Harry Potter and the Polka Dot Plague

Chapter 4 - Quarantine

Harry had been pleasantly surprised at first when Madam Pomfrey put him in a separate room rather than the main ward. It was a very nice room, with a large window, two huge, soft beds, and a plush rug on the floor. There was even a game table that could be set up for wizard chess, 3-D backgammon, and Exploding Snap.

"Now that's what I call proper accommodations!" Ron said enthusiastically as he and Neville hoisted Harry into bed. "Maybe if you're feeling better later today, I'll come by and we'll play a few games."

"You will do nothing of the kind." Madam Pomfrey grabbed Ron by the arm and steered him toward the door, motioning for Neville to follow. "Mister Potter is in quarantine. No students will be allowed to see him until he is no longer contagious." And she ushered them out, ignoring Ron's indignant protests that he and Neville had had their jabs, and besides, everyone in Gryffindor had been exposed already.

After that, life became very dull. Harry felt too tired to play any of the games, even if there had been anyone around to play with, but he was also too achy and feverish to sleep, so there was nothing left for him to do except stare at the ceiling and try not to scratch. The ceiling was enchanted to look like a blue summer sky, with fluffy white clouds and the occasional bird flitting across. Harry tried to amuse himself by finding funny shapes in the clouds, but the attempt only made his head hurt worse.

Professor McGonagall came to see him, looking rumpled and worried, with her hair pinned into an unusually lop-sided bun. She brought his toothbrush, bathrobe, and a spare set of pajamas, promised to arrange extended deadlines on all his homework, and bustled out again. Harry went back to staring at the ceiling until a commotion outside the door attracted his attention.

A number of people were talking excitedly in the next room. Harry couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but he could make out Madam Pomfrey's voice, and Professor Dumbledore's, as well as two others he couldn't recognize. Everyone sounded extremely upset. Harry was just starting to wonder if it was worth the effort to get out of bed and try to see what was happening, when the door flew open. Madam Pomfrey rushed in, followed by Dumbledore, followed by - Harry sat straight up in shock - Crabbe and Goyle, supporting an extremely disheveled Professor Snape between them.

Snape's black hair looked greasier than ever, and his skin was streaked and shiny with sweat. He was wearing his robes over a gray nightshirt, both of which were rather singed, and there were black smudge marks on his face, as if he'd once again stood too close to one of Neville's exploding cauldrons. Crabbe and Goyle dragged him over to the empty bed and lifted him up onto it, grunting in unison. Madam Pomfrey immediately herded them toward the exit, muttering about quarantine again. They went obediently enough at first, then stopped in the doorway and glanced back over their shoulders with identical frowning expressions.

"He'll be all right," Goyle said, "won't he?"

Harry couldn't help but stare. In the four years since he'd first met Crabbe and Goyle, this was the first time he could recall hearing either one of them speak. Usually they just stood around and sniggered while Malfoy did the talking.

"Of course he'll be all right," Madam Pomfrey said firmly. "Now go and tell that to the rest of the Slytherins. And tell them absolutely no visitors, so it's no use anyone trying." She pushed them out the door and hurried out after them.

Snape fell back onto the pillows with a groan. He looked really awful. His nightshirt gaped open at the throat, revealing a dense and extremely colorful pattern of polka dots.

"Potter…" Snape's voice was slurred and his eyes looked dazed when he glared at Harry across the gap between their beds. "Fifty points from Gryffindor."

"There, there, Severus." Dumbledore patted Snape's shoulder sympathetically. "Don't mind Professor Snape, Harry, he's delirious."

A muscle in Snape's jaw twitched. "I am not delirious."

"But of course you are." Dumbledore's face was solemn and sympathetic, but his eyes were twinkling. He rested one hand on Snape's forehead, ignoring the younger man's furious scowl. "You're burning up with fever."

"Headmaster-"

"You're also on sick leave, as of ten minutes ago. And teachers on leave cannot award or deduct house points. It's a school rule."

The twitch in Snape's jaw became more pronounced. "I've never heard of such a rule."

"You've never taken sick leave before. But don't worry, it shouldn't last long. I've owled the Potions Maker at St. Mungo's-"

"Cogsworth?" Snape sounded thoroughly disgusted. "That hack couldn't brew a decent cup of tea."

"-And asked him to prepare a cure as quickly as possible," Dumbledore went on as if Snape hadn't interrupted. "I'm sure both you and Harry will be put right in no time. You'll be back to failing Gryffindors before you know it. In the meantime, I will be personally taking over your classes, while Professor Sinistra will assume your duties as head of Slytherin House."

"Tell her to come and see me," Snape said quickly. Dumbledore patted his shoulder again.

"In good time." He took a step toward Harry's bed, but Snape pushed himself up on one elbow and reached out with an extremely shaky hand to grip his sleeve.

"Tell her to come and see me," he repeated urgently, and broke into a violent and painful-looking coughing fit.

"Of course I'll tell her, Severus." Dumbledore looked genuinely concerned now, not a hint of a twinkle behind his spectacles. "Now please lie down and stop exerting yourself. And don't scratch, you'll only make it worse."

Snape grumbled indistinctly, but allowed himself to be pushed back down onto the pillows. Dumbledore tucked the blanket around him with a fatherly air, then walked over to stand by Harry's bed.

"And how are you feeling?"

The answer to that question was "totally miserable." Being ill was bad enough, but now it looked as if Harry was going to be trapped in a quarantined room with Professor Snape. A very ill and bad-tempered Professor Snape. This was not exactly Harry's worst nightmare, not with Voldemort on the loose somewhere, but it was certainly in the top ten.

Unfortunately, he was stuck with the situation, so there was no point complaining about it. Especially not in front of Snape. Harry forced a smile as he looked up into Dumbledore's blue eyes. "I'm fine, sir. I'm sorry to be so much trouble."

"It's not your fault," Dumbledore said soothingly, ignoring the sarcastic snort from the other bed. "Though I'm very curious to discover how this unexpected outbreak came about. That's for me to worry about, however. Your job is to lie here and rest, and to give as little trouble as possible to Madam Pomfrey - that means you too, Severus. I know what a terrible patient you are."

Snape looked as if he wanted to object to that, but at that moment Madam Pomfrey came in again, carrying two steaming mugs. She handed one to Harry and one to Snape, who sniffed at it suspiciously and frowned.

"Chamomile tea, Poppy?"

"With honey. An old Muggle remedy. I've also sent Hagrid out for something called "ibuprofen". Hermione Granger suggested it might prove helpful while we wait for St. Mungo's to provide the potions. Drink up, both of you."

The tea was strong and very sweet, the honey almost masking the grassy taste of the chamomile. Harry leaned back against the headboard and drank slowly, cradling the mug against his chest in between sips. The hot liquid felt really good going down.

Snape seemed to have trouble holding his mug steady. He slopped some tea down his front, which caused him to hiss in pain and to spit out some words teachers were definitely not supposed to use in front of students. In the end, Madam Pomfrey held the mug herself while Dumbledore supported Snape's head and shoulders above the pillows so that he could drink.

Harry thought about Hermione, and how worried she'd been to discover that Harry had come down with the Skittles at fifteen. "The older you are, the worse it is," she'd said. Snape was more than twice Harry's age - just how serious was this for him? Did people actually die from the Skittles? Madam Pomfrey would know, but Harry could hardly ask her with Snape right there to hear. Maybe he could get a note to Hermione…

The tea settled his stomach a bit and made him feel warm and drowsy. Harry put his empty mug on the bedside table, curled up under the covers, and closed his eyes. The bed was soft, the sheets were linen, and the duvet that covered him smelled faintly of lavender. He could hear Pomfrey and Dumbledore moving about the room, talking to each other in hushed voices, but they seemed very far away, much too far to disturb him. Even with the headache still throbbing behind his temples, it proved surprisingly easy to fall asleep.

TBC