|Torina Archelda (torina_archelda) wrote in severus_sighs,|
@ 2010-04-21 22:42:00
|Entry tags:||drabble, member: torina_archelda, pairing: severus/harry, rating: g|
Persnickety by Torina Archelda
Word Count: 547
Summary: Severus is not a good patient. Harry has the distinct pleasure of being well aware of this fact.
A/N: For the lovely lemondropseven who (very indirectly) saved my Skype from an untimely death.
“Severus, I’ve had just about enough of this.” Harry felt guilty for snapping a moment later, but he was truly at the end of his tether. Severus was a terrible patient, and the last three days had been sheer torture for Harry.
“I absolutely refuse to ingest that swill, Harry,” Severus bit out. Harry was sure he would have had more to say—illness had made Severus even more verbose than usual—but he was cut off by a violent coughing fit. He bent over double in bed, hacking, but when Harry reached out a hand to rub his back Severus shrugged him off.
Harry closed his eyes and counted to ten. Backwards. In Latin. When he opened them Severus was glaring at him mutinously, arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face that Harry would have called a pout on anyone else. “Severus,” he began gently, far more patience in his tone than he actually felt, “you’re ill.”
“I am actually aware of that, you know,” Severus interrupted before Harry could continue. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that three days of coughing, vomiting, and other such behaviors have escaped your notice. Lord knows no one has ever accused you of being observant.”
That last stung, but Harry refused to let Severus see that. “Merlin, Severus, just drink it, all right? I realize you’re not feeling well right now, but if you don’t take your medicine you’re never going to get better.”
“I’m sure a third year could brew something of higher quality than that ridiculous excuse for a concoction. Mass-market healing potions, honestly! And I’m sure it tastes perfectly awful,” Severus sniffed haughtily, turning his head away from Harry—and the potion.
“I mixed it into your applesauce last night,” Harry replied flatly. Severus’ gaze snapped back to him, disbelieving.
“You did not,” he insisted, looking Harry over as if trying to see through his lie.
“I did,” Harry affirmed, meeting Severus’ gaze steadily. “You can’t even taste anything right now, Severus. And your throat was feeling better this morning, admit it.” Severus’s eyes flickered downward, and Harry felt a spark of victory at that. “Please, Severus?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and brushing Severus’ hair away from his feverish, sweat-soaked forehead. Severus' gaze trailed over to the vial gripped in Harry’s left hand while he leaned into his right, and Harry stroked his temple, knowing his cool fingers would be a relief against Severus’ heated skin. “For me?”
Severus shot him a baleful glare and snatched the potion from him. “Gryffindors,” he muttered, downing the vial in one gulp. “Everything always has to be about you.”
Harry snorted at that but discarded the vial and climbed over Severus into bed. He murmured a freshening charm, smiling when Severus sighed in relief as the spell flickered over his skin. “Good night, love,” he said softly, curling up at Severus’ side and resting an arm over his stomach. “Wake me if you need me.”
Harry drifted quickly to sleep, Severus’ hand pressed comfortingly against his back. Many times over the years to come he would look back and try to remember, but he could never be sure if he’d just imagined Severus’ whispered, “I’ll always need you.”