Hermione did as the mediwitch asked, careful not to let Snape's head slip from her grasp.
"Drink," Pomfrey told Snape.
His throat worked, and she nodded in satisfaction. Then she turned to Hermione and said, "How long does it take for these pills to take effect?"
"Fifteen minutes or so, usually," Hermione said. "Can I... can I put his head back on the pillow now?"
"Oh! Of course, sorry, dear." The mediwitch felt Snape's forehead. "Fifteen minutes... Won't be a moment too soon. I haven't been able to get rid of this fever."
"Is he... He's going to be all right, isn't he?"
"I'm sure he will, once that potion's out of his system. After that, well, the rash will eventually go away, and he'll..." She folded her arms. "He'll pretty much have to lie still for a while."
Hermione was glad she wasn't in the mediwitch's shoes.
Little did she know.
[_]
Snape opened his eyes and glowered.
Why is it... so damned BRIGHT in here... And why does everything hurt so much...
His muscles felt like they were simultaneously being stretched and crushed; an unbearable pressure in his sinus cavities threatened to take all of his head along with it; his body felt like it was on fire, and his skin itched... But he was too weak to do anything about it.
Then he realized he wasn't in his beloved dungeons, but in the Hospital Wing. Again. What had happened to him this time? Yet another accident in the classroom?
Blast those eternal dunderheads...
Or perhaps... A torture session at the hands of Voldemort.
Then his face scrunched up, and he let out three scratchy sneezes.
"Awake, Severus?"
Oh, joy. The mediwitch extraordinaire.
He'd planned to bark one of his trademark caustic responses. What emerged from his throat was more like a barely audible croak, something similar to the sound an ailing frog would make. His eyes watered and he sneezed again.
She touched his forehead. "I think you need another couple of Tylenols."
Tylewhats? Again he tried to snap at her, but his voice was nowhere to be found.
"Severus, for pity's sake, relax. You've got the worst flu I've ever seen and I can't give you any potions because you're allergic to porcupine quills. Do you understand?"
Suddenly, he remembered -getting up, feeling ill, taking a potion... Sitting down at the Head Table for breakfast... Was delirium setting in, or had he actually thrown up on the werewolf? And, wait a minute. Allergic to porcupine quills?
He glared at Pomfrey and rasped.
"That's right, Severus."
He attempted to rise, in vain.
"Bullheaded man, what did I just tell you? Keep still, you're bringing your temperature up! Don't believe me, do you -let me prove it to you, then." She muttered a spell and the pitcher of water she was holding was transfigured into a mirror, which she held in front of his face.
His eyes widened.
Oh, no. Damn damn DAMN!
There was no mistaking the tell-tale rash that covered every inch of his sallow flesh. It was true. It had finally happened.
He stared at Pomfrey and gave a slight shake of the head, overcome by weariness.
"I know, Severus, and I'm sorry. I've been doing my best with, um... with alternative methods."
He shut his eyes and shrugged, too tired to care.
"All right, dear. I'm going to give you some pills now, and you'll feel a bit better in no time at all," Pomfrey said.