Draco remained dutifully angry for the rest of the afternoon, certain to make clear that he was not happy about the situation. He kept his arms crossed across his chest, his brow furrowed in frustration, and he would every so often, mumble a few choice words he knew Potter would hear, but wouldn't understand. He wasn't sure what he was trying to achieve from acting like a child. All he knew was that it was the only way he'd ever felt able to convey his feelings in a way that his parents would understand. His ability to throw the most spectacular tantrums meant that, when his parents saw him in his current state, they would immediately appease him before his mood developed to the 'throwing-things' stage.

Neither Madam Pomfrey or Potter seemed to be even aware that his state could develop that far. Either that or they didn't care. He suspected it may have been the latter, because very few people seemed to care about him at all. Certainly Madam Pomfrey always seemed reluctant to change his sheets whenever he sneezed, whereas she seemed almost grateful at the opportunity to do the same to Potter.

Draco glanced over to the bed to his left, keen to see the reaction his mood was provoking from Potter. He clenched his jaw when he saw that he was sat up, book in hand, barely registering Draco's existence. What was worse was that Potter didn't even seem interested in the book. His eyes were dull, not shining like they were when he spoke to his friends, and his lids were heavy, as if threatening to give way any second. It seemed that Potter was only reading to have an excuse to ignore Draco. Prat.

Draco drew his eyes away from the vast expanse of silver hair atop his head in time to see Madam Pomfrey head towards them. She was carrying four vials which she set gingerly down on the table between the two beds. "Okay boys, you know the drill." Draco grimaced at the sight of those ugly little bottles. Every half hour, Madam Pomfrey had arrived with another concoction of medicines and potions, which she forced the two boys to drink. Every single one had been shockingly disgusting. Without exception.

Draco especially hated taking the medicine, because Potter didn't seem to struggle with them at all. Draco could tell from his face that he didn't like the taste, but he didn't gag or splutter the way Draco did. He just drank the vile stuff without complaint.

This angered Draco greatly, for whenever he attempted to drink the, often lumpy, liquids, he always managed to humiliate himself, gagging, coughing, and turning red, very often whilst clutching his throat.

He hated the idea that he could ever be worse at anything than Potter, but it seemed this was one talent that Draco didn't possess, that Potter did. He watched as Potter grabbed the bottle next to him, uncorked it, paused for a moment, then, in the same way he had done for the last four hours, swung it back down his throat, downing it in one. Draco watched from the corner of his eye, the way he always did, and saw his neck extend, saw his Adam's Apple bob as he swallowed, and saw his pasty skin glisten with the few beads of sweat that came with the illness. He always had to catch himself before he turned his head fully to openly stare for the few seconds the glorious moments lasted. He could imagine the merciless teasing Draco would have to endure if Potter thought he was in anyway attracted to him.

Wait, he wasn't attracted to Potter was he? Oh, yeah, he was.

Before he knew it, Potter had finished the second vial, and Draco was half glad, half disappointed to see Potter shudder at the taste. Glad because it meant Potter was able to show weakness. Disappointed because if that was Potter's response, Draco would probably throw up the mixture.

Huffing in his usual manner, Draco reached out for the first, less disgusting bottle. He managed to drink it with limited whimpering, and although Draco was oddly pleased with his courage, he still saw Potter smirk at him. Prick. The second potion was so much worse than the first. Draco was certain Madam Pomfrey had simply boiled slugs in vomit, then labelled it medicine. He coughed, spluttered, choked and shuddered, and he had to clutch at his stomach to stop himself heaving.

Potter continued to smirk at his misfortune, and if Draco wasn't so tired and so damn ill, he would have leapt out of bed and hexed the smug bastard into next week. Or at least he told himself that. Instead, he shot Potter one if his dirtiest stares, hoping to instil some fear into the most annoying boy in the world, and hissed "Shut up, Potter."

Potter held up his hands in defence and, deliberately disobeying Draco's order, said, "I never said a word." Draco's eyes narrowed, and he was about to come up with the most brilliant, intelligent, witty insult in the world, when the familiar sensation overtook him, and he sneezed violently onto his blanket.

He heard Madam Pomfrey sigh from her office, heard the familiar scare of her chair, and before long she was at the end of his bed, waving her wand, and replacing the gunk covered sheets. Draco could tell his hair was now a beigey colour, and his only comfort was that it wasn't as absolutely outrages as the rainbow of colours that had found their way to the top of his head.

Both he and Potter had been sneezing an awful lot in the short space of time they had been in the Hospital Wing, and Draco had seen Potter's hair change into around eighteen colours, and knew his own hair had been twenty-four colours. Not that he'd been keeping track or anything.

Madam Pomfrey stood in her regular position at the end of their two beds, and began to talk. "Okay boys, I don't think I need to tell you how much of a strain your illness is on my already heavy work load, so I think you should both start to clean yourselves up. Draco," she turned to face him directly, "Whenever Harry sneezes, simply use Wingardium Leviosa on the sheet, and levitate it to the basket on the right. Then summon a clean one. And it is important to say clean, Mr Malfoy." Honestly! She acted like he was thick or something. "Mr Potter, do the same for Draco. If anything gets anywhere other than the blanket, you can use the wash cloths on the table." She nodded to the large stone basin that rested on the even larger table that had become a sort of hub for them all. Inside, Draco knew, was two white wash cloths, charmed, so they were constantly cleaning themselves.

Both boys nodded simultaneously, and Madam Pomfrey, apparently satisfied, nodded back to them, and turned and left. Silence fell over them both for a few minutes, where neither could think of anything to say.

After a short while, Draco, in typical fashion, turned his head sharply to Potter, and said, "I'm not your slave you know." Potter turned to face him, and looked perplexed at the statement. Honestly, it wasn't difficult.

"Why would you say that?" He asked, cocking his head to one side.

"Because I'm not, Potter. So why should I help you clean up?" Draco huffed. He didn't want to help Potter. Because if he helped Potter, Potter would help him, and then that would make him feel like he owed Potter for that as well. He didn't want to be anymore indebted to Potter than he already was.

Of course, there was no way he would tell Potter that. He would make it look like a pride thing, and he knew Potter wouldn't question that. Malfoy pride was well known, even by imbeciles like Potter. No one would doubt that it was his reason behind his reluctance to help Potter.

"I know you're not my slave, Malfoy. You don't have to be someone's slave to help them." He fixed his gaze on Draco, clearly watching for his reaction. "What's wrong with helping people?"

Draco pounced immediately with his answer, almost growling. "I'm a Malfoy. Malfoys don't help people."

"No kidding."

That was his reply? 'No kidding'? He glared as Potter leaned back into his pillow, grabbing his book and opening it, effectively ending their 'conversation'.

Draco crossed his arms again, removing his gaze from Potter and staring straight ahead angrily. He was especially angry that Potter even had a book. Potter had visited the bathroom in between lessons, so had all his books with him, whereas Draco had a free period, so didn't have anything with him other than his wand. Well, there was certainly no way he was letting Potter enjoy himself whilst he was bored stiff. No way.

"You're not that great, you know." Draco continued looking straight ahead as he spoke, jaw still clenched. He heard Potter sigh next to him.

"What is your problem? Seriously Malfoy, what is your problem with me?" Draco was a little startled by the aggressive tone of his voice, and couldn't help but turn to face him. Potter had set his book closed on his lap in front of him, and was glaring at Draco with a look in his eyes that told Draco he wasn't to be messed with.

Draco opened his mouth with the best of intentions, planning to insult Potter to the best of his ability, but found each word caught in his throat, now willing to leave the confines of his mouth. Instead, all he said was a strangled, "Err..."

Potter raised his eyebrows, and in turn opened his own mouth, Draco feared, ready to make some reproachful remark. Before Potter had a chance to say his piece, however, an stomach churning screeching sound came from what Draco knew to be the entrance.

"Is he okay? He's okay, isn't he? Can we see him?" Draco recognised the annoying voice to be that of Granger, and could only assume she was with her Weasley lap dog, asking for Potter. He saw Potter's ears prick up, and he raised his head, eagerly awaiting more of that dreadful voice.

All that replied was Madam Pomfrey's calm voice. "I'm sorry Miss Granger, but no one may see either boy for quite a long time. Mr Potter is quite infectious."

"Yeah but," this time the voice was Weasley's, "surely we could, just for a bit. I mean, it's not like we're gonna go in and snog him." A joke, Draco thought bitterly, presented in a way that would seal their fate regarding Potter. Madam Pomfrey wasn't really one known for her sense of humour. But unfortunately, that one statement sent a whole series of events spiralling through Draco's mind, in which Weasley barged his way past Madam Pomfrey and ran to Potter's bed, leaning over him and kissing him senseless., before climbing under the covers with him and-

Draco tried to shake the feeling of jealousy away, telling himself that it wasn't even real. Stupid, feeling jealous over Potter in his own imagination.

"No means no. The only reason I'm allowed anywhere near him is because I've suffered the illness before. Have either of you had Aldivitis before?" Draco could imagine Madam Pomfrey's eyebrow had been raised sceptically.

Weasley was the first to speak. "Umm, yeah, I have."

Draco's attention was caught by Potter's soft chuckle. Draco found it oddly sweet. Annoyingly sweet, but sweet none the less.

"Nice try Mr Weasley. Now if you two would kindly leave my Hospital Wing, I have patients to attend to."

Draco saw Potter's face fall ever so slightly, and then heard the groans of the two people who were now apparently leaving. Draco smirked at Potter's disappointment. And Potter saw him do so.

"At least I have friends who want to visit me. Where are your friends, huh?"

Draco's heart dropped to his stomach, and he was certain Potter saw his face fall ever so slightly because, as much as he hated to admit it, Potter was right. Draco didn't really have any friends, not any more. Long gone were the days when he would have an entire entourage follow him round, worshipping the ground he walked on, and even longer gone were the days when he felt he could call any of them friends. Most of the Slytherins who he had ever called 'friend' hadn't even attempted to make contact with him since the war, or even since their return to Hogwarts. They simply existed in the same house, moving alongside each other, acting like strangers. Blaise was the only one who had remained even close to friends with Draco, and everyone knew Blaise had better friends than Draco.

No one would give him a second thought.

The moments that had passed in silence since his statement obviously made Potter realise the effect it had had on Draco, and he seemed to regret having said anything at all.

"Sorry," he muttered quietly. Draco looked up, not expecting to hear an apology. He saw Potter with his head slightly lowered, his hands fumbling with his blanket. He looked somehow vulnerable.

"Guess I deserve it, right Potter?" Harry looked up and caught Draco's eyes, just as he smirked. Potter opened his mouth, ready to speak, but close it again when Draco, in regular fashion, sneezed out a turquoise colour. Grimacing at the colour he knew his hair now to be, he groaned at the feeling of the gooey blanket. He turned to Potter again, who seemed oblivious to his condition, nose back in his book.

"Potter."

"Hmm?"

"Potter."

"What?"

"I sneezed, Potter."

"Really? That's nice."

Draco narrowed his eyes at the boy in the bed next to him, anger building inside him. "Clean me up, Potter." He practically growled Potter's name.

"I thought you were a Malfoy," he said, never looking up from the pages.

"I said Malfoys don't help people, not that they're not helped."

Harry snorted into the book, still not looking up. "I help you, you help me. That's the deal."

"Fine, I'll do it myself," Draco muttered. Pulling out his wand, he murmured the incantation. Then collapsed back onto his pillows when it did absolutely nothing.

"You know that won't work." Potter practically laughed at him from his bed. "Remember?" The bastard smirked.

Of course Draco remembered. He had just hoped that Madam Pomfrey was wrong in her 'knowledge' that the wizard who expelled the mucus could have no magical effect on it whatsoever. Stupid, stupid disease.

"Shut it Potter, I'm perfectly aware of the circumstances." Despite himself, he tried again, and, even though he knew he would, still cursed under his breath when he failed. Shiiiit, he didn't want to call Madam Pomfrey over. She would not be happy if she found herself having to clear them both up again. "Come on Potter, don't be a complete bastard."

"No, I think I'll just be a partial bastard."

"Potter!"

"Malfoy, unless you want to piss Madam Pomfrey off by making her carry on cleaning us, which I do not want to happen, you're simply going to have to accept that for me to help you, you have to help me."

Annoyingly, Potter was right, and Draco knew it. The last thing he wanted was to admit defeat and give in, but it seemed like he was left with very few other options. One of which involved facing Madam Pomfrey's wrath. He figured at least Potter wouldn't moan as much as Madam Pomfrey, because he was going through the same thing. Fine.

"Fine." Draco stated simply.

"Fine?" Potter asked, eyebrows raised.

"Fine, I'll help you. Now just get this bloody thing off me."

Without a second glance, Potter's wand was out, being flicked gently, and Draco felt the blanket lift off him, then saw it float slowly to the laundry basket, then drop in. Harry wasn't even really concentrating, still reading whilst lazily holding his wand in mid air. Potter must have summoned the next blanket silently, because all of a sudden his legs were covered.

"There," Draco snarled, "that wasn't so hard, was it."

Potter laughed again, then said under his breath, "Prat."