The sneezing had begun first, but he’d passed it off as dust after Christmas. Gerda had been displeased until he’d shrugged it off as a possible winter holiday cold. Hazard of teaching, the moment you got a rest, every bug got you. Always something going round. Nothing a pepperup potion wouldn’t resolve when Miranda was out. That way she wouldn’t witness his steaming ears. He ordered Gerda to keep quiet about that one.

By New Year’s Day his throat felt swollen and if anything his nose was worse. A hot shower had masked the worst of it to put on a front for Miranda’s birthday (49, but woe betide anyone mention). Gerda had helped considerably with putting together a birthday breakfast. Well, in ordinary circumstances she would, just to ensure things were edible. A fry up was within Ignan’s campfire repertoire of his travelling days, but there were certain touches a well-kept Head Healer was accustomed to.

That was when the fever had begun, and he’d stepped out of the back door into the garden to cool off before taking breakfast upstairs. The temperate was just above freezing, and Gerda’s suspicion was passed off as it being too hot in the kitchen and enjoying a spot of fresh air outside. Wasn’t good to stay cooped up in winter, he told the elf, and voiced a consideration for a walk later.

He’d carried off the illusion right up until mid morning, when he was rumbled.

“I told you Mistress.” The elf pointed an accusatory finger towards her master, who did his utmost to hide the headache potion he had been swigging in the kitchen, and instead ended up dropping it on the tiled kitchen floor.
 
“For Merlin’s sake, look what you’ve made me do!” Ignan grumbled, irritated at the interest, trying to cover it up as an accident and nothing. It was Miranda’s birthday and they’d enjoy it. He would be fine once one of these darned potions worked. He reached for his wand to clear up the mess, but Gerda was there in an instant, dustpan in hand, to take care of it, and purposefully block his path to the back door.

It would have been impossible for the Healer of 30 years to miss that fact that her husband was a little under the weather. Like Ignan, Miranda had put it down to a simple winter cold, and said nothing. At his age, Ignan was likely to pick up bits of cold and flu. Ignan had been a rather terrible patient after almost dying. Miranda had had to use all of her patience and Gerda’s to hold off on restraining the man to their bed to sleep and rest. It was far easier not to even make a simple suggestion for dealing with his sniffles.

They’d stayed up to see the new year in, sharing a bottle of champagne to celebrate a year married. The following morning, Ignan had disappeared fairly early on, a fact Miranda wasn’t too fussed about despite it being her birthday. She quite contentedly continued to doze until there was a tug on the covers.
The cat, she thought.
Another tug.
“Mistress…” yet another tug. Not the cat. Miranda groaned and rolled over to come face to face with the wide eyed little elf. Mira said nothing, only stared. “It’s Master, Mistress. He’s pretending to be well.” The elf was nervously tugging on her ears, clearly anxious. She only did that when she was telling on Ignan to his wife. Miranda still said nothing, but, concerned, she quickly threw the covers back and climbed out of bed, grabbing her dressing gown to pull on.

Down the stairs, the pair went, and into the small kitchen.

“I told you Mistress.”

And there Ignan was, dropping a vial of potion onto the floor, clearly frustrated with the elf. Miranda stepped forward, her cool hand reached up to press the back of it against Ignan’s forehead. She frowned, moving her hand to his cheeks, each in turn.

“Busted.”

Miranda was dangerous at the best of times, but when she and Gerda teamed up Ignan was sure he’d have to use all this wiles to get something past them. With this awful cold (it was not the flu) he wasn’t feeling up to his usual standards. It best be gone quickly, he wasn’t looking forward to having to teach on Tuesday if he felt like this.

“Yes, you’re meant to still be in bed so I can deliver this breakfast.” Ignan protested, steadfastly ignoring the fact wife and elf were both referring to his state of health. “One of the few days of the year I can legitimately make romantic gestures without the family assuming I’m under the influence is your birthday…!”

Gerda had made swift work of cleaning up the headache potion and glass from the floor around his feet, and the feeling of being pinned to the kitchen side was mildly reduced as she moved away and left Miranda the only one in his personal space.

He raised a hand and caught hers, kissing it gently.
“Happy birthday, darling. You don’t look a day older than yesterday.”

There were several things that Mr and Mrs Storm had in common with one another. One of them was ignoring when their body was telling them to just stop. Neither did ‘ill’ particularly well. It appeared that Ignan wouldn’t even admit it. This time of year was special for the couple as of last year. Ignan had chosen Christmas Eve to propose in Norway, and only a few days later, not seeing the point in hanging around, they’d married. Miranda birthday fell another few days after that. So Ignan had clearly decided that he couldn’t be ill. It wasn’t, however, a big birthday. That was next year. Fifty. The horror. This year could go ignored.

“It will be a happier birthday if you don’t deliver me a germy breakfast.” Miranda quietly informed her husband, removing her hand and eyeing him carefully. He didn’t look overly healthy, the starting of a flu, perhaps. The Head Healer frowned and glanced at the floor where the split potions had been dropped.

“No more potions.” If he did have what had been coming into the hospital, they weren’t sure what effect potions might have. “When did you start self-prescribing? And don’t lie, old man, I’ll know and I’ll punish you for it.” His answer would make the decision for her if she would be quarantining him here at home, or making him suffer a bed in the ward at St Mungo’s.

“When did you start self-prescribing? And don’t lie old men, I’ll know and I’ll punish you for it.” She meant it, of course.

“Why, do you need my weight and feelings about antelope for headache potion these days?” Ignan retorted, referring to the time she’d caught him attempting to dose his younger relative after a crisis.

Their house elf was wringing her fingers, a tell-tale sign of internal conflict. Ignan shot Gerda a knowing glance, in warning not to break her orders from earlier in the Christmas holidays. The elf hated it when one of them gave an order to keep a secret from the other - especially since their marriage meant Gerda had two owners.

In response, Gerda began pulling her large mottled-colour ears. Behind her head, the kettle spontaneously boiled again, sending steam rising. A perfect recreation of pepperup potion. Damn that elf learned quickly - living with Ignan and Miranda had taught Gerda way more than he gave her credit for. She had told Miranda without telling Miranda. She'd be a Class A snitch if she were a free elf.

As good as outed to his wife and Head Healer, Ignan crossly folded his arms at them both.
“Pepperup potion didn’t touch it before new year, and that was just headache potion.” He gestured to the now clean floor. He could have really done with it, his head was banging.

“It’s just a cold. Right on time for the start of term.”

Ignan was cranky. He was rarely cranky with Miranda. She got to bear witness to his crankiness, not experience it directly. She ignored his question about antelopes. What a ridiculous statement to make. You only needed to check on sexual inclination to antelopes for sleeping potions. Silly man. Had he learned nothing being married to the best healer in the country?

“I thought that you were an intelligent man.” Miranda sighed and gave a quick roll of her eyes. “You didn’t wonder why pepperup potion didn’t work? It’s not a cold, Storm, honestly.”

Gerda was now glancing from the steaming kettle to her owners. Miranda scanned sideways to the elf and waved at the kettle. “He’ll have some hot water, honey, lemon and cinnamon. No potions.”

Now, a dark eyed gaze once more fixed on her husband.
“How’s your magic? Get your wand out.” She pointed to the kitchen table. “Transfigure it. Something complicated.”

The intelligence insult went unchecked owing to how awful he was feeling. If he felt this under the weather against his formidable wife, then the third years would be hellish.
“It’s not a cold, Storm, honestly.”

He really, ruddy hoped it was a cold. He didn’t do being ill. He’d all but died back in Spring and he did not accept he was fallible.

“… No potions.”

Why? That repeated demand only made him suspicious for another incident like last December, when she’d spent a long time asleep in St Mungo’s while the hospital struggled to respond to a contamination.

“How’s your magic? Get your wand out.” Such a request seemed rather forward, even for his wife until she pointed at the kitchen table.

What am I, a performing magician?

Despite his inward protest, Ignan knew better than to disobey Miranda in this sort of mood, so brought his wand to his hand, and uttered an incantation to turn their kitchen table to a small rowing boat.

Only, the table didn’t budge. The whole feeling was different through his arm. Like he was waving his arm without a wand at all. There was no anticipation of magic. A look of confusion crossed Ignan’s features, and he tried something easier: levitating the table.

The table returned a blank stare.
“Wingardium leviosa,” Ignan tried, the first time he’d uttered the actual incantation in a number of years. He did the majority of his own spells wordlessly.

With a cold pit forming in his stomach, the Deputy Headmaster sank down on one of the chairs and put his wand on the table, head in hands. His blue eyes stared off into middle distance, absolutely mortified at this discovery.

Why?

It was weird to hear, as if Ignan were muttering. His lips hadn’t moved.

What am I, a performing magician?

Miranda’s gaze snapped quickly from the table to her husband as she heard the thought drifting into her mind. In puzzlement and concern, the witch’s lips parted slightly as she watched him make some attempt at performing magic.

He waved his wand.

Nothing.

Miranda’s stomach sank.

Ignan was a stronger wix than her, his magic was powerful, his knowledge expansive. And he couldn’t even perform a dammed levitation spell.
“Shit.” Not great coming from a healer, granted.

Her own wand raised, Miranda gave it a swirl, pointing at Ignan and moving it slowly as she quietly muttered an incantation. A field started to form around Ignan, magical. It had the appearance of a bubble. A quarantine bubble. He was not breathing his non magic squib germs on her, thank you very much.

Mrs Storm gave her husband an apologetic look and a shrug. “You’re not going near another wix for at least a couple of weeks, Storm. Pepperup potion, indeed… You’ve caught Praecantatio Deliquus” The worst thing was, she didn’t yet know how to fix it.

This couldn’t be happening. Miranda had mentioned the pattern of symptoms presented at the hospital. He was such an anti-social grump it seemed impossible he could have come into contact with anyone with it. But there it was. Good as written in stone.

“But, how?” Ignan asked, sitting up to protest, and noticing the odd wobble of the world around him suddenly. He withdrew, blinking with confusion and reached a hand out to realise she’d done something and it wasn’t his eyesight now.

Miranda was offering what appeared to be an apologetic look. Gerda appeared horrified, perhaps wondering if she could also get it as an elf.

“Shall Gerda feed Master the breakfast he made for Mistress, so it does not go to waste?” She asked Miranda tentatively. Ignan wasn’t sure he could stomach food, but it was a distraction from his hideous lack of magic. His thoughts hadn’t yet turned to occlumency, or the runes carved into him from the curse in spring. For over sixty years Ignan hadn’t known anything but magic in his life. Given his history it was a wonder his body hadn’t spontaneously fallen to bits.

A couple of weeks?!

Well, small mercies perhaps, that meant no Hogwarts. He could forget about teaching the grotty third years in person.

“On your bloody birthday, as well.” Ignan grumbled, irate with his own health. “Not ideal.” He’d not even managed to kiss his wife that morning. A small gesture of affection to most, but to a couple who used sarcasm to express their adoration of each other, a significant gesture to Ignan.

“But, how?”

That was something his wife would also like to have found out. She said nothing, but frowned when Gerda suggested feeding her breakfast to the Storm with all the germs. Probably best. Miranda wouldn’t be touching anything that her husband had touched. The house would need a magical sterilisation, and once she’d taken the bubble wizard up to his bedroom, that would become his quarantine room. The Head Healer could not afford to get sick from her husband; not with all of these people coming into the hospital with this exact illness.

A couple of weeks?! 

Miranda once more blinked, staring at her husband. His thoughts. He’d lost his ability to use occlumency. Did she tell him? Was it a breach of their trust if she didn’t? He’d freak out if he knew, wouldn’t he? It would make him feel much worse.

“No, not ideal.” Miranda agreed with a nod. “Bloody inconvenient. You’ve spent enough of our marriage being sick, old man.” Full of sympathy when it was needed, was Miranda Storm, Head Healer and loving wife. He’d be fine. The illness was sweeping the nation quickly, unrelentingly, but people seemed to be working their way through it. No one had died yet, and Ignan knew that she’d kill him herself if he had the audacity to try and die again.

“The breakfast, Mistress?” Gerda asked quietly.
Miranda thought for a moment. “Probably best that gets incinerated. And the house; we need to sterilise when we get our patient into bed.”