Chapter 2: Old Home Remedy
"What is it?" Harry repeated suspiciously.
His aunt rolled her eyes and glared at him. "I just told you – it's something that will help perk you up a bit. Your uncle and I feel that you've been nothing but sluggish this summer."
"What?" Harry said incredulously. "I finished that whole door today!"
"And your attitude is completely wanting in respect!" his uncle barked. "All the marks of a lazy boy who needs some readjusting!"
Harry barely kept his anger in check. Hadn't he done everything they'd asked this summer without any griping whatsoever? Hadn't he been so polite that it nearly made him sick? He knew they were trying to make him angry; so far his new policy of not rising to their bait had worked marvelously. The less they saw of how their remarks affected him, the more irritated they became, and this gave Harry a great deal of pleasure. Even so, he refused to drink that… that stuff… without a fight.
"I won't drink it until you tell me what's in it!" Harry eyed the glass of scarlet liquid, crinkling his nose in disgust.
"It's a home remedy. You don't want to know what's in it," Petunia snapped.
"Bet it's turpentine and blood," snickered Dudley.
Harry scowled, and so did Uncle Vernon, whose face was in danger of going as red as the liquid in the glass. "There's nothing in it that will hurt you, boy," he said through gritted teeth. Harry thought he sounded rather disappointed. "But it's not a nice combination. It'll be worse for you knowing, believe me. So do as we say and drink it down."
Harry sighed in resignation and looked at the glass again. It was only a quarter full, but still looked decidedly unappetizing. Dudley laughed aloud, delighted at Harry's distress. Harry glared bitterly at his cousin. I wonder if Aunt Petunia has a nasty home remedy for mean-spirited boys? he thought. Oh, well… best to get this over with. He took the glass from his aunt with a grimace, pinched his nose, and took a sip.
It was sour, spicy, and biting all at the same time. Harry gulped to keep himself from spraying the Dursleys with the liquid in his mouth. He coughed forcefully, and raised his head. "What… what IS this? Vinegar? Chili pepper?"
"Bottoms up, boy," Vernon Dursley said, mustache twitching, his teeth still firmly clamped. Dudley grinned unpleasantly beside him, suddenly looking like a wider version of Draco Malfoy.
Harry considered the glass again. There really wasn't that much in it. Besides, Polyjuice Potion had definitely been worse, and at least he had never burped up slugs, like Ron. Harry summoned his courage and tipped the remainder down his throat.
**********
Harry rolled over in bed and looked at his alarm clock. Two A.M… Why had he woken up? Somehow he felt even more tired than when he had gone to bed. His mouth was completely dry. Harry sat up with a groan. He didn't feel well at all. Must be that home remedy, he thought. He stood up, and started to walk out of his room in search of a glass of water.
Milk. The thought formed from out of the blue. Not water. Milk. A sense of urgency hit Harry like a hammer. He descended the stairs, picking up speed as he went, entering the kitchen at a run. He fumbled in a cabinet for a glass and grabbed the carton of milk from the refrigerator. With shaking hands, he ripped open the new container and poured, spilling some in his haste. He seized the glass with both hands and brought it to his lips.
It was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted in his life. Pumpkin juice was nothing to this. Harry drank and drank without pausing for breath, tipping the glass higher and higher as he neared the bottom. He had no sooner finished than he feverishly picked up the carton again and poured himself another helping. This time he drank more slowly, enjoying the refreshing taste. Harry put the glass down, breathing as if he had been running. He was still thirsty. A third glass followed, and a fourth.
Harry had just begun pouring himself a fifth when a wave of drowsiness washed over him. His eyelids were leaden, his body heavy. Slowly he put the carton of milk back on the counter and picked up his glass. He regarded it silently for a moment; it was not even half full. Carefully he drank the last and set it back down. He hadn't been quite careful enough; milk dripped down the side of his chin, and the glass fell over with a clink. Harry barely noticed. He staggered out of the kitchen and up the stairs, finally collapsing in his bed. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
Harry had no idea how long he had been sleeping when he awoke again. Something was nipping at his fingertips. He jerked his arm compulsively and opened his eyes drowsily in time to see Hedwig flutter onto her perch on his desk. Harry was suddenly aware that he was freezing and reached around to pull on his blankets. "Thanks, Hed," murmured into his pillow. Hedwig hooted softly, her mission accomplished, and tucked her head under her wing.
**********
Petunia Dursley's screech of anger upon finding a milky mess in her kitchen failed to wake Harry the next morning. She stomped loudly up the stairs and burst into his room; the door banged against the wall and Hedwig squawked in indignation, but Harry slept on. It was only when Petunia shook him roughly that his eyes fluttered open.
"Horrible mess in the kitchen!" she yelled. "Milk spilled all over! Carton ripped! The whole thing nearly drunk, and the rest left out to spoil!"
Harry stared at his aunt blearily and did not reply. Petunia was furious. "Ungrateful, lazy boy, you answer me when I'm talking to you!" She reached down and grasped his shoulder to shake him again, but withdrew her hand when it met damp cloth. "You little fool, you're drenched in sweat! You know better than to sleep under all these covers on such a hot…"
Harry moaned, and Petunia trailed off. She put out a tentative hand and touched Harry's forehead.
He was on fire.
Petunia blinked and stepped away from the bed. Harry moved about restlessly, and flung his covers off. "I'm hot," he mumbled, to no one in particular.
Petunia stood very still, staring at an unremarkable spot on the floor for a long minute. Comprehension suddenly dawned on her face, and she quickly turned to go.
"Aunt Petunia?" She turned around and barely kept herself from screaming. Harry was looking at her. His eyes were no longer green, but silver. As she watched, the silver swirled like mercury and was replaced by the proper emerald color.
"I'm sorry, I think I'm sick." Harry swallowed hard and looked away.
"I'll go get some medicine," Petunia replied, and quickly left the room.
**********
"BUT I WANT TO GO TO THE THEATER!" Dudley screamed, stamping his foot.
"Duddydums, it's completely out of the question. Harry is too sick to leave with Mrs. Figg."
"HE ALWAYS RUINS EVERYTHING! I HATE HARRY!" Dudley's bellows made the walls tremble.
"Is he really that ill, dear?" Vernon asked.
"Vernon, we need to talk," Petunia said. Vernon looked at Petunia's frightened face, and nodded.
"I DON'T WANT TO STAY HOME!" Clearly enraged at being ignored while throwing one of his more spectacular tantrums, Dudley danced from one foot to the other, shouting as loudly as possible.
"DUDLEY!" roared Vernon. "Your mother and I are having a discussion! Go outside if you want to scream!"
Dudley, shocked at being set down, stood with his mouth agape.
"Mind me, son, and go outside," Vernon said. Dudley opened his mouth to argue, but one look at his father's face changed his mind. The mustache was quivering ominously. Dudley turned, stalked out the front door, and slammed it behind him.
Petunia cleared her throat and described Harry's symptoms. She twisted her hands while she told her husband about the milk incident and the color-changing eyes.
Vernon's red face paled a little. "Do… do you think this is… a disease that only his kind gets?"
Petunia shook her head. "I don't know about that, but I think… I think that this has something to do with the drink the Mortisons gave us."
Vernon sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that."
Petunia looked up again, eyes wide. "Vernon, we never asked them what was in it! If anything happens to Harry, if anyone finds out…" She broke off, gasping.
"Now, now, dear, don't get yourself worked up." Vernon placed a hand on his wife's shoulder. "Most likely Harry's just had a reaction to something in it. You make him some chicken soup, and I'll go talk to the Mortisons and ask them for the recipe. I'll tell them it worked so well we want to make it ourselves so he can take it more often."
A sigh of relief met Vernon's ears at this. "Oh that's brilliant, darling! Yes, I'll get started on that soup right away… You'll go see them now, won't you?"
"Just leaving, Petunia." Vernon headed straight out the front door, ignoring his son's whines.
Within fifteen minutes he was back, only to announce to his wife that the Mortisons were not at home. Petunia's face fell, but Vernon quickly put an arm around her and promised to go back in an hour or two. They were probably just out for the morning; it was Sunday, after all. This prospect cheered Petunia considerably, and she busied herself in taking soup up to Harry. Dudley's tantrum was over, and he had resigned himself to sulking in his room.
But the Mortisons were not back in an hour, nor two, nor three. Petunia's anxiety mounted with each failed attempt to find them. The ringing of their doorbell caused her heart to soar with hope, but it turned out to be Mrs. Figg, who had stopped by to find out why Harry had not been dropped off yet, and weren't they supposed to be going out today? The old woman's face clouded with concern when she was told that Harry had taken ill. Petunia's nerves were showing, so Vernon firmly escorted Mrs. Figg back to the walk with every promise that they were looking after Harry, and that he would surely be back in high spirits within a few days.
Harry ate very little soup and drank almost nothing. He was alternately either hot or freezing. As the day wore on, he fell into an uneasy slumber. His aunt watched him toss and turn with an anxious eye. Each touch of her hand on his forehead told her that his fever was not lessening. However, it was the moment when Harry began to speak nonsense in his sleep that Petunia became truly frightened. "Voldemort", "Diggory", and "Wormtail" meant nothing to her. She was finally convinced that Harry was not going to get better without more aid.
Panicking, Petunia hurried down the stairs to find her husband. The sun had already set, and twilight was upon them. Why, oh, why had they waited so long? "Vernon!" she gasped, spotting her husband in an easy chair. "We need to –"
She was interrupted by a loud knock at the front door.