“Do you remember the Levitation charm, Harry?” the elder female professor queried gently. “Look, this is not so different.” Seeing that Harry stood there with an uncertain expression, showing hardly any reaction to her instruction, the teacher threw him a piercing look. “Harry, are you feeling all right?” she enquired in obvious concern.

Feeling outright sick now, Harry slightly shook his head, whispering, “My head...”

The teacher took a step in his direction and gently tried to lay a hand on his forehead, sighing in exasperation when he flinched back badly. “Mr. Potter, I’m not going to hurt you,” she said sternly. “I merely wanted to make sure that you’re not ill.” Noticing that his cheeks were deeply flushed, his eyes looked glazed over, and the child was slightly shivering in spite of the warmth in the Great Hall, she made him sit down on a chair, before she pointed her wand at a tissue, transfiguring it into a Muggle thermometer.

“Mr. Potter, please let me at least take your temperature to make sure that you’re all right,” she said firmly, sticking the business end into his mouth.

Harry shivered violently at the cold sensation under his tongue. ‘Perhaps I’m only sick, and when I’m back to health everything will be all right and I find myself back in my cupboard,’ he mused, feeling absolutely horrible. ‘Otherwise I’ll ask the other professor for help when I’m in detention tonight,’ he resolved. ‘On the other hand, I’d love to live in such a magical castle.’

After an infinite amount of time, the thermometer beeped, and Harry quickly handed it back to the professor, who let out an exasperated gasp as she looked at the display. “Harry, you’re running a very high fever. Why didn’t you tell me or go to see Madam Pomfrey?” she asked incredulously.

“I didn’t know,” Harry mumbled frightened. ‘I hope she won’t lock me in somewhere like Aunt Petunia locks me in for days when I’m sick,’ he prayed, hesitantly turning his eyes to the professor.

“Filius, please excuse us. I have to take Mr. Potter to the hospital wing,” the teacher said softly, before she turned back to him. “Come, Harry, let’s take you to Madam Pomfrey. I’m sure she’ll be able to make you feel better quickly.”

Harry wearily followed the professor up a flight of stairs and into a large room equipped with a dozen empty beds. The late morning sunrays streamed through the huge windows on both sides of the room, bathing the room into a soft yellowish light. The teacher led him to the bed nearest to the office, in which the kind lady, who had been sitting next to Harry at breakfast, was bustling around.

“Lie down, Harry. I’ll get Madam Pomfrey for you,” he was told and gratefully lay down on the comfortable bed, sighing in relief as his achy head hit the pillow.

“What happened, Mr. Potter?” the Mediwitch asked gently, already waving her wand over him. She continued to quietly speak diagnostic spells for a few minutes, before she finally put her wand away and turned to the teacher, sighing. “He has indeed a very high fever and a tremendous headache. Other than that I can’t find anything wrong. It could be a strange kind of the flu, which my diagnostic spells can’t recognize. If his condition doesn’t improve within a few days, I’ll have to take him to St. Mungo’s for a few examinations though.”

From the corner of his eye Harry could see that the teacher threw the Mediwitch a terrified glance. “Well, let’s hope that it’s only a strange kind of flu,” the Healer concluded her examination and bustled back to her office only to return seconds later with two goblets in her hands.

Feeling too unwell to question anything, Harry willingly gulped down the strange looking and disgustingly tasting liquids, noticing that his headache improved remarkably, before his eyes shut close and he drifted off into a potions induced sleep.

McGonagall followed Pomfrey back into her office. “Poppy, how long will he have to remain in bed, provided that it’s the flu?” she enquired softly.

The Mediwitch sighed. “I’m so sorry for the child, Minerva. Yesterday, I asked him what he believed he’d get from Father Christmas, and do you know what he told me?” Seeing her friend shake her head, she continued, “That he never received a present from Father Christmas, because he wasn’t a good boy. Fortunately, Albus explained that he would surely get something this year. However, I can’t see him participate in the festivities right now. We’ll have to wait and see.”

Seeing that his condition hardly improved at all, the Mediwitch kept Harry asleep the whole day, frequently checking on him and spelling fever reducers, headache potions, and nutrient potions straight into his system.

By the time Harry woke up, it was already dark outside, and he could see the teacher, who had brought him into the hospital wing, the Mediwitch, and the Father Christmas like professor sitting in the office together having tea. ‘Oh no! I have to serve detention with the black teacher,’ he suddenly remembered and hurriedly scrambled out of bed. Since he had no idea, where his detention was going to take place, he once more called Rory, asking the kind elf for help in a small voice.

“A tall teacher in black clothes? That must be Professor Snape, the Potions Professor,” Rory whispered. “I don’t think you’re allowed to leave from here, but if you wish, I’ll take you to the Potions classroom, Master Harry.”

“Yes please,” Harry replied, quickly pulling his robe over his pyjamas after making sure that his wand and the letter from Hermione were still in the pocket, and followed the elf out of the hospital wing, having not experienced Madam Pomfrey’s wrath before to know better.

By the time they reached the dungeons, Harry felt utterly exhausted and his headache was back full force. Rory excused himself, after making sure that Harry would find his way back to the hospital wing on his own.

Harry hesitantly knocked at the door, feeling slightly relieved when he was called in only seconds later.

“You’re late, Potter,” the professor sneered. “Ten points from Gryffindor for your tardiness and another ten points for missing dinner AGAIN.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Harry replied shyly. “I had to take medicine that made me so sleepy, and I only woke up a few minutes ago. I’ll be more careful not to be late tomorrow.”

“Very well, Mr. Potter,” the teacher replied, frowning slightly at the boy’s choice of words. He pointed to five dirty cauldrons and ordered the child, “Clean these cauldrons without magic. Afterwards, you can help me prepare ingredients for a healing potion.”

“Yes Professor,” Harry agreed politely, throwing the professor a confused look as he held out his hand.

“Your wand,” the teacher said in a clear voice laced with annoyance, causing Harry to quickly hand over his wand.

‘Thank God,’ Harry mused. ‘I don’t know what to do with that thing anyway. These pots... no, what did he call them... cauldrons... are really big. I wonder if I’ll have to help him cooking. I think I’m fairly good at cooking, at least I’m better than Aunt Petunia.’ He curiously looked around the room, finding it to be the most interesting room he had seen at the castle so far. Small phials with all kind of imaginable small animals and other potions ingredients filled the shelves at the wall to his left side, and on the other side...

“What are you waiting for, Potter?” the professor bellowed, causing Harry to apologize profusely, automatically bowing his head like Sunny and Rory had done towards him earlier.

Harry tried hard to clean the dirty cauldrons as best as he could without looking at the professor at all, who seemed to be busying himself grading papers. ‘I should tell him everything and show him Hermione’s letter. Maybe he’ll understand what’s wrong with me and be able to help me,’ he mused as he carefully rinsed the largest cauldron and set it aside. However, he dare not speak to the professor. ‘At least I have to finish my detention first, before I can even think about asking him for help,’ Harry told himself.

Due to the chores he always had to do at home, he was used to work quickly, and in spite of feeling absolutely awful, he finished the cauldrons quickly and anxiously stepped in front of the professor. “Professor, I’m sorry to disturb you,” he began hesitantly. Seeing that the teacher looked up from his work, he continued, “I’ve cleaned and dried the cauldrons. Where do I have to put them?”

Snape threw the boy a surprised look, recalling that hardly any student bothered putting the cleaned cauldrons away. “Over there in the cupboard,” he said evenly without any malice in his voice, before he couldn’t help asking, “Who are you, and what did you do to Mr. Potter?” He piercingly observed as the boy carefully stored a cauldron in the cupboard.

“I don’t know,” Harry mumbled, averting his eyes to the floor.

“You don’t know?” the professor repeated questioningly, raising an eyebrow.

‘I really should tell him everything now and ask him for help,’ Harry decided, trying to summon all his courage, before he opened his mouth. “I mean, I thought...” he hesitantly began to explain what had been bothering him since the previous day, just when the fireplace flared green, causing his eyes to widen in disbelief. ‘I thought fire was always red,’ he mused as he feverishly held on to the table in order not to sway in front of the professor.