Harry retches until nothing comes up anymore, and once he begins to dry-heave, shaking in his place on the floor, Dromeda pulls the cauldron away, Vanishing its sickly contents before offering it back. Harry feels a cold sweat soaking into his robes, and he shivers violently, keeping his eyes mostly closed. He knows Narcissa and Dromeda are both moving back and forth, talking with Snape, and he feels a blanket thrown around his shoulders, but he can't concentrate enough to focus on what they're actually saying.

He feels himself pulled slowly to stand, and just the touch of Narcissa's slim, slender fingers leave a burning agony on his skin, even through the fabric of his robes. He cries out, sharply, and he stumbles slightly.

"Don't touch him, Cissy," he hears Dromeda say in a quiet, urgent voice, and she gets him into the corridor, where Dumbledore meets them. The loud, orange fabric of his robes makes Harry's eyes suddenly twinge, and he closes his eyes tightly. "You're going to fall," he hears Drom say, and he frowns, because while he feels worse than he's ever felt, he's standing.

"I am not," he hears Snape say, and when he looks, squinting at him with his blurry, teary eyes, and he sees that Snape looks a little grey, his left hand over his mouth. He sways, just slightly, and when Narcissa touches his elbow, he winces. Harry coughs, trying to blink the wetness out of his watering eyes to see Snape better, but Dumbledore murmurs something Harry can't quite make out, and gently pushes him to move down the corridor.

At the stairs, Harry feels himself lifted from the floor, and despite his mumbled, barely coherent protests and Snape's sharper, more profane ones, the both of them are levitated up to the Hogwarts infirmary on conjured stretchers. Lying pale and still on his back on one of the beds, Harry can see a blurry figure: it's only by squinting at the thick, black muss of his beard and hair that he knows it's Igor Karkaroff. He wants to ask questions, and he wants to ask what's happening, but all of a sudden the ache in his head sharpens suddenly again, and he drops against one of the beds with a hoarse scream.

Clinging tightly to the metal bedposts, he heaves in his breath, but even with his eyes open he no longer sees the infirmary swimming around him: he sees drapes of black, a sunset on the hill, and when he looks down at his hands, they're so white they're almost blue, and thick, red blood is slicked over the fingers. "Voldemort," he feels himself say, but the voice is not his own. It's high and it rings through the air and his own skull. Heaving in a gasp, he blinks desperately, and despite his panic, he tries to focus on clearing his mind of anything at all.

Blackness surrounds him when he closes his eyes, and he embraces the darkness and its lack of scent or colour or sound. He lifts himself away from the too-fast beat of his own heart and the working of his lungs, even from the agony pulsing through his head and dancing thickly over his chilled skin, and he drowns himself in darkness, sinking himself into it.

The last thing he feels is the buckle of his own knees as he drops to the floor.

---

Harry sits up on his bed, watching Karkaroff. His dark eyes are closed, and he lies mostly still on the bed, but every few minutes he'll violently shiver or let out a sharp, pained noise. The curtains around Snape's infirmary bed are closed, but when Harry had peeked in, he'd just seen his head of house asleep. He's not comatose like Karkaroff, and just looks like he's chosen a slightly odd place to sleep, laid on his side with one hand under the pillow and the other carded in his own hair. He breathes evenly, his expression quietly serious even while he's unconscious, and Harry had quickly crept back to his own bed and let Snape's curtain fall shut again.

The sight of Severus Snape looking so peaceful had actually unsettled him far more than Karkaroff's shaking, obviously ill form.

"What's wrong with us?" Harry asks quietly when Dumbledore slowly approaches his bed. The infirmary is empty except for the three of them, and although Harry had asked to be let out, he's not surprised Pomfrey had refused him. Sweat still soaks into his hair and drips coldly down his skin, and he has not only his own quilt but two more from other beds wrapped around his body. He sits cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing away from Snape's curtained-off bed and watching Karkaroff intently, even as Dumbledore makes his way over and settles on the edge of Harry's bed. His hands fold neatly in his orange-draped lap, and for a few moments he watches Karkaroff in silence. "Is it contagious?"

"There is a reason we've quarantined the three of you somewhat," Dumbledore answers in a quiet voice, "I wish I could share with you every detail, Mr Potter, but I confess I'm lacking in them."

"I saw Voldemort," Harry says. "That's why I went to Snape, because my scar started hurting. I was just about to talk to him when I started feeling sick, all of a sudden." He breathes in, shifting under the insufficient warmth of his hoarded blankets and swallowing hard to stop himself from retching again. It's worse than he's ever felt - he's had colds over the years, where Madam Pomfrey will usually give you a Pepper-Up potion and fix you right up, but even the illnesses he spent locked in his cupboard to keep from passing anything onto Dudley hadn't been this bad. At any moment, he feels like he might just crumble into sweat-soaked dust, and he groans quietly, rubbing at the side of his face.

"What did you see, Harry?" Dumbledore asks. His tone is kind, and when he looks at Harry, Harry knows that the old man is taking him seriously. Despite Dumbledore's sometimes irritating calmness, Harry appreciates that he usually gives the impression he's taking what Harry says to heart.

"I was him. Voldemort. I saw things through his eyes, and said his name, but in his voice. There was blood on his hands - my hands - and he, I, was outside." He frowns, trying to remember what he'd seen in detail despite his hazy, feverish memories, but no clear visuals come to mind. "I think I saw people," Harry says. "Black robes. I didn't see any masks, though." Dumbledore nods his head, taking in the details.

"Is your scar still hurting?"

"No," Harry says, shaking his head. There's pain in every part of his body, but his scar doesn't have the same affected twinge to it anymore, and nor can he feel the utter agony of something pressing on it. "I used some of the Occlumency I knew," Harry says, in almost a whisper, "When I was in his body, I panicked, but then I cleared my mind. I haven't tried any of the other stuff, like adjusting memories or anything, but I think I pulled away."

"With your sudden sickness, Harry, I believe your mind was in a weakened state; Voldemort, too, is weak at this time." Dumbledore pauses for a moment, and then murmurs, "You have truly affected yourself to studying Occlumency, have you not, Harry? I have noticed your focus since August: it is now November, with the First Task of the Tournament looming over you, and you have not grown bored." Harry glances at the old man, and then he shrugs his shoulders.

"It's hard, but it's easy to fit in. I can work on it before bed. It's not like other stuff," he adds, thinking about trying to get in the time to learn new hexes, or, most of all, the more complex mental exercises he has to do for his Animagus transformation - let alone the potions.

"Which other stuff would that be?" Dumbledore asks, and when Harry looks at him, the old man's gaze twinkles. He knows. Harry's sure that he knows, even without using Legilimency or something - he knows what Harry and Sirius have been talking about, but it doesn't make him feel threatened, and he doesn't get defensive like he would with Snape or McGonagall. He just grins.

"Oh, you know, Professor. Just school things." Dumbledore gives a slow nod of his head, smiling innocently, and despite Harry feeling sick as a dog, he keeps on smiling a little as Dumbledore stands and slowly leaves the room. He coughs slightly, shivering. Talking to Dumbledore had distracted him for a little while, and now with no one awake to talk to, Harry is left with his own thoughts and the sickly feeling permeating his body. He lies down, making his body small to curl it under the thick quilts, and he presses his head into his pillows.

---

"You alright, sir?" Harry asks when Snape pushes open his curtain and stands on the floor. His head of house's hair is lightly tousled around his head, but it's nothing like Harry's after going to sleep, and Snape gives him a stare. Madam Pomfrey had dressed him in the same infirmary pyjamas as everyone wears, and the sight of Snape in a blue and white striped nightshirt is just bizarre. Harry's never even seen the man in an outfit that wasn't at least eighty percent black cloth; Snape's feet are bare and inhumanly pale, and Harry can see pink scars on his feet and around his ankles.

Snape doesn't answer.

He shuts the curtain closed again, and when he next comes out it's with his usual robes on, his hair brushed back from his head, but Harry still feels terrible, and he expects Snape does too. His skin has an even more unhealthy pallor than usual, tinged green, and despite his having slept so naturally there are dark circles under his eyes.

Harry watches him from under his blankets, and he expects Snape to leave, but is surprised when the other man murmurs a diagnostic spell he hasn't heard before. Snape reaches out, and Harry braces himself, but the touch doesn't hurt him like it had the other night: Snape's fingers are pleasantly warm as his knuckles touch the sweat-slick skin of Harry's forehead.

"Ninety nine degrees Fahrenheit," he declares, and Harry shoots him a look, pulling away from his hand.

"You cannot tell that from touching my head," Harry objects, and adds, "That's bull." Snape's lip twitches, and he seems mildly amused as he steps away from Harry's bed, drawing his silver watch from his pocket and glancing over it. Harry still can't read a wizard's watch - he's looked at those of the older Slytherins, reading their complex clock faces, but they're not as simple as a normal, Muggle watch.

"Severus! Get back into bed, immediately!"

"I will return to my office, Poppy," Snape says in a quiet, measured tone. Madam Pomfrey looks nothing less than furious.

"You are not fit to roam-"

"I will hardly roam, Poppy: I will return to my office, and then to my quarters, to bed."

"You are ill-"

"Indeed."

"You need bed rest."

"I quite agree."

"In the hospital wing!"

"Here, we diverge." Madam Pomfrey turns red with anger, but she doesn't actually stop Snape as he neatly turns on his heel and exits the hospital wing, stepping out of the room and making his way silently down the corridor. As if to make up for having lost one of her patients, she comes to fuss over Harry, taking his temperature with an old-fashioned thermometer that hovers in Harry's ear. "Higher than I'd like," she murmurs when she plucks it from the air, and Harry looks up at her face.

"Ninety nine degrees Fahrenheit?" She furrows her brow.

"Precisely." Harry laughs, and lies back for a little while, drinking the bitter potion Pomfrey presses against his lips. Karkaroff begins to stir, soon enough, and Harry sees when he sits up in bed that his sweat has soaked through the flannel fabric of the pyjamas, leaving him shivering with the cold moisture. When he sees Harry watching him, he shoves the curtains around his bed closed with a sharp growl, and Harry closes his eyes to try and sleep.

---

"How long was I in there?" Harry asks as he pokes half-heartedly at his porridge.

"Four days," Blaise answers cleanly, reaching for the honey and drizzling a little over Harry's breakfast. "Snape left after two. Karkaroff's still in there, right?"

"He didn't look good," Harry murmurs, shaking his head slightly. After Karkaroff had dragged his curtains shut, Harry had only caught glimpses of him, but when the headmaster wasn't sleeping fitfully, he was vomiting, and he still couldn't keep any food down when Harry had left the hospital wing. He looks across the room, where he can see the furry edge of Viktor Krum's cape: he's speaking almost animatedly with Hermione over a breakfast of various fruits, and Harry smiles a little. "Krum seems to be enjoying his respite."

Blaise chuckles. "He's been spending a lot of time with Granger." Blaise's foot hooks around Harry's under the table, and Harry smiles a little "Want to take a little detour before we go to Potions?"

"We'll be late," Harry murmurs, shifting his boot against Blaise's.

"It's not Snape," Blaise says. "Hayworth's friend - Sartorius - has been covering his lessons while he's been ill. It'll be fine." Harry grins a little, thinking of the new spells Sirius had sent him. Three had been more practical - two contraceptive charms and one for hiding hickeys - but another had been a little more... Fun.

"Yeah, alright," Harry says. He still feels a little weak, but he feels much better than he had yesterday, and the idea of a little private time with the other Slytherin is wonderful. "Sure."