Utter silence reigned as Harry gaped, Madame Pomfrey covered her mouth with a hand, and Snape stood completely emotionless.

"Is it really that serious, Severus?" the mediwitch asked.

"Undoubtedly," Snape told her. "The unfortunate substitution of Dolus' Scallion in place of gurdyroot makes Potter's mixture toxic, whereas a few too many Erumpent horn shavings would likely account for its instability. I will be testing the remains of his little... project, of course, but I am quite certain of my prognosis."

The man turned towards Harry before continuing in a detached manner. "You are dying, Mr. Potter, as you have most assuredly been dosed with a poison which currently has no antidote. Such poisoning is rare and has not been seen within the last thirty years. The poison has the immediate effect of making nearly all traditionally made medicinal draughts harmful, and in some cases, deadly to you. As time progresses, you'll become sicklier as your system breaks down. Any excessive strain on your system – physical or otherwise – is likely to have deleterious effects."

"Is there nothing we can do?" Pomfrey inquired anxiously, her gaze going from Snape to Harry and back again.

"There is a potion I can make that ought to slow the effects of the poison," he replied, "I could probably improve on the formula. Mr. Potter would need to take it daily and be closely monitored. But before I go to such trouble, it would be best to verify that I'm not mistaken. If you would run another diagnostic on him, Poppy. As you've probably guessed already, this poison is not detectable with a general diagnostic. You'll have to run one specifically for poisoning."

Poppy nodded, facing her patient and murmuring the spell under her breath as she passed her wand over him. A few seconds later, she grew silent, lowering her wand and turning to look out the window, head bowed.

After a moment, Harry spoke up, eyes wide in terror and confusion. "Madame Pomfrey..?" The woman's shoulders began to tremble as a choked sob escaped her lips.

"I see I have work to do," Snape said. "If you see Albus, tell him he can find me in my lab." And with that, the professor swept from the room once more, robes billowing behind him.

0o0o0

Albus Dumbledore stood quietly, waiting patiently – at least, as anyone who didn't know him might guess. The man's eyes were his tell, however, as one Severus Snape very well knew, and at present they followed the Potions Master's every move, lacking their usual twinkle.

Moving around the worktable, Snape removed a couple ingredients from their shelf. Referring to the open book on the stand near the cauldron, he prepared them as specified, adding them to the brew as the directions called for. Finally, he nodded to indicate that the other man could speak.

"What can you tell me, Severus?" Dumbledore's voice was quiet, his tone resigned.

"As I am certain Poppy has told you already," Severus answered, setting a timer to allow the potion to simmer, "Potter has inadvertently poisoned himself while attempting to brew Perfectus Memoria in the second floor girls' lavatory."

"Not a commonly used draught, though, it was famous at one time," the headmaster noted. "I take it something went wrong?"

"Indeed," the younger man responded dryly. "Among the ingredients Potter gathered himself, rather than steal from my stores, was this." He picked something up off the back table and handed it to his mentor.

Albus examined the plant given to him. It had a long, hollow green shoot that ended in a point, its underdeveloped bulb the color of rust. A thin, red-brown line ran up its side, from bulb to tip. "Gurdyroot, isn't it?" he asked.

Severus shook his head. "A gurdyroot doesn't have a bulb that red, nor does it have a stripe up the side."

"False Gurdyroot."

"More formally known as Dolus' Scallion," the Potions Master confirmed. "It grows quite well along the edge of the Forest. As gurdyroot is seldom used in potions, I didn't think it would be ever be a problem."

"I knew that Dolus' Scallion is poisonous, but I've never heard that it was deadly."

"It isn't, by itself, but when combined with the other ingredients and ignited, it creates a mixture that is quite virulent. Had Mr. Potter not added too many Erumpent horn shavings, or if he'd avoided jostling it before the Jobberknoll feathers were added, the potion would not have exploded. Even if he had taken the failed brew which still would have resulted, it would only have made him ill for a few days. Instead, he made two amateurish mistakes which will no doubt prove fatal."

With a slash of his wand, Snape cut off the timer, picking up a stirring rod to carefully stir the brew widdershins. Adding several other ingredients, he gave it a final stir and took it off the fire.

"Is this the potion Poppy said would slow the effects of the poison?" Albus asked, nodding towards the cooling cauldron.

"A temporary solution, at best," Severus replied. "It's an old remedy which should prolong his life by a couple of months. With a few adjustments, it ought to keep him alive until the end of the school year – if the boy should choose to draw the process out that long."

"How bad is he going to get?"

"I do not know. It's a rare occurrence – the poison doesn't even have a proper name. The few cases that have been documented varied greatly. From what I can deduce, however, Potter will grow increasingly weaker until his body finally shuts down."

"And there's no antidote."

"None. I will attempt to develop one, of course, but ideally, one would need years to work on such a project. Furthermore, I'd prefer not to be using a fourteen-year-old boy as a test subject." Severus met Albus' gaze. "I doubt I will be able to succeed in time, Albus. You know I have done my best to keep my promise to protect the boy – from Quirrel, as well as moon-struck werewolves – but clearly, I am unable to shield him from his own folly."

Albus studied him quietly for a moment. If he hadn't known better, he might have thought that Severus actually cared for the boy personally. This was not the case, of course – Harry reminded the man too much of his father – yet, even so, the Potions Master didn't wish the boy any harm. As much as Severus Snape disliked James Potter's son, he wanted Lily Evans' child to live.

"No one expects you to, Severus," he told the younger man.

"Maybe you don't," Severus uttered quietly. He didn't say, 'I do', but Albus heard it, anyway.

"Very well," said the headmaster, "Do your best, Severus." The professor simply nodded, his attention already absorbed in a dusty old tome from which he was hastily taking notes. With a weary sigh, Dumbledore went off bearing the awful news: the Boy-Who-Lived was dying.

0o0o0

Harry did not believe it. It just wasn't possible – there had to be some mistake. He felt fine, the same as he always felt. Surely, if he'd somehow poisoned himself, he'd feel different. If he were... well, wouldn't he be able to tell if he were dying? Shouldn't he be able to sense it?

That was that, then. Snape was wrong. Or maybe he was just being a git. And of course Madame Pomfrey would believe him, being as he was a teacher, and Dumbledore trusted the man, for whatever reason. It couldn't be true, though. If Harry could make such an effective poison by accident, surely more people would do so purposely. Were that the case, it would most certainly have been mentioned in one of their textbooks. It hadn't, therefore, it couldn't actually exist.

Could it?

Maybe something was wrong with him... He was feeling a bit confused, and his head hurt – no. That was the knock to the head talking. Those always made him a bit disoriented. Always.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be. He'd faced Quirrel and dementors and a basilisk. He was young and he felt perfectly fine – he couldn't be dying. He just couldn't be.

… could he?

0o0o0

"Drink this, Mr. Potter," Snape commanded, holding out a vial filled with a sludgy fluid that was sort of a yellowish-orange color. Harry eyed it warily, not the least convinced that it was something he cared to ingest. "Now."

The tone did it. It was an automatic response born of self-preservation, really. No student in his right mind would disobey that tone. Not unless he wanted to be used for potions ingredients, anyway. Harry took the potion and tipped it into his mouth.

Then, he gagged.

Never had Harry ever tasted anything that turned his stomach in such a way. The boy wanted nothing more than to sick up, just so he could be rid of the horrible stuff. He couldn't say just what it tasted like, but it certainly didn't agree with him. Somehow, he managed to swallow it down and keep it there.

"Here." The Potions Master took the empty vial and exchanged it for a glass of water, which Harry gulped down greedily. After a horrible moment of increased nausea, the feeling subsided and the foul concoction was merely a memory, albeit, a rather disgusting one.

"That stuff's awful," Harry declared.

"I am so terribly sorry it is not to your liking," Snape drawled heartlessly. He studied the boy for several seconds, before asking, "How do you feel, Potter?"

"Uh... fine, sir," Harry answered slowly.

"You don't feel anything out of the ordinary? No unusual aches or chills? Anything beyond the initial nausea?"

"No..."

"Good," the man said briskly. "You are to notify myself or Madame Pomfrey immediately if any of this changes even in the slightest. You will receive a dose of this same potion every morning at breakfast time. You are to take the full dose, Mr. Potter. Every Saturday, you will report here to Madame Pomfrey for a check up, unless you are told otherwise. Is that understood or does your scant Gryffindor intellect require that I repeat myself?"

Harry clenched his teeth to keep from saying something he'd regret. "Understood, sir," he managed after a moment, though, his expression was still rather mutinous.

"Very well. With any luck, we won't see each other again until our next class." With no further farewell, the man swept from the room, even as Madame Pomfrey approached Harry's bed.

"I trust you don't need me to repeat what the Professor Snape just told you."

"No, ma'am."

The mediwitch favored him with a small smile. "I'll do so, anyway, just to be sure we're on the same page," she told him. "You are to take the potion Professor Snape makes for you every day. If you feel ill or in any way different from normal, you're to let one of us know, and you will come see me on Saturday."

"Yes, ma'am." Harry was beginning to feel somewhat repetitive.

"I'm serious, Mr. Potter. If I find you've failed to do any of this, you will stay here in the hospital wing until I say otherwise." She fixed him this time with a stern stare and Harry had the sense to look abashed. "Well, I suppose if you don't have any adverse reactions, you may leave tomorrow morning after breakfast."

"Tomorrow?" Harry protested. "Ma'am, I was hoping maybe –"

"Then you can stop, right now. You, Mr. Potter, are not going anywhere before the morning, and that is final. If I had my way, I wouldn't let you out of my sight, but Professor Snape doesn't seem to think that is necessary... yet. You just settle in for now and if you behave yourself, I might allow your friends to eat up here with you."

"Yes, ma'am," the boy sighed in defeat. Pomfrey studied him a moment longer, a concerned expression on her face that made Harry feel uncomfortable. "I'm not dying!" he uttered softly after she had left. Harry would prove it, too. He didn't need Snape or his disgusting potion. He felt perfectly fine.

Laying his head back against the pillow, he stared at the ceiling overhead and waited for his friends to come visit him.

0o0o0

Harry managed to choke down another dose of the horrid orange potion (which didn't even have a name) the following morning. Being as it was the only way Madame Pomfrey was going to release him, he did so without complaint. He was just happy Snape hadn't come to make sure he took it.

Hermione had lectured him, of course, for carelessly breaking school rules and making a potion in secret. Harry thought that was a bit hypocritical of her, as it had been her idea to make the Polyjuice Potion back in second year. Even Ron had gotten after him a bit, but that was for not asking for their assistance, rather than rule breaking.

He didn't tell them about his supposed poisoning. Harry couldn't have said why he felt the need to keep the information from them. Had he asked, he was certain Hermione could have found out one way or another whether he'd actually created a deadly substance. Instead, he stated his accidental use of too many Erumpent horn shavings as the cause for the explosion – which was the truth, just not all of it. Fortunately, the girl took it at that, for once. He didn't want his friends to have further reason to worry about him, especially as there was no cause for it.

Since Monday, breakfast time had become trickier than ever before. He couldn't skip the meal – Snape and Dumbledore would notice, even if Madame Pomfrey seldom showed up at meals – but he was determined not to drink the potion which arrived alongside his pumpkin juice. That first morning, he poured it on the floor, where it vanished like every other food particle and fluid which dropped in the Great Hall.

Knowing he couldn't risk doing so every day, Harry dug an old vial out of his school trunk, along with a rubber stopper. Starting the next day, he transferred the foul brew from one vial to the other beneath the tabletop, stashing it in his schoolbag or pocket for later disposal.

As the week reached its end, he found he was growing a bit weary. This, however, he attributed to the increased excitement and activity surrounding the arrival of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students. They had arrived the previous evening, on Thursday, before Dumbledore announced how the three champions for the Triwizard Tournament would be selected.

The Goblet of Fire had been set up in the Entrance Hall that morning, and students age seventeen and older were able to put their names into it. Some of the younger students, including Ron, were disappointed about the age restriction (though, that didn't stop the twins – age sixteen – from trying to get past Dumbledore's age line). Harry didn't particularly care. He had had more than his share of life-threatening experiences without deliberately entering something so dangerous. Maybe this would even take the focus off him being the Boy-Who-Lived for a while.

At the moment, Harry's greatest ambition was to go to bed immediately after supper and sleep half the weekend away. In fact, the only other thing expected of him that night was to listen as the champions were announced. He laid his head on the table while he waited for Dumbledore to finally address them. A dull ache had settled into his skull sometime the previous afternoon and he'd been suffering mild bouts of vertigo when he stood up too quickly the last two or three days.

Perhaps he was getting sick. He refused to even entertain the other possibility, although, he'd been feeling miserable enough that he briefly considered taking Snape's disgusting draft before he dumped it out that afternoon. He was fine, after all; a bit of sleep and he was certain he'd be right as rain.

He just hoped the nasty stuff wasn't supposed to be traceable in his system. That would be fun to explain.

Hermione eyed her friend with concern. He had seemed a bit... odd all week. Ever since his brewing accident the previous weekend, in fact. It seemed to her that he was trying a little too hard to act normal. She certainly hadn't missed the potion that arrived with his pumpkin juice, either – the potion Harry refused to drink. He'd been arriving early to breakfast everyday to get rid of it before everyone else arrived.

The girl had looked up everything that could possibly go wrong in the brewing of Perfectus Memoria during her free time in an effort to figure out what might be ailing Harry. She was certain there was some sort of connection, but she'd been unable to find anything in the school library. Something was wrong with him, and he wouldn't take his potion, regardless of what she said.

"Just leave it alone, Hermione!" he had snapped at her when she'd confronted him about it.

She had let it drop until she found something concrete. Failing at that – and frustrated because of it – not to mention concerned as whatever it was began to take a noticeable effect on him, Hermione decided she'd tell Madame Pomfrey about Harry's refusal to take his potion the following day. She just hoped Harry would eventually forgive her.

Dumbledore was finally speaking, announcing those who would have a chance at "Eternal Glory." Three times, the blue flames of the Goblet flashed red and a piece of parchment was spewed out and caught by the headmaster. Three times, a champion was announced and ushered into the antechamber where they would meet with the judges for the Tournament. First, Viktor Krum for Durmstrang, then Fleur Delacour for Beauxbatons, and finally, Cedric Diggory for Hogwarts.

Harry clapped along with the other students, then let his head drift back to the cool surface of the tabletop. Did he have a fever? Or was he just tired? The headmaster was still talking, but the boy wasn't paying much attention. He was just about to turn to Hermione and ask if his head felt warm, when everyone grew silent.

Another name had come out of the Goblet. That couldn't be right, though... it was called the Triwizard Tournament. Surely that meant there were to be only three participants? Dumbledore snatched the smoldering parchment piece from the air, studying it gravely before finally looking up.

"Harry Potter?" His tone was soft, yet it carried easily across the silent hall.

Harry slowly lifted his head from the table as others began to turn in his direction and murmurs started to spread.

Again, Dumbledore spoke, this time louder and with more authority. "Harry Potter."

Hermione nudged him in the shoulder, and Harry finally rose to his feet, stumbling a bit as he stepped over the table bench. It took an eternity to reach the front of the hall. All eyes were upon him, it seemed, yet he focused on only one pair – and not Dumbledore's. No, Harry stared right past the old wizard, Snape's dark eyes boring into his own.

Harry shook his head minutely, the action imperceptible to most. He didn't want this, he hadn't placed his name in the Goblet. For a reason he could not say, it was important that the Potions professor knew that he hadn't put forth his name to be a Triwizard champion.

He reached the platform where Dumbledore was standing. The man handed him the scrap of parchment with his name on it and Harry stared down at it. It was his writing. After several seconds, he looked up again. Dumbledore wordlessly nodded him towards the room the others had entered. Approaching the door, he paused a moment, swallowing hard before pushing it open and stepping inside.