Contains Major Spoilers for Half Blood Prince
Chapter One: A Quick Visit to the InfirmaryDraco Malfoy was going to die.
Never again would he walk the corridors of Malfoy Manor. Never again would Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry be graced by his presence. Never again would a Mudblood be put properly in their place. It was all very sad.
"It's a cold, Mr. Malfoy," Madame Pomfrey interrupted his statuesque reverie.
"I thought the symptoms rather resembled the early stages of Romanian Dragon Pox."
"Well, as you have not yet developed neither the scales nor tail indicative of that disease I would have to say you do not have Dragon Pox. It is simply the common cold."
"Excuse me?" he raised an incredulous eyebrow. There must have been some sort of the mistake because, as was explained in great detail to Madame Pomfrey, he was probably the farthest thing from common that there is. The illness plaguing him was of the most devious and resilient sort. He had missed Quidditch because of this. He'd fallen asleep, passed out some may say, in the Room of Requirement for crying out loud. Medi-witches from Japan and the States would need to be flooed in to cure him of this awful ailment.
Common? Please.
He was a Malfoy, for crying out loud. Nothing he did was common, not even getting sick. Besides, he had things that needed to get done. There were assignments for certain Dark Lord's that probably wouldn't even take loss of all limbs as an excuse. Malfoy wondered for a moment whether Madame Pomfrey had been cooped up in the hospital wing for too long and that's why she didn't understand. Or maybe she had dipped into the supply cabinet one too many times and her brain was addled beyond repair. There was some weird "herbal remedies" in there, …or so Pansy had told him.
He tried to convince her of the all too real chance of him having contracted dragon pox, but she would have none of it. Madame Pomfrey gave him one of the looks that she saved just for him. The patented "The time has come that I am done listening to you, go now and bother your friends" Look, because they both knew he was a bit of a hypochondriac, and giant ham.
"But," he continued, still trying to reason out how wrong Madame Pomfrey really was. "I'm not cold!" And he wasn't, not really, except for the chills that shook him once in a while. But over all he was quite warm, actually, and very uncomfortable. Plus his throat felt like someone was rubbing it with sandpaper. And his shiny, red, dripping nose was really quite undignified. All that had been given to aid that symptom was a roll of toilet paper.
Where did this woman learn medicine anyway?
She looked at him strangely for a moment as "the look" flickered and was replaced with a small smile. "It's just a name Mr. Malfoy. In technical terms your symptoms have been brought on by exposure to a rhinovirus."
"Rhinovirus is a daft name as well," Malfoy complained before his face clenched tight and a high-pitched sneeze blew out him nose.
"Well, those are the terms Muggles use for the illness."
Malfoy nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.
A-HA!
"Muggles?"
"Well, yes, the Muggles were the first to diagnose and name this particular illness," Madame Pomfrey narrowed her eyes as she replied.
"So, it was a Mud-erm-Muggle-born who infected me?" he tried to keep his voice level, but bitterness and distaste managed to creep in despite his best efforts.
"I suppose that is a possibility," Madame Pomfrey answered through tight lips after realizing her slip. She tried to recover with, "But you see, Mr. Malfoy, the cold can affect both wizards and Muggles alike as we are all humans and possess the same immune system."
Malfoy translated this as, "It was the Muggles, Draco. The MUGGLES!" And what was an immune system anyway? Wizards shouldn't bother themselves with such useless and ridiculous Muggle concepts.
"Then why have I never heard of it before?" Malfoy challenged the woman with a sneer.
"You know perfectly well how cut off from Muggle society we are, Mr. Malfoy," Madame Pomfrey raised herself up to her full height. "And just as Kneazle-Scratch Fever is uncommon in Muggles, so is the common cold in wizards."
Malfoy narrowed his eyes and continued to glare defiantly. "Then what is the cure?"
"There is no cure, Mr. Malfoy."
He was going to die.
"What?" he choked out.
This was the end. Muggle germs had infiltrated the temple that was his body and would be the end of him. The Malfoy line was over because of a sore throat and headache. Done in by a Muggle infection. His father would never forgive him. No burial in the Malfoy tomb for the black sheep of the family.
It had all seemed so innocent when he had woken up this morning with the sniffles. But things were getting progressively worse. Even now he could breathe out of only one nostril. Oh no, was he going to slowly suffocate? How horribly undignified. He glanced down at the wet tissue in his hand.
Eww.
It was pretty gross too.
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Mr. Malfoy. You'll be fine," her patience was bending back on itself. "You'll get better on your own. The virus will run its course in a few days. You have nothing to worry about."
"Oh," he frowned. That wasn't nearly as interesting. He'd have to spice things up for when he made his way back down to the dungeon. After swiping some medical supplies, of course.
"Just drink lots of fluids," Madame Pomfrey stated as she cleaned up the random tissues Malfoy had melodramatically littered around himself. She stood up again and eyed him warily. "Meaning water and pumpkin juice, Mr. Malfoy. A pint of butterbeer is not a recommended remedy." And then quickly added, "Nor is firewhiskey."
"Water," he nodded and attempted to blow his nose in a respectable way. His nose rewarded him with a giant honk. "Got it. Anything else?
"Well, I could send away for some Muggle medicine called a 'decongestant' or 'cough suppressant' but by the time they made it through the Muggle to Magical Customs and Imports Office you'd be better anyway," she grumbled. "Just get your rest," and pointed at him accusingly with the hand full of used tissues. "That means no gallivanting around the halls past curfew. Don't think I won't know." Malfoy didn't doubt it.
"So, no class then?" he asked off-handedly.
"No, I think you can manage that just fine," she replied quickly and took his last used tissue.
"One more question Madame Pomfrey," Malfoy said and took a leisurely sip of his pumpkin juice. "How was I infected with this… 'cold' Madame Pomfrey?"
The school Medi-Witch had absolutely no desire to answer this question because she knew what the reaction was going to be. But she couldn't very well lie to the boy, now could she. It's better to have an informed patient that not, even if they did jump to completely inappropriate conclusions. Honestly, the bit with the hippogriff in his third year had been quite ridiculous. She cleared the tissues away with the swipe of a wand and turned to face the waiting student.
"The virus enters your body through your nose and mouth."
"From where?"
"Well you might have touched an infected person's hand or an object they had touched. Perhaps by sharing instruments in class. Or-."
"Or what?"
"Droplets from a sneeze or cough."
"What!"
"Madame Pomfrey?" a new voice called from the entryway. The nurse quickly disappeared behind the curtain to go help the troubled student.
"Droplets?" Malfoy cringed at the mere sound of the word. People sneezed all the time. He knew for a fact Crabbe and Goyle didn't once cover their mouths. And if they didn't, the Mudbloods surely didn't and probably wiped their snot covered hands on the very desks he sat at everyday. Any desire he had before to head back to the dungeon and leave the relative, sterile safety of the hospital wing had disappeared. This was a nightmare.
-----
This was a nightmare. A nightmare. A ridiculous, moronic, never-going-to-leave-my-lips nightmare. This was the last time Hermione Granger took beauty advice from Lavender Brown. And most assuredly the last time she would ever use a spell given to her by said roommate.
A nightmare.
There really should be a stronger word. There probably was now that she thought of it. But alas, the thesaurus was not in the massive backpack slung over her shoulder. Hermione thought longingly of the wonderfully thick book of synonyms sitting on her dresser. She really should start to carry it around. You never know when you're going to need it. Take this instance for example. Yes, the moment she got back to her room the thesaurus would be moved to her backpack. The seams weren't too strained yet. That last backpack had been a worthless piece of rags anyway, this one was far stronger.
Hermione tried to think of a more scholarly version of "nightmare" as she headed quickly down the hallway, her neck and fingertips burning.
"You could have such pretty hair, Hermione," Lavender had said about two weeks ago. Parvati had nodded her head vigorously in agreement. "It just needs a little structure." Hermione thought Parvati's head might break off if she kept nodding so hard. It couldn't be good for her spinal cord.
"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked irritably from over her Arithmancy homework and shoved a piece of the aforementioned hair behind her ear. Of course studying in her room had been a horrible idea, but all the spots in the library had been claimed by nearly lunatic O.W.L. study sessions.
"Do you use conditioner, Hermione?" Lavender asked cautiously.
"Of course I do, what do you think I am?" Hermione snapped. Honestly, she could see Ron not recognizing she was a girl, but to have those of her very own gender feel the same way was actually quite hurtful. Maybe if she was nasty enough the two ridiculous girls would leave her alone. Normally their makeover moods could be tolerated with a semblance of patience. But when one has been trying to solve the limits of an equation for nearly fifteen minutes only to have squeals over boys and makeup make it near impossible, ones nerves tended to get a little fried. In this case, Hermione's felt like they had been ripped out, tied in knots, set on fire, and shoved up her nose. Needless to say, she had grown a little tired of her roommates.
"I, um, well, of course you do," Lavender smiled apologetically, but Hermione recognized the condescending tone that couldn't help but infiltrate. "But that's not enough, you know."
"I have naturally straight hair, Hermione," Parvati piped in. "But I still style it every morning."
"What, like mousse and gel?"
"Huh?"
"Ah, Muggle reference I guess."
"You mean all that goop that Muggle girls use?" Parvati's face twisted at the very idea. "I'd never put that stuff in my hair."
"We're talking charms, Hermione," Lavender smiled, hoping to coax her roommate in with the mention of magic.
"Speaking of Charms," Hermione replied dryly. "Don't we have a test at the end of the week?" With that accusing statement hanging in the air, Hermione bent back over her scrolls. Parvati and Lavender weren't in the least bothered by Hermione's words. For, while they left her alone, no Charms homework was done. Hermione wondered for a moment if all the charms they had cast on their hair made it impossible for them to hear, or perhaps learn, correctly.
They sat happily back down on Parvati's bed. Lavender, with wand in tow, picked up a piece of the other's long silky black hair. "Fervens Ferrum!" she announced and her wand glowed red. Quickly, she wrapped the strand of hair around the stick and held it for a moment. Then, when the wand was withdrawn that piece had magically transformed into a single luscious curl. Hermione couldn't help but regard the perfect curl with a tinge of jealousy. Before her roommates could catch her, Hermione quickly returned to her homework.
Not to long after there had been the entire Quidditch debacle. Lavender was not exactly one of Hermione's favorite people at the moment. Even if she had wanted to ask her roommate for help, it was doubtful she would be able to manage to stop sucking face with Ron long enough to even come upstairs. So she found herself alone between Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom with wand in hand. The ghost had thankfully not made an appearance. So, Hermione was able to regard her reflection in peace. Somehow, her hair had grown to twice its normal size that morning. Probably just to spite her, Hermione thought bitterly.
"I will not be tamed!" it seemed announce as it frizzed outwards from her head. It was as if there were magnets in each strand, repelling the hair from her scalp.
"We shall see," Hermione narrowed her eyes at the mirror. She clenched her wand tightly and repeated the incantation Lavender had used before. "Fervens Ferrum!" The color of the wand beyond her hand slowly morphed from brown to a bright, glowing red. Intrigued, she touched the vibrant wand with a fingertip.
"Ouch!" Okay, so it was hot. She stuck her red finger in her mouth. No one had to know about that. She sucked gingerly on her digit before popping it back out. It didn't hurt that bad anyway.
It was an easy enough spell. Now came the difficult part. She set the wand down on the porcelain sink and separated out of section of her rebellious hair. Hermione took a deep breath and dove in.
Looking back on it all, Hermione knew she should have just stuck with conditioner and never tried to expand her beauty regiment. Really, it was just a disaster waiting to happen. Things hadn't started off well and they didn't continue well. First, she couldn't wind the hair correctly around the makeshift curling iron, thus burning her fingertips. Then she had to hold the strand securely on the wand, thus burning her fingertips. And, of course, she slipped up a few times, thus burning her neck.
But, Hermione Granger was not a quitter. She plowed through half of her bush of hair before a rather nasty burn on her neck made her reconsider. Okay, so maybe she was a quitter… this time. She was forced to concede victory to the creature on her head and she had hardly anything to show for all her hard work. The finished portion of hair was hardly an improvement and her fingers were definitely the worse for wear.
"Is that a hickey!" Parvati squealed after Defense Against the Dark Arts.
"Huh?" Hermione replied distractedly as she put on her backpack. Parvati pointed to Hermione's neck, a manic grin splitting her face. Lavender's eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her skull. Realization dawned on Hermione and she clapped a hand over one of several neck wounds. "It's nothing," she said quickly. "A spell misfired." Hey, it was true, if incredibly embarrassing. She mumbled a quick goodbye, fled the room and hungry glares of the school gossip queens, and made a beeline for the hospital wing.
"Madame Pomfrey?" she called out desperately, searching for any sign of the medi-witch. Madame Pomfrey appeared from the other side of a curtain and headed over to Hermione.
"Ms. Granger! What seems to be the problem dear?" she asked softly as she approached the tortured looking girl.
"I, um, well, I was wondering if you had anything to treat burns," Hermione asked slowly, looking anywhere else but at the woman addressing her.
"Burns!" Madame Pomfrey looked outraged. "What happened child?" Her eyes raked over the student searching for signs of life threatening wounds.
"Oh, it's nothing serious," Hermione held out her hands. "They just sting a bit." Actually they had started to hurt like hell.
"These look like magic burns Ms. Granger," Madame Pomfrey took Hermione's hand and inspected the red welts on her fingertips.
"Yes, well, it was from a spell," Hermione admitted sullenly. She didn't want to admit she couldn't handle a spell that Lavender Brown of all people had mastered.
"And what would that be?"
"Fervens Ferrum."
"Ms. Granger?" Madame Pomfrey's head tilted to the side slightly.
"Yes?"
"Where you curling your hair?" she asked with a small smile.
"I, well," Hermione sighed and lifted up her mane of hair to display the angry red marks on her neck. "Yes."
"Go lay down, Ms. Granger," Madame Pomfrey pointed to an empty bed. "I'll be right with you." Hermione couldn't help but smile. Surely curing small magical burns was second nature to an experienced witch like Madame Pomfrey. She bounced happily over to the empty bed.
"Granger," the voice cut through Hermione's new found happiness like a hacksaw, ripping it into unidentifiable rags.
The universe had decided to be unduly cruel today.
"Malfoy," Hermione responded with equal to greater frostiness. She primly settled into the cushions and crossed her legs, staring down the boy across the aisle from her.
Well, he looks like crap. Malfoy's pale face had taken on a rather unhealthy blotchy, waxy look. His nose shone like a red beacon across the infirmary as he held a rather soggy looking tissue in one hand.
"What are you looking at?" he snapped.
"Feeling well, Malfoy?" Hermione plastered a snide grin on her face.
"Like a hundred Galleons," Malfoy smiled back. "Until you and your Mudblood germs walked in the room."
-----
The second year Hufflepuff that occupied one of the remaining beds in the infirmary waited for pictures to start flying across the room, lighting to crash, something, anything to happen. Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were in the same room. Something awful or at least horribly interesting had to happen.
But luck was not on the side of the student. Reality was not nearly so interesting as all the rumors lead people to believe. Malfoy was too tired to put any real effort into his insults. Hermione was too embarrassed and irritated by her attempts into the realm of beauty products to deal with the abrasive Slytherin. She really couldn't afford to push any of Malfoy's buttons as she was hardly in the mood to be on the receiving end of comments about her ancestry or appearance. If he said anything she would probably have to kill him, and that would have been unfortunate. Her parents would not be pleased.
The Hufflepuff would be forced to embellish. And really it wasn't hard with the depth of rumors and stories permeating the halls of Hogwarts. The glares the Slytherin and Gryffindor exchanged were pretty awful. Throw in a mention of an Unforgivable Curse and you have yourself a pretty good tale.
So the Hufflepuff watched casually over her copy of Witch Weekly as rays of pure hatred flew across the aisle between the beds. The classmates were exchanging creepily polite smiles as the air in the room crackled with intensity.
Really, it was quite an unpleasant atmosphere, just not the stuff of legend… yet.
"Alright, here we are Ms. Granger," Madame Pomfrey bustled over to Hermione with a dish of salve, oblivious of the tension emanating from the girl.
"What? Oh, okay," Hermione flashed Malfoy one last scathing look before turning to the nurse. Madame Pomfrey pulled Hermione's mass of frizzy curls into a clip on the top of her head before applying the cool mixture to her neck. Hermione cringed at the icy temperature before relaxing as the soothing nature of the medicine calmed her nerves. She sighed happily as Madame Pomfrey treated her fingers and wrapped them in gauze.
"The burns will be right as rain in about an hour, Ms. Granger. You won't even be able to tell," Madame Pomfrey smiled and collected her things.
"Burns, Granger?" Malfoy raised his eyebrows.
"It doesn't concern you in the least, Malfoy," Hermione replied in barely controlled tones. She crossed her arms defiantly and winced. Okay, so they weren't healed quite yet.
-----
On the spectrum of ridiculous Granger's current look belonged on the end reserved for his father dancing a jig and Longbottom passing Potions. There she sat, knee sock-clad legs crossed at the ankles staring him down boldly. The imposing figure she tried to cut was greatly impeded by the mass of bushy brown hair piled directly on the top on her head. The thick white cream smeared around her neck and gauze wrapped fingers didn't help either. She looked like a fool, a stupid Mudblood fool, and yet there she sat with that superior look on her face.
"I believe it does concern me, Granger," Malfoy scowled and gave a hearty sniff of his nose. Seeing the Gryffindor roll her eyes only strengthened the healthy fire of his hatred.
"Oh really, Malfoy," Hermione responded blandly. "And why is that, pray tell?"
"Well, for one, due to whatever moronic exploits you, Weasel, and the Boy Wonder were involved in, my quiet afternoon was most rudely interrupted."
"You aren't strapped to your bed, Malfoy," she replied snidely, the ball of hair wobbling dangerously. "Feel free to go, and let the door hit you on the way out."
"I'm convalescing over here!"
"I hear nice dank dungeons really speed the process," she nodded. "Why don't you go find out?"
"I was here first," Malfoy growled. "You leave."
"I'm convalescing as well."
"Please, it's just a few minor burns."
"Oh, and you're so tough over there, knocked off your feet by a little cold."
Wait.
"How do you know I have a cold?"
"Are you joking?" Malfoy shook his head. "You're sneezing and have a runny nose. Headache?" Malfoy had to nod in agreement. "Sore throat?" Again, he nodded. "And you aren't complaining too badly, so it's probably not the flu. Thus, cold. Duh."
"You seem to know an awful lot about the common cold, Granger," Malfoy said slowly as connections formed in his brain.
"It's a cold Malfoy," the corner of her mouth twitched into a smirk. "Drink some water and get some rest. Everyone knows that."
"I most certainly do not!"
"What are you talking about?" she raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I am not some filthy Mudblood who is familiar with the bizarre and vast diseases of the Muggle world, thank you very much."
"You've never had a cold before?" she looked genuinely alarmed and intrigued.
"Of course not! I don't make it habit to hang around sick little Muggle children."
"You could have just have easily gotten it from a wizard," she replied darkly.
"Madame Pomfrey says the Muggles named it and studied. Sounds like a Muggle illness to me." Before the bushy haired know-it-all could get a word in edgewise, Malfoy laid out his suspicions. "Have you ever had a cold, Granger?"
"Of course, everyone gets colds."
"Not me."
"How nice for you. But from the looks of it the generations of inbreeding hasn't increased your immunity."
Ignoring the jab, with a great deal of difficulty, Malfoy continued, "Had one recently?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, yes," Granger responded slowly. "I just got over one, actually. Not that you would care."
"Sneezing, coughing, the full meal deal?"
"Yes, yes," she waved him on irritably.
"Did you go to Potions class during the time of your infection?"
"Of course, why would I let a silly cold keep me from my studies. Unlike you I don't let such minute problems interfere with the more important things in my life. Maybe if you would-"
"Blah, blah, blah, Granger. Hold off on the holier than thou attitude for half a minute, ok?" She glared in response and re-crossed her legs. "Did you use ingredients out of the class cabinet?"
"What? Yes, of course I did. Everyone does. What is this about?" she sighed in exasperation. "What does it matter?"
"I use the communal ingredients as well."
"And why should I care about your Potion habits, Malfoy?"
"It's your fault!" Malfoy climbed out off the bed and marched towards Hermione.
"Excuse me?" Hermione screeched, propping her hands on the bed and glaring back at him.
"From now on, keep yourself and your disgusting Mudblood droplets away from me," Malfoy barked. He vowed never again to make use of shared classroom items – only personal ingredients from now on.
"I would be more than happy never to see you again, Malfoy," she said with an eerie calm. The death glare the Gryffindor shot him was actually pretty scary, but he stood his ground.
"That can be arranged, Granger," he responded with a smirk and what he hoped was sufficient smugness. He crossed over to the door of the infirmary and turned back to the girl. "And your hair looks like Luna Lovegood's Gryffindor hat." Then he strode from the hospital wing with as much dignity as a man can muster when high pitched sneezes keep escaping from his nose. Oh, Granger would pay.