Work Text:
Sick as a Dog
It wasn’t fair that the welcoming feast at Hogwarts had the most delicious food in existence. It certainly wasn’t fair that the treacle tart was the best he had ever eaten, always tempting him to eat more than he should.
Molly was a wonderful cook, no doubt there. However, treacle tart wasn’t her forte. She tried her best, but hers always came out dry and rather crumbly. Nothing comparable to the mouthwatering, heavenly Hogwarts tart.
In a way, he was not surprised that this was the outcome of his gluttony. It was almost predictable. One of the only constants of his life: the first day back at school, Harry Potter could be found puking his guts out from nine to ten in the Gryffindor bathroom. Entrance fee: 5 sickles. It was almost a known fact to all of Hogwarts ─that was just facts.
As so, at nine-thirty, Harry was not surprised to find himself hugging the toilet seat like one would a lover, sick. Again. He had felt a quick bolt in his stomach in the middle of the feast and had come running back to the dorm as fast as he could.
Feeling his stomach churn, he looked down as he retched. Only bile had come out. With trembling arms, he wiped his face with his sleeve. Glancing up, he grimaced when he caught his reflection in the mirror. He was drenched in sweat, and his hair was sticking to his forehead. Frankly, he looked like a wet Scabbers in glasses —disgusting and ready to pass out.
The door creaked open. Harry turned sharply, grimacing at the sudden stab of pain, he tried blinking it away and saw Neville standing in the doorway, taking in the sight of him. Assessing.
He felt the tips of his ears burn. It was like first year all over again. That year, Neville had been the one to find him and take him to Madame Pomfrey. That year, Harry had promised himself that it would never happen again ─and yet it had. Again, and again, and again.
Neville took a few quick steps toward him, and Harry took that moment to assess him back. His eyes traveled up to Neville —he looked concerned (he always did), a muddy globe peeking out of his robes. He had probably just returned from the Greenhouses.
Harry tried to give him a reassuring smile, even though he knew that Neville wasn’t buying it. Instead, he could only grimace at the feeling of dried puke around his lips and the taste in his own mouth. He gagged, suddenly feeling nauseous again. That seemed to spring Neville into action. As he heaved into the toilet again, Neville held his head up and got his hair out of the way.
When he stopped, he saw Neville watching with worried eyes. He ignored him, shame crawling into his belly. ''Coward'', a voice suspiciously Malfoy-like hissed in his ear. He ignored that too. Neville sighed and grabbed a towel, soaking it at the sink. This exact scene had repeated enough times for him to know that he wouldn’t get anything from Harry.
Soon, Harry's face was in Neville's hands as he wiped his mouth. Harry didn’t protest—he had done enough of that in his third year. Besides, he was too tired now.
"Sick again this year, huh?" Neville asked, almost accusingly. He had lost the pitying, understanding tone after the fourth time. Harry could only nod.
He always thought of telling him about the Dursleys ─how he dreaded going home every summer, the cot under the stairs, the hunger. For a second, he imagined himself doing it, opening his mouth, letting it all out. He didn’t, he never did.
Neville took a deep breath, sounding awfully defeated. His hands wrapped a little tighter around Harry's waist, and Harry felt his eyes water. Neville nodded, exhausted ─he didn’t believe him. He probably knew more than he let on, but he never asked. Harry was grateful for that, even though he resented Neville a bit for it.
Neville squeezed Harry's hand before hitting him with a charm, a cousin of the hangover cure—or so Neville said. It made Harry feel better, though.
"Pomfrey?"
"No Pomfrey" He blew out and exasperated sigh but relented. Neville was good like that.
"I am going to grab the salts," Neville said, letting the door open as he left.
"You spoil me."
'The Salts', as Harry had gotten used to calling them, were a gift to mankind. They came from a tree at Longbottom Manor so old it was inhabited by, like, the ancient extinct cousin of doxies —real faeries. Apparently, they had nested there for years, and their magic had been imbued into the now-crystallized sap of the tree.
There were only about twenty trees like that around the world, and that one was the only one in England. A protected magical treasure because of its healing properties, of which a single sliver of its crystals could empty a regular person’s bank account. Harry himself had tried to buy some, only to discover that even 100 grams of it would halve his own bank account.
He scoffed a little when Neville returned with a jar full of the stuff to the bathroom, but Neville just raised an eyebrow at him. Harry quickly averted his eyes. The damn thing was like heaven on Earth, and he wasn’t stupid. As Neville drew him a bath and threw in half the jar, Harry heard him mutter something along the lines of "That’s what I thought."
Prat. He had seen Draco Malfoy eye the jar most greedily more than once, but Neville didn’t seem to care. He used them in his daily tea, his baths ─whatever he could think of. Hermione had complained about it more than once, but Neville always had an annoyed frown on his face as he listened to her, muttering things like, "Wretched thing had it coming," and "That complaining old tree deserved it."
Neville must really detest the old tree with a passion, Harry reasoned, because otherwise, he would never swear in fear of his grandmother.
Hermione was always quiet when he offered her a laced tea during her period, though. Nobody in their right mind would pass it up. As Harry watched Neville rub the salts into the soap and add some in the shampoo bottle with malicious glee, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn he got a special satisfaction when he ordered more from home, knowing they needed to grate the old tree. It was certainly something to think about.
When Harry saw Neville standing in front of him, hands on his hips as he stared down at him with an amused smirk, he realized he had been lost in his thoughts for longer than he thought. But really, who had beef with a plant? He flashed Neville an embarrassed smile, but Neville just snorted and helped him stand up.
Harry raised his arms as Neville helped him out of his robes. While embarrassing, they had done this so many times before it almost felt like a routine. Again, he blamed it all on his first year and Ron being too squeamish around puke—even though Harry helped him when he was vomiting slugs. Which, in his books, was more disgusting than puke.
Neville had taken it like a champ, though. After the initial wave of disgust, he had single-handedly nursed Harry until he was feeling better and had then taken him to Madame Pomfrey.
As Harry frowned at the memory, Neville sniggered. Harry always looked like an indignant Draco Malfoy when this part came. Harry cast him a betrayed glare, as if reading his mind, narrowing his eyes at him. However, as fast as it came, it was gone. As soon as his back hit the water, all else was forgotten, and he let out a groan of pleasure.
The salts’ magic concentrated on high-tension places, shifting the magic balance in a way similar to a chiropractor. It was extremely pleasant and bone-melting. Honestly, Harry could kill Neville for those salts, while Neville would probably throw them into the sea just to get rid of that tree faster.
Harry had asked him once why he didn’t simply give the salts away, since his family had an unlimited, steady supply. But apparently, there were politics, legalities, and rules about giving away protected treasures. A shame, really.
As Neville started washing his hair, Harry let out another groan of satisfaction. He knew he probably looked like a cat about to start purring and that Neville was sending him amused glances, but he cared none for it. Neville had a green thumb, and he honestly felt a bit like a plant right now.
"I feel very plant-like right now," he said so to his face, but Neville's only reaction was to scoff. However, he started massaging Harry's scalp with his nails like he liked, making him sigh happily.
Neville muttered about cats and how they were Harry's real Patronus, but Harry paid no mind to it, basking in the touch. Muttering, Harry realized, was something Neville did a lot.
For a moment, Harry wondered just how sassy Neville was when he thought no one was listening. And if he had ever sassed Snape under his breath in Potions. If he had, Harry would be terribly sorry for never hearing it, and promised himself to pay more attention during class.
When Neville finished, Harry saw the glint of a malicious smirk as Neville turned on the shower-head, letting the cold water pour all over him, rinsing away the soap suds. Too late ─ Harry shrieked as he was covered in the cold water. Neville, of course, was laughing at him, having the good sense to get away before Harry's scrawny arms tried to grab him and scratch his eyes out.
Which was very cat-like of him, but Harry didn't want to think about that. Neville, Harry thought, was his greatest foe. Forget Draco and Voldemort —those blond curls hid true malice. He knew it.
When the tub drained and Harry stepped out, he wrapped himself in a towel that must have been Dean's or maybe Ron's ─because the towel was ridiculously long on him. Neville tried to hide a snicker into a cough, but Harry's glare told him he didn't cover it well enough. He followed Harry out of the bathroom and turned around as Harry changed into his sleeping clothes.
When he heard Harry clear his throat, Neville turned around, grinning at the sheer indignity that Harry was radiating from his very pores as he dared Neville to say something about the way the clothes seemed to drown him. They were definitely Ron's, but at this point, most of their clothes ended up in Harry's closet when they didn't fit them anymore. Growing boys and all. He was certain the socks were his, though, if the mandrake pattern was anything to go by.
"Feeling better, Princess?"
The bastard asked, sitting down next to him on the bed. Oh, how he missed the shy, squeamish first-year Neville Longbottom.
"Fine," Harry added moodily, making a face at him. He was still upset about the cold water.
Neville snorted, his hand coming to rest on Harry's curls, making him go cross-eyed. Harry yawned.
"Tired?" Neville asked, smirking fondly at him. Bastard. Harry nodded, blinking the tiredness away. He saw Neville give him a conspiratorial look as he went to raid Ron's trunk.
During their first year, they had discovered that Ron kept an stuffed rabbit hidden there. Neville had explained it to Harry —wizarding mothers swore on 'Dolce Somnium' instead of the Bible. It was a non-addictive potion that made the inhaler sleepier. Neville reasoned that with how many kids the Weasleys had, his mother probably made the batch by the dozen and sprayed it on their bedding.
A common trick was to spray it on the kids’ stuffed toys too, helping them sleep better as they hugged them. As a result, Minty, Ron’s rabbit plushie, smelled of chamomile and lavender —the potion’s main ingredients. After that, they had made it a routine to steal the rabbit on nights like this.
Minty was tossed into Harry's hands as Neville flopped onto the bed with him. Easier at eleven than sixteen, if he was honest.
After a bit of fighting and complaints about bed-hogging, they finally came to rest in a semi-comfortable position. Neville carded his fingers through Harry's hair, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Will you ever tell me?" Neville asked.
Harry looked away, inhaling the rabbit's scent.
No words needed; Neville nodded with great pain in his eyes, turning off the lights.
"Good night, Harry." He said softly, but Harry was too tired to reply.