Harry Potter and the Polka Dot Plague

Chapter 2 - Skittles

Harry dreamed he was playing Quidditch. This was not especially strange, as Quidditch was his favorite sport in the whole world. But this dream wasn't at all nice; it was terrifying. For one thing, it was nighttime, and only a thin sliver of moon lit the pitch. Harry could barely see the other players as they zoomed around him on their brooms. And there was no crowd to watch the game - all the seats in the stadium were empty. The silence was eerie and disorienting.

A Bludger whooshed past Harry's head, nearly startling him off his broom. He couldn't tell who had hit it toward him, couldn't even tell which players were on which team. How was he supposed to play like this? He needed to see what he was doing.

Somehow, his wand was in his hand. Harry raised it and shouted "Lumos," and a pale white light illuminated the area around him. He saw Ron and Hermione, wearing Quidditch robes in Gryffindor colors, just like his own. Harry looked around for the rest of his team, but none of the other players were wearing scarlet and gold. None of the other players were wearing Quidditch robes at all. Harry looked closer and saw that they were all dressed in black, hooded cloaks, and their faces were hidden behind masks.

Death Eaters! Harry spun his Firebolt in a circle. There were Death Eaters all around the pitch. He shouted at Ron and Hermione to get out of there, but they didn't seem to hear him, or maybe they just wouldn't listen.

A shrill whistle sounded somewhere above, and Harry looked up to see the hovering referee, somehow clearly visible against the night sky. His eyes were glowing red. It was Voldemort. Once again, Harry shouted for his friends to leave, and once again they didn't move.

Voldemort flew closer. His cloak fanned out behind him, filling the whole sky.

"Kill the spares," he said.

"No!" Harry screamed, but there was nothing he could do. All the Death Eaters were raising their wands. They were going to kill Ron and Hermione just for being on his team, they were-

"Harry! Harry, wake up!"

"Huh?" Harry lifted his head from the pillow, blinking woozily. He wasn't playing night-time Quidditch against Death Eaters. He was lying in bed, and Ron was bending over him looking worried. It was morning, but just barely: the sky outside the window had just begun to brighten on the horizon. The other Fifth-year Gryffindors were all sitting up in their beds, looking at Harry with expressions that ranged from concern to curiosity to annoyance at being woken so early.

"Are you all right?" Ron asked. "You were crying out in your sleep."

"Bad dream." Harry shivered at the memory, and had to fight down the crazy urge to yell at Ron to stand away from him. "My head hurts…"

"It's not your scar again, is it?" Ron's eyes widened in alarm.

"I don't think so." The pain was more of a throbbing than a burning, and it was spread out all over his head instead of centering in the middle of his forehead the way he was accustomed to. "I think it's just a normal headache." Now that he was fully awake, Harry was starting to notice just how miserable he felt. It wasn't just his head that hurt - all his joints were achy, too, and his skin felt clammy and horribly itchy. He scratched his stomach with one hand and his shoulder with the other.

"You should go to the Hospital Wing." Neville had climbed out of bed, and was now fidgeting nervously behind Ron. "You look feverish."

"Neville's right." Ron put one hand on Harry's forehead. "You are feverish. Come on." He tugged on Harry's sleeve. "Madam Pomfrey will put you right."

Harry began to protest - it was bad enough he finished every school year in the Hospital Wing, he really didn't want to start there too - when Ron and Neville both gave sudden cries of alarm and jumped back from the bed as if stung. Neville's mouth hung open, and Ron's face had gone very white under the freckles.

"What's wrong?" Harry demanded.

Neville closed his mouth so forcefully that his teeth clicked, and raised one shaky hand to point at Harry's chest. Harry looked down at himself and let out a startled yelp. Ron's tugging had made the top two buttons on his pajama top come undone, revealing a row of brightly colored purple and yellow polka dots decorating Harry's collar bones.

Slowly, feeling very aware that everyone in the room was staring at him now, Harry undid the rest of the buttons and looked. Purple, yellow, turquoise, lime green, orange… his entire torso was covered with polka dots.

"Harry," Ron breathed in a stunned voice. "You've got the Skittles!"

"Come off it!" Seamus Finnigan, who had begun to climb out of bed, suddenly pulled his feet up as if he thought the floor might be tainted. "Nobody gets the Skittles anymore. Besides, he's too old."

"Yeah, well, he's got it anyway." Ron helped Harry button his pajama top back up, then dug under the bed for his shoes. "Come on, now you really have to go."

Harry allowed Ron to pull him to his feet, and immediately regretted it. His stomach lurched, his vision blurred, and the room seemed to tilt from side to side like a fun-house floor. Harry's legs buckled, and he would've fallen if Ron hadn't been there to support him.

"Ugh. When did you grow so damned heavy?" Ron staggered a little, but managed to keep them both upright. "Come on, guys, somebody get his other side."

Nobody moved at first, and Harry got the distinct feeling that none of the other boys wanted to get near him. Then Neville stepped up and draped Harry's free arm around his shoulders.

"Thanks," Ron grunted, and the three of them staggered slowly toward the door.

The common room was empty except for Hermione, who was curled up in a chair by the fireplace with a copy of Acing your O.W.L.s. She clapped the book shut when she saw the boys enter, and hurried over to meet them.

"Harry! What's wrong with him?"

"He's got the Skittles," Ron huffed. "Come on, we have to get him to Madam Pomfrey."

They steered Harry out the door and down the corridor, with Hermione trotting alongside.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, frowning anxiously. "There hasn't been a Skittles outbreak in Britain for over thirty years."

"Of course I'm sure," Ron snapped. "He's covered with polka dots. Can't mistake it."

Hermione's frown deepened. "Haven't you had your injection, Harry?"

"What injection?" Harry mumbled. It was hard to speak past the aches and the itching and the awful, queasy feeling in his stomach. He scratched at his hip, and Hermione quickly slapped his hand away.

"Don't scratch it, you'll make it worse."

"It can get worse?" Harry shuddered and draped his arm around Neville's shoulders again. "Just what exactly are the Skittles, and how bad do they get?"

"It's a childhood disease that wizards used to get," Hermione explained. "Kind of like the measles. Except nobody ever gets it anymore, because there's a vaccine. Wizard-born babies get their jab before their second birthday, and Muggle-borns have to get it after they're admitted to Hogwarts. My parents had to take me to St. Mungo's for it after I got my letter."

"I never knew about any jabs," Harry said.

"This is very bad." Hermione wrung her hands as she walked. "Most people get the Skittles very young, before their magic really kicks in. Getting it after can be very dangerous, and the older than you are, the worse it is. Fifteen is very old to-"

Just then Neville lost his footing as he tried to avoid the trick step on the staircase they were negotiating. He yelped and let go of Harry in order to catch himself on the banister with both hands. Ron, finding himself suddenly supporting all of Harry's weight, overbalanced, and began to topple forward, taking Harry with him. Hermione tried to catch them, but while she did succeed in grasping the back of Ron's collar as he went by, she wasn't strong enough to stop their momentum. So everyone except Neville went tumbling down the stairs with a great deal of noise.

"I'm sorry!" Neville huffed, running down after them. "Sorry, sorry, sorry… is everyone all right?"

"Depends on what you'd call all right." Ron disentangled himself from Hermione and sat up, rubbing his knee and wincing. "I think all my limbs are still attached. How about you lot?"

"I'm okay." Hermione was nursing a bruised elbow, and her hair was looking very messy, but she didn't appear to be seriously hurt. "Good thing we were near the bottom of the stairs already. Oh, don't sniffle, Neville, there's no harm done. Right, Harry?"

"Uhm… right." Harry felt bruised all over, but nothing seemed to be broken or missing. Still, he felt no desire to move anytime soon. "I think I'll just lie here for a while, though… maybe for a couple of hours."

"I don't think that would be such a good idea." Ron ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand up on end. "Does anyone have their wand? Maybe we can levitate you or something."

"Ron!" Hermione looked scandalized. "Don't you pay any attention in History of Magic?"

"Of course not. You're the only one who ever pays attention in History of Magic. What does it have to do with levitating Harry, anyway?"

"Everything." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Skittles interferes with magic. People who have it mustn't cast spells or have spells cast on them. Professor Binns explained all about it last term, when he talked about the Great Skittles Epidemic of 1693. If you tried to levitate Harry, you'd probably end up turning him into a rabbit, or giving him a third arm, or-"

"Okay, okay, I get the idea." Ron climbed to his feet, using the wall for support. "I guess we're stuck getting him there by brute force."

They encountered no further mishaps on the way. This was fortunate, because Harry grew steadily weaker and more miserable as they went on. By the time they reached the infirmary, his legs would no longer hold him up at all, and he was sure he was going to pass out at any moment.

The normally unflappable Madam Pomfrey looked distinctly flapped when Harry lifted up his pajama top to expose his polka-dotted tummy.

"Oh, my," she breathed. "Skittles. We've never… I don't think we have any… oh, my…" She took a few deep breaths and pulled herself together. "All right, then. No need to panic. Miss Granger, please go and notify Professor McGonagall of Mr. Potter's condition. Mr. Potter, stop scratching, you'll only make it worse. Weasley, Longbottom, help me get him into bed."

Harry had never felt so grateful to be lying down.

TBC