Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter, all characters belong to JK Rowling :)

Chapter warnings: vomiting (not self induced)

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The sound of retching echoed off the cold stone walls.

How many times had he been here, in this exact same position? On his knees, bowing to the porcelain god, and retching so hard he honestly thought he might hack up a vital organ? Only this time, his fingers weren't lodged in the back of his throat. Tears streaked down Harry's face as he dry heaved, gripping the toilet seat with white knuckles.

He'd managed to get a good few hours sleep. Crookshanks had paid him another visit, falling asleep curled up on top of his legs, and Harry had been so tired that he'd dozed off almost immediately. Just a few short hours, however, before being woken up by a sharp cramping in his stomach, and had barely had time to leap out of bed and run to the bathroom before he was horribly sick.

There was a soft knock at the door. "Harry? Are you alright?"

Harry recognised Ron's voice. He tried to reply, but another wave of nausea had him with his head down the toilet, yet again. The door creaked open behind him, and Harry heard Ron coming up behind him.

"Harry, mate? Should I get someone?" He said quietly, sounding worried.

Harry shook his head, shutting his eyes as his stomach churned. "M'fine," he said, resting his head in his hand.

"How long've you been here?" Ron asked, crouching down next to Harry.

"Dunno, bout… Woke up at three, I think," Harry mumbled, taking some deep breaths against the nausea. "What time is it now?"

"Just before six. I think we should go to the hospital wing, Harry - you're not well. Madam Pomfrey can give you something to stop you throwing up."

Harry nodded weakly. He never liked going to the hospital wing, but he felt like absolute shit, and the thought of a potion for his stomach was very alluring. He stood up carefully, staggering slightly. Ron caught his arm, holding him up. "C'mon, let's go," he said, still supporting Harry's arm as he led him out of the bathroom.

They walked through the corridors slowly, Harry leaning heavily on Ron. His head was spinning, and his stomach kept lurching dangerously. He had to stop at one point, feeling like his legs were going to give out beneath him. He propped himself up against the wall, shutting his eyes tightly. While Harry was resting, they heard footsteps coming down the corridor. The person rounded the corner and, much to Ron's horror, the two found themselves face to face with Professor Snape.

"Potter. Weasley." Snape sneered. "And what might you two be up to, wandering the corridors at this hour?"

"We were just going to the hospital wing, sir - Harry's not well," Ron said quickly. Snape raised an eyebrow, looking Harry up and down. "And what's ailing precious Potter today?" He asked sarcastically.

"He's been throwing up all night, sir. He just needs Madam Pomfrey, she can give him a potion or something."

"Hm." Snape looked Harry up and down for the second time. He had a pallor to rival one of the Hogwarts ghosts, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. Harry had his eyes clamped shut as he leant heavily against the wall, trying desperately not to puke.

"Well, I'm afraid Madam Pomfrey is away-"

"What? Where is she?" Ron questioned. He had never seen Harry this ill before, he knew his friend needed help.

Snape scowled at the interruption, "-on personal business, and she won't be returning until Monday."

"But sir, he's really not well-"

"Yes, I can see that, thank you Mr Weasley," Snape snapped. He looked at Harry, shivering violently and barely aware of the conversation, and sighed. He knew he could not send the boy back to his dormitory in this state.

"Mr Weasley, you may return to your dormitory. I will take it from here."

"But sir-" Ron began. He wasn't madly keen on the idea of leaving Harry alone with the slimy potions master.

"Now, Mr Weasley!"

"See you later, mate. Hope you feel better." Ron said, before reluctantly making his way back to the common room.

Harry barely even noticed Ron leaving, he felt so out of it.

"Come, Potter." Snape said curtly, and marched off down the corridor. Harry tried to keep up, but he could barely walk in a straight line, and had to keep grabbing onto the wall to keep himself upright. When Snape turned around to see Harry still some distance behind him, he sighed irritably. "Potter, must I conjure you a stretcher?" He snapped. Harry shook his head vehemently - he wasn't sure his dignity could survive being levitated down the corridor by Snape. "Keep up, then." Came the brusque reply.

Once they had reached the dungeons, Harry followed Snape into his office, and then through a door to the side that led to, Harry noted with mild surprise, a comfortable looking living room. "Sit." Snape said, pointing at a large sofa next to the fireplace. Harry needed no persuasion. All the standing was making his head swim, and he sank down into the cushions with relief.

"Potter." Harry cracked his eyes open to see Snape standing in front of him, thrusting a metal bucket at him. "In case you feel nauseous again - I'm rather fond of this rug." Harry took the bucket from him with a raspy "thanks", curling up against the arm of the sofa with it resting on his legs.

Snape returned moments later with two potion bottles in hand. He stopped in the doorway, frowning.

Harry was hunched over the bucket, his body convulsing with dry heaves. There was barely anything left in his stomach, but still it kept coming — violent spasms that wracked his thin frame.

"Here," Snape said curtly, setting the potions down on the side table and crouching in front of the sofa. His voice wasn't gentle, exactly, but it lacked its usual venom. "Drink this. It will help settle your stomach."

Harry wiped his mouth on his sleeve, too exhausted to be embarrassed, and reached for the potion with shaking hands. Snape steadied the bottle for him.

Harry took a sip, then gagged — the taste sharp and bitter. "Merlin," he rasped, eyes watering.

"It's not meant to be pleasant," Snape said dryly. "But it works."

When Harry had forced down enough, Snape passed him the second bottle. "This one will reduce your fever. It may also make you drowsy."

Harry gave a faint nod and swallowed it without argument. He lay back down almost immediately, the bucket still cradled in his arms like a shield. He was shivering.

Snape vanished the contents of the bucket with a flick of his wand, then summoned a blanket from the armchair and tucked it over Harry's shoulders. It wasn't warm, not exactly, but it was the kind of heavy blanket that made you feel like you were being held.

Harry was asleep before Snape even left the room.

Snape moved into the adjoining chamber and knelt in front of the fireplace, tossing a pinch of Floo powder into the flames.

"Headmaster's office," he said clearly.

The flames flashed green, and within moments, Albus Dumbledore's face appeared in the hearth.

"Severus," he said, voice calm as ever despite the hour. "Is everything alright?"

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "Potter is ill. Not surprising, given the state he's let himself fall into. He's in no condition to return to his dormitory tonight."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Madam Pomfrey is still away. I'll be leaving shortly myself — there's a matter I must attend to."

Snape's frown deepened. "Surely he can stay with McGonagall."

"She doesn't have your particular skill set, Severus," Dumbledore said gently. "If you're willing, I'd ask that you keep an eye on him. At least until Poppy returns."

Snape exhaled through his nose, long and slow. "Very well. Just until she returns."

"Thank you, Severus."

The flames flickered once, and Dumbledore was gone.

Snape rose stiffly and returned to the sitting room. Harry was still curled on the sofa, breathing shallow but even. Snape took the empty potion bottles and vanished them with a flick of his wand. Then he dimmed the lights and left Harry to sleep.

Harry didn't wake until late the next morning.

The light filtering through the dungeon windows was weak and grey. The fireplace had burned down to embers. For a moment, he didn't remember where he was — only that he was warm. And still tired.

Then everything caught up with him.

He sat up slowly, blinking blearily around the unfamiliar room. His whole body ached, and his throat was raw. But his stomach was quiet for the first time in hours.

Snape appeared from the adjoining room carrying a book. "You're awake," he said. "Good."

Harry rubbed his face, trying to make sense of it all. "Where am I?"

"My chambers," Snape said shortly. "Madam Pomfrey is unavailable. You were in no condition to remain in you dormitory."

Harry flushed, embarrassed. "Right. Sorry."

"What are you apologising for?" Snape frowned, surprising him.

There was a pause. Harry hesitated. "Can I go back now?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Not until you eat something."

"I feel better."

"You're not better." Snape turned toward a small table by the hearth. "Lunch will be brought in shortly."

"I'm not hungry."

Snape didn't turn around. "Depriving yourself of food will only worsen your condition."

Harry stiffened. "I'm not starving myself."

Snape faced him now, eyes sharp. "Potter, you are dangerously underweight. I haven't seen you eat anything since the start of term."

"I eat," Harry muttered, sullen.

"Not enough. And certainly not consistently." Snape's voice lowered. "If you refuse to eat, I will be forced to take it up with the Headmaster."

Harry didn't respond. Just looked away.

There was another long pause.

Snape exhaled quietly. "Eat what you can. No one expects miracles. But you need to stop working against your own recovery."

A moment later, a tray of food appeared on the table — soup, bread, a cup of tea.

Harry stared at it. Then, slowly, he stood and crossed the room, ignoring the way his head spun.

He picked up the spoon.

Snape watched from across the room as Harry picked at the soup. After a few hesitant spoonfuls, Harry tore off a corner of the bread and dipped it into the broth. It wasn't much, but he managed to eat most of it. Half the bread, maybe two-thirds of the soup. The tea went untouched.

When he finally set the spoon down and pushed the tray away, Snape rose from his armchair and crossed to stand beside him.

Without a word, he drew his wand and muttered a quiet incantation.

A pale blue light shimmered over Harry's torso and faded.

"Still slightly febrile," Snape said, mostly to himself. "No lingering nausea. Good."

He turned away and returned a moment later with two more small vials.

"This," he said, handing Harry the first, "is a follow-up dose of the stomach soother. Take it if you feel unsteady again."

Harry took the vial and tucked it into the pocket of his robes without a word.

Snape held up the second. "Fever reducer. Take it before bed tonight. It may make you drowsy, so avoid operating any heavy machinery."

That earned him a faint, surprised smile from Harry — the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Snape blinked slowly, then turned away to replace the empty tray. "You may return to your dormitory."

Harry stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Thanks," he muttered, not quite looking at Snape. "For… you know. All of it."

Snape arched an eyebrow. "I assure you, I'm not in the habit of nursing Gryffindors back to health."

Harry huffed a faint breath that might've been a laugh. Or a cough. It was hard to tell.

As he made his way to the door, Snape added, more softly, "If you feel ill again, or worse — come back. Understood?"

Harry nodded, then slipped out into the corridor, the two potion bottles tucked securely in his pocket.

~~

It was the weekend — the sort of day meant for Quidditch practice and lazy hours by the fire. But Harry didn't bother looking for Ron or Hermione. He made it back to his dorm unnoticed, crawled into bed, and slept until evening.

Sunday passed in a blur. He didn't go down for meals, only picked at toast Ron brought up. His stomach was still unsettled, and his limbs felt leaden. Crookshanks curled beside him at some point, and for a while, he enjoyed the quiet, flicking through the photo album Hagrid had given to him. As he stared at a picture of his parents next to a water fountain, holding him between them – his favourite picture – he couldn't help but think how disappointed they'd be if they could see him now.

By Monday morning, the haze had lifted just enough to let everything else back in — the cold press of exhaustion, the knot of anxiety that hadn't gone anywhere. His body ached less. But his mind… that was a different story.

And by the end of the day, he'd find himself wishing he'd never gotten out of bed at all.

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