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It was the humiliation that was the worst part, rather than the illness. That he had vomited right in the corridor, and the school caretaker had covered it in a big patch of sand, and put little traffic cones around it. That his whole class had seen, as they were on the way to the dining hall to have a P.E class, and how they had all cried ‘eww!’ in unison, and laughed as Mrs Burton had grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be sick?’ she scolded.
Harry couldn’t answer, he was too worried that he would vomit again. He choked back a sob - throwing up had hurt his stomach, and he was too short for the height she was holding his arm at so he was tripping over his feet, making her yank harder.
She hurried him down the corridor and into the little nurse’s room by the reception. ‘Stay here,’ she barked, as though he were going to go anywhere else.
Sniffing, he clambered up onto the sick bed, shivering in his P.E shorts and t-shirt, and sat with his legs dangling over the side. He wiped his teary face with the back of his hand, and waited.
The nurse appeared, still chewing on her lunch, looking bored. ‘What’s your name again? Mrs Burton said you threw up.’
Harry nodded, then wished he hadn’t because his head was swimming. ‘Harry,’ he told her.
‘I need your surname too,’ she said, opening a filing cabinet.
‘Potter. But my aunt’s name is-’
‘Mrs Burton’s calling your aunt, I just need your records,’ she said. She pulled out a manilla file, and then put a thermometer in his mouth. She didn’t tell him what was going on, or what she was writing, or what the thermometer was said. He waited for several minutes while she bustled around, alternating between staring at her and looking at his plimsolls.
‘Are you cold?’ she asked him at one point. He nodded. She brought him a scratchy blanket, and told him to lie down, throwing it over him while she shouted through to one of the receptionists to make her a cup of tea.
Harry didn’t mind though, he felt so drowsy and dizzy that he was drifting into an uneasy sleep almost immediately, though he still shivered under the blanket.
Before he knew it, someone was calling his name, and he opened his eyes to see Mrs Burton standing in the doorway. ‘Your aunt is too busy to pick you up,’ she said, as though it were his fault. ‘Is there anyone else who could come and get you?’
‘Erm… Uncle Vernon?’ Harry mumbled.
‘Don’t be silly, boy,’ she snapped. ‘He’s a very busy man.’
‘Mrs Figg?’
‘What’s her number?’
‘I… I don’t know.’
Mrs Burton rolled her eyes, and then looked at the nurse. ‘Dawn, he’ll just have to stay in here, I have to get back to my class.’
‘All day?’ exclaimed the nurse. ‘I’ve got stuff to be doing, I’m meant to be doing the nit check for the year ones today-’
‘He’s not coming back in my room, not if he’s been throwing up,’ said Mrs Burton. ‘Keep an eye on him though, he’s a little terror.’
The nurse huffed as Mrs Burton stormed off, and then glared at Harry. ‘Don’t give me any trouble.’
‘I won’t,’ he promised.
‘You better not - I’ve got your number, I know you’re the one that was climbing on the school roof last year.’
‘I won’t,’ he promised again. He gave another violent shiver. ‘Can I have another blanket, please?’
‘There’s only one,’ said the nurse. ‘Just go to sleep, all right? Here-’ She placed a bowl on the floor by the bed. ‘If you need to throw up, do it in that.’
And so Harry sank back into another uneasy sleep, imagining, in the back of his mind somewhere, that some long forgotten relative was coming to pick him up. He imagined the man, and for some reason it was always a man, taking him home in the back of his car, wrapping him in a duvet in front of the telly, with a bottle of Lucozade and a hot water bottle, like Dudley always got when he was sick. It was a nice enough dream, and it helped while he lay there until hometime at quarter past three, when his aunt finally came to pick him up.
************************
‘You look awful,’ Ron told him, as Harry struggled with yet another hacking coughing fit.
'Cheers,’ he replied hoarsely, grabbing his files and dragging himself out of his chair.
'Why don’t you just go home?’ asked Ron, as they headed down the corridor.
'It’s a cold, Ron, I’ll survive. I’ll grab some pepper-up potion at lunch.'
'Ask one of the secretaries to get you some.'
'Oh, sure, that’s not abusing my authority at all. I’m sure the secretaries love being told to do that kind of babysitting shit.'
'And then just go home,’ Ron continued. 'Don’t be a hero about it.’
'I’m not,’ said Harry irritably. 'It’s just a bad cough.'
'You’re mad, I love a good sick day,’ said Ron. 'Not the sick part, obviously, but to actually be told to lie around doing nothing all day is a dream. I always end up feeling I haven’t made the most of it - probably because you feel crap so can’t really appreciate being waited on hand and foot, you know?'
If he was honest, Harry had no idea what Ron was talking about so he just nodded vaguely as they gathered for the meeting. Almost as soon as he sat in his chair, he was coughing again, and the more he tried to stop the worse it became. In front of him, Bessie twisted in her seat and handed him a small cup of water she had enchanted from nowhere.
'Thanks,’ he spluttered at her.
'Don’t spread that to me,’ she warned him. He grinned apologetically at her over the the cup, and she turned back to the front as Robards stood in front of the board.
'Happy Monday, all,’ he said gruffly. 'Right, updates - Proudfoot, where are we with that bonfire night threat?’
Proudfoot stood. 'I don’t foresee any serious problems next week, the credibility of the threat has been mitigated now that we’ve put the target into the safe house, but I am following up on the suggestion that-’
Harry didn’t hear the rest, because he was coughing again, and as people turned to him irritably, he rose and slipped, as subtly as he could while he was coughing up a lung, out of the room. Eyes watering and bent almost double, he leaned against the wall waiting for it to pass, feeling the prickle of embarrassment run through his chest. He also had a very strong desire to curl up on the floor and go to sleep.
Thankfully, it passed. Straightening up and rubbing his eyes under his glasses, he took a deep breath and returned to the meeting room.
Robards looked sternly at him. 'Still alive?'
There was a ripple of low laughter. 'Just about, Sir,’ said Harry, trying to ignore the blush he could feel rising on his pale and clammy face.
'As you’re already standing, an update on tracking the Rookwoods, please.'
He struggled through his update, and then when he got back to his desk he struggled through his paperwork, and then he struggled through a strategy and tactics meeting, and finally, the second the clock hit half past twelve, he seized his cloak. 'I’ll be back in a bit,’ he muttered to Ron, who barely had time to react before Harry had darted out of the door.
He went to Diagon Alley in a bit of a daze, wrapping his cloak around him and shivering in the cold November air, though the shoppers around him didn’t seem nearly as cold. The bell of the apothecary tinkled as he entered, and he was quickly wandering the aisles, still trying to suppress his wretched cough, ignoring the stares from the other shoppers.
He found the 'Minor Magical Illness’ section and found himself overwhelmed at the variety of potions, even just within the pepper-up range. Was his cough dry or wet? He had no fucking idea, he just knew it was awful. Did he have sinus pain or muscle pain? Why wasn’t there an option for both? Were any sparks coming out of his nose? He bloody well hoped not.
A sudden flash made him jump and look to his right, where a scruffy man with a camera was staring at him. 'Really?’ he said, exasperated.
'What are you buying?’ asked the journalist. Other customers were staring too now, and tapping their friends on the shoulders, pointing at Harry.
'A hippogriff,’ snapped Harry. 'Mind your business.'
'Are you seriously ill? Are you dying, Mr Potter?'
'No, leave me alone,’ said Harry, grabbing a potion at random.
'You look very pale, Mr Potter,’ said the journalist, following him to the till.
The poor witch at the counter looked torn between being incredibly star struck and incredibly uncomfortable with the journalist; she gave Harry a sheepish smile as he pushed the potion across the counter and waited for her to write it in the ledger.
She looked hesitant, and, in a wobbly voice, said, 'I must advise you that this potion cannot be taken with alcohol, and the recommended dosage is only once per day-’
'Will it be a problem not having alcohol, Mr Potter?’ asked the journalist. 'On account of your alcoholism?'
'Can I take it with opium?’ Harry asked the witch, his voice dry. Her eyes widened in shock, and she giggled nervously. The journalist started scribbling in his notebook furiously, and Harry knew he would pay in the press tomorrow for his sarcasm, but dropped two galleons on the counter and seized his potion, leaving before waiting for change.
He opened the potion the moment he left the shop and took a hefty gulp - it burned like chilli peppers and by the time he had made it back to his office he had so much steam coming out of his ears that he looked rather like a runaway train.
'Feeling better?’ Ron asked, as Harry slumped back into their cubicle, fanning the steam away from his head.
'I think I accidentally picked up one for runny noses,’ said Harry, frowning at the bottle. 'I had to be quick about it, there was a journalist. Got a bit sarky with him.'
Ron shrugged. 'I reckon it all does the same stuff anyway, it’s just to make you think it’s more effective for your particular cold. Here, I got you a sandwich.'
'Cheers,’ Harry said, but he found he couldn’t take more than a couple of bites. He ended up writing in his files with his head leaning so heavily on his arm that he may as well have been lying down, still shivering violently. He was only vaguely aware of Ron leaving, so was rather surprised ten minutes later to find that he had returned with Robards.
'You’re going home,’ said Ron. 'Well, going to my mum’s. She’s expecting you.'
Harry gaped at him, and then looked at Robards. 'I don’t need to go home, I didn’t ask to-’
'Quite frankly, Potter, I can’t bear to listen to you coughing like that all day. Just fuck off home, would you?'
'Harry,’ said Ron, looking rather amused. 'If you don’t go to the Burrow now, Mum is going to come here and get you herself. In front of everyone. You know she won’t be subtle about it.’
The image of Mrs Weasley escorting him out filled him with horror - he already had to work very hard to get people in the office to take him seriously as the youngest there. So, with a mutinous look at Ron’s smirking face, he grabbed his cloak and bag again.
They passed Neville on the way to the fireplaces, who took one look at Harry and laughed. 'You look like you’re going to drop dead. You off home?'
Harry nodded. 'See you tomorrow.'
Neville snorted. 'Sure.'
He took the Floo to the Burrow, stumbling out into the living room with an unusual amount of dizziness. He immediately felt his shoulders being gripped firmly, and he was turned to look into Mrs Weasley’s concerned face.
'Oh, look at you,’ she said sympathetically, pulling him into a hug. 'No wonder Ron said you needed to be at home. Come here.'
She led him upstairs, to what used to be Percy’s room, where she pushed him firmly to sit on the bed. 'I absolutely insisted you come here, I’ve heard about the condition of that flat you Ron and George are in, that’s probably what’s caused this - there’s some spare pyjamas for you here - now what soup do you want, chicken or tomato?'
’S-sorry?'
'Chicken or tomato?'
'I’m not hungry-’
'I’ll make you tomato then - get into bed.’
So she left him to change and crawl under the duvet, shoving his glasses onto the bedside table with a clatter, realising for the first time how much he seemed to ache all over. His eyes were drooping already, he kept thinking he was about to drop off into sleep but then another burst of coughing would jolt him awake.
The door creaked open again, and Mrs Weasley brought him a tray with a bowl of tomato soup and a cup of tea, which she planted on his lap. 'You feel clammy,’ she said, placing her cool hand on his forehead. 'And you’ve already had some pepper-up?'
'Yeah,’ he replied. The soup was far easier to get down than the sandwich had been, and the warmth of it soothed his shivers.
'Well, it’s not dragon pox, not with the coughing, and you don’t look green. Could be a touch of pixie lung - how long have you had it?'
'Dunno, few days? I’ve mostly felt fine up til now though. And I’m still fine,’ he added hastily. 'You really don’t need to-’
'Don’t be silly, dear, I know it’s nothing serious, but I bet you feel rotten, don’t you?'
He finished as much soup as he could manage as she ran through all the different mild illnesses it could possibly be, and with a quiet 'well done,’ Mrs Weasley took the tray from him and took it back downstairs.
He shifted back down the bed, coughing loudly, pressing his face into the soft pillow. As sleep descended, he was faintly aware of Mrs Weasley coming back, sitting on the bed beside him and tucking a hot water bottle into the bed by his chest. She rubbed his back as he coughed, and he felt her hand reach up occasionally to stroke his hair.
He had never been comforted like this before, as though by a mother, and just as when she had hugged him after the third task of the Triwizard tournament, the realisation of it was like a sudden crushing weight upon his heart. The sleepiness, and the general sick feeling didn’t help either, and he closed his eyes so that she wouldn’t see them water.
'That’s it,’ he heard her say quietly. 'Get some sleep. I’ll be here if you need anything, dear.’
Everything felt very heavy, he found that he could no longer open his eyes even if he tried. 'Thank you,’ he said, and he hoped that she knew what he meant, what he was too awkward to really say.
He felt her lean forward and kiss his temple, and then he drifted easily into blissful nothingness.