Snape swallowed the medicine and groaned.

"What is it?" Pomfrey asked.

He glared at her again. I feel like crap, is that so bloody surprising?

She ignored his sullen look and checked his temperature. Then she grabbed a small yellow tube and squeezed some of its contents into the palm of her hand.

"What... you doing?" he said. Or rather, wheezed.

"I'm going to put something on that rash of yours. It itches, doesn't it?"

"How astute of-" He flinched and swallowed.

"Professor, I predict you're going to be here for a while, so let's make like friends, shall we? And you'd better stay quiet, or you'll hurt your throat."

He grumbled softly.

"Good."

Pomfrey began rubbing the ointment on his arm; he tensed, then relaxed.

She sniffed. "Smells like herbs. It's not greasy either, not bad... I should keep some of it in stock. Well, I'll have to now, I think. Does it help?"

"Hmm."

She moved on to his other arm and smoothed the ointment upon his skin. Then she squirted more ointment from the tube and spread it across his chest. "Is the burning sensation going away?"

He nodded, sighing with relief.

She lifted the blankets from his legs and applied the fragrant cream on them, massaging his stiff muscles at the same time.

"How's that?" she said.

Snape snored in response.

She considered her slumbering patient and said, "I'll definitely need more of that stuff. I might as well take care of his back while I'm at it..." A couple of spells, and she had him lying on his stomach; she'd just started gently kneading his rash-covered shoulders when the Headmaster came in.

"How's our Severus doing?" Dumbledore said.

"Grumpy, but cooperative."

"Excellent." He gazed at Snape and said, "Tsk, tsk. Poor lad. Is the Muggle medicine working?"

"Better than I expected," Pomfrey said, moving further down his back. "I should have looked into it sooner."

"There is no doubt that we magical folk tend to underestimate our Muggle counterparts. I suspect that Severus will develop an interest in the chemistry behind this medicine of theirs."

"Wonders will never cease!"

[_]

Hermione could hardly believe her ears when Madam Pomfrey told her to get more of 'that Muggle ointment' for Professor Snape. He'd allowed her to use it, then. And he must have liked it, since Madam Pomfrey had asked Hermione to buy more.

The Gryffindor couldn't help but feel exuberant: she'd managed to do something, at last, which her forbidding Potions Master had approved.

Or perhaps he was sicker than everyone thought.

She entered the Hospital Ward, her heart thudding against her ribs.

The mediwitch was sitting behind her desk, organizing stacks of note cards. Snape was still lying on his stomach, asleep.

"Madam Pomfrey..."

"Ah, Hermione. Come in, come in. Is that the cream I asked for?"

"I got a few tubes of it," Hermione said. She walked to the desk, sneaking a glance in Snape's direction on the way, and handed a small bag to Pomfrey.

"Thank you, dear." She took one of the tubes out of the bag. "You'll have to tell me where you get all these things."

"The professor... liked it?"

"Well, when he found out about his allergy, he was... It wasn't very good news, as you can imagine." Pomfrey said. "He didn't put up much of a fight after that."

Hermione gaped.

"I know he must seem like an overgrown porcupine to you students, but he's not so bad as all that, dear. Professor Snape just has a lot on his mind," the mediwitch said.

"Teaching potions doesn't look easy," Hermione said. Not to mention, spying on Voldemort and trying not to get killed.

"It most certainly isn't. It's a shame that the Hospital Ward is the only place where he ever seems to get any rest."

Hermione looked at her Potions Professor. It was so strange, seeing him like that. He wasn't scowling, or yelling, or stalking -he was just lying there, immobile, with his cheek pushed against the pillow.

"Is there anything else I can do?" she said.

"If you'd like, you can sit by his bedside while I finish with this paperwork, and let me know when he wakes up."

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey."

An hour later, Hermione was finding it increasingly difficult not to dooze off herself. The only sounds in the room were the shuffling of paper, and the Potions Master's even breathing.

Then suddenly, his eyelids opened, revealing drowsy black eyes. Hermione started.

"Oh!"

Pomfrey looked up from her work. "Something wrong, dear?"

"Madam Pomfrey, Professor Snape is awake," Hermione said, backing away from the bed.

The mediwitch immediately went to him and touched his face and his neck. "Severus, how are you feeling?"

He tried to speak, and screwed his eyes shut.

"Throat?"

He nodded.

"Do you think you'd be able to swallow pills like those I gave you earlier?"

He shook his head.

"I -I think maybe this," Hermione said. She held out one of the bottles of Muggle medicine that were lined up on the table next to the potions cabinet. "It's cold syrup."

"Bring it to me, Hermione," Pomfrey said. "Let's get the professor sitting up a bit..." She waved her wand and turned him over, with pillows supporting his head and back.

"Here, Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said, and gave her the bottle, trying not to look at the Potions Master.

Snape started breathing more rapidly and a small complaint escaped him.

"I don't think I've ever seen him so ill," Pomfrey said. She inspected the red liquid inside the bottle, took a whiff and wrinkled her nose. "I hope this won't make him sick."

"It's not sweet, I mean, that's what my parents used to give me when I had a flu, and it didn't make me sick. I'm sure Professor Snape will be all right."

Pomfrey poured some of it in a spoon. "Severus, have this."

He opened his mouth, took a painful swallow and shuddered, but a few moments later, his breathing slowed.

"That was a good suggestion, Hermione," Pomfrey said.

"He might like ginger ale too," Hermione said. "It would help settle his stomach."

"Ginger ale?" Pomfrey said.

"It's a Muggle drink. I always have some when I don't feel well."

"Well, I trust you, dear. And I'm sure the professor will be grateful to you once he's gotten his bearings back."

[_]

That evening, the Potions Master was busy wishing he were dead.

A flu, is what Pomfrey had said this was.

An attack of the bubonic plague, more like.

To top it off, he couldn't take any potions. He could name half a dozen that would have gotten rid of this thing in less than five minutes. He couldn't, however, name a single healing potion that didn't contain those blasted porcupine quills.

Worst of all, though, was that they wouldn't leave him to rot in the comfort of his own miserable company. Pomfrey, Albus, and, oh yes.

Miss Granger.

What an incomparable delight that was.

The girl was at his bedside, reading to him from some Muggle mystery book, every softly spoken word like a rock dropping on his head.

"Elementary, my dear Watson..."

He had to give it to the little know-it-all, though: that 'ginger ale' drink she'd brought had been a rather pleasant surprise, especially since the thought of ingesting anything had previously made him want to retch. But the golden fizzy liquid had quelled his nausea, and he was thankful enough to allow the girl to stay without subjecting her to his inimitable aura of menace.