Content warning for Harry's unhealthy attitude concerning getting help, a mention of food deprivation, and a mild panic attack from Draco later on. Also, fantastic racism ahoy because Draco is definitely still Like That.

Harry was huffing and puffing by the time he'd finished twenty-five sit-ups and push-ups. He lay flat on his back, wheezing. Maybe he shouldn't have done those so fast. The last time he'd gotten any real exercise had been during his last Quidditch practice, and that had been...

He pursed his lips in thought. Wait, had it only been five weeks since he'd found the Four Sword? How strange, that he'd gotten so accustomed to dodging Phantoms and slinging spells at Wizzrobes in such a short time. Of course, he'd also readily accepted the (only halfway disproven) fact that his Potions teacher had been out to kill him during first year, and he'd never been bothered by his ability to speak to snakes until it had become a scandal in his second year.

"Ugh, stop. You're making me sore, just looking at you." Blue scowled at him from over the edge of Harry's bed, which he had commandeered so he could whine at its owner. "Why do you call this 'sword practice' when you haven't used your sword even once? What's the point?"

"The point is building up muscle," Harry told him. He propped himself up on his elbows. "Our swords are one-handed, but we keep swinging them like they're two-handed bats. If we could use them properly, we wouldn't need all four of us to take down a Moblin. We need to be faster." Getting to his feet, he started stretching. His body was sore and stiff from the workouts he'd put it through since he'd found that mysterious stranger's childhood journal. He'd only just started, though, so that was to be expected.

"How can you tell it's one-handed?" Blue pulled his sword from the ever-present sheath on his back and frowned at its grip. "We can fit two hands on it, can't we?"

"Because we're half-sized, yeah," Harry said. "Oh, speaking of that, Professor Lupin scheduled us to go to the Hospital Wing today." He lowered his arms from a shoulder stretch and dropped his hands on his hips. "What's the plan? Do you have any ideas?"

Yellow looked up from the chess game he was losing spectacularly against Ron. "We haven't visited Hagrid in a while. We could hide out in his hut, maybe," he volunteered.

Red rolled out from under his bed, clutching the crumpled essay he'd been searching for. "Why not just go?" he asked. "Pomfrey's only going to have a fit if we don't. She might send McGonagall after us, or maybe even Snape. Better to get done with it, I say."

"I think we should hunt down a new spell scroll," Blue said. "Fred and George can redirect the wind, I saw a Ravenclaw girl throwing Wizzrobe fireballs the other day, and even Parvati and Lavender have managed to come across a Hylian stunning spell. The only things we have are the ones we got from temples and that little floating spell Yellow picked up."

"So? Can Parvati and Lavender take a swan dive from a hundred meters and stick the landing?" Red countered.

"They can stun the electricity out of Buzz Blobs, which is better than I can say for you, you stupid lightning rod—"

Yellow joined in the argument. "We have a spell that can slay monsters, Blue. Isn't that better than—?"

Hermione's voice cut through the argument. "You're all getting distracted, Harry." She clapped the Muggle Studies textbook she'd been reading shut and slid off of Ron's bed. "What does it matter how many Hylian spells you've found when you have a teacher-mandated appointment with Madam Pomfrey?"

"Yeah, why's Lupin sending you to the Hospital Wing?" Ron asked. "Are you sick?"

"No, and we haven't broken anything lately, either," Harry said. "Lupin just thinks we need a check-up, for some reason." As he spoke, he was mildly surprised by his lack of unease. He'd been in the Hospital Wing a significant number of times since enrolling at Hogwarts, and Madam Pomfrey had never seemed suspicious or particularly worried about anything. It was quite possible she'd conducted a physical exam during one of the times he'd spent several hours unconscious in one of her cots. Wasn't that a thing doctors did?

"We—er, the main one of us, anyway—didn't go to the doctor much when we were little," Yellow explained. "Professor Lupin thinks our chart needs updating. He's a mother hen that way."

Hermione fixed Harry with a stern glare. "And you were thinking of skipping this? You can't neglect your health!"

"Our health is fine, Hermione. Don't you think I'd have been whining about bruises if Red or Green had done something reckless again?" Blue asked. "We have more productive things to do than get probed by the school nurse."

Harry would have agreed, but was too busy shrinking under his friend's unrelenting stare. Hermione's brown eyes bored into him with determination. She wasn't going to back down.

"Er, what if just one of us went?" he nervously suggested. His eyes darted away from Hermione's, unable to match her intensity. "Red, you could go. You didn't have any problem with it."

"Me?" Red started slightly at being mentioned. "Er, I mean, I could do it, but are you sure you want me to go?" He raised an eyebrow at Harry and then looked pointedly at Blue. Harry got his meaning. Did he want the unsubtle Gryffindor to go, or the tricky Ravenclaw who was a better liar?

"We've been landed in the Hospital Wing loads of times. If she'd found something to panic about before, she'd have already shoved the potions to fix it down our throat," Harry reasoned. He glanced at Hermione. "Besides, we know we're alright."

"And you were the only one who wanted to go," Yellow added. His face fell as Ron's bishop beat down his last knight, leaving him with two pawns and his king to maneuver. "Ron, why don't you just win instead of dragging all my pieces off?" he complained. "You don't have to make them all fight!"

Ron just grinned. "The fights are the best part of Wizarding Chess."

Red sat atop the cot Madam Pomfrey had directed him to, idly swinging his legs as he looked around. The nurse had gone to fetch something-or-other. He hadn't really been paying attention.

The Hospital Wing was empty but for him and Madam Pomfrey. Dead quiet, too. He couldn't even hear the nurse puttering around her office. He curled his fingers in the thin sheets beneath him and slowly swiveled his head this way and that. There were ten beds, made so neatly that he was a little jealous. He'd never managed to tuck the Dursleys' blankets so pin-tight. The walls and floor of the room had been thoroughly scoured so many times over the centuries that the stone was smoother than anywhere else in Hogwarts. A green gem lay on the ground a few beds away, evidence of a recent monster-slaying. Several metal spikes, clustered in neat squares, sprouted out of the ground in a back corner. They'd been closed off with handmade warning signs written in Madam Pomfrey's cramped cursive.

Madam Pomfrey reappeared from her office with a piece of parchment and a weird blue quill floating behind her. "Are you ready for your exam, Mister Potter?"

"Probably more ready than I am for the Potions one coming up," Red said with a shrug. "What's the parchment for?"

"Your chart is in dire need of an update." She pursed her lips in a frustrated, Hermione-esque expression. "I can't believe, as many times as I've had you in my care, that I never thought to do anything more than fill in whatever was pertinent! It's rare that I receive Muggle-raised students with such spotty records."

Why did Professor Lupin and Madam Pomfrey think it was so odd that he'd hardly ever gone to the hospital? Did most people get seriously injured or ill enough to go to a doctor every year of their lives, or something? He was a heck of a lot luckier than everyone else, then.

"I'll be taking your height and weight now, so sit still for a moment."

Red stopped swinging his feet and watched with mild interest as the nurse murmured spells and waved her wand. It wasn't much different from anything he'd seen her do before, but now that he knew what she was doing it for, it was less boring. As Madam Pomfrey's spells took effect, the blue quill scribbled on the floating parchment.

"One-hundred forty-four point six centimeters tall and thirty-four point five kilograms in weight," the nurse reported aloud for Red's benefit. She clucked her tongue. "Underweight, as I thought. Have you been eating properly, Mister Potter? This year's…predicament is stressful, I know, but that's no excuse for skipping meals."

Skipping meals?! Red puffed up angrily. "Are you barmy? Who would ever do that? I'm not an ingrate!" he snapped. It was bad enough that the Dursleys hated him for eating their food; he didn't need someone making assumptions that he was picky about what he got!

Madam Pomfrey seemed startled by his outburst. "I didn't mean to accuse you of being ungrateful, Mister Potter. I'm simply concerned by your weight, as it's been on the low side for as long as you've been at Hogwarts. It's becoming clear that it may be affecting your growth. Have you been having trouble eating? Given your experiences at Hogwarts, that would be understandable."

Red shook his head firmly. "I eat just fine." He'd been having his fill since he'd escaped early from the Dursleys that summer, and he could tell from the softness forming over his ribs that he was gaining weight. It was a good thing he'd been eating well for the last few months; Madam Pomfrey would have surely blown a gasket if he were still at his summertime weight. "Can I go now? I promise I'll eat more and tell the other Harrys to do it, too."

He'd come into the Hospital Wing feeling confident; now a sense of anxiety was creeping in. Red didn't have the fancy Ravenclaw words to describe why something buried deep within him was begging to flee, but he had enough common sense to know he really should have insisted on Green or Blue taking his place. Hell, all of them together would have been a better option that him on his own!

Nervously biting his lower lip, Red eyed the sword Madam Pomfrey had ordered him earlier to lay at the foot of his cot. While he wasn't a tightly-wound sort, in comparison to the other Harrys, he would have felt a lot better with the weight of his weapon on his back.

"Mister Potter?" Madam Pomfrey spoke like she'd called his name at least twice. "I'd like to conduct a physical examination. Please take off your robes, shirt, and trousers. I'll draw the curtains and step out while you undress." She walked away from the bed and snapped the curtains shut with a flick of her wand.

Red sighed and mussed his hair. He was fairly certain he was good to go; any bruises, burns, scrapes, or other healing injuries he had were from monsters, not horrible relatives. Still, though, his gut twisted with fear unbecoming of a Gryffindor. Somehow, the thought of being looked over by a professional who could see little things his eyes skimmed over was way scarier than shoving his wand up a troll's nose.

There wasn't even anything to be afraid of! So what if he had a few funny scars? What was Madam Pomfrey going to do, get all weird about it like Lupin? Give him a few potions to fix his old injuries? Why was he being a baby about this?

Setting his jaw, Red whipped off his robes and slapped them down on the cot. He was fine. He would get through this. He'd faced down two versions of Voldemort, various giant monsters, and Uncle Vernon after a bad day at work. This was nothing and he refused to be afraid, damn it!

"Don't whine at me! We wouldn't have run into those ReDeads if you hadn't decided to go rat-chasing on a whim!" Draco snapped at the large dog moping pitifully at his side. "What are you, a Kneazle? Honestly!"

Dog whined again and pawed at the thick golden collar encircling his neck. He'd filled out in the few weeks that Draco had owned him, but the metal ring was still loose enough to sway back and forth.

"Yes, I know you don't like that thing, but I don't know how to get it off," Draco huffed. "What does that have to do with you chasing rats, anyway?"

Dog shook his head and batted at the collar some more.

"You're such an odd creature." Draco rolled his eyes at Dog's silliness and continued down the hallway. He'd stepped out of the dungeons to spend a nice, peaceful Saturday away from his friends' irritated scowls and thoughts of the Drowning room, and he wasn't going to let Dog's odd quirks ruin his day. He was going to have a picnic in the Astronomy tower, since it was almost always empty while the sun was out, and have a pleasant afternoon of talking to Dog and reading the personal Potions journal his mother had handed down to him for his birthday.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw yet another person look at him. Draco gritted his teeth and fought the urge to make a scene. If he'd confronted every person who'd stared at him since he'd stepped out of the Slytherin dorm, he would have gone hoarse from telling them all off by now.

Why did people keep looking at him? He'd cast a battery of spells to make sure his appearance was up to its usual standards, his robes were perfectly clean with ironed-in creases at the sleeves, and he was positive that most of Hogwarts's student body had seen Dog before, so what were they looking at? The muscles in Draco's squared shoulders—he refused to hunch them and show weakness—tensed further with every glimpse of a double-take or prolonged gawk.

'Father would know how to make them stop,' he thought. Of course, the man had also decided it was best for him to go to Durmstrang, so what did Father know? Draco gave in to the urge to let his shoulders defensively rise and stalked down the hallway at a faster clip. Why were there so many people out, anyway? Wasn't anyone afraid of Moblins or pitfalls anymore? If they had been, then Draco wouldn't have had to endure their existence.

He mustn't have been paying much attention to where he was going, because Draco's internal grumbling was suddenly cut off when he ran into something hard enough to knock him to the ground. Draco sprang to his feet with fire in his eyes, ready to give whoever had collided with him a blistering earful for it. To his surprise, he didn't see anyone. There wasn't even anyone close by enough to have been a possible culprit. The anger drained out of him as he looked around perplexedly. What the hell…?

"Whoa, Malfoy, you look terrible," the air declared in Harry Potter's voice.

Draco jumped like a spooked cat and yelped in surprise, looking around wildly once his feet were back on the ground.

The air started laughing. "Y-Your face…I wish I had a camera!"

Realization dawned and Draco's eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. "You managed to afford an Invisibility Cloak, Potter? Why do you wear worn-out shoes and unsuitable glasses if you have that kind of money?" He'd known the Potter family had once had maintained a respectable level of affluence, but Father had told him that they'd squandered it all on backing Dumbledore during the war.

"It's a hand-me-down, duh." A hand appeared from the air, took hold of his sleeve, and led him toward a smaller corridor. Once they were out of sight, Potter shrugged off his cloak and stuffed it in his schoolbag.

"You don't just crumple Demiguise hair like that!" Draco scolded. "You'll wrinkle it!"

The red-eyed Gryffindor snorted. "It's usually invisible, Malfoy. Who cares?"

"I'm sure whatever ancestor of yours who bought it would."

"Yeah, I'm sure. So, Malfoy," Potter leaned in uncomfortably close and peered at Draco's face. "Why do you look like you're about to be sick?"

An interesting question, coming from a boy who looked rather wan and shaken himself. Draco planted a fingertip on Red's chest and pushed him back to a more suitable distance. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm fine. You, on the other hand, look like you just walked through a ghost. Was it the Bloody Baron?"

"Nah, I just got out of the Hospital Wing. Pomfrey had me drink something nasty," Red said with a dismissive wave. "You look green, though. I'm not kidding. Are you sure you're not sick?"

Draco smirked. "Concern from a Potter? Wow, we really must be friends."

"Must you be a git even when I'm trying to help you?"

"Considering your status, it's only proper." Draco decided to oblige Potter, however, since the boy seemed genuinely perturbed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the folding silver mirror he made a habit of carrying around.

His reflection in the flawless, smudge-free glass made his heart jolt in his chest. All of his glamour spells had worn off! Everyone had been able to see the terrible shadows under his eyes and that zit on his nose! On top of that, his complexion was exceedingly pale, even by his standards. He was chalky white, with the slightest tinge of blue-green in his cheeks.

"Merlin, I'm a mess!" he cried. Immediately, he began casting spells to neaten himself up. Red was too rough and uncivilized to pay attention to what charms he used, and Draco wasn't about to brave the halls to find a bathroom to do his work in.

"Celare Umbra," he incanted, pointing at the offending bags under his eyes. The soft silver light of the spell fizzled as soon as he touched the tip of his wand to his skin. "What?" Draco gasped, studying his face in the mirror. The spell had just…died! It hadn't had even the slightest effect! "Celare Umbra," he said more firmly, willing more power into the spell. The glow was brighter, but faded just as quickly when he tried to apply it. Draco frowned at his wand. "Lumos." The tip of his wand obediently lit up exactly to the brightness he'd wanted. He hadn't had any trouble making the charm take effect, and it didn't go out until he cast Nox. "What is going on?" he muttered in frustration. "Celare Umbra!" Again, the spell lit up and then failed.

Draco glared at his wand like it had betrayed him. From where he sat next to Potter, Dog gave him a soft, questioning bark. "No, I don't know what's wrong. I can cast the charm just fine, but it won't stick," Draco told him. He tried a different incantation this time—one meant to add a healthy touch of color to his cheeks. His wand sparked with the desired spell, but the magic was lost as soon as he tapped his cheek.

"Huh. I think I've seen something like that before," Red commented. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hold on a sec. I know how to test this."

Before Draco could ask what the boy meant, or even brace himself for the brutish Gryffindor's idea of a "test", Red brandished his wand with a cry of, "Locomotor Wibbly!"

Draco jumped back, but it was a delayed reaction. The Jelly-Legs Jinx hit him squarely in the thigh. He fell clumsily to the ground, too off-balance to land with a decent amount of dignity. Dog, having been caught by surprise, ambled over after Draco had sat up and snuffled concernedly at him.

"I thought we had a truce, Potter! I don't curse you and you don't curse me!" Draco spouted indignantly. He put a hand on Dog's head and turned it in Potter's direction, hoping the beast might take the initiative and growl menacingly at his enemy. "I'll have you know that Father has taught me plenty of curses, so if you think you have any chance of beating me in a duel—"

"Quit yowling, Malfoy. You're fine." Red stowed his wand and crossed his arms. "The spell didn't work. You just fell over because you tried to jump out of the way."

Draco's voice petered out mid-yell. He looked down at his legs to find that, indeed, they seemed unaffected. When he put a little weight on them to test their strength, they held up fine. "You didn't put any magic into that spell," he accused. "You just surprised me to see how I'd react. If my robes are soiled from the floor, I'll make you clean them yourself!" He used Dog as a support to pull himself to his feet and stood with his hands on his hips. Potter was lucky Draco had only been wearing his school robes. If the Gryffindor had caused any damage to his good wools or silks, Draco would have cursed the stuffing out of him.

"If I can do an entire family's worth of laundry, I can wash one measly robe," Red scoffed. "Bring it on."

The boy's ready acceptance wasn't exactly the reaction Draco had been hoping for. Anyone raised properly would have been insulted to be threatened with doing house-elf work. Draco hid his surprise by brushing at his robes with an annoyed huff. "Well, if you're done trying to play pranks on me, I need you to do something useful," he said. "Go fetch that blue one of you and tell him to go to the library to figure out whatever this is. I need this…curse, or illness, or whatever to away before anyone else sees me. I have a reputation to maintain, and that means I can't be going out looking so disheveled."

Red stared at him in utter wonderment for several seconds, though Draco wasn't sure why.

He made an impatient shooing motion. "What are you waiting around for?"

The Gryffindor didn't budge. "You are the most entitled prat I've ever met," he commented instead. "Man, that's just…that's amazing." He pulled out his wand again and gestured vaguely at Draco with it. "To save you a trip to the library after Blue laughs in your face, I'm pretty sure what's wrong with you is a Hylian thing."

Draco's mind immediately began to race, recalling his every interaction with Hylian magic. Had he been bitten by the Ropes in the Slytherin dorm a few too many times? Should not have adopted the increasingly popular habit of using Floormasters as shortcuts? Had a Wizzrobe managed to curse him with some ancient Hylian spell? Was the ability to summon Hylian artifacts having a physical effect on him, making him sleepless and anxiety-ridden?

He took a mental step back. No, he was pretty sure that Father's letter was the reason for his insomnia and general sense of dread. The Hylian artifacts still might have been messing with his beautifying charms, though.

"Remember how those torches in that cave we all wandered into wouldn't let us light 'em with our usual magic?" Red asked. "It was like they ate the spells, or something. Magic bounces off of monsters, but it fizzles on Hylian blocks or torches or marbles."

"I am not turning into a torch," Draco said flatly. Although if there were such a thing as a prolonged Transfiguration spell, he was certain that an ancient bunch of primitives who would slaughter thousands to build enchant their pointless temples would have invented it. "Those spell scrolls we found in the temples must be having an effect on us. Perhaps I'm the first one to show signs because my blood is the purest. The curse is probably fueled by my own magic."

Red snorted. "Right, because purebloods are delicate magical flowers. Uh-huh."

"We aren't delicate! We're well-bred," Draco defended. "Magical people aren't dull brutes like Muggles and our magic is stronger than that of half-bloods, which makes us more susceptible to—"

Red flapped his hands at him. "Shhh!"

Draco paused to stare at the strange boy. "What? Why—?"

"Don't spout propaganda at me. I'm trying to be nice, and that's hard to do when you say things that make me want to punch you," Red explained. "Think, Malfoy. Have any of the other Slytherins been turning green? Ron's a pureblood and he's as pink as ever."

"I'd hardly consider his sort proper purebloods," Draco grumbled, but he did stop to think. Blaise and Millicent weren't changing colors, as far as he could tell (though it would have been harder to see on Blaise if he were). Crabbe and Goyle seemed fine as well, and they'd acquired the same artifacts that Draco had. They even summoned them more often because they used their magic lamps to find their way to the bathroom at night.

A lump of unease formed in Draco's throat. "Perhaps it is just me."

Red clapped him on the back. "There you go! The first step of figuring out the problem is over: we've figured out whose problem it is. Now we just have to find out why it's happening."

"I-I don't know. I'm not even sure how long it's been going on." He'd been so mired in his miserable thoughts that he hadn't really noticed anyone staring at him until today. Did that mean his complexion had changed only that morning, or that he hadn't been perceptive enough to notice until now? Draco bit his lower lip and studied himself more closely in the mirror. He'd have to order some makeup, now that his spells weren't working. The feeling of powder on his face annoyed him, but he supposed he could stand it if it kept him looking decent. Just to check whether every single one of his glamour charms had failed, Draco summoned his magic glasses.

An undignified shriek left him and he almost threw his mirror against the wall. "That's me?" he squawked, bringing the looking glass up to his nose. "I have spots!"

Faint, pale dots marred his perfect nose and cheekbones like a spray of paint spattered across his face. Though they weren't as numerous as a Weasley's distinctive markings, they were larger and shimmered ever so slightly, which made every horrible spot stand out more. His skin was even greener than before—not the sickly tone of illness, but an actual change in coloring. "Potter, how long have I been like this?!" he demanded shrilly.

"I dunno! I don't pay that much attention to what people look like," Red defended. "It just seems kind of rude."

Banishing his Hylian spectacles, Draco took deep breaths and struggled to restrain his wild panic. He couldn't shake the thought of so many people seeing him, though. Malfoys had to be presentable at all times—every Malfoy he'd ever met, alive or painted, had told him so. Malfoys had to have aristocratic comportment, carefully controlled speech, and a flawless appearance. He knew he often failed to monitor his language, plagued by a short temper and unsubtle demeanor as he was; he couldn't fail his family's reputation further by looking like a merperson-faced half-breed!

"I didn't think you'd take this so hard." A pair of hands settled on his shoulders. "Calm down, Malfoy. Put the mirror away and focus on breathing. No thinking, just breathing. In and out, you can do it."

Draco wanted to snap at him for sounding so cool and confident. How dare he be calm in such a crisis? Still, Draco forced himself to listen. He dropped the mirror into his pocket and gritted his teeth as he concentrated on slowing down his hyperventilation. It was difficult to set aside the feeling of Potter's hands on his shoulders and his natural inclination to ignore any instructions a half-blood gave him, but he managed to set his breaths at a more comfortable pace. The pounding of his heart slowly became less frantic as the burning in his lungs faded.

"Maybe I don't get why you're so freaked out about this, but I'm gonna help you because you've been helping me fix Hogwarts, alright?" Red said slowly. "Are you going to work with me or are you going to be an arse about this?"

The corner of Draco's lips twitched in a weak attempt at a sardonic smile. His heart was still beating too hard and his chest was beginning to ache. "Both, I think."

"That's to be expected, I guess. Now put this on." The boy fished his Invisibility Cloak out of his bag. "Let's go to the Hospital Wing and get you checked out. I bet it'll be a quick fix."

Some notes:

-aaAA I spent like an hour googling the heights and weights of boys aged ten to thirteen to come up with believable numbers for that scene in the nurse's office. Harry is smaller than most people in his class, but not to a cartoonish degree. In US measurements, he's 4'9" and 76 pounds, with a 13th-percentile (which is low but acceptable) BMI of 16.4. If Madam Pomfrey had checked on him just after the summer, he probably would have weighed 8-10 pounds less, which would have been alarming.

-Dog doesn't know why he wants to hunt rats. He just sees The Enemy and must chase.

-The make-up spell Draco uses translates to "hide shadows" in slightly garbled Latin.