Allergic to Potions
A Harry Potter Fanfiction by Cordria

...

.

...

Everything hurt. Burned. Ached.

He could feel his body twitching and spasming, his leg suddenly kicking off the sheet that had covered him. There was a noise and the sheet was pulled back around him. Something cool was pressed against his forehead.

Harry's eyes flickered open to the intensely bright light of the hospital wing. A moan slipped from his throat and his eyes squeezed shut tightly. Slowly he relaxed his body back into the bed. "Wha-" He broke off, surprised by how dry his throat felt.

A hard, cool object pressed against his lips. Harry opened his mouth to let it in without thought, finding the object to be a bit of ice. He sucked on it a moment, working his eyes back open.

The lights had been dimmed. Harry let his head tip to the side, studying the blurry shape that was settling into the chair by his bed. It was someone tall and thin, but Harry wasn't sure about much beyond that. If only everyone didn't have to wear black all the time.

"How are you feeling?"

Harry froze at the sound of the voice – smooth as silk and cold as ice. Professor Snape.

Sitting by his bedside.

Harry found his mouth moving, but a burst of pain turned the words into something of a groan of agony. His eyes fluttered closed again, struggling to gain control of the sharp shards that were slicing into his mind.

"Why, in Merlin's name, did you not tell anyone you were allergic to pallid grass?

The man's voice drilled into Harry's brain, making the pain all the worse. Harry felt his body wince, his hand coming up to press against his skull. His fingers twitched, out of his control. His brain felt like it was two sizes too big for his head. A hiss worked its way out of his mouth.

"I suppose you enjoy being in immense amounts of pain."

Harry couldn't quite process what the greasy professor meant. His thoughts were swirling around in circles, unable to grab onto anything concrete. Darkness was nibbling at the corners of his mind.

His teeth clenched together; his lips pressed tightly shut. The man was trying to torment him into talking. Getting him to admit to the pain, no doubt. Well, he wasn't going to give Snape the pleasure. He wouldn't make a noise.

"Or, perhaps, you were just pulling another of your stunts, looking for attention."

Oh, how he wished the idiot would just shut up. The cutting voice was making the shaking worse. Sudden pain arched up his body as his spasming leg muscles cramped. Toes curled and uncurled in unconscious, agony-filled movements.

Unbidden, unwished-for whimpers worked their way out of his nose.

"Potter."

A hand touched his shoulder. Like setting off some sort of domino, every muscle in Harry's body clenched and cramped. He curled up into a ball, a scream of pure pain echoed into the room as Harry fell back into the darkness.

...

.

...

The next time he woke up, everything seemed fuzzy. Not just the way they looked, but the way everything felt. Even the smooth sheets of the bed seemed fuzzy, not quite there.

Harry opened his eyes, looking around the dark hospital wing. It was empty.

He licked his dry lips and let his head fall back against the pillow. The pain was still there – it shrieked at him everything time he twitched – but it too was fuzzy. Like it wasn't quite… there.

Fingers twitched against the blankets and Harry glanced down at his hand. The muscles in his arm were spasming every now and then. He stared at his arm for a while, willing his body to stay still, but it only seemed to make the twitching worse. Slowly, trying to ignore the fuzzy clouds of pain in his brain, he picked up his arm.

He felt… weird. Like this arm wasn't quite attached to him. The appendage felt heavy and full, his body starting to shake with the effort of holding his hand in the air. He squinted, just a bit, and picked out the bumps and welts still covering his skin. Greenish fluid pooled and ran across his skin. Almost belatedly, he realized the blankets he was lying on were soaked with the stuff.

Letting his arm drop back to his side, Harry licked his lips again. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a rasping whisper.

There was a glass beside his bed, Harry could just see it. He lay there for long, long moments, debating between the pain that moving would cause and the quickly building desire for some water. His mouth was so dry…

Slow movements rolled Harry onto his stomach, on the side of the bed, burying his head in his pillow to wait out the wash of pain in his mind. Then he reached out his arm. His fingers brushed the edge of the glass. It teetered, skittering away from his grasp.

Having come this far, Harry growled a tiny bit and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He reached, stretching, and got his trembling hand around the cool glass.

Then, without warning, his body convulsed. Harry felt his body curl, his back arch. Felt the edge of his bed under him as the uncontrolled movements pushed him around. His body tipped and he collapsed to the floor, shuddering and spasming, completely out of control.

It slowly ebbed away, leaving him feeling like he'd just done back-to-back quidditch practices. His muscles twitched slightly as his body relaxed. Water dripped onto the ground from the spilled glass, creating an ever-expanding puddle of cold near Harry's shoulder.

Harry thought about getting up, trying to get back into bed, but he decided the floor was more than comfortable enough.

Darkness claimed him, a bit more willingly this time.

...

.

...

"Potter."

The voice of his least-liked professor cut into his sleep. There was a hand on his shoulder, fingernails feeling like they were digging into his skin.

"Potter."

Perhaps Snape wasn't his least-liked professor, not after what had happened with Quirrell. Surely a murder attempt would put the stumbling man in last place.

Second-least-liked, then. Harry could deal with that.

"Potter, for Merlin's sake. Open your eyes."

The icy tone slammed into Harry's brain, an ache starting to form. Perhaps he might have to rethink his least-liked list.

Fingernails dug into his skin again and Harry let his eyes open. The lights were soft, the greasy-haired professor leaning over him. Harry could make out the man's black eyes, gazing into his. Harry let out a groan that could only be classified as Zombie-esque.

"You need to get something into your stomach," Snape said. Then his hand appeared, another cold thing pressed again Harry's lips. Harry hesitated, then accepted the bits of ice. "I'm going to sit you up."

Up? Harry's mind struggled to catch up to what was going on. He took in the bed – he was back in it, someone must have helped him in his sleep – and the bowl sitting on the nightstand. His stomach clenched at the thought of food.

Slowly, Harry shook his head. "No," he whispered.

Snape paused. "No?" There was a darkness to the word.

Hands pulled at Harry's shoulders, pulling him into a rough sitting position. Pain from the movements shot thought Harry, making him draw in a rough breath, his body shaking. Then the hands pushed him back down, resting him against a cushion of pillows. He wasn't sitting up as much as lying upwards.

"I'm afraid you're lacking in options, child." Snape reached over and picked up a tray, settling it in front of Harry. Little legs popped out of the tray, making it into a tiny table. A bowl of soup sat on the black tray. "Eat."

The smell made Harry's stomach roll, nausea pulling at him. Breathing slowly through his mouth, Harry closed his eyes and made no attempt to pick up the spoon.

"Potter, enough of this idiocy. I'm not going to sit here all day!" Snape's voice was cold and sharp, annoyance bursting through every word.

"I don't feel well," Harry whispered, hoping it would be enough for the irate professor. The muscles in his legs twitched, then fell still.

Silence met that. "It's because you haven't eaten in quite some time," sneered the older man. "As you'd realize if you could follow even one simple command."

Harry opened his eyes, glancing from the bowl to the professor. "How long have I been asleep?" The words came out broken and rasping.

He could see the eyebrow twitch. "Four days, now," the man snapped. "Pick up the bloody spoon and eat." Then, almost as if the man couldn't stand to be in the room a second more, pushed himself to his feet and stalked from the hospital wing. The door swung behind him, groaning quietly on its hinges.

Harry's heart sank. Four days? His friends would all be gone, home for the holidays. He…

He should be at the Dursleys. Harry continued to stare in the direction of the door. It was summer, he should be with the Dursleys, he should be free of his dreaded potions professor, and yet he wasn't. He was here. He was sick.

An allergy.

The word buzzed through the fuzziness of Harry's brain and settled between his ears. That's what Snape had said. An allergy to something… probably one of the potions he'd drank.

Harry had never heard of allergies to potions. Potions were magical; they weren't a food. It was why muggles couldn't brew them - why they couldn't get any benefit from them either. People couldn't be allergic to potions any more than they could be allergic to magic. It made no sense.

"Potter!"

The shouted voice snapped Harry out of his musings with a startled flinch. His face warmed, slightly guiltily, and picked up his arm. It still felt like it was full of water, much too heavy to be his arm. Fingers didn't quite respond right, twitching uncontrollably when Harry attempted to pick up the spoon.

Finally, after several tries, Harry managed to grab the spoon in a child-like grip, wrapping all his fingers around the slim silver handle. The muscles in his arm spasming now and then, Harry slowly dipped the spoon into the soup and brought the spoon to his mouth.

By the time it got there, the twitching of his arms hand made the contents of the spoon dribble to the sheets. A last-second spasm had the bottom of the spoon smear against his nose and cheek rather than fit into his mouth.

His legs chose that moment to move, knocking into the tray. The soup bowl wobbled dangerously, spilling a good portion of its contents. Harry gazed at the soup for a long moment. Warm soup dripped from the edge of the tray onto his bed. The smell of the soup made his stomach curl dangerously.

Frustration mixed with nausea as Harry's body twitched yet again. Slowly setting the spoon back down, Harry settled back against the pillows. He really wasn't hungry.

He tried to drift back to sleep, into the comfort of the blackness, but his potions professor didn't stay away long enough. The man stalked back into the room, dragging a black cloud with him. He stopped by the edge of the bed, Harry gazing up at the man in silence.

Nobody spoke. Seconds ticked away.

Then Snape grabbed the tray and set it onto the bedside time. A quick Evanesco cleaned up the soup mess on the sheets. He drew a stool up to the side of the bed and perched on it, picking up the remains of the soup with a dark sigh. The spoon clicked against the side of the bowl before being held out in front of Harry's mouth.

Harry stared at his professor in confusion. He opened his mouth to ask what in the world the man thought he was doing, but the spoon was thrust inside. Harry coughed at the unexpected mouth-full of soup. Liquid dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

"You will eat this soup," Snape said, his voice cold and controlled, "so it's not worth complaining."

Another spoonful appeared. Harry thought about keeping his mouth closed. He thought about arguing. But he just opened his mouth and let his professor feed him. The soup was luke-warm and horribly bland. Something in it tingled against the back of his throat. He couldn't quite help the way his mouth twisted in disgust.

Snape hummed. Happily, Harry decided in frustration, as he accepted another spoonful of the horrible food.

Then his body betrayed him yet again. His muscles clenched and released, making him twitch and shake against the pillows. It went on forever.

Slowly it faded, leaving him feeling faint and broken. Tired. Horribly empty.

The sheets were wet. His bladder had released at some point. The smell of vomit curled in his nose. His eyes flickered open, just a little, before closing again. Snape was standing by his bedside. No doubt furious. Probably covered in soup, as Harry was pretty sure one of his legs had caught the soup bowl and sent it splattering all over the smelly professor.

Harry should be embarrassed. He should be apologizing. He should be…

But he wasn't. He was tired.

So his eyes stayed closed and his mind sank back into sleep.

...

.

...

Someone was brushing fingers through his hair. Playing with his bangs. Running cold fingers over his forehead. It was an incredibly soothing sensation.

But Harry couldn't bring himself awake enough to find out who it was.

...

.

...

To be continued...