Think of Me
On a fine afternoon one spring, a small boy sat in the backyard of Number 4 Privet Drive. Number 4, like most of Privet Drive and even the rest of Little Whinging, was a very ordinary two-story house in a row of identical houses. Indeed, there was nothing particularly unusual anywhere on the street. Even the boy with his messy black hair and too-small frame seemed mostly ordinary at first glance.
It wasn't precisely normal for a five-year-old to be weeding the garden alone, of course, but it wasn't unheard of. His mother could have made her way inside for lemonade before rejoining him in their landscaping hobby. Unfortunately, Harry Potter did not have a mother to come back to him.
Harry stood and stretched a little, a bit stiff after kneeling beside the rosebushes for so long. He'd been outside since just after breakfast that morning and it was getting close to noon. A short coughing fit reminded him why he usually avoided moving so fast.
"Boy! Coughing again? You still have a whole bed to go, so have a sip of water and get back to it. You still have other chores to do before Vernon gets home." The bony blonde woman who was standing on the porch scowled at him.
"Sorry, Aunt Petunia. I feel better now and will do the last one. Didn't mean to bother you." Harry quickly knelt again beside the last flowerbed and busied himself tugging at the small weeds, while breathing deeply to suppress the last of his coughs.
Petunia Dursley scowled at her nephew and watched him carefully for another few minutes, criticizing his posture and the status of the other beds. Finally, she turned to leave, but Harry heard her mutter to herself, "Such a sickly child. He can't even keep a garden properly weeded. Useless."
The door slammed shut behind her, and Harry was left alone. He worked diligently, stopping to breathe carefully every few minutes. He'd nearly managed the whole flower bed before another coughing fit managed to break through. He covered his mouth with his hands, trying to keep quiet as the fit wracked his small body.
His mouth tasted weird. Herbal and sweet.
In his hands was a small white clover flower.
Harry stared at it for a moment while running his tongue over the inside of his mouth. Did it come out of him?
Dumbly, he got to his feet, eyes still fixed on the flower. He walked to the door where he hesitated. Should he even say anything? His aunt didn't much like weird things. But he didn't quite know what was going on, and adults usually were good at explaining things, even if they didn't try to help him very often.
He pushed through the door and found his aunt cooking lunch for Dudley, who was watching television in the living room.
"Um, Aunt Petunia?"
She scowled at him. "Have you finished the garden?"
He nodded quickly. "I did, but something weird happened. I was coughing and I think I coughed a flower." He held out his hand in front of him, the slightly damp flower sitting in his small palm.
Petunia paled before her face grew stormy. "What nonsense! I won't have you lying to me in my own house! I know there are clovers growing out there. How dare you tell such a ridiculous story!"
Harry winced and dropped his hand, taking a step back. He should have known better than to say something odd to his aunt.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia."
"You will be," she snarled. "You will finish your chores then go right to your cupboard without dinner. Now go! Off with you!"
Harry scurried away, careful not to drop the flower inside the house. After a flurry of cleaning and evading his irritated uncle, he was locked in the cupboard under the stairs for the night.
As he lay curled up on a threadbare cot, the small boy began to cry softly. His chest hurt from coughing and his stomach ached from the missed meals. He cried until he was interrupted by another bout of coughs, deep wet ones brought on by the tears.
In his hands, he felt the soft squishiness of another flower, this one wet with tears and mucus.
He didn't tell his aunt.
Over the next year, Harry noticed that the worst of his coughing fits brought with them the small clover flowers. He hadn't shown them to a soul since the fiasco with his aunt. Instead, he kept the small flowers hidden and managed to smuggle them into trash cans or outside where they wouldn't be noticed. He felt lucky they were so small.
It was summer, just after his seventh birthday, when things changed. Harry's Aunt Marge had come to stay with Dursley's for a few days and she'd brought one of her terrible dogs with her. Aunt Marge seemed to like nothing better than to watch her aggressive dogs chase Harry around the house and yard.
"Get him, Ripper! Teach that no good urchin his place." She chuckled as Harry flew past her again, struggling to reach a tree he could climb to safety.
Ripper growled behind him as Harry snagged the lowest branch and tried to heave himself up. He was nearly out of reach of the dog when his uncle stepped out of the house and barked at him, "Boy! Get inside. You need to help your aunt with supper."
In his surprise, Harry lost his handhold on the tree and fell to the ground. He'd only been a few feet off the ground, but the fall knocked the air from his lungs and spurred another coughing fit.
Ripper yipped and ran behind Marge, as she and Uncle Vernon walked over.
"Get off the ground, boy. It was hardly a fall. Stop your inane dramatics. You—" Aunt Marge fell abruptly silent.
Harry stared in horror at the small handful of clover in his palm.
"Pet!" Vernon called hoarsely. He grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him roughly inside. Marge followed looking puzzled.
Aunt Petunia met them in the kitchen and her eyes widened when Vernon wrenched open Harry's hands. "He fell out of a tree and started coughing up flowers."
For a moment, Harry thought Aunt Petunia looked worried, but when she looked at his face, her eyes narrowed coldly. "Boy! I thought I told you not to play tricks like that!" She sighed and turned to the other adults. "He did this once to me last year and I thought he'd grown out of it. He must have hidden the flowers in his mouth earlier. There's a whole bed of clover down the street near the park. Don't worry," here she shot him a furious look. "We will make sure he knows better than to tell lies."
Harry was shoved back into his cupboard and wasn't permitted out except to use the washroom until the next day when Aunt Marge left. When he heard his uncle return that night, he knew something unpleasant was coming.
"You freak!" He was tugged from his cupboard roughly and flung to the ground in the hallway. Harry looked up to see his aunt and uncle standing over him. Aunt Petunia looked pale and nervous, but Uncle Vernon's face was red and splotchy with rage.
"We'd hoped that maybe since you were so sick and worthless that we'd be spared any of your freaky nonsense. But no! Coughing flowers? You will control your freakiness, or you won't be welcome in this house! Do you understand?" Vernon bellowed the last words, and Harry nodded frantically. Vernon nodded once, satisfied, and grabbed Harry's arm again. "No dinner for you, and you should take this time to think about what kind of life you want to live."
Harry heard the dull thud of the cupboard door and the click as the lock slid into place. He sat heavily on his cot and curled up in a ball. He struggled to hold back his tears since they always made him cough. At least he wasn't all that hungry.
Harry was mostly kept inside for the rest of the summer. He'd occasionally go out to work in the yard, but Aunt Petunia carefully kept him away from Dudley and his friends to ensure no mention of the flower incident spread through the neighborhood.
Harry was almost reluctant for school to start. He'd liked school last year. It had given him an opportunity to get out of the house and meet some almost nice people. But it also involved recess. As much as Harry tried to convince his teachers to let him sit in a classroom and read during recess, he had never once gotten out of the daily torture session.
Harry had managed to stay close to the teacher supervising recess so far that first week. If he was directly in an adult's line of sight, Dudley couldn't start anything without risking trouble. His parents didn't care if he actively bullied his cousin, but the teachers did. He needed to be able to pass off any trouble as a game gone wrong.
Finally, on Friday, Dudley got his chance. Harry was feeling especially tired and didn't notice when the teacher moved to one side of the playground to deal with a scraped knee.
"Why do they let a freak like you come to school anyway? It would be better for everyone if you were kept away from normal kids."
Harry opened his eyes to see his whale of a cousin, Dudley, looming over him with a couple of his friends. He closed his eyes again. He was too tired for this.
A swift kick to the ribs caused his eyes to snap back open.
"Don't ignore me!" Dudley hissed.
Harry looked around quickly for the teacher, but his hopes crumbled as he saw her walking inside with a crying child. He looked back at Dudley, wary now that he knew there were no adults nearby to help.
"It's not my fault I have to go to school. Why don't you just ignore me?"
Dudley was not amused. His face reddened, and he bent down to grab Harry.
Harry was ready for this, and long years with his cousin had ingrained quick reflexes in him. He rolled under his cousin's hand and came up already running.
Harry figured there was probably another teacher around the side of the building at the other door to the school. If he could only make it before Dudley and his friends caught him.
Unfortunately, Harry hadn't realized how out of practice running he'd gotten over the summer while kept mostly away from Dudley. His chest burned as he ran, and Piers, the fastest of Dudley's groupies, managed to tackle him just as he reached the corner of the building.
Harry fell hard, his arms burning where they'd scraped against the rocky ground.
"I got him!" Piers squealed before backing up to let the others encircle Harry.
Dudley grinned malevolently and kicked Harry in the ribs, hard.
Harry cried out in pain.
A few more kicks from the surrounding boys and he was coughing roughly. One of the boys cried out. Harry wasn't sure why until he saw the small pile of clover on the ground beside him. A shining red liquid was starkly visible against the white of the clover.
Piers dashed away, crying out for a teacher. The other boys just stared as Harry tried desperately to catch his breath.
"What is going on here?" The teacher approached at a run, glaring at the boys. Piers was nowhere to be seen.
"Miss Hamilton, we were playing tag when Harry fell over and spit out a bunch of flowers! He did this at home last month too to scare our aunt. He must have smuggled some ketchup out of lunch too. He's trying to get us in trouble."
Miss Hamilton looked down at the flowers and frowned.
"Miss Hamilton, it's not like that. I don't know where they're coming from, but I can't help it!"
Dudley looked murderous. "Mum and Dad will ground you for lying to a teacher!"
Harry felt his eyes fill with tears as his teacher's expression settled on disapproving. "Yes, I'm sure they will. Now, Mr. Potter, you will accompany me to the principle's office to wait for your aunt and uncle. The rest of you boys can continue playing. You still have a few minutes of recess."
Harry sniffled quietly as he was led inside. He barely noticed when his aunt came to pick him up, and listened in a daze as she berated him about freakiness and respect for normal people. He didn't even need to be dragged to his cupboard. He knew precisely where he was going.
"You'll be staying in there all weekend so you can think about the horrible rumors you've started about us decent people. Your freakiness is not tolerated here."
Harry nodded dumbly as the door closed with a snap behind him.
The next morning, Petunia let Harry out of his cupboard to wash up since he was still covered in dirt from the incident on the playground.
He slowly made his way up the stairs, sore and exhausted from crying through the night. He broke down coughing again in the bathroom.
"Boy! Stop that infernal coughing and hurry up! I have more important things to do than to babysit you."
Harry felt his eyes and chest burning. Suddenly he doubled over in front of the toilet and started retching. To his horror, the thin stream of stomach acid was flooded by fistfuls of clover.
"What is going on now?" His aunt stormed in and screamed, staring at the green and white filled toilet bowl.
"Pet?" Vernon pushed in behind her and saw the situation. His face grew pale and splotchy. "Cupboard, now."
Harry stumbled out of the bathroom and almost fell down the stairs with his uncle pushing him to move faster. He fell onto the cot, almost delirious from the pain.
The day passed in a haze. Harry didn't move at all until his aunt let him out around dinner to use the washroom again and eat a slice of toast.
He stumbled out of the door but collapsed when he tried to walk up the stairs.
"Honestly, what now?" Petunia muttered. She grabbed him to pull him upright but jerked her hand away as though burned.
She turned and returned to the sitting room, leaving Harry lying on the stairs. He heard her nervous voice from the other room. "Vernon, he's feverish. What do we do? Is this some sort of freak illness?"
"Even if it is, what would we tell the doctors? His kind would have a freaky sickness like this."
There was some quiet mumbling that Harry couldn't make out before his uncle spoke up again. "Give him some of the good flu medicine. If that won't fix him then we'll have to let it pass on its own."
Petunia returned to Harry a few minutes later. She forced some foul-tasting liquid into his mouth and helped him to the washroom. Harry fell back onto his cot afterward, feeling entirely drained just from walking upstairs.
He was still sick on Monday, so Petunia called the school to let them know he would be absent. Around lunchtime she brought him some hot soup. She gently checked his temperature and helped him eat. Harry relaxed a little, enjoying the soothing warmth of the broth. The tightness in his chest relaxed a bit. He was even able to walk up the stairs mostly by himself afterwards, even though he had to lean heavily on the banister to stay upright.
Harry was able to sit up and read a bit that afternoon. He tried to catch up on his homework which Dudley had been forced to bring home from school for him.
His focus was broken when he heard his aunt and uncle outside the door to his cupboard.
"You said he's doing better?"
"The flu medicine must be working. I hate wasting the good stuff on him, but at least he was able to walk up the stairs on his own."
Vernon grunted loudly. "Worthless boy. A freak just like his parents. What were those people thinking, leaving him here? They should never have dragged us into this."
Petunia sighed. "If he's always going to be getting sick like this, it would have been better if he'd died with his parents. Less trouble for everyone."
Harry fought not to make any noise as tears streamed down his face. He sobbed for a long time, muffling the sound in his flat, lumpy pillow.
After a long time, tears gave way to another coughing fit. His chest burned as he struggled to breathe through choking tears and spasms. Something was blocking his airflow.
Hesitantly, he pushed his fingers into his mouth and pulled out clover plants. Their roots and stems were filling his mouth and throat.
He tugged them out faster and faster, struggling to clear his airways.
The pain was unbearable.
He spat out another handful of flowers. He stared at them, gleaming with blood in his shaking hands. Another great spasm of pain forced him back onto his cot. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain and wished for it to be over. The cold, unfeeling darkness was a relief from the burning pain.
Petunia came to check on Harry a few hours later. He was lying curled up on his cot asleep. He didn't stir when she flipped off the light. Good, hopefully he'd sleep it off. She considered checking his temperature but decided against it. It wouldn't do for her to contract whatever this was and expose Dudley to it.
Instead, she quickly shut the door and returned to cooking dinner for the family.
She checked on him once more before bed and was pleased to see he hadn't moved. This was evidently the most restful sleep he'd gotten in several nights.
Petunia went upstairs to bed and slept soundly. She hadn't felt her nephew's burning fever or shallow breathing.
Far away, in a dark and lofty room far below the streets of London, a shimmering glass sphere flickered weakly as it had for the last several weeks. Finally, late in the night, the quivering light gave a last bright splutter and faded to darkness.
AN: This story was inspired by ColeyDoesThings's recent video on Hanahaki disease. I've been thinking for a while about trying to write short stories to experiment with different fanfiction tropes, and Coley's video gave me the idea for this story. I hope you enjoy it.