The next several minutes of his life were ever after a confusing blur, during which Harry was referred to as a "little boy" by Fleur and accused of entering the Tournament by nearly every adult present. They argued back and forth for a bit before he pulled himself out of his shock enough to follow what was being said.

"... Potter is rather notorious for crossing lines," Snape was saying to the headmaster from Durmstrang. Harry felt a twinge of anger. Ornery, greasy ol' git.

Dumbledore gave the Potions Master an admonishing glance and the man fell silent. Then, he turned to Harry. "Did you put you name in the Goblet, Harry?" he calmly asked him, his expression undecipherable.

"No, sir," Harry answered.

"You didn't ask an older student to put it in for you?" the man pressed.

"No, sir!" Harry insisted.

"But 'e is lying, of course!" Madame Maxime accused. And thus was started an argument over whether he was able to have crossed Dumbledore's age line or trick the Goblet. Apart from Ludo Bagman, head of the Department of Games and Sports, everyone seemed to be agitated. Harry would have been agitated, too, if he didn't feel so numb.

"We must follow the rules," the severe-looking man by the name of Bartemius Crouch spoke up for the first time. "It is clearly stated that those whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the Tournament."

The words hit Harry like a ton of bricks. No! He thought desperately. No – I don't want this! I don't want this, at all! A buzzing sound had filled his ears, almost as though the whispers that were likely running rampant in the Great Hall were echoing in his head, separate, yet indistinct. The room was starting to go gray around the edges and Harry was certain there wasn't enough oxygen to go around.

Noting that the boy was growing increasingly pale, even as his breathing became too rapid, Snape shot a look at the headmaster, deliberately meeting his gaze. 'Albus, put an end to this!' he thought, knowing the man would hear him. 'Even if this were to fit into whatever ridiculous plans you have for the boy, Potter cannot compete! It would undoubtedly get him killed, even if his system weren't compromised. With the effects of the poison, it is a certainty.'

'Of course, Severus,' Albus returned reprovingly. 'You know I would never intentionally put Harry in harm's way.'

Severus thought he knew of at least two examples to the contrary, but not in front of his mental shields where the headmaster could hear him.

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore said aloud, "due to certain circumstances, Harry is already disqualified. He simply will not be able to compete." Everyone fell perfectly silent, all turning to stare at the old wizard.

"Forgive my bluntness, but if the Boy-Who-Lived isn't qualified to participate in the Tournament, who is?" queried Bagman. Harry shrank back as the focus of attention was suddenly shifted back to himself. "Barty, you know the rule book cover to cover – what are the criteria for Triwizard champions?"

"There's an entire chapter that goes over them all in detail," Crouch replied, "but simply put, each contestant much be a healthy wizard or witch of school age, and his or her name must come out of the Goblet of Fire."

"He's a wizard, he's in school, and his name came out of the Goblet," Bagman reiterated, seemingly for Dumbledore's benefit. "What exactly disqualifies him?" Even Madame Maxime and Karkaroff seemed interested in the answer to this, despite their complaints about Hogwarts having two champions.

Dumbledore offered a smile that gave away nothing. "I do believe Harry should like to keep it a personal matter," he said. "Am I right, Harry?"

"Yes, sir!" Harry agreed. It wasn't until he had seen the expression of open relief that flickered across Harry's features that Snape was wholly convinced that the boy really had nothing to do with his name being put into the Goblet. That meant someone else had done so and all his suspects were currently in the room.

"But, what could possibly –" Bagman began to argue.

"I am sorry," Dumbledore interrupted, "but the matter is not up for discussion. Harry is not qualified to participate."

"Barty!" he turned to his colleague for aid.

"The boy's headmaster has deemed him disqualified. According to the rule book, he has the right to do so and without explanation," Crouch said, turning to face the headmaster. "Though I, myself, would be interested to know what exactly dropped the boy from the Tournament before it has even begun." The man glanced over at the boy in question and Harry squirmed uncomfortably.

"As there is nothing else, Harry, you are free to return to your common room," Albus told his student.

"Thank you, sir," said Harry earnestly. He quickly made his escape, thinking for the first time that being thought to be sick could be a good thing, after all.

Snape watched the boy leave, frowning to himself. Potter really ought to have been more stable, still. Perhaps he needed to make adjustments to the boy's antagonist? The man decided to be present when Pomfrey examined him the following day. Much more stress of any kind and the boy was liable to have some sort of episode.

0o0o0

Ron was mad at him. He was being a prat, really. Despite Harry telling him that he didn't put his name in the ruddy Goblet, his own best friend wouldn't believe him and was hurt that Harry didn't tell him 'how he did it'.

When Harry woke the next morning, he wasn't feeling much better than he had the night before. Though his head wasn't actively aching, anymore, it felt like it had been stuffed uncomfortably full of cotton. He could also swear he could feel individual nerves tingling all over his body.

Maybe something was wrong with him. Harry wanted nothing more than to remain in bed. Instead, he got up and pulled on some clothes to head down to breakfast. He'd decided to give Snape's potion another try; anything to make him feel less... whatever it was. If it didn't work, he was never touching the stuff again.

As he headed down to the common room, he noticed Ron sitting in one of the chairs, which was weird, because Ron seldom got up that early on the weekend. He didn't remember hearing the other boy get up, either. Harry came to a stop on the stairs, gripping the banister for support. He hated fighting with Ron. Why must he be so stubborn?

"Ron," Harry spoke. He had to at least try to make up with his friend. It was ridiculous to be arguing with him about something he wouldn't even be taking part in.

"What do you want, Potter?" Ron snarled back, rising to his feet.

Harry scowled. Fine, if that was the way he wanted it. "You're being stupid, Ron, and, and..." Harry searched for the word, "irrational. I told you –"

"That's me," retorted Ron. "Harry Potter's stupid, irrational friend!"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" Harry snapped, taking another couple steps so he was halfway down the last section of stairs. The world swayed threateningly.

"Oh, yeah? Then, what did you mean?" Ron demanded, then whirled about to leave through the portrait hole. "Forget it. I don't care anymore."

"Ron –" Harry began, then cut off as his surroundings abruptly began to lose color. The banister contorted beneath his hand, twisting itself from his grasp. He was about to make another grab for it, when in a flash of white, the world released its hold on him.

"You know what, Harry? Why don't you just..." the redhead trailed off, turning just in time to see the other boy's body arch backwards and slam against the stairs.

"HARRY!" Hermione's scream from the top of the girls' stairs mingled with his own shout as they both rushed to their friend's side. Harry's frame was still in a backwards arc, even as his limbs trembled minutely. His eyes were rolled back into his head and his jaw was clenched so tightly they could hear his teeth grinding together. After several terrifying seconds, his body went lax and Hermione was quick to cradle his head, checking for a pulse as she did so.

"Get Madame Pomfrey," she ordered.

"Is-is he..." Ron stammered.

"He's unconscious," Hermione exclaimed, "now, run and get Madame Pomfrey!"

Ron didn't need to be told a third time, as he jumped up and dashed out through the portrait hole. Others, having overheard the raised voices, emerged warily, eying the scene on the lower steps with curiosity. Percy and one of the other prefects ushered them back to their rooms, even as someone was sent to fetch Professor McGonagall.

Hermione remained at her friend's side, smoothing the hair back from his face. Harry's body twitched every now and then, but apart from that he remained completely still. McGonagall arrived seconds before Madame Pomfrey.

"What happened?" the mediwitch demanded as she checked Harry's vitals. She directed her attention to the two conscious fourth-years when it seemed apparent that the prefects had no idea.

"We were arguing..." Ron started, his voice failing him when the woman suddenly drew in a sharp breath.

"It looked like some kind of seizure," Hermione supplied.

Poppy sighed. "I don't think I'd better transport him by floo," she said. "Minerva, will you help me get him to the hospital wing?"

"Of course," McGonagall answered. She cast a hover charm on the boy, gently lifting him into the air before heading towards the exit. Pomfrey moved to open the door, but Hermione placed a hand on her arm.

"Madame," the girl said quietly, motioning the older witch to move closer so she could whisper in her ear. "The potion Harry gets at breakfast every day... he hasn't been taking it."

The mediwitch straightened, her lips pressed into a grim line. "I see," she said. "Thank you, Miss Granger." Turning, she went off to care for her patient, thinking to herself, Merlin save me from reckless students.

0o0o0

One would think that after the number of times their friend had been in the hospital wing, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger would have grown somewhat accustomed to the sight. That might have even been the case before, but this time, they were both worried. Never before had they seen Harry Potter look so pale. Never had he seemed so incredibly vulnerable.

"Madame," Hermione quietly addressed the woman as she leaned over her friend, "what's wrong with him?" Pomfrey frowned thoughtfully, trying to determine how she ought to answer. She was spared her dilemma, however, as someone else crossed the room to join them.

"Mr. Potter is ill," Snape told the two students, causing them both to jump in surprise. "as for the details, he will have to decide whether or not he wishes to tell you himself." He handed a vial to the mediwitch, who set it on the side table to give to the boy momentarily. Hermione recognized its color as being the same as the potion he'd been getting all week.

"Will he be alright?" Ron queried, shooting an anxious look at his friend.

"Provided that he does as he's told, for once, there's no reason Mr. Potter shouldn't be up to his usual antics, soon," the professor replied drolly, silently adding, for a time.

Hearing the unspoken words, Pomfrey nodded, not so much in agreement, as in acceptance of a fact. "It'd be best if there weren't any rumors regarding Mr. Potter's condition," she stated firmly. "For now, it'd be best if you both went off to lunch. I know for a fact that neither one of you ate any breakfast." Before either could protest, Ron's stomach growled loudly. With matching sighs of defeat (and a reddened face on Ron's part), they obediently departed.

"Pity I can't get students to follow directions so well in class," Snape remarked sarcastically.

"Behave, Severus. They're just worried about their friend." She propped Harry up in his bed to feed him the antagonist, using a charm to activate his swallowing reflex.

"There's no reason why they shouldn't be."

Poppy placed a hand on his arm. "You still have time, Severus."

"I've just haven't the slightest clue how much," the man hissed in frustration. They had moved a short distance from the bed as they continued their discussion.

"You don't think the potion you're making him will buy you enough time to develop an antidote."

"It's a rare poison, only ever known to be made by accident. Had Potter only used the wrong ingredient or just caused his cauldron to explode, he wouldn't be dying. It was that mix of ingredients combined with the explosion which made the concoction deadly. If he'd added just one more ingredient... The Jobberknoll feathers would have neutralized the excess Erumpent horn and he'd be perfectly fine right now."

"What about the other potion?" Poppy asked. "Can't you use it as a basis to develop an antidote?"

Severus shook his head. "That wouldn't work," he replied. "It counteracts the effects of the poison, but not the poison itself. Speaking of which, I adjusted it today, so it should help repress his apparent tendency towards seizures."

"Is that not one of the symptoms?" the mediwitch questioned in alarm.

"From what has been documented, the poison affects everyone a bit differently. But no. Seizures weren't listed as having been experienced by those previously afflicted."

"Poor boy. Can't do anything typically, can he?"

"Clearly, that would be far too simple," Severus drawled. "The boy seems determined to get himself killed at every turn – even when the effort is unintentional."

Poppy took on an amused expression. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you cared a little about the boy."

"You know perfectly well that is not the case," he scowled.

"Yes, Severus. I know," she told him. They silently gazed over at the unconscious teen. "I guess that I will be keeping him here until further notice."

Snape let out a long breath. "That won't be necessary, Poppy," he said.

"Oh?" Pomfrey tilted her head inquiringly.

"No. I have a –" he practically choked on the words – "better idea. First, I must speak with the headmaster. I will return later." He left the room in a billow of robes. As she watched him leave, a smile overtook Poppy's features. She knew that though he didn't like Harry, that didn't mean the stern Potions Master didn't care about the boy a little – even if it was only for the sake of his lost best friend.