I'm not feeling so bad right now-" that was obviously not the right thing to say, because then the nausea slammed into him full force, forcing him to shut his eyes and he arched his back off the bed. He tried taking deep breaths to stave it off, but it didn't seem to work. In fact, he was now practically hyperventilating.

"What is it?" The nurse asked him worriedly.

Hermione had grasped his hand again, for which Harry was glad; it helped keep him grounded. "Going to be sick," he said shortly through clenched teeth, and he heard Ron running to get a bowl.

He came back just in time, and Harry gratefully grasped the bowl and emptied his breakfast in the thing.

By the time the heaving had stopped, he noticed the room was eerily silent. Then he looked down at the bowl between his legs, and what he was made him want to run as fast as he could, or possibly throw up a second time; the dark grey bowl was not filled with vomit, as Harry had expected, no, it was filled with blood. His blood.

Harry looked up slowly. The others had gone pale and were looking at him and the bowl in an extremely concerned manner. Harry didn't quite know what to say.

The first to jump back to life was Madam Pomfrey, as she said she'd go and get a glass of water for him, but her face looked distant, anxious. Hermione and Ron looked as if they wanted to scoot away from him, but cuddle and comfort him all at the same time.

Thankfully, they stayed somewhere in between, as Hermione took over the rubbing of his shoulders and Ron came to stand next to him, an awkward hand put on Harry's upper arm.

"What's wrong with me?" He asked, his voice gravely and raspy. "What's happening?" He didn't know how many times those questions had been asked that day, but it sure had been a lot.

Ron and Hermione didn't answer. The tension hung thick in the air, making it even harder for Harry to breathe normally. It felt as if an elephant had landed on his chest, and had decided to make Harry's chest his new home.

Luckily, the tension was broken as the nurse returned, in one hand a glass of crystal clear water and in her other a sickly green potion.

"Right, Mr Potter," she said, firm tone decidedly back in place. "It is obvious you are very ill, and I'm not going to wait any longer for those blithering professors to finish their concocting and pondering. I'm going to give you this blood replenishing potion, and then you're going to drink this glass of water. Right after that you'll be given a dreamless sleep potion, and then I'm going to inform the Headmaster that I will no longer stand for putting you through this. Mr Potter; we're going to make you better," she stopped her impressive outburst with a nod of the head, and all Harry could do was to nod back.

At that point the green potion was thrust into his hands and Harry could do nothing but dutifully drink it. The taste made him want to vomit again, but he didn't think that would be such a good idea right now. Then he was handed the glass of water, which he gratefully sipped till the last drop.

He was a little bit more apprehensive about the sleep potion, not wanting to miss anything that was going on. It was him who was ill after all, wasn't it? But at the reproving stare he got from Ron, surprisingly, he drank it nevertheless.

In a few seconds he was asleep, his body tired and worn.

Ron looked sadly at his best friend that was peacefully sleeping in the clean, white hospital bed. God knew Harry's and his world was anything but peaceful right now. After Harry had defeated Voldemort, he had thought all his worries were over, but apparently not. Apparently, the universe still saw Harry Potter as its plaything.

No, it seemed the peace was far sought. After seven years of turmoil and war, Ron had thought his friend had finally deserved some rest, but no such thing. As soon as Harry appeared to get some smooth sailing, another problem arose. This time in the form of an unknown illness, which left his friend in a state Ron had almost never seen him in before.

But the most worrying thing was, no one knew what to do. And when no one, not even the Headmistress or the bloody potions master, knew what to do, you knew you were in serious trouble. Serious, knee-deep-in-shit trouble.

Ron looked intently at the boy in the bed. Or should he say: man? Harry was no longer a boy, was he? With eighteen years old, he had filled out, his muscles more pronounced than before, and his chin and cheeks showing a light stubble. His face had become squarer, its boyish round shape gone forever. He was still on the short side yes, but next to Ron, everyone was short.

Harry still wore his round glasses that he had since first year. Ron often wondered if he kept those out of pure sentiment, or if he feared people wouldn't recognise him without. But they were now resting discarded on the bedside table.

But even if he didn't have his glasses, he still had his abhorrent sense of fashion and his scar people could recognise him with. The scar hadn't disappeared, as some people had expected it would. Although it never burned anymore, it was still a prominent feature on his friend's face.

Harry stirred slightly, causing Ron to startle out of his thinking. He looked around for Hermione, who he could now proudly call his girlfriend, and sighed when he spotted her bending over a huge book, which she had propped up on one of the beds, a chair pulled over next to it.

He walked over to her, looking over her shoulder at which page she was reading. She had already tried all the books about wizarding illnesses, and was now moving on to Muggle ones. She was reading a page about diverticulitis, when she noticed Ron had moved from his silent vigil in his chair next to Harry's bed.

"Hey," she said simply, eyes going back and forth across the page again. Ron knew that she was focussed on her reading, wanting to know what was wrong with Harry as soon as possible. And if she had to scan every book in the library on both Muggle and wizarding illnesses until she got the right one, then she would do so.

"Hey. Don't you think it's time to get some sleep?" He asked. It was now way past midnight. Harry had been sleeping for more than fourteen hours now. "I'm going to sleep too, you know. It's too late to be reading anymore, and you've been doing so from midday. We could just camp on one of the beds in here, I'm sure Pomfrey won't mind."

For a moment Hermione looked ready to object, but then she sighed and nodded wearily, her eyes already drooping slightly. Ron smiled at her for a second, before walking over to the bed next to where Hermione had dumped her atrociously big book, and he dragged himself in it, not bothering to change his clothes. He would be ready for when Harry woke up.

Hermione took off her robe, and moved the book to another bed, and then took the bed next to Ron's. "I just don't know what's happening to him, Ron. I hate not knowing."

"I know that," he answered. He had known that since first year. "But it's no good tiring yourself out. You're far less productive that way."

His girlfriend smiled at this and then murmured a sleepy goodnight. Ron could quickly hear her breathing evening out after a minute, and he knew she was asleep.

It took a bit longer for him to stop the tumult in his mind, but when he finally did, he fell into a fretful, dream-ridden, slumber.

Hermione woke to a strange sound. A sort of clicking…. No, it was more like the sound of a bed being shoved around. Why anyone would be pushing beds around at this hour, was above her. Then she remembered where she was and realised where the sound came from. Harry's bed! She jumped out of bed, and ran to the other side of the wing, where Harry had been placed. He was shaking madly in his bad, his whole body seized up.

"Harry!" She shouted, her voice packed with fear. Harry didn't respond. "Ron! Wake up!" Ron groaned, sat up in his bed, ready to protest, but when he saw what was happening, his eyes opened dramatically, and he quickly made his way over. "No! Go and wake Pomfrey," she said urgently, but it didn't matter, because Madam Pomfrey had already appeared in the door of her office, her sleeping gown on, but otherwise looking swift as ever.

She hurried over to them, and quickly assessed the situation. "Oh no… He's seizing," she said, "We've got to stop it, otherwise his heart might give out."

Hermione didn't know what she was waiting for, and quickly drew her wand. The nurse drew hers as well, and looked at Hermione intently. "Statis charm on three, Miss Granger."

Hermione nodded.

"One-" Hermione began the wand movement, "Two-" She opened her mouth, ready to speak the words, "Three," at three they said the charm, and at the same time the hospital doors opened. Hermione didn't look to see who came in, as she was looking fixedly at Harry. A blue hue appeared around him, and he abruptly stopped seizing. He flopped back onto the bed, his back straight once again, instead of arched in an uncomfortable angle. The inane shaking of his limbs had gone too, Hermione saw, relieved. His face looked peaceful again, sleeping, instead of cramped and drawn. She quickly took his pulse, just to be sure.

Only then did she look to see who had entered to wing, and repulsion shook her when she saw Draco Malfoy had decided to make an entrance. The boy had been cleared by the court, of course, but Hermione still found him an absolute horror, and in no way wanted to be around him, especially not when Harry was ill and needed her help.

"Mr Malfoy," said Pomfrey, her voice professional again. "Is there something I can help you with? Is it urgent? I'm afraid I must attend to Mr Potter here, rather sooner than later."

Malfoy frowned for a second, obviously curious as to what was up with Harry, but said nothing about it. "No, it is not very urgent. I could just wait a few minutes until you are done with him," he nodded at Harry, voice smooth and pompous as ever. Hermione sneered at him.

Pomfrey nodded "Good," then she turned back to Harry, and began casting spells over him, assessing his condition. Hermione wasn't happy Malfoy was there to see and hear it all, but she knew she had no other choice than to accept it and ignore him.

It took five minutes before Madam Pomfrey was seemingly satisfied with Harry's condition, and she turned to Hermione. "He's stable for now. I dare not to erase the charm; with any other patient I'd have undone it by now, but as I am still not sure what's up with Potter, I'd like to keep him under it a little bit longer. Preferably until we know just what in Merlin's name is up with him."

Hermione wholeheartedly agreed with that, even though keeping a person under a Statis charm for longer than two hours was not advisable. Nasty side-effects, she was told.

She looked at Ron. He was pale, his freckles standing out outrageously. He was looking at the floor, probably thinking about what this all meant. She wasn't quite sure herself. She focussed on the conversation that was now carrying on behind her.

"No, Mr Malfoy. I've already given you more than is allowed, and I will not deface protocol further. Enough is enough."

"But-" Malfoy seemed quite ready to protest, his face set and just a little bit angry.

"No buts. Dreamless Sleep can only be taken three days in a row, after that the side-effects far outweigh the purposes of the potion," Pomfrey said sternly. It seemed Malfoy had met his match.

He looked ready to protest, but he nodded resignedly. Malfoy had at least decided to grow some bloody brains, Hermione thought.

So Malfoy took Dreamless Sleep. Interesting. Was it because he had trouble falling asleep, or was the trouble in the sleeping? Did he have nightmares? He surely dreamed about all the innocent people he had brought into their graves. Or about that fire in the Room of Requirement, where, if it hadn't been for Harry, he would've died himself. Or maybe he missed his little parents, ickle Narcissa and fluffy Lucius.

Hermione shook her head at herself. Sometimes she thought such strange things. Maybe Malfoy was just an insomniac, and had come to Pomfrey for a bit of potion just to help him fall asleep.

Maybe she just thought too much.

She was startled out of her musings as she heard the doors open again, and saw Malfoy despairingly leaving the wing.

It had been a mere twelve minutes after Malfoy had left, when Harry started seizing again. This time she didn't react quite as bad, but she drew in a sharp breath anyway. She quickly stood up, and took his head in her hands.

"Harry, can you hear me? You need to wake up. Harry. Wake up," she spoke urgently, Pomfrey having joined her by now.

They couldn't cast another Statis charm, this one should still be working fine. She was at a loss. Never had she read about anything like this, not one book mentioned anything like Harry right now. Nausea, dizziness, shortness of breath, seizing, vomiting… it all made no sense. Especially because the scans said nothing was wrong with him.

"Harry, please! Wake up, Harry," Hermione begged with him. And to her surprise, his shaking lessened. It was still there, but he was no longer seizing. It now looked like he was cold. His teeth were even clattering a little.

She quickly grabbed a blanket from the empty bed next to Harry's, and threw it right over the one that was tangled between Harry's legs, having been jumbled during the attack. It seemed to work.

After Hermione had made sure everything was as best as it could get right now, which was to say, Harry unconscious and shivering on a hospital bed, Ron in a slight shock, and herself not far off, she threw a quick Tempus charm. Five o' clock. Nice. It was still dark outside, but then again, it was always dark in Scotland.

"Ron, I can't go back to sleep right now. I'm going to get a few books from the dormitory. Do you need something?" she asked. Ron just shook his head.

She had only set one foot out of the hospital, when she noticed she wasn't alone in the hall. A person was standing a little bit further away, but she could still see who it was. Shocking white platinum hair; dark robes with green edges; obscured face, but aristocratic features still visible; Malfoy. Who else?

She had to cross him to be able to get to the dormitories. She didn't like that. What was she going to do? Ignore him? What was he still here for anyway?

She walked up to him, and then rounded on him angrily. All the while Malfoy was still looking every bit aloof as he could be. Hermione fumed. "Malfoy, why are you still here? Pomfrey asked you to leave."

Just then a horrible idea popped into her head. What if he hadn't been there for the potion, but to hurt Harry? Had he known Harry was in the wing, and had he been preparing to strike while Harry was unaware?

"I could tell you the truth, Granger, but I doubt you'd believe me," he said, eyebrows slightly raised.

"I'd like to hear it anyway," she said, angry that he was just standing there as if he owned the damn place. And because she had to look up at least 8 inches to look him straight into the eyes. He was offensively tall.

"I haven't been sleeping well lately. In fact, I haven't been sleeping at all. The potion Pomfrey gave to me was a relief, but as you heard, she can only give it so much. Which is not much. I was going to ask her nicely, but because she outright refused, I'm going to sneak in again, when she's sleeping, and steal it out of the cupboard," he said, face not betraying any emotion at all. "And there you have it. I was going to go back to the dormitories and just sit through the night, when I realised that is not how I like to spend my time. So I went back here, and waited for all of you to go back to sleep again."

Hermione's mouth might just be hanging open a little bit. That was the longest Malfoy had ever talked to her without calling her Mudblood, or any other such things.

"Surprised, Granger?" he asked with an infuriating smirk. "Thought I was up to something, didn't you? Come to poison dear little Harry, yes? That's not necessary, I hear, he's doing that himself just fine."

That caused Hermione to snap out of her shock, and anger made her see red. "You have no right to talk about Harry like that! He's in there, dying for all we know, and you're just here, belittling him! Do you have any idea what he's been through? Do you?! He doesn't deserve this! He deserves some rest! Not some unknown illness! Now, let me through! Go and get your damned potion, I don't care, just don't say anything about Harry or me or Ron ever again! Now go away!"

She broke off with a soft sob, and she took just a moment to revel in the shock on Malfoy's face, before storming off to Gryffindor Tower.

Luckily there was no one still up. Or already up, she should say, so she grabbed her book of one of the wooden tables, and quickly made her way back to the hospital wing.

She didn't know what would happen to Harry now. Maybe he had to be moved to St Mungo's. And what the hell were Slughorn and McGonagall waiting for? Where even were they? They are supposed to be the ones with the answers. Why were they not here?

Chapter Two
Dreams

Harry was dreaming. He wasn't sure if it was a happy dream or not, because the images were blurry, and the scenes often changed. One moment it was peaceful and he was happy, dreaming of green fields and blue skies, and the next the image was shaky, but he was sure the dream changed from peaceful to one of horror. The shaking got worse and worse, and could hear someone whispering urgently, but that didn't help him. He didn't know if he was dreaming the voice, or if it was real. All he knew was that he couldn't escape the dream, caught in the confines of his own mind.

Then slowly the blackness seeped out of his dream, and green began to replace it. The shaking lessened, but it didn't go. Whereas the green had been vibrant and the skies a clear blue before, they were now grey, and the green had a tinge of brown to it. He shivered. It was cold. Cold in his dream.

He didn't know what was happening. Was this just some fucked up corner of his mind that had chosen to make an appearance in his dreams? Or was there something else? It felt like…

Closer. They needed to get closer. He couldn't be like this. Once they came closer, everything would be all right. Then the grass would grow and the clouds would move.

But it didn't. The landscape stayed as it was, and Harry stayed as he was. Cold and shivering, caught in a dream that didn't feel like one. Where was he?

Draco decided that he had been waiting long enough. Now was the time to get in there and do it. Surely the redhead and that infernal nurse would be back asleep by now? And if they weren't…. Well, Draco wasn't a Slytherin for nothing. He would sneak in, stealthy as he was.

He sneezed. "Damn," this wasn't a very opportune moment to get ill. Although… he did have an alibi to be sneaking into the wing now. Yes, if everything went bollocks up, he'd just tell them he was getting ill, and needed a Pepper-up Potion.

Draco felt a Slytherin to the bone.

Now, then, enough straggling, he thought to himself, and quickly made his way over to the great doors of the infirmary. Not exactly stealthy. They sure would make a lot of noise when opened.

He opened them anyway, sick of trying to go to sleep, and not even getting a little shuteye. That woman really had no conscience. How could she just let innocent students welter about, tired to their bones, but unable to get some sleep? Surely that was unprofessional.

Though, Draco wasn't really an 'innocent student', was he? He grinned to himself.

He quickly looked around, and sighed a sigh of relief when Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen, and Weasley had fallen asleep on the chair next to Potter's bed.

What was up with Potter anyway? Granger had said he'd been dying. Was that really true? Or had she just said that because emotions had been running high? Well, she sure sounded serious. But Potter couldn't be dying, could he? Surely a person who could defeat the Dark Lord could defeat an illness as well. But they didn't know what was up with him. If no one could help him, it seemed Potter was, once again, in it alone.

Draco quickly grabbed a Dreamless Sleep out of the cabinet, as well as a Pepper-up, just for good measure.

He had been planning to make a quick escape, but something caught his eye. That is to say, Potter caught his eye. He looked at Weasley, checking if he was really asleep, and then made his way over to Potter's bed, tiptoeing all the way. For all he knew, Weasley was a light sleeper.

He stopped next to Potter's bed, and studied him critically. It didn't look as if he was dying. He was just lying there, looking as if he was asleep, not looking like he was mortal peril. But then, he'd heard how Pomfrey had spoken about him. He's stable for now. I dare not to erase the charm; with any other patient I'd have undone it by now, but as I am still not sure what's up with Potter, I'd like to keep him under it a little bit longer, she'd said. That didn't sound as if Potter was perfectly fine. But Potter couldn't really be dying, could he? Even though Draco hated to admit, the boy was brave and courageous to the heart. A little infection won't hurt him. Even if the Healer would tell him he'd be incurable, he still would fight his way out of it.

Last year had actually been rather nice to Draco. At least, if you thought that mad Gryffindors, shaken Hufflepufs, overthinking Ravenclaws and awed Slytherins were a nice thing to be around. He had defected in the last year of the war, he'd fought for the Light side in the end. Sure, his parents were less than happy about that, but Draco didn't care.

Since his clearance by the court, everyone had been so much nicer to him. No one really trusted him, but still. He liked to think he'd helped Potter. By coming over to the Light side, and persuaded his House mates to do so too, the side had gained considerable numbers. Almost all of Slytherin house had 'turned traitor', as his parents had said, and that sure had helped in the final battle. Besides greater numbers, the Death Eater parents were all a bit more cautious when it might be their own child they are trying to stun.

But all that didn't mean people actually liked him. Well, his own house; but most of those now thought he was the Saviour of Mankind himself, and that didn't make for great friends. As had been the case with Granger earlier; people still thought he was up to something. They had accepted him into the school, but that was about as far as it went. Draco knew that if he put just one toe out of line, he'd be shunned and stunned.

His friends, Blaise; Pansy; Gregory, had all come to the Light side too. A few days after Potter had defeated Voldemort, people had been creating banners with 'Light Side, The Right Side' and, much to Draco's pleasure and Pansy's wrath, she'd been Permanent-Stickered with one. It had been a very high-in-demand new rage the Weasley Twins had invented. She'd been close to ripping her hair of during the three hours it took for Blaise to find the counter curse. Not because she didn't think it was the right side, but because the red and yellow clashed horribly with her green robes. Or so Draco had said.

Draco blinked at Potter. He had certainly changed during the last year. But not in the way people had expected. Rather than a gaunt skeleton of a boy, broken by war and death, there was now a strong man. Gryffindors, Draco thought despairingly, Instead of breaking down after enough trauma to last at least six people, he just ups and gets a growth spurt.

But not just a growth spurt, Draco noticed. He had grown stubble too, and he had grown a fair set of muscles. Of course, all that didn't really matter when you were lying in a hospital bed, with no cure for what was wrong with you.

A piece of Potter's jet-black hair fell into his face. Almost without thinking, Draco pushed it away, his fingers lingering on Potter's forehead, just next to his scar.

Potter gave a great shuddering breath and Draco jumped, snatching back his hand as if burned, and quickly looked for a place to hide. But there was no such thing in the cold, stone infirmary. Particularly not now when the sun was just coming over the treetops, shining with golden rays through the big vertical windows of the wing, and illuminating every detail of the place in pure silver. Draco didn't blend with silver, he knew that much.

Luckily Weasley was still sleeping and Potter hadn't been loud enough to alarm Pomfrey's alert systems.

A soft cough shook him out of his thinking. "Please," Potter rasped. Potter definitely sounded ill.

Draco didn't know what to do. Did he have to tell Potter he was here? The guy obviously hadn't spotted him yet, in fact, his eyes were still closed. Maybe Potter was just rambling, hallucinating, and didn't even feel Draco touch him. But what would Potter do, if he did say he was here? Would he be disgusted Draco had touched him? Would he… yeah, what? Yell for Weasley to wake up and get the great big bad Death Eater out of here?

"Please," he rasped again, and Draco drew just the littlest bit closer. "Just, do it again, whatever you did. Whoever you are."

Now Draco was in an impasse. Potter had actively asked to touch him again. Surely he was breaking several rules if he did so? 'Rule No. 7.14: No One Shall Touch The Great Harry Potter, For He Is Above All Mortal', or something like that. Or maybe just the rule: boys didn't touch boys. Well, suck that.

Draco put his hand on Potter's shoulder, and Potter sighed in relief. "Thanks," he said, "I didn't think I was able to get out of that nightmare… dream."

Draco frowned, yet didn't say anything. His voice would unmask him, he was sure. Even though they mightn't like it, they knew each other very well, from rituals such as eating patterns to the feel of each other's nose under their nearing fist.

"Who are you?" Potter asked, asking the question Draco didn't dare answer.

He stood very still, his hand still on Potter's shoulder. No he wouldn't tell him. He couldn't. If he could, he would.

He cleared his throat. "Nobody," he said, his voice just gruff enough to not be recognisable. Then he let his hand drop from Potter's shoulder, quickly turned around, and strode out of the infirmary, doing a great impression of Snape as he did so.

The doors slammed shut, hard, and Draco cringed. He was sure he had managed to wake the entire wing with that one. He quickly began making his way to the Slytherin common room, but on his way down he encountered no one other than Hermione Granger, Smartest of the Trio. That was her nickname in the papers of course. Draco would never ever admit that, even though he knew it to be true.

"Managed to get your potions?" she asked, and Draco had to do try quite hard to not look surprised. Maybe this girl was bipolar, because that had been a polite question. He just nodded dumbly.

She nodded back, but it seemed more to herself than to him. "I'm sorry I got so angry with you just then. It's just… without Harry, I wouldn't know what to do."

Draco wanted to say 'I understand', because if Potter wasn't there, who would be his next fight-buddy? Potter was cut for the job, that much was clear. But he thought that if he did, Granger might get a heart attack, so he just nodded and strode away, desperate to be the first to leave. It made people think you had more important things to do, and that was always a good impression to make. Even though Granger knew he had been out of bed just so he could get into his bed, but his time actually sleep too.

He said the password to the portrait, dracones obtinebit, slipped into the common room. There was one person already up, a third year, probably frantically making his homework for that day. Luckily Eight Year didn't have that much homework, considering they repeated most of the things that they had learnt last year. Only this time it didn't include torturing First Years.

The third year boy looked up to see who had entered and his eyes widened dramatically when he saw who it was. Draco wondered if he could get the boy to bow if he tried hard enough. Instead, he just rose an elegant eyebrow, and took off for the Eight Year's dormitories. At least they all had their own rooms now, what with some people not returning for Eight Year and, of course, those who hadn't survived the war. A separate door in the hall of boy's dormitories led to another hall, which ended in a round room, with eight doors with everyone's name on it. Draco's was the one at five o'clock, just next to the hallway. He could make a quick escape.

Everyone of seventh year Slytherin had returned, except a girl named Tracey Davis. All the others, which is to say, Millicent Bulstrode; Gregory Goyle; Daphne Greengrass; Theodore Nott; Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini had returned. And I'm grateful for that, he thought, as he read the nametags on the doors. They didn't have it easy. At first half the school thought they were Devil's incarnate.

He opened the door to his room, and breathed in the familiar scent of wood and linen. As he was thinking about his soft bed, he realised how tired he was. He set down the potions on his bedside table, looking at the Pepper-up, but deciding not to take it. The cold that he had seemed to be getting was wholly gone.

He lay down on his bed, Dreamless Sleep in his hand. Then he promptly fell asleep without even taking one single drop.