Harry Potter and the Polka Dot Plague

Chapter 3 - Snape's Curse

Severus Snape was not having a good morning. He had slept badly, even by his low standards, and awakened with stiff joints and a splitting headache. A dose of Ache-away Potion failed to provide relief, and he was digging through his cabinet in search of something more potent when someone knocked on his door.

"Who's there?" he snarled in a tone that indicated that whoever it was had better have something incredibly urgent to say if they were going to disturb him before breakfast.

"Severus? Open up, it's Poppy."

Damn. It really was urgent, then. Poppy Pomfrey never disturbed his private space unless she needed something for the infirmary, and this early in the term she could not have yet run out of any of the standard remedies. Snape swore under his breath as he hastily pulled his robes on over his nightshirt.

"Enter." It was both an invitation and a code to instruct the Locking Charm on his door to admit a single person.

"I'm sorry to bother you this early." Poppy looked flushed and out of breath, as if she'd run all the way from the infirmary. "But we've had a rather… unexpected problem. Harry Potter has the Skittles."

Snape's breath stuck in his throat, and his hands went clammy. "Wha-" His voice cracked in an extremely embarrassing manner, and he had to turn it into a cough and start again. "Harry Potter has what?"

Poppy gave a nervous laugh. "I know, it is hard to believe, isn't it? I can't imagine how it happened. I know they still get the occasional outbreaks in Asia and on the Continent - they never did get their immunization programs together properly - but Harry says he's been in Little Whinging all summer." She shook her head in puzzlement. "Well, no matter how he got it, we have to deal it with it quickly. At his age, Skittles can be a serious matter. We don't have the cure in stock, naturally."

"Naturally." The potion that cured the Skittles was extremely volatile. It had to be drunk within a few minutes after brewing, or else stored under a strong Preserving Charm; and even then it kept for no more than a week. No medical facility could be expected to stock it, even if anyone had anticipated the need.

It was also hellishly difficult to brew. Snape mentally scrolled through the ingredients list, trying to remember if he had them all on hand. Comfrey, tarragon, mermaid scales, ginseng root, powdered Billywig stings…

"I'll get started right away."

"I'll need the vaccine, too. The Headmaster has requested that all the students receive booster shots, just in case."

Dragonfly eyes, crocus pollen, moonflower petals… "I'll take care of it."

He shooed Poppy out into the corridor, slammed the door behind her, and rushed into the bedroom, where he promptly tripped on the edge of the rug and barely managed to grab the bedpost in time to keep from falling. After that, he forced himself to move more deliberately. Time might be short, but there was no reason to make it even shorter by killing himself through sheer clumsiness.

He opened his wardrobe and shoved the hangers holding his robes aside to reveal a small selection of Muggle clothes. Snape wore them once or twice a year on shopping trips to London. He had discovered some years ago that some potion ingredients were available cheaper, and in purer form, in Muggle pharmacies than in wizarding shops. Now he pulled out each outfit in turn, and methodically turned out all the pockets, swearing with increasing volume and inventiveness as his efforts produced nothing but the occasional bit of fluff.

Finally, just as he was getting ready to give up, a shabby black suit jacket he never wore anymore provided what he needed: a small book of matches with the name of a Muggle pub printed on the cover. Snape tucked it into the cuff of his sleeve and hurried into his work room, pausing only to grab his battered copy of Jeremiah Briggs' Curative Potions from the bookcase.

He placed two cauldrons on his worktable, filled them with distilled water from a gallon jug, and used the matches to start a fire under each one. A copy of last Sunday's Daily Prophet provided both kindling and fuel. Petty as he knew it to be, Snape couldn't help feeling a certain satisfaction at burning an especially smug-looking photo of Cornelius Fudge. It had accompanied an interview in which the Minister had once again denied all possibility of Voldemort's return and described Dumbledore's supporters as "hysterical panic-mongers." The picture squirmed and grimaced quite amusingly as Snape slowly fed it to the flames.

While the water heated, he sat down to review Briggs' instructions for the two potions he was about to make. The ingredients lists made him wince. Skittles affected potions in much the same way it affected other forms of magic, but at least with potions the effects were consistent and predictable. This made it possible for mediwizards to develop a vaccine and a cure, but the results were, to say the least, counterintuitive. Under no other circumstances would Snape ever consider putting mermaid scales and Billywig stings into the same cauldron. Not only was the combination useless for most purposes, it was also highly explosive if not mixed exactly right. Snape read the instructions twice to make sure he had them memorized, and began to gather the ingredients from his cabinet.

His headache intensified as he worked. It felt like a hammer pounding on his skull from the inside. Once, when he stood up too quickly after kneeling to retrieve a jar from the bottom shelf, Snape's vision blacked and his ears began to ring. He had to put the jar down quickly and hold on to the edge of the table until he could see again. It was a curse, he decided. Someone must've cursed him when he was too young to notice, and now he was forever doomed to have his life made miserable by Potters. There was no escaping it.

The Muggle fires seemed to give off more heat than ordinary wizard flames, and the workroom quickly became unbearably stuffy. Snape opened the tiny window as wide as it would go and splashed cold water on his face from the sink, but neither measure brought much relief. Sweat beaded his face and trickled down his neck. His palms grew slick; he wiped them on a fold of his robes and willed his hands not to shake as he picked up a silver knife and began slicing the ginseng root into neat quarter-inch cubes. Damn you, Potter, why couldn't you have gone to the infirmary last night like a reasonable child?

Slice the ginseng. Count the dragonfly eyes. Weigh the crocus pollen. Feed another sheet of newsprint to the flames. Twenty-seven mermaid scales, added one at a time, three seconds apart. Stir each cauldron, nine times clockwise for the vaccine, twelve times widdershins for the cure… The smoke rising from the simmering potions was awful, thick and bitter. It coated Snape's throat with an oily film and made his stomach churn. He gritted his teeth against the nausea, finished stirring, and moved on to the next step.

Grind the Billywig stings to a fine powder in a silver-lined mortar. Stir in two ounces of squid ink and add to the cauldron, a drop at a time, five seconds apart… Snape braced his left hand on the table to keep himself steady, and raised the pipette over the cauldron with his right. As he began to squeeze out the first drop, his sleeve slipped down to his elbow, revealing a single bright line of polka dots decorating his forearm.

It was not exactly a surprise - Snape had been anticipating the sight with cold dread since the moment Poppy Pomfrey had spoken - but he still couldn't quite stop his hand from clenching in shock, spilling the entire contents of the pipette into the boiling potion in one shot.

He had just enough time to dive behind the cabinet before the cauldron exploded.

TBC