The Painful Reality

     Dean retired to his dorm earlier than usual that evening, determined to study up so he would do well on his Herbology exam the next day. He had expected to find the dorm empty when he arrived; however when he opened the door to the bedroom he shared with four other boys in his year, there was a yellow beam of light shining into the darkened dorm room from under the door to the bathroom. From behind it came the unmistakable sounds of someone being very sick.

     "Who's there?" Dean asked quietly, illuminating the bedroom with a flick of his wand and making his way quickly to the bathroom door.

     "Nobody – I'm fine," said a scratchy voice that sounded as if it hadn't been used in years. There was a very wet cough, and then the low moan of someone in extreme discomfort.

     "You don't sound fine to me," said Dean. "I'm coming in."

     "No, don't –" came the voice from behind the door, but it was too late: Dean wrenched the knob and quickly swung open the door.

     "Neville?" Dean said, and he was right – there was Neville, kneeling next to the toilet, one hand on his knee and the other on the rim of the bowl. His face was pale and drenched in sweat, his hair clinging to his forehead in wet brown tangles. He looked up at Dean; his eyes were unfocused and very wet.

     "Oh, God, Neville – you look terrible," said Dean upon seeing his friend on the floor of the bathroom.

     "I'm alright," Neville croaked, and Dean watched as he took a shaking hand and wiped the back of it across his clammy brow.

     "You don't look it," Dean said, coming further into the dimly-lit bathroom. "Have you been sick?" he asked hesitantly.

     "A little," Neville said; moments later he coughed, then leaned over the toilet and retched terribly.

     "Oh, God," Dean said again, quickly moving down next to Neville on the floor and putting a hand on his back. Neville spat into the bowl and then sat back on his feet again, breathing heavily and wiping his mouth on his hand.

     "How long has this been going on?" Dean asked, rubbing Neville's back gently as the boy shuddered involuntarily.

     "I don't know – forty minutes, I guess. But it's okay, I'm – I'm –" Neville started, but was interrupted by an instance of retching. He leaned over the toilet and heaved violently; he paused, then made a horrible noise and vomited.

     Dean cringed.

     "You're anything but alright, if that's what you were going to say," he said. Neville sat back from the toilet, and his face was more green than before. He seemed drained of energy, barely able to support himself. He hung his head and put his hands on his knees, a clammy sweat covering his entire body.

     "Let me feel your forehead," Dean demanded, and when Neville didn't resist he put the back of his hand to his friend's brow. "Geez, you're burning up," Dean muttered incredulously. "At least 40 degrees. And no wonder – you're soaked through," he observed, feeling Neville's sopping tee shirt. "Come on, we should get you to the hospital wing. This seems serious."

     "No, I don't want – ohhhhh," Neville moaned suddenly, and he doubled over, grabbing his stomach with one hand and putting the other on the tiled floor in front of him. He made a sound indicative of excruciating pain, hanging his head down and groaning a long and low groan.

     With a sharp intake of breath, Dean quickly leaned down over his friend. Putting his arms under Neville's, he was able to bring the boy to a sitting position and then help him to his feet. Neville leaned unsteadily against Dean, his head down and his eyes closed, still moaning plaintively. Taking tiny steps at a time, the two began to move towards the bedroom door.

     "Do you think you can make it to the hospital wing?" asked Dean nervously. He was feeling very anxious; Neville's condition was worrisome, and Dean had never been one to handle sickness very well.

     Neville nodded mutely in reply, so they continued out into the hallway, his arm draped over Dean's shoulder. They were only a few meters away from the stairwell when Neville felt his knees give out from under him; Dean had just enough time to get a tighter hold on Neville's arm before lowering him to the ground.

     Defeated, Neville sat and leaned against the wall of the corridor. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Dean saw his face twist into a pained expression, his eyes suddenly brimming over with tears. He ran his hands over his face and ears and through his hair and over his face again, gasping and coughing with quiet sobs.

     "My gran is dead," he said to nobody.