The first indication that something was amiss came when Ron's sneeze caused tiny sparks to shoot from his nostrils.
"Blimey," he muttered, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "That was weird."
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances across the Three Broomsticks table, their butterbeers half-finished.
"Are you feeling alright?" Hermione asked, leaning away slightly.
"Just a bit stuffy," Ron replied, his voice already taking on a nasal quality. "Probably just the dust in that joke shop we visited."
Harry was about to respond when Madam Rosmerta's voice suddenly boomed through the pub, magically amplified.
"Attention, all patrons! The Ministry has declared an immediate quarantine throughout Hogsmeade. A highly contagious strain of Sparkleflux Fever has been detected in the village. Please remain where you are until Ministry officials can provide further instructions."
A collective groan swept through the pub, followed by worried murmurs.
"Sparkleflux Fever?" Ron repeated, his freckles standing out more prominently against his rapidly paling skin. "My mum mentioned that once. It's like magical flu, but with... side effects."
"Side effects?" Harry asked, just as Ron sneezed again—this time, a shower of blue and gold sparks cascaded from his nose, setting a nearby napkin smoldering.
Hermione quickly doused it with water from her wand. "I've read about this. It's highly contagious among magical folk, and it causes unpredictable magical symptoms along with typical flu symptoms."
Harry's stomach sank. A day trip to Hogsmeade was rapidly turning into something much more complicated.
Three hours later, they found themselves in an abandoned gamekeeper's cottage on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. The Ministry, overwhelmed by the sudden outbreak, had divided the stranded visitors into small quarantine groups, distributing them throughout available buildings in the village.
"At least we're together," Harry said, trying to sound optimistic as he surveyed the dusty one-room cottage. A small fireplace dominated one wall, with a rickety table and three chairs in the center. A single bed stood in the corner, and a crude washroom was partitioned off behind a threadbare curtain.
"For six days," Hermione reminded him, already unpacking the emergency supplies the Ministry official had thrust at them before hurrying away. "That's the standard quarantine period for Sparkleflux."
Ron, now visibly ill, collapsed into one of the chairs. His face had taken on a greenish tinge, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. "I don't feel so good," he admitted.
"You should take the bed," Harry said, but Ron shook his head.
"Not yet. I'm not that..." He didn't finish his sentence before lurching up and staggering toward the washroom. The sounds that followed made Harry and Hermione wince in sympathy.
"We should probably transfigure some more beds," Hermione said quietly. "I have a feeling we're all going to need them soon."
By nightfall, Ron's condition had deteriorated significantly. He lay on the rickety bed, shivering violently despite the three blankets Hermione had conjured. Every few minutes, he would sneeze, each time producing a different magical effect: sparks, tiny floating bubbles, once even a momentary rain cloud that drenched his pillow.
"S-sorry," he chattered through clenched teeth. "C-can't control it."
Harry, who had started feeling a persistent ache behind his eyes, placed another cool cloth on Ron's forehead. "Don't worry about it, mate."
Hermione bustled around the cottage, surprisingly still energetic. She had transfigured two more beds from chairs and cushions, set a pot of water to boil over the fireplace, and was currently sorting through the medicinal potions they'd been given.
"The fever-reducer is the purple one," she said, measuring out a dose. "But the instructions say we need to be careful mixing it with the anti-nausea potion."
She brought the viscous purple liquid to Ron, who grimaced but swallowed it obediently.
"Tastes like troll bogeys," he muttered.
"And you would know this how?" Harry attempted to joke, but his voice came out raspier than intended.
Hermione's sharp eyes flicked to him. "You're getting it too, aren't you?"
Harry wanted to deny it, but a sudden wave of dizziness made him sit heavily on his transfigured bed. "Maybe a bit," he admitted.
Hermione pressed her hand to his forehead and frowned. "You're burning up. Take off your jumper and lie down."
Too weak to argue, Harry complied. As he settled back against the pillow, he noticed with alarm that his fingers were emitting a faint golden glow.
"Um, Hermione?"
She looked down at his glowing hands and sighed. "That's one of the magical symptoms. It should pass in a day or so."
"Great," Harry muttered. "I'm a human Lumos charm."
From the other bed, Ron let out a weak laugh that turned into a groan. "At least you'll be useful if the lanterns go out."
By midnight, all three of them were firmly in the grip of Sparkleflux Fever. Ron continued to sneeze magical effects, now including small fireworks and, most alarmingly, temporary transfigurations of nearby objects. (The water jug had briefly become a confused-looking toad before reverting back.)
Harry's entire body glowed intermittently, brightest when his fever spiked. It made sleep nearly impossible, especially when the glow pulsed in time with his racing heartbeat.
Hermione had succumbed last, but perhaps most dramatically. She had developed a symptom the emergency pamphlet called "involuntary verbalization of thoughts"—essentially, anything she thought appeared as glowing words floating above her head.
"This is humiliating," she croaked, as the words "I'M SO UNCOMFORTABLE" hovered in shimmering letters.
"At least you're honest," Ron mumbled from his bed, before turning to retch into the bucket beside him. Nothing came up; he'd emptied his stomach hours ago.
Harry tried to rise to help him, but the movement sent the room spinning. "Hermione," he called weakly, "Ron needs more anti-nausea potion."
"I know," she said, as "WORRIED ABOUT RON" appeared above her head. Despite her own fever, she struggled to her feet and staggered to the supply table.
As she measured out another dose, the words above her head changed to "HOPE I'M DOING THIS RIGHT" followed quickly by "TOO DIZZY TO SEE PROPERLY."
"Hermione, sit down before you fall," Harry urged.
"I'm fine," she insisted, though "FEEL TERRIBLE" betrayed her above her head.
She brought the potion to Ron, who took it with shaking hands. As she helped him drink, "HE LOOKS SO PALE" appeared in the air.
"I can read your thoughts, you know," Ron mumbled, attempting a smile.
"Sorry," she whispered, as "THIS IS EMBARRASSING" materialized.
The night progressed miserably. None of them could sleep for more than a few minutes at a stretch. Harry's glowing intensified until he was practically lighting up the entire cottage, making sleep impossible for all of them. Ron's magical sneezes became more frequent as his fever rose, once accidentally setting the curtains on fire (quickly extinguished by Hermione). And Hermione's thought projections became increasingly personal and unfiltered as her fever made it harder to control her mind.
"I'M SCARED," appeared above her head around three in the morning, followed by "WHAT IF WE GET WORSE?"
Harry, seeing this from his bed, reached out a glowing hand toward her. "We'll be okay, Hermione."
Her eyes filled with tears as "HARRY'S ALWAYS SO BRAVE" appeared. Then, looking mortified, she pulled her blanket over her head.
Ron, in a moment of lucidity, called out hoarsely, "We've been through worse than some magical flu, haven't we?"
"Well, technically—" Hermione began, but cut herself off as "THIS IS ACTUALLY QUITE DANGEROUS" materialized above her.
"Not helping," Harry mumbled, pressing his hands against his temples as his head throbbed painfully.
Dawn brought no relief. If anything, they all felt worse. Harry's glow had finally subsided, but now his magic seemed to be malfunctioning entirely. When he tried to summon a glass of water, his wand instead produced a shower of slugs.
"Sorry," he croaked, watching in disgust as the slugs slithered across the floor.
Hermione, whose thought projections had mercifully dimmed to a faint glow, pointed her own wand at the slugs. "Evanesco," she whispered. Nothing happened.
"Our magic's affected," she said unnecessarily, as "FEELING HELPLESS" appeared above her head.
Ron had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, his breathing labored and wheezing. Every few breaths, tiny musical notes would escape his lips, creating an eerie, discordant melody.
"At least he's sleeping," Harry said, carefully sitting up. The room tilted alarmingly, but he managed to stay upright. "How are you feeling?"
"Awful," Hermione admitted, as "EVERYTHING HURTS" confirmed above her. She pressed a trembling hand to her cheek. "I think my fever's getting higher."
Harry struggled to his feet, waiting for the dizziness to pass before shuffling over to her. He placed his hand on her forehead and grimaced. "You're burning up."
"So are you," she replied, looking at him with glassy eyes. "Your scar is bright red."
Harry hadn't even noticed the additional pain from his scar, lost amid the general misery of his body. He reached for the fever-reducing potion and carefully measured two doses.
"Here," he said, handing one to Hermione. "Bottom's up."
They both swallowed the bitter liquid, grimacing at the taste.
"It says the worst should peak at day two," Hermione whispered, glancing at the pamphlet. "Then it gets better."
"So tomorrow should be better?" Harry asked hopefully.
"No," she replied, as "TODAY IS ONLY DAY ONE" appeared above her head.
Harry groaned and sank back onto his bed. "Brilliant."
By midday, all three of them were delirious with fever. Ron had woken only to be violently ill again, this time producing not vomit but a stream of multicolored butterflies that fluttered around the cottage before disappearing in tiny puffs of smoke.
"Make it stop," he moaned, clutching his stomach.
Harry wasn't much better. His glasses had somehow fused to his face, and he periodically spoke in Parseltongue without realizing it, hissing incomprehensibly until Hermione pointed it out.
Hermione herself had developed a new symptom—her hair, already bushy, now responded to her emotions, growing larger when she was anxious (which was constantly) and occasionally shooting out small electric shocks.
"This is ridiculous," she said weakly, as "I HATE BEING SICK" appeared above her head, accompanied by her hair expanding to twice its normal size.
"At least we're all equally miserable," Harry hissed, then, realizing he'd slipped into Parseltongue again, repeated himself in English.
A knock at the door startled all of them. A Ministry official in full protective gear levitated a basket of supplies into the cottage without entering.
"How are you all holding up?" the witch asked, her voice muffled by her mask.
"How does it look like we're holding up?" Ron groaned, as a small musical scale escaped his lips.
"I see the magical symptoms are in full effect," the witch observed. "The new supplies include stronger potions for the magical side effects, though they may make the physical symptoms temporarily worse."
"Worse?" Harry repeated incredulously.
"Just for a few hours," the witch assured them. "Then both magical and physical symptoms should begin to subside."
"Thank you," Hermione said politely, while "PLEASE JUST LET US DIE IN PEACE" betrayed her above her head.
The witch pretended not to notice and backed away. "I'll check on you again tomorrow. The worst should be over by then."
After she left, the three friends looked at each other miserably.
"Should we take the stronger potions?" Harry asked.
"I don't think I could feel any worse," Ron mumbled.
Hermione nodded, as "ANYTHING IS BETTER THAN THIS" appeared in shimmering letters.
The witch hadn't been entirely honest. The stronger potions didn't make them feel worse for a few hours—they made them feel like they were dying for a few hours.
Harry lay curled in a fetal position, his body alternating between burning hot and freezing cold so rapidly that he couldn't stop shaking. His vision blurred beyond what his poor eyesight already guaranteed, and an acrid taste filled his mouth. The glowing had returned with a vengeance, pulsing so brightly that he had to be covered with blankets to prevent the light from blinding them all.
Ron wasn't even conscious, having passed out shortly after taking the potion. His magical symptoms, however, continued unabated. Every few minutes, his body would emit a different magical effect: sparks shooting from his fingertips, his hair changing color, once even levitating a few inches off the bed before dropping back down.
Hermione was perhaps suffering the worst. The potion had intensified her thought projections to include not just words but images—vivid, hallucinatory scenes of her fears and worries playing out above her head like a macabre film. Currently, a miniature version of herself was repeatedly failing a test, the parchment marked with a vivid red "T" for Troll.
"Make it stop," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I can't control my thoughts."
Harry, summoning strength he didn't know he had, dragged himself from his bed and crawled to her side. "Focus on something good," he urged, taking her hand. "Think about something happy."
She squeezed his hand and closed her eyes, visibly concentrating. The failing-test scene flickered and changed, showing instead the three of them laughing together by the lake at Hogwarts.
"That's better," Harry whispered, managing a weak smile.
"I'm scared, Harry," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "What if the potions make things worse? What if we don't get better?"
"We will," he assured her, though he was far from certain himself. "We've survived worse than this, remember?"
"This is different," she said, as the scene above her head shifted to show them all in hospital beds. "We can't fight this with spells or cleverness."
Harry didn't have a good answer for that. Instead, he simply held her hand, offering what comfort he could through the contact.
A sudden groan from Ron's bed drew their attention. He was awake again, looking disoriented.
"What happened?" he mumbled.
"The potion knocked you out," Harry explained, his voice hoarse.
Ron attempted to sit up but fell back immediately. "Everything hurts," he complained. "Even my hair hurts. How is that possible?"
"Nerve endings in your scalp," Hermione replied automatically, her academic instincts momentarily overriding her misery.
Despite everything, Harry found himself laughing—a weak, raspy sound that quickly turned into a cough, but laughter nonetheless. "Only you would give a lecture while delirious with fever, Hermione."
A small smile tugged at her lips, and the scene above her head changed to one of the three of them studying together in the Gryffindor common room, comfortable in each other's presence.
The Ministry witch hadn't lied about one thing—after those brutal hours, the symptoms finally began to subside. By evening, Harry's glow had dimmed to a faint shimmer, visible only in darkness. Ron's magical sneezes became less frequent and less dramatic, producing only small sparks rather than full-blown pyrotechnics. And Hermione's thought projections faded to occasional words rather than full scenes, appearing only when her concentration lapsed.
Their physical symptoms, however, remained in full force. All three of them were weak, feverish, and thoroughly miserable.
"I never want to experience that again," Ron said, sipping carefully at a cup of water—the first liquid he'd managed to keep down in hours.
"The pamphlet says day two is usually when the fever peaks," Hermione said, her voice raspy. "Then it should gradually improve."
"So we've got that to look forward to," Harry muttered sarcastically, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.
They lapsed into silence, too exhausted for conversation. Outside, snow had begun to fall, adding to their sense of isolation. The cottage, at least, was warm thanks to the fire they managed to keep going.
After a while, Hermione spoke again, her voice small. "I keep thinking... what if we hadn't been together when this happened?"
Harry considered this. "You mean, if we'd been separated in different quarantine locations?"
She nodded, as "WOULDN'T WANT TO BE ALONE" appeared briefly above her head.
"That would've been rubbish," Ron agreed, looking pale but more alert than he had been all day. "At least we can be miserable together."
"It's more than that," Hermione said, struggling to articulate her thoughts without having them displayed for all to see. "It's... knowing someone's there. That you're not facing it alone."
Harry understood what she was trying to say. Throughout his life, illness had meant isolation—being shut in his cupboard at the Dursleys, ignored except for the occasional grudging delivery of medicine or soup. Even at Hogwarts, trips to the hospital wing meant separation from friends.
"I've never really been taken care of when I was sick," he admitted quietly. "Before Hogwarts, I mean."
Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.
"My mum always goes overboard," Ron said. "Hovers constantly, force-feeds you her homemade remedies. Drives you mad, but..." He trailed off, a flash of homesickness crossing his face.
"But it's nice knowing someone cares that much," Hermione finished for him, as "MISS MY PARENTS" appeared briefly above her head.
Harry nodded, suddenly finding it difficult to speak past the lump in his throat. It wasn't just the fever making his eyes burn now.
Ron seemed to sense the shift in mood. "Well, you've got us now, mate. For better or worse. Though right now it's definitely worse, considering I might puke butterflies on you at any moment."
That startled a laugh out of Harry. "Thanks for the warning."
"We should try to eat something," Hermione suggested, looking at the basket of supplies. "The pamphlet says it's important to keep our strength up."
"I don't think I can stomach more than toast," Ron admitted.
"Toast it is, then," Harry said, making to get up.
Hermione stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Stay put. I'll do it."
"You're just as sick as we are," he protested.
"Yes, but my magical symptom doesn't involve accidentally setting things on fire or speaking in snake language," she pointed out pragmatically. "Besides, I need to move before my muscles completely seize up."
Harry relented, watching as she shakily made her way to the fireplace where she began carefully toasting bread on a transfigured grate.
Night fell again, bringing with it a fresh round of fevers. As predicted, they were worse than before—not in magical symptoms, which continued to fade, but in the sheer physical misery of chills, aches, and disorientation.
Harry drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally rousing to the sound of Ron's labored breathing or Hermione's quiet whimpers. The cottage seemed to shrink around them, the darkness pressing in despite the fire's warm glow.
During one lucid moment, Harry realized Hermione was crying silently in her bed.
"'Mione?" he called softly. "What's wrong?"
She sniffled, wiping her eyes with trembling hands. "Nothing. Just feeling pathetic."
Above her head, "HATE BEING WEAK" appeared in faint letters.
Harry understood immediately. For Hermione, whose identity was so tied to her competence and control, being reduced to this helpless state was particularly difficult.
"It's not weak to be sick," he said gently. "It's just human."
"I know that logically," she whispered. "But I've always been the one with the solutions, the plans. And now I can't even stand without getting dizzy."
From Ron's bed came a muffled voice. "Join the club."
They both turned to see him watching them, his face pale but his eyes alert.
"Being sick is the great equalizer," he continued, attempting to prop himself up on one elbow. "Doesn't matter if you're the brightest witch of your age or The Boy Who Lived or just some gangly redhead. Fevers don't discriminate."
"When did you get so philosophical?" Harry asked, genuinely surprised.
Ron shrugged weakly. "Delirium brings clarity, I guess. Or maybe I'm still out of my mind."
That drew a watery laugh from Hermione. "Maybe a bit of both."
"The point is," Ron continued, "we're all equally useless right now, and that's... okay, I suppose. The world won't end because Hermione Granger needs a day off."
"Five more days, according to the quarantine," she corrected automatically, but there was a small smile on her lips.
"See? Still can't help being right about everything," Ron teased, his voice hoarse but warm.
Harry watched their exchange with a curious feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with his illness. There was something strangely intimate about seeing his friends like this—stripped of their usual defenses, vulnerable in ways they rarely allowed themselves to be. It made him feel closer to them somehow, bound by this shared misery.
"We should try to sleep," he suggested eventually. "The Ministry witch said rest is the best thing for it."
"I don't think I can," Hermione admitted, as "TOO UNCOMFORTABLE" appeared above her head.
"We could... talk for a while?" Ron suggested hesitantly. "Might help distract us."
"About what?" Harry asked.
"I don't know. Anything but how awful we feel."
They were quiet for a moment, each trying to think of a suitable topic through the fog of fever.
"Did I ever tell you about the time Fred and George convinced me I'd been adopted from a family of gnomes?" Ron finally said.
Despite everything, Harry felt himself smile. "No, I don't think you did."
And so Ron launched into the story, his voice weak but the humor intact as he described how his brothers had elaborately convinced their five-year-old brother that his real parents were garden gnomes, complete with forged "adoption papers" and lessons on proper gnome culture.
"I spent three weeks sleeping in the garden and eating worms before Mum figured out what was happening," he concluded, as Harry and Hermione laughed despite their discomfort.
The tension in the cottage eased as they traded childhood stories—Hermione's mishap with her parents' dental equipment, Harry's accidental magic that had turned his teacher's wig blue. The conversation meandered gently, requiring little energy but providing much-needed distraction from their physical misery.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook them, and one by one they drifted into uneasy sleep.
Harry awoke to sunlight streaming through the cottage's small windows. For a moment, he lay disoriented, trying to piece together where he was and why he felt so terrible. Then memory returned, along with the awareness of his aching body.
He turned his head carefully to check on his friends. Ron was still asleep, snoring softly, his face less flushed than it had been the previous day. Hermione's bed was empty.
Alarmed, Harry pushed himself up, ignoring the wave of dizziness the movement caused. "Hermione?"
"Over here," came her voice from the small table. She sat wrapped in a blanket, a steaming mug clutched in her hands. "I made tea. There's more if you want some."
Harry assessed his stomach's reaction to the idea of tea and found it cautiously accepting. "Yes, please."
He made his way slowly to the table, each step deliberate as he navigated around the worst of the dizziness. Hermione watched him with understanding eyes but didn't offer help—she knew he'd refuse it.
As he sank into a chair, he noticed that no words appeared above her head. "Your thought projections are gone," he observed.
She nodded, looking relieved. "They stopped sometime during the night. And you're not glowing anymore."
Harry examined his hands, finding them normally pale instead of luminous. "Small mercies," he murmured, accepting the mug she pushed toward him.
"The fever's lower too," she added. "Still there, but not as bad as yesterday."
Harry sipped the tea carefully, letting the warm liquid soothe his raw throat. "So we're on the upswing?"
"I think so. The pamphlet said day three usually shows improvement."
From the direction of the beds came a groan, followed by Ron's groggy voice. "Please tell me that means no more butterfly vomit."
"Did you just say 'butterfly vomit'?" Hermione asked, lips twitching.
"You know what I mean," Ron grumbled, slowly sitting up. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his face was still pale, but his eyes were clearer.
"There's tea," Harry offered.
Ron considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Worth a try. My mouth tastes like something died in it."
He joined them at the table, moving with the same careful deliberation Harry had used. For a while, they sat in companionable silence, sipping tea and adjusting to being vertical again.
"Three more days of quarantine," Ron eventually said. "What are we supposed to do with ourselves if we're not actively dying anymore?"
"Recover," Hermione replied pragmatically. "We're still sick, just not critically so."
Harry looked around the cottage, which showed clear signs of their ordeal—discarded potion bottles, rumpled bedding, the general disarray that came from three people being too ill to care about tidiness. "We could clean up a bit, I suppose."
"Spoken like someone raised by those awful Muggles," Ron muttered, but there was no real heat in his words. "Always making you clean, weren't they?"
Harry shrugged. "It's not like we have much else to do."
"I brought books," Hermione offered, gesturing to her bag. "If anyone feels up to reading."
"Of course you did," Ron said, but he was smiling slightly. "What've you got? Please tell me it's not all textbooks."
"I have novels too," she said, looking mildly offended. "I'm not completely academic, you know."
"Could've fooled me," Ron teased, but reached out to squeeze her hand briefly, taking any sting out of the words.
Harry watched them, struck again by that strange feeling from the night before—this sense of newfound intimacy born from shared vulnerability. Something had shifted between the three of them during this ordeal, subtle but undeniable.
"Maybe we could take turns reading aloud," he suggested. "Might be nice."
Hermione brightened at the idea. "I have a collection of wizarding fairy tales that might be fun. They're not the sanitized versions—more like the original Grimm brothers' stories."
"Violent and disturbing, you mean?" Ron asked.
"Authentic," Hermione corrected primly, as Harry laughed.
The day passed slowly but not unpleasantly. They took turns reading from Hermione's book, their voices gradually growing stronger as the hours passed. They managed simple food—toast, broth, tea—and cleaned up the cottage enough to make it livable. By evening, they even felt well enough for a game of Exploding Snap, though they played a modified version that minimized sudden movements.
Their recovery wasn't linear. Ron still had occasional magical sneezes (though now they produced only tiny sparks), Harry found his glasses temporarily fusing to his face whenever his temperature rose, and Hermione's hair still sparked when she got agitated. But the worst had clearly passed.
As night fell, they sat wrapped in blankets before the fire, watching the flames dance.
"You know what's strange?" Hermione said softly. "As awful as this has been, I'm almost... glad it happened."
"Are you delirious again?" Ron asked incredulously.
She shook her head. "No, I mean... not the illness itself. But this time together. It's different from our usual adventures, isn't it? No one trying to kill us. No mysteries to solve. Just... us."
Harry understood what she meant. "It's the first time we've been completely vulnerable with each other," he said slowly, working it out as he spoke. "Usually we're all trying to be brave or clever or whatever."
"Exactly," Hermione said, looking relieved that he understood. "There's no room for pretense when you're puking up butterflies."
Ron snorted. "That's one way of putting it."
"I've never let anyone see me that weak before," Harry admitted quietly. "Not willingly, anyway."
"Me neither," Ron said, unexpectedly serious. "Always had to be tough, you know? With five older brothers, showing weakness wasn't really an option."
"And I've always had to be the competent one," Hermione added. "The one with the answers."
They fell silent, contemplating this shared revelation.
"So what you're saying," Ron finally said, "is that puking our guts out together is some kind of friendship milestone?"
Hermione threw a cushion at him, which he didn't quite dodge in his weakened state.
"Yes, Ron," she said, rolling her eyes even as she smiled. "That's exactly what I'm saying."
"Well, when you put it that way," Harry said, grinning, "I feel honored to have reached this milestone with you both."
"Likewise, mate," Ron replied, raising his mug of tea in a mock toast. "To friendship through digestive distress."
"That's disgusting," Hermione informed him, but she raised her mug as well.
Harry joined the toast, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with his lingering fever. "To friendship," he agreed. "In sickness and in health."
Three days later, the Ministry witch declared them officially recovered and no longer contagious. The magical symptoms had disappeared completely, and though they were still weak and tired, their fevers were gone.
As they packed up their belongings, preparing to return to Hogwarts, Harry found himself looking around the cottage with an unexpected sense of attachment.
"Strange to think we'll remember this place forever now," he commented.
"Not exactly the Three Broomsticks, is it?" Ron replied, but he too was glancing around the room with a certain fondness.
Hermione finished folding a blanket and placed it on the freshly made bed. "I've been thinking," she said. "About what we discussed the other night."
Harry and Ron looked at her expectantly.
"About vulnerability and friendship," she clarified. "I think... I think maybe we should make more space for that. Not just during magical flu outbreaks."
"What, you want us to schedule regular sessions of weakness and misery?" Ron asked skeptically.
She made a face at him. "No, Ron. I mean... being honest with each other. Not always trying to be strong or brave or perfect all the time."
Harry considered this. Throughout his life, showing vulnerability had felt dangerous—first with the Dursleys, who exploited any weakness, then at Hogwarts, where so many people depended on him to be strong.
"It's harder than it sounds," he said finally.
"I know," Hermione agreed softly. "But I think it's worth trying."
Ron shifted uncomfortably but nodded. "Yeah, alright. But if I start talking about my feelings regularly, someone check me for fever."
Harry laughed, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Deal."
As they stepped out of the cottage into the crisp winter air, Harry felt strangely lighter despite his physical exhaustion. The past six days had been miserable in many ways, but something valuable had emerged from that misery—a deeper understanding, a stronger bond.
"Ready?" he asked his friends.
Ron sneezed once—a normal, non-magical sneeze—and nodded. "More than ready. I want a proper bed and food that doesn't taste like cardboard."
"And a shower," Hermione added fervently. "A very long shower."
They began walking toward the village center where transportation back to Hogwarts awaited, moving slowly to accommodate their lingering weakness. Without discussion, they fell into step together, shoulders occasionally brushing in silent companionship.
Behind them, the little cottage stood empty once more, just an abandoned gamekeeper's hut on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. But for six days, it had been something more—a sanctuary of sorts, a place where three friends had seen each other at their worst and found their bond only strengthened for it.
The return to Hogwarts brought with it a flurry of attention they could have done without. News of the Sparkleflux outbreak had reached the school, of course, and they found themselves the objects of both curiosity and concern.
"Is it true you were coughing up live toads?" Seamus asked Ron eagerly at dinner their first night back.
"No," Ron said flatly, still picking at his food with less than his usual enthusiasm. His appetite hadn't fully returned yet.
"But Harry was glowing? Like, actually glowing?" Lavender pressed, turning to Harry with wide eyes.
Harry sighed. "Yes, that part's true."
"Wicked," Dean declared. "Any chance you could do it again? Would be dead useful for nighttime Quidditch practice."
"It wasn't controllable," Hermione interjected, protective as always. "And it was extremely unpleasant, not some party trick."
The questions continued until McGonagall, noticing their obvious discomfort, swept over to their table.
"I believe Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger are still recovering from a serious illness," she said sharply. "They do not need to be badgered like sideshow attractions."
The other students retreated under her stern gaze, and Harry shot her a grateful look.
"Thanks, Professor," he said quietly.
A hint of warmth softened her expression momentarily. "The Headmaster would like to see you three in his office after dinner, if you're feeling up to it."
They exchanged glances. "We'll be there," Harry confirmed.
"Ah, welcome back," Dumbledore greeted them cheerfully as they entered his office. "Lemon drop? They're quite soothing for throats recovering from illness, I find."
Ron and Harry declined, but Hermione accepted one with a polite "Thank you, sir."
"I trust your quarantine was as comfortable as could be expected under the circumstances?" the Headmaster inquired, his blue eyes twinkling over his half-moon spectacles.
"It was... educational," Harry replied carefully.
Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, I imagine it was. Sparkleflux Fever is a particularly fascinating magical illness. The symptoms tend to reflect something of the sufferer's inner nature, did you know?"
They stared at him.
"What do you mean, sir?" Hermione asked, scientific curiosity overriding her fatigue.
"Well, Miss Granger, your symptom of projecting your thoughts speaks to your analytical mind and your natural tendency toward honesty. Mr. Weasley's explosive magical reactions reflect his passionate nature and occasional... shall we say, temperamental outbursts?"
Ron's ears turned red, but he didn't deny it.
"And Harry," Dumbledore continued, "your luminescence. Quite telling, I think."
"Telling of what, exactly?" Harry asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know.
"That even in your darkest moments, you provide light to those around you," Dumbledore said simply. "Whether you wish to or not."
An uncomfortable silence fell as Harry absorbed this. It felt too close to something true, something he wasn't ready to examine too closely.
Ron cleared his throat. "Does this mean we're excused from the homework we missed, Professor?"
The moment broke, and Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Weasley. Your professors have been notified of your absence, of course, but they expect you to catch up in due time."
Hermione straightened, immediately looking concerned. "How much time, exactly?"
"Your health comes first, Miss Granger," Dumbledore reminded her gently. "I suggest you three take at least the weekend to rest before diving back into your studies."
"Yes, sir," they murmured in unison.
As they turned to leave, Dumbledore called after them. "One more thing. Professor Snape has brewed a restorative potion specifically for post-Sparkleflux recovery. I recommend you collect your doses from the hospital wing before retiring tonight."
"More potions," Ron groaned once they were on the spiral staircase. "Haven't we had enough?"
"If it helps us recover faster, I'm all for it," Hermione said firmly. "I need to be back to full strength by Monday."
Harry said nothing, still turning over Dumbledore's words about his glowing symptom. Light in darkness. It seemed both a blessing and a burden, much like so many aspects of his life.
True to Dumbledore's word, they found Madam Pomfrey waiting with three steaming goblets of a pearlescent blue potion.
"Drink all of it," she instructed, watching them with a critical eye. "Professor Snape has infused it with strengthening solution and a mild sleeping draught. You should rest comfortably tonight and feel much improved by morning."
Harry sniffed the potion cautiously. Unlike most of Snape's concoctions, this one smelled pleasant—like mint and something faintly floral.
"It won't turn us into canaries or anything, will it?" Ron asked suspiciously.
Madam Pomfrey's lips twitched. "No, Mr. Weasley. The magical side effects of Sparkleflux are quite gone now. This is purely medicinal."
They drank obediently, surprised by the cool, refreshing taste.
"Now, straight to your dormitories," the matron ordered. "Your bodies are still healing, and rest is essential."
As they walked back to Gryffindor Tower, Harry could already feel the potion working—his limbs felt lighter, his head clearer, and a gentle drowsiness was settling over him.
"I hate to admit it, but Snape knows his potions," Ron mumbled, yawning widely.
"Professor Snape," Hermione corrected automatically, though her own eyes were drooping. "And yes, whatever his other faults, he's a brilliant potioneer."
They reached the portrait hole, gave the password ("Billywig sting"), and stumbled into the common room. It was relatively empty, most students already having retired for the night.
"I think I'll go straight up," Hermione said, stifling another yawn. "I feel like I could sleep for days."
"Same," Ron agreed. "Coming, Harry?"
Harry nodded, but as his friends headed for their respective staircases, he called after them. "Hey."
They turned back, questioning.
"I just wanted to say..." He hesitated, finding the words difficult. "Well, if I had to be quarantined with magical flu, I'm glad it was with you two."
Ron's face split into a tired grin. "Likewise, mate. Though next time, let's just play chess by the fire or something less disgusting, yeah?"
Hermione's expression was softer, more understanding of what Harry was really trying to say. "Goodnight, Harry," she said warmly. "Sleep well."
As Harry climbed the stairs to his dormitory, he reflected that perhaps vulnerability wasn't so dangerous after all—not with the right people. It was a lesson worth remembering, even if it had come at the cost of six miserable days and far too many magical symptoms.
In the end, he thought as sleep claimed him, some bonds could only be forged in the crucible of shared suffering. And those were often the strongest bonds of all.