Harry knew better than to make a fuss. He knew better than to show weakness, to draw attention, to be inconvenient.
So when the first pangs of nausea curled in his belly, heavy and sour, he swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders. He was perched on the edge of a stiff-backed dining chair in some unfamiliar sitting room, dressed in one of Dudley’s old shirts that hung like a sheet on his frame, his feet barely brushing the floor. The Dursleys were here for some fancy dinner party, invited by one of Vernon’s business associates, and Harry had been dragged along under the threat of punishment if he so much as looked the wrong way.
The room was too warm. His stomach churned.
He pressed his hands flat to his lap, willing himself to ignore it.
It was only after the meal had been served—plates piled high with buttery, rich food that he didn’t dare touch—that he realized just how bad this was going to get. His skin felt hot and cold at the same time, his mouth watered ominously, and the tight knot of nausea in his stomach had bloomed into something unbearable.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, lightheaded and swallowing convulsively, before someone spoke to him.
“Oh, brilliant,” Dudley muttered from the seat beside him, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth. “You look like you’re gonna hurl.”
Harry clenched his jaw. “M’fine.”
“You’re really not.” Dudley frowned at him, then nudged him—hard—like he was testing the limits of whatever pathetic state Harry had worked himself into. The motion made his stomach roll.
Harry barely managed to slap a hand over his mouth before he was bolting, stumbling away from the table in a blind panic. He could hear Aunt Petunia’s shriek of dismay, Uncle Vernon’s furious grumbling, but all that mattered was finding somewhere, anywhere—
The bathroom door hit the wall with a loud bang as he crashed through it, barely making it to the toilet before his stomach turned itself inside out.
It was awful. His thin frame shuddered as he heaved, knuckles white where they clutched the cold porcelain. His throat burned, his stomach cramped, and for a long, miserable moment, all he could do was shake and gasp for breath.
Then—footsteps.
Harry flinched, expecting Petunia’s sharp voice or Vernon’s anger. Instead, it was Dudley, standing awkwardly in the doorway.
“…You done?”
Harry swallowed against another wave of nausea and shook his head.
Dudley sighed dramatically, then stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He didn’t look thrilled to be there.
“Look,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Mum says I’ve got to keep you out of sight till we leave. Says she doesn’t want you embarrassing us.”
Harry barely had time to process that before another wave of sickness hit him. He folded back over the toilet, shuddering violently as his stomach clenched. His entire body ached. He hated this.
“…Gross,” Dudley mumbled.
Harry didn’t respond.
There was a long pause. Then, something soft—Dudley, sitting down on the tiled floor beside him, back against the tub. “You look really bad,” he admitted, sounding more intrigued than concerned. “Like, worse than when Piers threw up after eating bad prawns.”
Harry groaned weakly and leaned his forehead against his arm. His skin was damp with sweat.
Dudley was quiet for a moment. Then—hesitantly—he reached over and nudged Harry’s shoulder. “Here,” he said, holding out a wad of toilet paper. “Wipe your face. You’re all—” He gestured vaguely. “—clammy.”
Harry blinked at him. That was… surprisingly not cruel.
He took the toilet paper, wiping at his mouth. Dudley wrinkled his nose but didn’t move away.
“So,” Dudley said after a minute, shifting his legs out in front of him. “Are you gonna die?”
Harry let out a weak, breathless laugh. “Dunno. Feels like it.”
Dudley tilted his head, considering. Then he shrugged. “Well. That’d be so weird for everyone if you did it here.”
Despite everything, Harry grinned. It was small, but it was real.
Dudley, apparently satisfied with himself, sighed and leaned back against the tub. “You better not, though,” he mumbled, half to himself. “Mum’d make me help clean up your room if you did.”
Harry hummed, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. His fevered head swam, and the cold tile against his bare legs felt nice.
Somewhere outside, the party carried on without them. The sound of voices and laughter filtered through the closed door, but in here, in this small, quiet space, things felt… different.
It wasn’t kindness, not really. Dudley wasn’t suddenly soft or caring. But he hadn’t left. He hadn’t mocked Harry, hadn’t hit him or made it worse. He had sat down, handed him some toilet paper, and stayed.