A/N: What can a say? I have cold.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
---formating won't let me insert a line or a break so have a line of text---
When Harry was a child, being ill meant escape. The Dursleys, in their infinite fear of difference, feared too the slightest sniffle or cough. As such, being ill meant the welcoming darkness of his cupboard, and paper plates frugally stacked with scraps shoved through the door.
Being ill was a privilege, Harry knew. You didn't claim to be ill, or complain – you waited for your aunt to look from the pile of tissues in the bin, to your hands chopping carrots for dinner, and back to the bin. And then you waited a moment more, until she threw the carrots in the bin with the tissues, and shoved you into your cupboard.
Harry didn't resent the cupboard at times like that. The wall was pressed close to the faux fireplace in the next room for winter, and the draft under the door was cooling for summer. He'd lie there, sneezing, sniffling, enjoying the respite from chores; while his aunt sprayed disinfectant around the lintel of the door.
Harry's long past those days, now – those days of knowing no-one cared. At Hogwarts, the infirmary was always open, Madame Pomfrey always waiting with a vial of potion, or a wave of a wand. Mere illness was no cause for confinement; a sneeze did not call down a wave of disinfectant. He missed that, often. Confinement was not synonymous with imprisonment; but something to be welcomed, a respite.
But the infirmary was still a retreat. There, not even Dumbledore's machinations could touch him – no-one was above Madame Pomfrey's rules and regulations.
Yet, Harry knew you still did not demand entrance to the infirmary. It was a privilege, his presence there reliant on him being sent there – for, what teen would readily admit to weakness? No, you waited for a friend or professor to wrinkle their nose at that final drop of blood on the floor; in the wake of the most recent Quidditch accident, or scuffle in the hallways, or battle with the forces of Evil. And then you pretended to be annoyed as they sent you with a wave to the domain of pressed white sheets and the smell of fresh potions.
There he'd lay, at the mercies of Madame Pomfrey's questions, and potions, and spells; visited by friends and professors intent on getting the full story of the last escapade, and surrounded by the mountains of chocolate and lollies that came with being an ill Boy-Who-Lived.
Harry's long past those days too, now – those days of everyone caring too much, yet not at all. In his apartment, there's no cupboard under the stairs, no whitewashed dormitory with heavily starched sheets.
And when he hides his sneezes, it's not because he worries about looking weak; but because he likes to test just how observant Draco's being that day.
Draco doesn't spray disinfectant around. He doesn't try to drown Harry with revolting potions. After all, as Draco says – Malfoys don't get ill.
This doesn't stop Draco from feeding Harry off different crockery, or segregating the dishwasher, or sleeping in the guestroom for a week. After all, the Malfoy Rules are rules, not facts – and as Draco's oh-so-fond of pointing out, laws are made to be broken.
Harry's never asked the penalty for breaking a Malfoy Rule, but he's sure it's nothing as nice as temporary confinement. So when Draco starts to sniffle, he's always sure to discover an emergency to disappear to for a few days, just in case. You have to have an eyewitness to be ill in this world, after all.
