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Chapter Five, Unbearable

"Mr. Potter, you've not taken more than two bites of your meals all day. Try to eat a little more or you won't be able to handle the stress of your magic."

Harry looked down at his tray of dinner, exhausted. He'd barely touched the chicken soup that Madame Pomfrey had given him half an hour ago. He felt sick, as he had all day. His magic had gone haywire, causing episodes where he was accidentally lashing out at his surroundings. The rare moments in between when he seemed to be in control were spent trying to fuel his body. But it wasn't working. He couldn't stomach more than a few bites of his food, and the medicine and potions he'd been required to take weren't helping on that front. What was more, the incessant thrum of his magic was distracting, overwhelming even during his calmest moments, that it wasn't allowing him any sort of concentration for too long.

"Sorry," he said mechanically. "I'm not hungry."

Madame Pomfrey nodded in understanding. Harry looked away as the tray of food disappeared from his lap, the shield that they had placed around him shimmering as it happened. Harry didn't want to meet the gaze of pity that Madame Pomfrey had been throwing his way since that morning, ever since Dumbledore had placed the protective shield around him not for Harry's safety, but for anyone around him. He nodded at the firm order to stay in bed, and Madame Pomfrey bid him goodnight.

Harry sighed when the door to her office closed with a light snap. He moved to stand. His legs were shaky but they managed to hold his weight as he walked towards the infirmary's lavatory. A look into the cracked mirror made him wince. He looked awful—frighteningly pale, too thin, and his dark circles were prominent against the shine of his eyes. It was probably an after-effect of the poison, but his eyes remained undilated for longer than normal, making him squint in order to be able to see properly in the near darkness. When he tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck, he caught sight of the injection area, right at the meeting point between his left shoulder and the bottom of his neck. It was an angry red, throbbing, and the small veins surrounding it were dark and purple as though they were infected. Which they were, Harry mused with another tired sigh.

He made his way back to bed, realizing belatedly that the trip to the lavatory had cost him more energy than if he'd done a running lap across the Quidditch pitch. He sat down heavily, trying to control his breathing. He hadn't had much time to consider what would happen to him now—if the conversation he heard the previous night between Dumbledore and Snape was true. And to be honest, Harry didn't really want to think about it. The thought of being incapacitated with this poison was too much to handle. What if his magic got the better of him? What if he accidentally hurt somebody? What if he hurt his friends?

He closed his eyes; his head was hurting, his body ached, but he couldn't sleep yet. Dumbledore had told him that he'd be visiting tonight, to better explain the situation. He had actually come earlier in the morning, after one of Harry's episodes had blown out half the windows in the infirmary. He hadn't answered any of Harry's questions concerning why he hadn't had any contact over the summer. In the end, Harry had given up asking, and announced he was feeling ill in order for Dumbledore to leave him alone. The headmaster had soon excused himself, raising the protective shield that now surrounded Harry, and had left him to rest.

When the entrance doors to the infirmary opened, Harry didn't check to see who it was. He sat cross-legged on his bed, pressing the palms of his hands together as a wave of nausea took over. This, too, had been present all day but thankfully Harry was able to keep himself in check. He nodded when the headmaster greeted him.

"You need your rest, Harry, so I will try to make this meeting short and quick," Dumbledore said to him as he conjured up a chair and sat down. "Have you had any more episodes?"

"Not since this afternoon," Harry answered.

Dumbledore nodded and said, "Harry, my dear boy, th—"

"I know what the poison is doing to me," Harry interrupted, not wanting to waste time walking around the subject. He didn't look at Dumbledore as he said this, but down at his hands, which shook from the strain of his magic. "And I know there's no cure."

"There is an antidote to every poison. I'm sure that we will find it in time."

Harry didn't answer. The pounding in his head increased. "Were you able to find out who it was? The Death Eater?"

"No, but from what we've gathered it's safe to assume that he is a new recruit to Voldemort's Inner Circle."

"A new recruit? I'd no idea he was taking applications," Harry said, humorlessly. He wondered what the man would've done in order for Voldemort to accept him into his ranks. Then again, it could've been the attack on Harry that had proven the man worthy. Whatever the reason, Harry would make him pay. He refocused his attention on Dumbledore, who'd been speaking.

"—and we'll find out who he is soon. But on to more pressing matters, Harry, I have made arrangements with Professor Snape—"

"No!" Harry said loudly. He'd forgotten that Dumbledore meant for Snape to help Harry with his magic. "No, Headmaster, anyone but him."

"Professor Snape is the most qualified in these situations. He will be guiding you through the process of controlling your magic—"

Harry didn't mean to, but he scoffed. "Because he did so well teaching me Occlumency?" Harry shot at him without thinking. His anger bubbled. Didn't Dumbledore realize how much Snape hated Harry? Didn't he get enough of a hint that Harry and Snape would never be able to see eye to eye? Just the thought of being in Snape's presence outside of class filled Harry with anxiety. He clenched his fist around the sheets on his bed. Snape wouldn't be able to help him. Of that he was sure.

"Harry, you have to calm yourself."

Harry shook his head, reaching to cover his face in his hands. His breathing was coming harshly. His magic was bubbling at the surface of his skin and as much as Harry willed himself to calm down; he wasn't able to.

"Harry, listen to me! Listen…"

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