"—will be brought in class groups to the Great Hall for testing. If you are experiencing symptoms, alert your professor immediately. Until a head of house arrives to escort you, everyone is to stay in their classroom and remain calm."

What had started as a simple flu outbreak had quickly escalated to something much worse. Two days earlier, a fifth year turned up to the hospital wing with the flu, and no amount of pepper-up or fever-reducers could alleviate the symptoms. By the next day, twelve others had the same symptoms. The staff responded accordingly, encouraging students to wash their hands and report to the hospital wing if they're sick. Unfortunately, this didn't do much to slow the progression of the strange illness, as the next day, the hospital wing was packed. At that point, sick students were asked to stay in their dorms while the staff planned a course of action.

"What if your professor is a head of house?" Harry asked out loud, eying Professor Snape as the announcement patronus finished its message and vanished.

Before anyone could consider his question, Snape stood from his desk, scowling. He flicked his wand behind him as headed for the door, vanishing the contents of their cauldrons. "You are all to remain seated until further notice," he glared at them, an unspoken threat behind his eyes. "Granger, you're in charge." He slammed the door behind him.

Hermione hesitated before standing from her desk. "Well? Is anyone experiencing symptoms?"

There was a long pause. "Uh… what are the symptoms?" Ron asked.

Hermione sighed. "According to St. Mungos… it's pretty much like the common flu. Coughing, sneezing, fever, breathing problems… but it doesn't respond to magic at all. In fact, it feeds on magic. So if anyone's finding that their magic is weaker than normal, or that spells aren't working very well for you… then you may have it."

"Oh…" Ron furrowed his brow, and Hermione gave him a sharp look. "Uh, I think I have it, then," he sneezed, "I thought it was just allergies."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You don't have allergies."

"Well that's just great," Draco drawled as Hermione berated him for coming to class. "If one of us has it, then we all could."

"You're wrong, Malfoy," Hermione interjected before the other students could panic. "It isn't airborne. It's like a respiratory virus. It's spread through coughing and sneezing. Come on guys, we can handle this. We've been through worse." These were seventh and eighth years, after all.

Hermione frowned. Snape had said to remain seated… "Everyone who's experiencing flu-like symptoms that did not respond to a pepper-up should move to this side of the room—" she pointed to one side, "—and everyone else should go to the other side,"

No one, not even Draco, pointed out the blatant rule breaking, as everyone shuffled to their respective sides.

The door opened only a few minutes later.

"Alright, students. Form a single file line and follow me." Headmistress McGonagall had a thin layer of magic covering her mouth and nose, resembling a muggle medical mask. Everyone frantically gathered their things to follow her. A few students attempted to joke about the situation, but they fell short.

The Great Hall was almost empty aside from Madam Pomfrey and a few healers from St. Mungos. Luckily, there was a diagnostic spell that easily detected the illness. Unfortunately, over half of their class was infected, even without symptoms. A few students were having difficulty breathing, and Madam Pomfrey had to carefully extract the fluid from their lungs and vanish it—It looked awful.

Once they were all tested and wearing the strange magical masks, McGonagall cleared her throat. "Attention, please." She waited for everyone to stop talking. "Given how communicable this illness appears to be, all students will be quarantined from this point onwards. Uninfected students will move to the east wing rooms in pairs, and under no circumstances are you to leave. As for the rest of you, you'll be quarantined in larger groups in your dorms to ease stress on the hospital wing. Now, aside from today, classes are not cancelled," she paused as the students grumbled to themselves under their breath, "but in-person lectures are suspended at this time. Notes and assignments, as well as meals, will be delivered by the house elves."

She pointed her wand into the air, which shot out white, semi-transparent letters that eventually lined themselves up into words. They were the names of the uninfected students in pairs to indicate who they were to quarantine with. "If any of you develop symptoms, floo call myself or Madam Pomfrey immediately. Additionally, if you…"

Harry tuned her out as he searched for his name, but the swirling letters made it difficult. When he finally found it, he groaned. Draco Malfoy. What the hell?

Draco was already glaring at him as McGonagall continued. "Each pair will choose a room in the east wing, and a house elf will deliver your things by the end of the day. There will be no switching—each pair has been carefully chosen to minimize your chance of infection."

Harry looked desperately at Ron and Hermione, who were watching him sympathetically. He furrowed his brow; if Ron was infected… then Hermione probably was, too. Hermione nodded when she saw his realization.

Harry made to go over to them, but McGonagall grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. "I know, Mr. Potter," She gazed at him over her glasses, "But you mustn't expose yourself. You're free to send them messages by owl, but that's it. Do you understand me?"

Harry sighed and nodded before heading to the exit. He paused at the threshold and looked behind him, raising his eyebrow at Draco, who still stood in the same spot. With another glare, he turned on his heel and walked straight past him, head held high. Harry wasn't sure if he'd imagined the faint blush across his cheeks. Harry didn't bother giving his input on which room they should choose. Draco chose the first open door he saw, and once the door closed behind them, the doorknob vanished. That's comforting.

The room looked just like the eighth year dormitories, aside from the extra furniture. In the corner was a small fireplace with a few chairs, right next to a table for eating.

Draco headed straight for the first bed and swung the drapes shut without a word, effectively cutting himself off room the rest of the room. Harry sighed and sat in front of the fire instead, rifling through his bag. He didn't have any spare parchment in his bag to write to his friends, and his trunk hadn't appeared yet. He dug out a crumpled scroll and smoothed it over his knee. Hermione wouldn't be too happy if he wrote on an old charms essay… oh well. He found a quill in his pocket and started scribbling anyway.

"Will you be quiet?"

Harry groaned, throwing back the blankets and sitting up in his bed. It had been two days—so far, it hadn't been that bad, but the close confinement was starting to get to him. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling on the strands. This room was small— it reminded Harry too much of his cupboard. He wiped his sweaty palms on the comforter—Maybe McGonagall would let him help somehow. He wouldn't mind getting sick if it got him out of this goddamn room. He wanted to floo call her, but she was probably busy. There were hundreds of students infected—the last thing she needed was Harry's whining.

I'll be fine, Harry thought—he had spent eleven years in a tiny cupboard without losing his mind. How did I manage that?

Harry stood up and headed to the bathroom. It could be worse; hell, Harry had experienced worse. But that was before I knew of anything better, he thought bitterly. He splashed cold water on his face, which helped a little.

He shuffled back to his bed and froze when he reached it. He'd left the sheets crumpled, his duvet in a pile at the end of the bed. But now, it was made perfectly.

"What—"

From across the room, Draco shrugged and turned a page in his book. "Being stuck in your room is much easier if you've made your bed." Sure enough, Draco was lying on top of his bed, which he had made with a flick of his wand as soon as he woke up that morning.

Harry squinted at him. "What would you know about being stuck in your room?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Would it kill you to be civil for once?"

"Right, as if I didn't just help you," Draco sighed sarcastically. "But I guess I'll have to try harder to be civil."

"Sorry," Harry said shortly, grabbing his schoolwork with a huff and dumping it on his bed. "And thanks, I guess."

They didn't speak again for the rest of the day.

Harry was on edge again. He was doing better at keeping it in, though. It wasn't just the enclosed space that was bothering him—it was the fact that Draco was barely speaking at all. When he did speak, every word was with anger and malice, so at least that hadn't changed.

He unraveled the most recent message from Ron and Hermione. They're lucky they get to be together right now, he thought, and immediately felt guilty. He was lucky that he wasn't infected. Despite the tight quarantine, the disease had continued to spread over the last week.

Her message contained more information on the disease, dubbed coronis virosum based on the charm used to diagnose it, but all Harry cared about was why he had to be paired with Malfoy, of all people. It didn't seem fair. Why do I always get the short end of the stick?

I know you hate it, Harry, but the truth is, you and Malfoy being paired together is for the best. The disease seems to be most contagious between two people of very different magical auras. You and Malfoy obviously have similar magical signatures—I mean, you used his wand without much difficulty. Your auras are similar and very compatible, so even if one of you gets infected, the other isn't likely to catch it.

Harry groaned inwardly, his face heating up. He wasn't raised pureblood, of course, but even he knew that having compatible auras was a pretty intimate thing. He did not want to think of the implications of that.

Hermione's mention of Draco's wand made him remember something—he still had Draco's old wand in his trunk. Sure, Draco had a new one, but that didn't mean Harry shouldn't give it back. It's not like Harry had any use for it.

He'd give it back, but not right now. No, his face was still far too red. He'd wait for his blush to go away first.

Harry curled his hands into fists, letting his anger wash over him, counting to five before he responded. Draco was just trying to get a rise out of him—Harry's messiness was simply an easy target.

"Listen, Potter," Draco spoke when Harry didn't say anything, "I know you're used to people cleaning up after you, and all—"

"Seriously? You're the one who grew up with a horde of house elves!"

Draco ignored him. "But you see, here, you actually have to look after your things."

Harry looked around at the floor, where a few of his robes were strewn. It really wasn't that bad, in his opinion. Okay, there were also textbooks and parchment on their shared kitchen table…and library books scattered across his desk... but really, it'd only take a few seconds to clean up.

"I bet you had those muggles of yours so well trained, they were like perfect little house elves," Draco sneered, "always doting on Harry Potter—"

"You want clean?" Harry snapped. "Fine." He flicked his hand, and an invisible wind breezed through the room, scooping up his various belongings and depositing them to their respective homes. "There. Happy?"

Draco frowned as Harry stomped over to the table to eat his lunch. "What spell was that?"

"What do you mean?" Harry muttered, "I didn't use a spell."

"Did you—did you even use your wand?" Draco blinked, trying to recall if he'd seen Harry with his wand.

Harry scowled. "No," he said shortly, biting into a sandwich.

"You know that isn't normal, right?"

"Fantastic, why don't you just add it to the list?"

"You really are quite the enigma, aren't you?" Draco laughed at him, "I mean, you've got parseltongue, your Patronus, passing out in front of dementors, and wandless magic without an incantation—you sure are some freak, Potter."

"Don't call me that," Harry said suddenly, straightening his back.

Draco raised his eyebrow at the reaction. Perfect. "You seem rather defensive," he said idly, "probably because you are a freak—"

"I said stop."

"—you've just got a lot of freaky stuff—"

"Shut up!" Harry whipped around in his seat to glare at Draco, the glass in his hand shattering. He stood up suddenly, swiftly vanishing the broken glass with another flick of his wrist. He didn't have an appetite anymore. Maybe if he retreated to his desk, Draco would stop talking to him.

It didn't work.

"Don't you think that was a bit of an overreaction?" Harry couldn't see, but Draco's face had morphed into one of concern, probably wondering why, exactly, Harry had reacted so badly.

He didn't turn around this time. "Don't you think you should listen when someone tells you not to call them something?" He asked testily.

Draco tilted his head. "Fair enough." He waited for a response that never came. "That was accidental magic, wasn't it?"

"I guess," Harry shrugged.

There was a long, guilty silence. Draco had to do something. He did feel bad, after all. "Once, my father wouldn't stop fussing with my hair before a dinner party, so I kept changing my hair color to make him mad," he offered.

Harry snorted. "You could do accidental magic on purpose?"

"Well, it's not accidental then, is it?" Draco scoffed. "You never did magic on purpose?"

Harry turned around, forgetting that he was supposed to be angry. "I didn't even know I had magic," he pointed out. "I just knew that weird things happened to me, and they always got me in trouble. So even if I did know, I don't think I would've tried it."

"They got you in trouble? But everyone knows that you can't control it—well, I guess not if you're a muggle."

"Oh, they knew I had magic," Harry said grudgingly, "but that didn't matter to them. Once, I got suspended for climbing on the roof of the school. My cousin and his friends were chasing me, and it was either run, or get hit," he sighed. "Then I just… appeared on the roof. Another time, I accidentally freed a snake at the zoo. I got—" Shit, how am I supposed to say 'I got locked in the cupboard for that?' Harry thought frantically. "I got grounded for that one," he finished.

"Wait, hang on," Draco stared at him. "You just appeared on the roof? Like, you didn't fly or something?"

Harry frowned. "No," he said. "I was on the ground, and a split second later, I was on the roof. I didn't even blink."

"You're telling me," Draco stared at him in disbelief, "that you accidentally apparated? How old were you?"

"Uh, maybe eight?" he guessed. "Why does it matter?"

"Uh, because there's a reason they don't teach apparition until you're sixteen," Draco replied. "Your magic isn't developed or strong enough to handle it. And you did it when you were eight?" He shook his head. "Bloody hell, you're lucky you didn't get splinched."

"If I did, they would've found a way to blame me for that, too," Harry said bitterly. The conversation grew tense as Harry closed up again—I've said too much.

Draco was about to respond, but he stopped himself as he caught a glimpse of Harry's right hand, which was still curled into a fist. "Are you—are you bleeding?"

Harry stretched out his palm, revealing where the broken glass had sliced through his skin, and stared apathetically at the clotting blood. "I guess I am," he pulled out his wand and muttered a healing spell under his breath.

"Why would they blame you for getting splinched?" Draco's stomach churned as he watched Harry's skin fuse back together, but Harry didn't even flinch.

"I dunno," he shrugged, "It's not a big deal."

"Of course it's a big deal—" he started to say, but Harry had already turned back to his desk.

Harry waited until Draco was out of the shower to get out of bed the next morning. When he did, he hurried into the bathroom, hoping Draco wouldn't comment on it.

Blessedly, his silencing charms had yet to fail thus far. Sometimes, during particularly bad nightmares, Harry's magic would disrupt the charm and cause it to fail. He learned this the hard way, when Ron woke him in the middle of the night after hearing his screams.

From that night on, his dorm mates ensured that Harry didn't use the charms so they could wake him up from them. He was grateful, of course. But thankfully, Draco didn't know about this, so it was back to silencing charms for him.

Harry shut the door behind him, quickly turning on the shower to muffle the sob that escaped him. He hated crying. Nowadays, nightmares were always followed by tears, and all it did was remind Harry of the nights spent in the cupboard, muffling his tears so as to not wake his relatives.

He scrubbed his scalp with shampoo, trying to get the nightmare out of his head. It would be forgotten within a few hours, but the emotions that it brought would linger.. Harry finished his shower, but stayed under the water for a few extra minutes, letting the hot water wash over his shaking body. He pressed on the sides of his nose, trying to drain out any remaining tears and remove any sign of crying. A glamour charm wouldn't work, as his wand was still under his pillow in the other room—his wandless magic was too inconsistent for that. Turning on the cold tap, he stood with his face directly in the spray of water to reduce any swelling.

Once out of the shower, he got dressed and ran a flannel under some cold water, pressing it to his eyes. When he looked in the mirror, he schooled his face into a neutral expression. No, you couldn't tell he'd been crying at all.

Harry left the bathroom, ignoring the breakfast spread on the table and instead headed for his desk. He had a pile of schoolwork he'd been neglecting, afterall. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe he could forget about the nightmare entirely.

Draco watched him as he moved across the room. "That was quite a long shower, wasn't it, Potter?" Draco commented from where he sat at the table.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Spending some quality time in there, are we?" He took a delicate sip of pumpkin juice.

"Just leave me alone," Harry could feel the tips of his ears turn red. Better for Draco to think he was doing that rather than knowing the truth. "I'm trying to study."

"Oh right, better not disturb perfect Potter," Draco drawled. "Of course, he's going to get good marks regardless, whether he deserves it or not. After all, he's—"

"Just shut up, will you?" Harry snapped, turning around to glare at Draco. "I never asked for any of it." He turned back to his desk, hunching over his blank parchment and open textbook.

"Oh but you did, didn't you? Ever since first year, you've gone out of your way to draw attention to yourself. You've always wanted to be crowned the hero—"

Harry's quill broke in his hand. "People were dying, Malfoy," he ground out. "I know you wouldn't have done the same, but I did have a valid reason."

"Right, I'm sure you have the perfect excuse for all of it, don't you?" Draco goaded. "Here comes perfect Potter, savior of the day yet again—"

"Stop calling me perfect," Harry snarled. He doubted Draco knew the real reason for any of his stunts throughout the years. Not that he was willing to share it, of course, but Harry's resolve was beginning to break with every word. As usual, Harry's reaction only encouraged Draco.

"But that's what you are, aren't you?" He sneered, "Perhaps you're just feeling guilty, knowing that you've never actually done anything substantial enough to deserve it—"

"You're right, okay? I don't deserve it." Harry's self control broke. "Until the age of eleven, I thought I was a—a freak. I believed that I was the worst human being on earth and that I deserved everything that came to me. And then I'm suddenly introduced to this wonderful world full of—of people who love and care about me, but I can't even remember the thing I did to earn it. Then, it turns out that I'm a freak here, too. The whole wizarding world turns against me and I'm back to square one. So yeah, I feel guilty. I feel guilty because I've never, in my entire life, felt good about myself, much less perfect."

As soon as it was out, Harry wanted to die. He faced his desk again and forced himself to read his textbook, trying to focus on the next sentence. 'These ingredients will have this effect if they're of magical origin, though non-magical sources can be activated by ambient magical energy. These ingredients will have this effect if they're of magical origin—'

Meanwhile, Draco felt like he'd been slapped. In fact, it would've been better if Harry had actually slapped him. Then, he would be able to laugh it off, maybe insult him again, and move on. But in this case, he was left with the terrible thought that Harry's reaction to his taunts were probably never what they seemed to be.

"Why—" Draco swallowed. Yesterday, Harry exploded a glass when Draco had called him a… "Why did you think you were a freak?" He wasn't sure if he was ready to hear the answer.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But—"

"I said I don't want to talk about it," Harry stood from his desk abruptly, nearly overturning the chair. He shoved his blank parchment in between the book's pages and headed for his bed, roughly closing the drapes around him. Sitting on top of his bed sheets, he reapplied his silencing charm and focused on his breathing.

Then the walls were closing in around him, squeezing the air out of his lungs—he gasped, acid spilling into his blood as he struggled to inhale, suffocating in the darkness. I'm fine. I can handle this. I deal with it at night, and I can deal with it now.

This feeling wasn't unfamiliar to him, unfortunately. Since the war ended, Harry had found himself getting claustrophobic—in the bathroom, in a walk-in closet, and especially in his bed. He put up with it, of course, because closing the curtains meant he could use silencing charms. He had to admit, though, that he was relieved when Ron found about the charms and made him promise to stop—without them, there was no reason for him to shut the curtains at night.

Harry tried again to focus on his homework, forcing himself to pay attention. It wasn't until he was halfway through the chapter that he realized that Draco had, once again, made his bed while he was in the shower.

"Seriously? Again?"

Harry tossed the quill to the side as he stood to retrieve Hedwig from the window.

"How am I supposed to concentrate with your damn owl tapping the window every five minutes?" Draco continued. It was the first thing he'd said all day—they hadn't spoken since Harry's outburst yesterday morning.

Harry was about to respond that he had just as much of a right to owl mail as Draco did, when he realized that Draco hadn't sent or received a single letter since they'd been quarantined.

"Well, why haven't you sent anything?" He shot back. "I'd have thought that you'd get at least something by now."

"Look around you, Potter," Draco said dryly. "Do you see a spare owl lying around?"

"Oh," Harry rubbed the back of his neck. How had he not noticed that Hedwig was the only owl? "You don't have your own owl?"

Draco bit back the insult that bubbled to the surface and shrugged. "I can't exactly nip down to Diagon Alley to buy one, can I? Not without being mobbed. Owls aren't offered by mail order, either."

Harry frowned. What are the students without owls supposed to do for communication during this quarantine? Surely someone had thought of that. "You could borrow Hedwig, if you'd like," he offered, remembering what it was like to be unable to send or receive letters.

Draco raised an eyebrow in surprise before looking away. "No. She'd be gone for too long. Pansy and Blaise transferred to Beauxbatons, and the Manor isn't exactly a block over."

By now, Harry was scribbling a response to Ron and Hermione. "That's alright. I'll just send this real quick, and you can send something when she comes back." Before Draco even answered, Harry added to the note that he was letting him borrow Hedwig, and to not expect a response until the morning.

Draco frowned into his book before finally giving a minute nod. "Alright."

A moment later, Draco looked up when something was shoved in his face. Harry stood in front of Draco's armchair, his hair backlit by the fireplace. It took Draco a minute to focus his eyes on the wand in Harry's outstretched hand. His wand.

"What—" Draco stared in confusion before gingerly placing his hand around the handle. Harry was holding it by the point—which, to wizards, was a major show of trust—or stupidity.

Draco smiled softly as the wand responded to his magic. His magic didn't like his new wand all that much—they didn't mesh very well. Its components were pretty similar to his original one, but not exact.

"I didn't think you still had it."

Harry shrugged. "I forgot, honestly. I wouldn't have gotten rid of it, regardless."

"Thank you," Draco breathed. A weight seemed to have lifted off his shoulders. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a tap at the window. Hedwig, again.

"Don't mention it," Harry replied as he opened the window for Hedwig. Draco didn't know why he even bothered with the window if he was opening and closing it every five minutes. Harry untied the message from Hedwig's leg and set her in her cage, leaving the door open. "She's all yours."

Draco nodded and started drafting a letter. "Thanks."