Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

Story Notes:

”Surgery” turns out longer than I intended. Combined with a dead-line to keep, it is not as well processed as I would like it to be… But the story wants to be written and so I indulge in writing it. The setting is summerish, so from that aspect, too, I thought that it should be in the summer fic fest. The story answers the challenges: ”Surgery” by BamaBelle2012 and ”Petunia tell me the truth” by lilyqueen777 and is an attempt to describe the difficult boundaries between neglect and abuse of a child. It takes on the ”abusive Dursleys” from a little different angle that I hope might be interesting.

There’s a wave of writing frenzy for this particular fic fest with so many good entries, and I’m simply happy to take part in that general delirium. 

 

Thanks a lot to SHallow who has had the patience to beta the story - you’ve boosted my confidence enough to take a chance and post it.

Chapter 1 A persistent stomach ache

Eleven-year-old Harry Potter let his quill glide slowly down his palm to land on the scratched, once white-painted surface in front of him. He let out a slow, controlled sigh. How could writing a few lines tire him to this extent? His other hand was clamped over his stomach and he was sitting very still on a pin chair in front of the small desk in his bedroom at Number four, Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey, avoiding all unnecessary movement while he stared at the letter he just finished. It read thus:

 

Dear Madam Pomfrey,

I am very sorry to disturb you, because you are probably on a vacation. I have told Hedwig, my owl, to deliver the letter at Hogwarts, preferably to you, or if you are not there, to Professor Dumbledore or any other Professor who might still be residing in the castle.

My aunt gave me permission to write to you because I have been ill since I came back from Hogwarts and my aunt, who is a Muggle, says that she cannot possibly be expected to take responsibility for my health, as she thinks that children of my kind might need magical treatment, and therefore she is reluctant to take me to a Muggle doctor. This is what she says, and it struck me that she might be right, because when I stayed at the hospital wing after what happened with Professor Quirrel, you treated me with spells and potions that I suppose the Muggle hospitals wouldn’t know of. Anyway, if that is not true, and I should just go and see a Muggle doctor or something for my stomach ache, then I apologise for disturbing you and I will try to persuade my aunt to take me to one. Please just let me know which way it is.

I have waited three days to see if the pain wouldn’t get better on its own, but I’m afraid it has only got worse and I honestly don’t think it will disappear unless I get some potion or something. I have difficulties eating and I cannot keep myself straight because if I do, something tears inside my stomach. No one has hurt me and it still aches. Do you please have an idea what kind of illness it could be, Madam Pomfrey, and how I should treat it?

I want to stress that this is not a childish attempt to try to avoid staying with my relatives, or to get attention or anything like that. Professor Dumbledore already told me that I had to go back to Surrey during the summer and I was quite resigned to do so, when this came up.

Yours respectfully, 

Harry Potter

 

Harry stared at his own words, rereading the text repeatedly a few times. He had added the last part when he realised that Madam Pomfrey might in fact already have left Hogwarts and that the letter might fall into the hands of someone like Snape, his professor in Potions at Hogwarts who had shown his disdain for Harry plainly during the past year and who was obviously reliable to question Harry Potter’s motives for writing such a letter. 

 

Harry hesitated - was it clear enough? Without sounding pitiful? He did not want to give away too much, and yet if he wanted some help, he realised that he needed to be frank about his symptoms. It was so embarrassing to need to contact Hogwarts less than a week after he had left! He felt torn between his awkwardness and a daunting feeling that his stomach ache might be more than a mere trifle. Why wouldn’t Aunt Petunia take him to see a doctor of her own accord? They could try the Muggle way first and if it did not work, they could contact Hogwarts later. Harry was sure that Aunt Petunia’s stubborn refusal stemmed less from concern that Harry needed magical treatment than from fear that a Muggle doctor might find something amiss with him as that would be embarrassing to her. She had always been afraid that Harry’s ’freakiness’ would reflect badly on her own family.

 

Harry had started to feel unwell already on the Hogwarts Express on his way back to London. He had bought, but then declined to eat, the Chocolate Frogs, the Pumpkin Pasties and the Bertie Bott’s Beans that the lady with the trolley on the train offered, and left them all to Ron and Hermione. He had agreed with his friends when they attributed his queasiness to the train ride and perhaps, Harry had thought secretly, to a tiny amount of anxiety for going back to the Dursleys. He found it hard to figure out what to expect from his relatives after being gone for almost a whole year. 

 

The return to Privet Drive had been uneventful, however. It was strange, Harry thought, because everything felt so dull and yet so familiar. The year at Hogwarts suddenly faded into a far, unreal memory. His relatives did not ask any questions and Harry found himself doubting whether the castle, the magic, all the people, the troll and his confrontation with Voldemort at the end of the year had happened at all. He had literally fallen into bed that evening, hoping to feel better the next day.

 

The first morning at Privet Drive started poorly, however, as Harry had been unable to have much for breakfast and Aunt Petunia, who was in a bad mood, had accused him of being ungrateful, and was not their food good enough for him compared to what they had at that ridiculous school of his? Harry tried to defend himself and explain that he felt a bit nauseous, but his uncle had snorted and praised Dudley for his sound appetite, and his aunt had declared in a shrill voice that if their food was so distasteful to Harry, he could simply skip lunch as well. Harry performed his chores in a barely acceptable way that day. His aunt accused him of being lazy and of having laid off during the school year. He reluctantly forced himself to swallow some bread and cheese that evening before going to bed. He was sick in the middle of the night, but managed not to wake anyone up when using the bathroom, judging it unwise to disrupt his relatives’ sleep, however wretched he felt.

 

During the following two days, the vague feeling of illness progressed to show in a more precise way, in the form of a dull pain to the right in his stomach. He had to move slowly, avoiding every sudden movement as it would provoke a searing sensation in the lower part of his abdomen. He started to walk slightly bent forward, putting his feet down with care as the slightest bounce made him wince with pain. It was increasingly hard to perform his chores. Weeding the flower beds was easiest to do, because when he was on his knees and bent over, his stomach didn’t hurt so much, but when Aunt Petunia asked him to help her clean the windows and he needed to stand on tip toes and stretch all his length to wipe the glass, he had simply been forced to abandon his task, hyperventilating and having shivers of pain traverse his body, doubling over in agony. 

 

That was probably the first time since his return, that it occurred to his aunt that there might truly be something wrong with him. She had allowed him to retreat to his bedroom with a snort, instructing him harshly to rest and make sure that he got better soon because - and here came the threat that had been rather more maliciously expressed than Harry let show in his letter - she didn’t want to waste any time or money on Harry by taking him to a doctor, and she declined all responsibility for figuring out what kind of diseases people of his kind could succumb to. He would simply have to beg some of his new acquaintances to come and sort it out, she said. If they care to, she added.

 

Thus the letter. Harry sighed. It was terribly embarrassing. He didn’t really know any of those people at Hogwarts, did he - not after only one year? And they were not on duty. They were not supposed to care for their pupils during the summer. Harry had considered writing to Ron and have him ask his family for advice, but then he remembered that Ron had said that they would be visiting Ron’s cousins at the beginning of the holidays and Harry had concluded that the best way would be to ask someone professional with a healing knowledge.

 

Harry grimaced after reading the letter one last time and glanced at Hedwig in her cage. What if the teachers were still at Hogwarts - they might have a teachers’ conference or something at the end or the year - and what if Madam Pomfrey showed them the letter and they all got mad at him - it was not as if they would jump with joy at a pupil contacting them and trying to disrupt their holidays, was it? Or, even worse, what if they all laughed at him for believing that a simple disease needed magical intervention? Harry decided to wait until the morning before sending the letter. Maybe he would get better during the night after all, and how embarrassing would not that be, if they came to his rescue and he was suddenly well and restored to normal health? 

 

Harry rose carefully and began shuffling his way back to his bed. He stopped suddenly and stared at the empty floor. He had forgotten to bring a glass of water with him when he mounted. He was actually quite thirsty but, he thought grimly, there was no way he would adventure himself down the stairs. It would be torture moving so far and even if he made it to the ground floor, he was not sure he would be able to climb back again. He didn’t even have the strength to move into the bathroom that was at the other end of the hall outside his room, to drink from the tap. All he wanted was to lie down. And it was futile to call for someone to fetch him a glass of water. Aunt Petunia would not respond and she would make sure that Uncle Vernon and Dudley stayed out of his room. 

 

During the past days, Harry had noticed Uncle Vernon casting increasingly worried glances at him during breakfast, but as always his uncle did not intervene, but rose to walk away to work and left Harry’s wellbeing in the hands of Aunt Petunia. Harry had stopped expecting anything of him. 

 

At one time, when he was little, Harry had had hopes of finding an alley in his uncle. He had vague memories of sitting on his uncle’s lap being read to, and of sandwiches being sticked to him through the chink of the door to his cupboard when his aunt had sent him to bed without dinner. On several instances, he remembered overhearing his uncle secretly trying to persuade Aunt Petunia to go easier on Harry, at which Aunt Petunia would invariably sneer threateningly that it was her business how to treat her nephew and dare Vernon not interfere. 

 

A few years ago, when Harry was nine, a huge row had broken out between his aunt and uncle where Aunt Petunia had raged and accused her husband of neglecting his own son in favour of Harry. This was brought on because Uncle Vernon had offered Harry to inherit his cousin’s bike when Dudley had received a new mountain-bike for his tenth birthday. Dudley had protested that he needed his old bike, and Uncle Vernon had retracted his offer to Harry immediately, but the damage was already done. 

 

Dudley, who had a hard time handling the high expectations of a boosted birthday, grasped the opportunity to let out some frustration and had refused to let himself be comforted, but stayed cross with his father and cried his eyes out sitting on his mother’s lap, accusing Uncle Vernon of caring more for Harry than for him, even though it was Dudley’s birthday. It had rendered Aunt Petunia so upset that she had threatened Uncle Vernon with a divorce if he did not get his priorities sorted and behaved as a loving father to his son, leaving her to deal with her nephew. She had cried and trembled in agitation and shouted at her husband who initially, in his equal frustration over the unrealistic demands of a perfect birthday, attempted to defend himself, making the unwise and inopportune decision to attempt hammering some gratefulness into his son’s mind by pointing out that Harry did not even have a proper bedroom and that they never bought him anything first hand, while he, as the head of the household, spent all his wages on new toys for Dudley and how could that possibly mean that he was favouring Harry? 

 

But his outburst had only fuelled Aunt Petunia’s indignation. She gestured vehemently at their sniffling, puff-faced son as if he was the living proof of Uncle Vernon’s cruelty and the justification of her accusations. Uncle Vernon had resisted for a few hours, not really finding himself at fault, but then Aunt Petunia had plunged into a cupboard and sorted, brandishing a huge suitcase, threatening to move out at once and bring Dudley with her, since Vernon did not value their company in the least, but only cared for Harry. Uncle Vernon had followed her into the bedroom, bewildered, and watched her pack. He had started to plead with her that she had misunderstood him, clearly, and would she please listen? She had turned a deaf ear to him and moved on to Dudley’s bedroom to get their son’s things thrown into the suitcase as well and it was at that moment that Uncle Vernon had started to cry.

 

Uncle Vernon was a close to obese man who held a rather insecure position just a little bit up in the hierarchy of his company where he had to prove himself constantly. He had few friends, a fact which, to a great part, stemmed from his wife’s critical eye whenever he brought colleagues home for dinner, and where he seldom seemed to be invited back. Aunt Petunia was the trophy of his life, his family was his worth. He lived under the impression that he would be absolutely nothing without them. The threat of being left alone crushed him and he sank to his knees in front of Aunt Petunia, crying pathetically and pleading heart-brokenly with her to stay.

 

During this drama, although it seemed to circle around him, Harry barely received one glance, from neither of his aunt or uncle. Only Dudley sniffed an occasional ’It’s all your fault’ in Harry’s direction, but strangely - because Dudley was used to being in the middle of all attention - even Dudley seemed to back off during the formidable conjugal row. Harry observed with alarm his aunt’s successive dismantling of his uncle. Rationally, Harry knew that he was not to blame for the argument, yet he could not help feeling dreadful and guilty because of his uncle’s misery, almost regretting that his uncle had offered him that bicycle.

 

The row had ended with Aunt Petunia soothing Uncle Vernon like a small child and when the big man finally stopped crying and rose from the floor, Uncle Vernon had looked hard at Harry and asked him to go to his cupboard and stay there, because his wife and he wanted to celebrate their son’s birthday in peace.

 

It was not as if his uncle had ever taken much notice of Harry, but there had been some sympathy and some understanding over the years, small actions of humanity that had kept Harry slightly hopeful of secretly having someone on his side. Harry did not expect anyone to openly thwart Aunt Petunia. No, he perfectly understood that such behaviour would be far too hazardous.

 

After this episode, however, Harry had completely given up on Uncle Vernon. It seemed like the dread of being abandoned that the fight had imprinted in him, spurred Uncle Vernon to compete with his wife in malice towards Harry. As if he had to prove to her, by surpassing her in cruelty, that he did not chose Harry over them. He always shouted at Harry as soon as he got the chance, always berated him, always lifted Dudley forth in comparison. Still, Harry never discerned, in his uncle’s eyes, that immediate, reflexive hatred that always appeared in Aunt Petunia’s face when she set her eyes on him.

 

And now, when he had shown increasing signs of illness, there had been that small glimmer of concern in his uncle’s eyes. But it did not matter, thought Harry bitterly. If his aunt was intent not to take him to a doctor, then there was nothing Uncle Vernon could do about it. It had surprised Harry, however, that Aunt Petunia had been so quick in allowing him to write to Hogwarts. Almost as if she wished someone from there to take charge of the situation - and to get rid of him. Harry shook his head as he lowered himself, slowly, down on his bed. If she wanted to return him to the wizard world, she would have done so long ago, wouldn’t she? And she would not have made that desperate attempt to keep him from going to Hogwarts last summer. It did not make sense. 

 

 

Harry lifted his legs over the edge into the bed, gripping and dragging one leg at a time with both hands to ease the way and minimise the painful stabs the movement sent through his stomach. Finally, with a sigh of relief, he could lie down. Tomorrow, Harry thought exhausted, I will send the letter tomorrow



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