This was certainly the weirdest flu that Lily Evans had ever had in her life.
Most of the day she would spend miserably, throwing up everything she tried to force down and wanting to fall into bed and sleep through everything. But then there would be weird moments, like now, when she would feel absolutely, perfectly fine. She was eating and keeping the food down, she was at least marginally more energetic--it was like she wasn't sick at all and never had been. It had been like that all night, enough time for her to get her class plans written up for the substitute (Pomfrey had forbidden her from going to classes, in case she would get the students sick), which was more than she had been able to do in almost a week now.
Well. Lily didn't know what this was, but she was thankful for these moments like this. It was such a relief to be able to sit and concentrate on something without feeling like she was going to die. She had almost forgotten what it felt like, this not-going-to-die feeling.
"You know, you are worse than a small child," she commented after a few seconds of trying to ignore James' purposely irritating presence over her shoulder. As she snapped the novel shut in her lap, one hand pushed her husband away. "And you know better than to get too close, ex-Healer Potter."
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