Harry knew it was going to be a miserable summer. It always was. But he hadn't expected to spend part of it curled up on the floor of the smallest bedroom at Number Four, Privet Drive, shaking and clammy with fever, his stomach twisting in relentless, nauseating spasms.
His first warning had been the dull ache in his gut that morning, just as Uncle Vernon barked at him to stay out of sight for the day. An hour later, he was hunched over the toilet, retching violently. His stomach heaved again and again, emptying itself until nothing was left but bile, burning his throat raw. He slumped against the cold porcelain, panting, his forehead sticky with sweat.
By noon, he'd lost count of how many times he'd thrown up. His stomach refused to settle, punishing him with merciless cramps and waves of nausea so intense he could barely sit upright. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. The cramps in his gut worsened, a deep, rolling pressure that sent him staggering toward the toilet—only this time, he barely managed to yank down his pajama bottoms before a liquid rush of diarrhea hit, sending pain shooting through his abdomen. He gritted his teeth, curling forward, sweat dripping from his brow as his stomach twisted cruelly.
The Dursleys, of course, were no help.
“You better not be expecting any special treatment,” Aunt Petunia sniffed from the doorway when he had finally crawled back to his room, his head pounding. “If you make a mess, you’re cleaning it up yourself.”
Uncle Vernon grunted from the living room, not even bothering to check on him, and Dudley—well, Dudley had laughed at first. “Maybe you’ll puke yourself inside out,” he snickered before lumbering off to enjoy his dinner.
Harry barely noticed the passing hours. Every time he managed to drift off, he was jolted awake by his stomach rebelling yet again. His body ached from the strain, his throat was raw, and he could feel the dehydration setting in—a pounding headache, his tongue dry and useless in his mouth. Every movement sent nausea rolling over him anew, and soon enough, he was scrambling once again for the bucket beside his bed, gagging up what little remained in his stomach. His limbs trembled as he dry-heaved, body aching, only for another painful cramp to send him rushing to the bathroom once more, barely making it before his insides emptied in a humiliating, watery gush.
By evening, he had given up trying to move. He lay curled under his thin blanket, too weak to sit up, his stomach twisting again, and he barely had the strength to roll over before he was gagging into the bucket. The force of it left him breathless, his body shivering from the exertion, bile dribbling down his chin as he dry-heaved miserably. His stomach cramped so hard he let out a weak whimper, curling in on himself, knowing that soon enough, he’d have to drag himself back to the toilet for another miserable round.
He wanted to be at the Burrow. Desperately. He could almost hear Mrs. Weasley fussing over him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead, offering him warm broth and murmuring reassurances. Ron would have groaned about how disgusting it all was but stayed by his side anyway. Even Fred and George would have made a joke out of it, but at least they’d keep him company.
Another miserable cramp twisted through him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His whole body ached, his stomach clenched in a way that made him think he was seconds away from another frantic trip to the loo, but he could barely find the strength to stand. He swallowed, mouth dry, trying not to think about how alone he was.
A soft shuffle outside his door pulled him from his thoughts. He barely had time to register it before something was nudged against the narrow gap under the door—a can.
Harry cracked the door and blinked at it, confused, before weakly reaching out with trembling fingers and pulling it closer.
Ginger ale.
It wasn’t cold, but Harry didn’t care. He stared at it for a long moment before carefully pulling the tab open. His hands were shaking so badly that he nearly dropped it.
The sound of retreating footsteps told him everything he needed to know.
Dudley.
Of all people.
Harry took a cautious sip, the fizzy sweetness tingling on his tongue. It settled uneasily in his stomach, but he forced down another sip, too dehydrated to care.
Maybe, just maybe, this break wouldn’t be completely unbearable.