Archive of Our Own

Melissa Johnson was the first.

Healer Eames was on duty when she came to St. Mungo's on July the first, early in the afternoon. Johnson complained of fatigue, severe bouts of headaches, nausea and general weakness. Eames proceeded with the usual tests and came up empty-handed. She recommended staying at the hospital as the case seemed serious. Johnson was brought to a ward and received potions against nausea and headaches.

Despite the potions, Johnson's symptoms became worse over night. Throughout the next day, she lost part of her vision and suffered from prolonged cramps in both legs. Healer Eames still had no idea what she was dealing with. All tests were negative. According to every diagnostic charm she'd run, Johnson should have been in perfect health. Healer Eames performed more tests and tried a different combination of potions. Nothing helped.

*
"How do you feel, Ms Johnson?" Dean Thomas asked almost forty hours after she'd come to St. Mungo's. It was July the third, early in the morning.

The fragile-looking woman swallowed visibly and tried to clear her throat. "Legs hurt," she said with a scratchy voice. "Can't see properly." She groaned and Dean motioned for the nurse.

"Update, please," he said.

"She received a strong sleeping and pain draught two hours ago because of severe pain, as well as muscle relaxation spells for the cramps," Nurse Brown said. "She's been sleeping without disturbance with only minor cramping in her left leg ever since and woke up a few minutes ago."

Dean nodded and smiled at Johnson. He wasn't sure if she could see him; her eyes were heavy-lidded and blood-shot.

"My name is Dean," he said. "We're not sure yet what the cause of your condition is. All tests indicate that we're dealing with a curse. That's why I'm your Healer now. I'm a curse specialist." He paused and checked the file. The woman was thirty-five years old and, until the current symptoms had started three days earlier, she'd been in good health. "Can you remember anything that happened before you came here? Anything unusual? Maybe a spell or someone using magic you didn't recognise?"

Johnson only shook her head.

The questions - even though Dean didn't like them, as they often distressed the patient - were necessary. He didn't know yet what caused her pain. He ran through the known curses in his head; he'd never come across one like this. Not during his almost five years at St. Mungo's, and also not during his studies in France, India and Bulgaria.

Johnson flinched as Dean raised his wand, and he smiled again. "It's just a diagnostic spell, it won't hurt. Whenever you feel uncomfortable, you tell me to stop. Deal?"

"Deal," Johnson agreed weakly.

Dean cast a shield charm on himself before he started working. There was always the chance that it was an infection, no matter what Healer Eames had or had not found. "Better safe than sorry" was the motto of their infection specialist and, even if Dean wasn't the man's biggest fan, the bloke knew what he was talking about.

Slowly, Dean ran his wand from her head to her toes, chanting the incantation. He was looking for the point of impact. Often there was a residual imprint of magic where the spell hit the body, even after days or weeks. Dean traced her face, her shoulders, ran his wand down her arms, hands, then went back to her torso. He worked carefully and meticulously, explaining what he did while he was working, the tip of his wand hovering an inch over her body.

When he reached her left leg, he felt a disturbance and stopped. There was something that could be residue from a spell. Dean took Johnson's hand and placed it over his own on his wand. Then he repeated the spell. "Do you feel the vibrations?" he asked. "It doesn't have to mean anything. Nevertheless, I would like to have a closer look at it if you don't mind."

She nodded.

"I'll try to figure out what the reason for the vibrations is." With a flick of his wand, Dean pushed back the covers. She was wearing a patient robe, and he opened it from ankle to thigh with a second flick.

The spot where he'd detected the disturbance was just above her knee. He looked closely and noticed a slight discolouration. Then he prodded the spot with his fingers and pressed against it with the palm of his hand. As he applied more pressure, he felt the muscle twitch, then cramp. Johnson flinched and he stopped immediately.

Dean cast a second spell, this time to reveal the kind of magic that had been used - if there had been any used. There were no vibrations in his wand, which either meant no magic, or that the imprint was too weak to reveal it.

"Curses are sneaky things," he said. He worked in growing circles now, casting a wide range of curse-detecting spells. "They can move through a body, expand and contract. Sometimes they are concentrated in one single spot, nearly impossible to find, sometimes they are stretched over the whole body, so diluted that they are barely there at all. Some curses move, some are active only at night, day, every odd hour, some are dormant for years. All of them leave a trace. Sooner or later we'll find it." Dean hoped it would be sooner rather than later.

"I will give you more muscle relaxant, and a sleeping potion," he said after he'd finished. "It will keep your body from cramping, and you'll be able to rest. I'll be back this afternoon." Dean didn't add some platitude, telling her not to worry, or promising her an easy solution. Instead, he squeezed her hand and assured her that there would always be someone in the room if she needed anything.

Back in his office Dean studied the file, consulting reference books, looking for similarities. He had a few theories and hoped the potions he'd prescribed would at least slow down the curse and give them enough time to find a cure.

Johnson woke up from her sleep mid-afternoon, and the cramps started again soon after that. It wasn't looking good. All symptoms had become worse, and Dean put her back to sleep after checking the monitor charms. He worried about her breathing. It was becoming more and more irregular, and soon they would have to help her with charms or she'd suffocate - if her heart didn't give out first.

Because of how severe the case had become, Dean requested a meeting with the hospital's Council – a group of Senior Healers from different fields. It was scheduled for later that afternoon.

*

Ron listened to Dean's explanations with growing irritation and impatience. He didn't understand why a patient had been in a hospital bed for two days with symptoms typical of an infection, and no one had seen fit to inform him, even though this should have been his case. He wondered if steam was coming out of his ears.

"Bullshit!" he said after Dean had finished.

"Healer Weasley," the Head Healer warned him.

"I'm sorry, Healer Abercron," Ron said, even though he wasn't sorry at all. "This wasn't a curse. Look at the progression."

Ron got up from his chair and walked to the board where a diagram was projected. He pointed at the displayed times while he listed the symptoms. "Fatigue, headache, nausea, weakness, cramps in legs, arms, then the whole body, refuses to eat, irregular heart rate, vision nearly gone. You gave her potions category one to three, muscle relaxation charms, sedation. Now she's blind, her heart is on the verge of beating itself to death, she has trouble breathing, she has to be kept in a coma because of the pain and she cramps even with strong relaxation charms and potions."

He paused and looked around. "I've never heard of a single curse that can do this, operating in this time-frame. You can't base a theory on a false assumption. This is an infection."

"And how would you explain the complete absence of any signs of an infection, Healer Weasley?" Dean asked.

Ron threw his hands up in the air. "The same way you explain the complete absence of any signs of a curse. And yet you stand here and claim it is one."

Dean shook his head. "Did you listen? Traces of magical activity in the left leg, discolouration, heightened local sensitivity."

Ron huffed. "The only thing you got is the trace on the left leg. And that's so weak that it could be anything. Maybe a crup bit her."

"Healer Weasley," the Head Healer interjected. "What makes you think it's an infection?"

Ron pointed at the timeline again. "The progression is typical. If you compare this to the Yracsgib Strain, you can see the parallels. I know that Healer Eames found nothing in Johnson's blood or her magical signature, but that only means we haven't looked for the correct cause yet."

"What do you suggest?" Abercron asked.

"Isolation, specified testing of magical signature, blood, saliva, mucus, urine, and constant monitoring." The answer came at once. The procedure was standard and every Trainee Healer could have told him.

"Healer Thomas," Abercron prompted.

"Determining the magical imprint, treatment with a mix of potions to delay the effects of the curse, diagnosis of the curse, constant monitoring," Dean answered just as quickly as Ron had.

Showoff, Ron thought, overcome by an immature urge to call him names.

Abercron thought for a moment and then nodded. "Those are not mutually exclusive. We will do both. Healer Thomas, Healer Weasley, you will work together." Ron opened his mouth to protest and saw Dean do the same. Abercron silenced them with a gesture of his hand. "This meeting is over. Go back to your patient without wasting our time and discussing things you won't be able to change."

Ron was able to walk faster than almost everyone else as his legs were longer than almost everyone else's. Dean was just as tall as Ron, though, his legs just as long. Together they walked toward Johnson's room, their faces grim, and their robes billowing behind them.

"What do you think you're doing?" asked Ron when Dean was about to open the door to Johnson's room unprotected. He grabbed Dean's wrist to stop him.

Dean flinched, yanked his hand back and cast a full body shield charm. "Anything else?"

"You bet," Ron answered, cast a charm on himself and entered the room first. "We'll relocate her into the Isolation Ward before we do anything else. The last thing we need is a spreading infection." He saw the look on Dean's face and felt hot burning anger inside him. Ron did what Hermione had taught him and counted to five before answering. "Do we have to discuss everything we do from now on?" he asked. Even if relocation wasn't necessary - which they didn't know yet - Ron wouldn't take the risk. And he was bloody well paid to be the paranoid one in this hospital.

"No." Dean ran his hand through his short hair, something he usually only did when he was unsure. "You're right."

They relocated her within less than twenty minutes. Nurse Brown came with them and set up the appropriate wards around the room and the bed.

After some very sparse words, both of them started with their tests, both making notes, both immersed in their work. After he'd done the first batch of tests, Ron went back to his office to analyse the results. Dean had already done the same. Johnson's condition hadn't changed, which at least meant it hadn't become worse in the last few hours.

*

Before Dean went home - it was already past midnight - he went to Johnson's room. The woman was sleeping, looking almost peaceful. As he came closer to the bed, though, he saw that her face was grey and that she had the typical unnatural stillness of someone who was in a magical coma. The nurse told him that there had been no changes in recent hours. Dean asked her to floo him as soon as there was trouble and left the room.

He passed Ron's office on the way to the floo and saw light spilling out through the crack between door and floor. Dean hesitated for a moment and then walked on. He was tired.

"Remind me again why I became a Healer," he said only ten minutes later with a sandwich in one hand and a beer in the other.

Seamus sighed and reiterated, "Because you, Dean Thomas, did not want to become a great and famous artist like everyone suggested. You wanted to stop escaping and keep others from dying instead," he said with exaggerated pronunciation and grand gestures. "And for your utter failure during you-know-when, you are suffering now through long work days and from nurses that are not nearly as hot as those in the magazines under your bed. But you must never forget the joy that healing brings when you-"

"Thanks, Shay, that helped," Dean interrupted him, half glaring, half smiling.

"Any time, mate. So what's the deal?"

"Trying to solve a bad case together with Ron."

Seamus drank from his own beer and threw himself into their squishy armchair. "So? That's what you do. You love it. Despite the nurses and the shit wage and the night-shifts and-"

Dean interrupted him again. "I get it. And yes, I love it. It's just... Ron."

"Ron."

"Ron!"

"Ron? Are we going to repeat the name until it makes sense?"

"Don't be so thick, Shay."

Seamus groaned. "Don't tell me this is because of that old story. I thought you were over that. Come on, mate, it's been years. You two were friends. Remember all that studying for your exams, mixing potions, driving your other friends nuts by naming body parts no one in their right mind would ever want to know the name of?"

Dean tugged at his hair, chewing on the last bit of his sandwich. "I am over it." Seamus raised an eyebrow. "And don't look at me like that. It's just awkward."

"Aye, 'course you're over it. What's the case about anyway? Some new curse? Ron's into contagious stuff, isn't he?"

"We don't know yet. It could be either, although it's more likely a curse if you ask me." Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I should go and get some sleep. There's work waiting for me in the morning." He got up and took the empty bottle to the kitchen before crossing the living room again on his way to the bathroom.

"G'night and sweet, freckled dreams," Seamus said with a smirk.

Dean answered with a rude gesture before he closed the door.

The next morning came too soon. After less than five hours of sleep, a very cold shower and a large cup of coffee, Dean went back to the hospital. He visited Johnson's room and checked her vital functions. The heart rate had increased, and the Healer on duty had cast stronger muscle relaxation charms because she'd started cramping again. Even though she was heavily sedated, Johnson was restless in her sleep, which shouldn't be possible. Her breathing was unsteady, and Dean worried about her lungs. There was nothing he could do at the moment, though, so he went to his office, leaving Johnson in the professional care of the nurse.

He stretched before he sat down behind his desk and opened the file, checking the results from the long-term tests. Various samples of Johnson's body fluids had been under constant magical influence during the night. There were also some figures from routine tests which one of the Trainee Healers had done for him the previous evening.

Dean blinked. For a moment he just sat there and stared at the results. Then he grabbed the sheet, knocking over his second cup of coffee in the process. He was already out of the room before the black liquid hit the floor.

*

"Morning, sunshine," Ron muttered when the door to his office flew open and a very awake-looking Dean Thomas stormed inside. Ron had expected him.

"Here," Dean said, and held out a sheet of paper.

Ron took it and scanned the results. He compared them to the results of his own tests and then passed both to Dean. "Looks like we have a match here. You realise what that means?"

"It means our tests are wrong."

Ron snorted. "Yeah. Right. You came running to my office because you think the tests are faulty. That makes sense."

Dean summoned the second chair from the corner of the room and sat down. He had dark circles under his eyes, and Ron guessed that he hadn't slept more than Ron himself.

"Coffee?" Ron asked. Dean nodded, and Ron poured him a cup from his almost full pot, adding milk and two spoonfuls of sugar. It had been a while, but Ron remembered.

"Thanks," Dean said, took the coffee and then studied the sheets with the results more closely. "The magical collectors 'A' and 'V' are unusually high." He pointed to one of the numbers. "The urine was glowing green after the ambivalence test and the Paragrime disturbance in the blood is up to two hundred."

Ron nodded. "And that means it must have been a curse." He paused and then continued. "But." And now he pointed to a number first on Dean's sheet, then on his own. "We both found infected cells in saliva and blood, something that looks like a mangled version of bloody Dragon Pox."

"Why did you test for Dragon Pox, Johnson has none of the symptoms?" Dean asked.

Ron shrugged. "It's a quick and easy test, standard procedure for me. You?"

"To have a clear negative result in the diagnostic spectrum for comparisons." Dean hardly dared to hope. "Gorsemoor Tincture?" he asked.

"Already tried this morning." Ron sounded as disappointed as Dean felt. "As you know, it's not a real cure for the Pox, it just erases all symptoms and helps the body to heal itself. It's not getting rid of the infection, it's getting rid of the effects. Our symptoms are so different from the usual ones that the tincture has made no difference whatsoever. At least so far. I told Nurse Brown to keep using it in regular intervals."

Dean nodded mutely. He hadn't thought it was going to be that easy.

"What do you think we have here?" Ron asked.

Dean shook his head. "No idea. But we have about six hours until the Council meets. We better have a theory before then." He took a sip of his coffee.

They were doing their homework, working silently in Ron's office. It was bigger than Dean's and had been elected as headquarters by silent agreement. The list that Ron was compiling grew. It included symptoms, known mutations, scientific approaches and outbreaks of Dragon Pox. The problem was that the information itself was more frustrating than helpful. It was confusing at best, and article after article said that there was no cure; not even one Healer or potion master had come close to finding anything. The tincture Gunhilda of Gorsemoor had come up with four hundred years earlier was the only weapon they had, and it wasn't aimed at their problem.

After a couple of hours that felt like at least eight, Ron got up from his chair and stretched the muscles in his back, his joints cracking audibly. "Anything new?" he asked.

Dean only shook his head in return.

"I'll go and have a look at our patient," Ron decided.

Johnson's condition had become worse. Ron checked her spells - it was the only thing he could do at this point. Without the spells she wouldn't be able to survive any longer; her breathing would stop, her heart wouldn't be able to pump the blood properly, and her muscles would cramp hard enough to break bones. He went back to 'their' office after making sure everything was working and resumed his research, followed by more tests and more analysis.

By one-thirty, they'd assembled enough data to form a tentative theory. It was a typical case of what Ron called 'Potter's Law', which said: If there is a definite number of bad solutions to a problem, the answer will be the one thing that is not among them, technically impossible and worse than everything else combined.

When Dean finally summarised their results only minutes before they were due at the meeting, Ron only grunted in agreement. It was too huge to find any proper words and he'd already started sweating.

"This is madness," Dean said on their way to the council. "You can't go in there and tell them that. They are going to eat us alive."

"Don't be such a girl, Thomas," Ron answered impatiently. He just wanted to get it over with and then go back to looking for a cure to this problem.

"You haven't changed one bit, Weasley, have you?" The contempt in Dean's voice startled Ron, but he had neither the time nor the nerves to think about where that had come from.

"Ready?" he asked with his hand on the door handle.

Dean nodded, and Ron pushed open the door. They were five minutes late, but it was the least of their worries.

"Gentlemen," Head Healer Abercron greeted them. "I hope you have a reason for letting us wait.

"Indeed, we have," Dean answered. Ron noticed that the petulant and scared boy he'd seen only moments ago was gone. Dean stood at his full height, his voice had its usual dark timbre and his shoulders were squared. Just a show, Ron thought, but an impressive one. He felt a familiar tightening in his gut.

Dean explained, in detail, the test results that had showed evidence of Johnson suffering from a curse and suffering from an infection. Six pairs of eyes looked at them blankly.

"What are you trying to say?" Abercron asked. "That she was cursed with something you haven't identified yet and that she's infected with Dragon Pox?"

Ron shook his head. "Not at all." He flicked his wand and an image appeared on the large board for everyone to see. "You can see here the allocation of the infection in the body. That's how it was this afternoon." He flicked his wand again. "This is the allocation this morning. Extrapolated and based on our tests, this is how the infection proceeded from the moment Johnson was brought to St. Mungo's, until now." Ron flicked his wand several times and showed different pictures with the outline of Johnson's body and clusters of infected cells marked in orange. The pictures showed the progression every three hours.

"Now look at this," Dean said. He pointed at the timeline of the curse-symptoms. The parallels between curse-symptom and infection-symptom timelines were unmistakable.

Ron saw Abercron nod, but the older man didn't interrupt.

"Also," Dean continued, "The character of the symptoms, the test results, and the reaction to the potions show typical characteristics of an infection and of a curse, even though they should be mutually exclusive."

Someone cleared their throat and everyone looked up to see the youngest member of the circle, Healer Eames, raise her hand.

"Yes?" Abercron prompted.

"But that means..." She pointed at the board and stopped talking for a few moments. "It means the curse is an infection. Or the infection is a curse. That makes no sense. The results must be faulty."

Ron glared at her. "The results are not faulty," he said. "And it means neither. Or both. What we have here is something new, something we haven't seen before. It's not recorded in any of the textbooks I've read." He flicked his wand again and the board went dark. He didn't want anyone to be distracted by the pictures.

"We called it a virulent curse," Dean said, "as what causes the seriousness of the illness is a curse." He paused and made sure everyone understood that piece of information. "The difference from everything we've dealt with before is that the curse wasn't aimed at Melissa Johnson. Whoever cast it didn't do it with the intention to curse her. The curse was aimed at something that was inside Johnson. She was already ill; she had Dragon Pox. That's what was cursed, the Dragon Pox virus."

Dean displayed two pictures, one of the common Dragon Pox virus, one of the virus Melissa Johnson had in her blood. "The curse changed the virus. We don't know yet in what ways but it led to different symptoms, which are ultimately fatal. The virus reproduces itself, of course, and with it, it reproduces the curse."

"So what we're dealing with is a cursed version of Dragon Pox that is lethal, infectious and so far not curable," Ron summarised. "We are confronted with an artificial magical virus that was designed to murder witches and wizards. We have to inform the Ministry."

There was silence for long moments, which gave Ron the time to brace himself. And sure enough, only seconds later, everyone started to talk at once.

In the end, it took more than an hour to defend and argue the theory. Ron was exhausted, sweaty and hungry by the time they were dismissed and ordered back to finding a cure. It was an explosive combination, and he was grateful that Dean obviously knew him better than to try and communicate. They parted without another word.

*

Melissa Johnson died one day later, on the fifth of July, at 4:13 in the afternoon.

*

Dean was sitting in the corner of Ron's office on the floor. Sometimes he liked sitting on the floor; it helped him think. It was the connection to the ground, he thought, no matter how little sense that made on the seventh floor of the building.

Johnson had been taken out of her room some time earlier, a sheet covering her dead body. Dean and Ron had done their best after the emergency call had come in, but it had been too late. There was nothing they could have done with what little they'd found since discovering what they were dealing with.

Even after years of being a Healer, Dean still tried to figure out the difference between a room after a patient left to go home, healthy and in good spirit, and a room after a patient died and had to be carried out of it. Both were empty and clean, white laundered sheets on the bed, the chair standing in its proper corner, the window open to let in fresh air. And yet, there was a difference. This room - Johnson's room - was gloomy, darker than the one next door where a woman with a wrinkly face and a merry laugh had just been cured of a persistent case of Scrofungulus.

"Stop bloody fucking sulking, Thomas," Ron said. Dean heard no venom but a lot of frustration and tiredness in his voice.

"I'm not sulking; I'm thinking. It's what most people do with their brain. And didn't Hermione teach you not to use the bad words?"

"My language is my own bloody business. And Hermione is neither my mother nor my girlfriend."

Dean snorted. "I've heard that, yes."

"And what is so funny about that?"

Dean shook his head. This was the very last discussion he was going to have now of all moments. "Nothing, mate, nothing at all."

Ron pressed his palms against his eyes for a moment before he spoke again. "What are we going to do now?"

Dean looked at him and shrugged. "We still don't know anything about the curse; we don't know how to stop the infection, and we're far, far away from healing this monster. We don't even know why exactly she died in the end." Dean's bum was growing cold and he got up, his knees cracking as he stretched his legs. "So far there are no other people infected, and the Ministry hasn't shown up to investigate. Still, I'd rather avoid putting this off until the next patient with cramps is brought in."

"Reckon it's too much to hope that we'll never see this bugger again. Our fruitful collaboration won't end just yet," Ron said.

"Not too much enthusiasm," Dean muttered. "I could get the impression that you like working with me."

"Don't flatter yourself, Thomas," Ron answered. The teasing reminded Dean of old times in the little flat above WWW, where Ron had lived, and where the two of them had studied together during their time as Trainee Healers. Except that old times were old times, and things were different now.

Dean didn't have enough time to follow that thought through, however, as right then the door to the room burst open and a wide-eyed Healer Eames came in.

She panted for a moment before she seemed able to find the words. "Two more patients came in about half an hour ago. Nonspecific symptoms, similar to Johnson's. Both tested positive on Dragon Pox."

Dean felt nauseated for a moment, recovering quickly when Ron started to talk. "Quarantine, immediately, for both of them. No one will have any access but the Healers and nurses who have already worked on the Johnson case."

Ron and Nurse Brown were already moving, out the door and into the hallway. Dean hurried after them. "No one touches them before I can make a full curse scan and a spiral diagnosis test," he said. "I mean it. No one touches them."

*

The pain in Marlon's legs was agonising. He'd had cramps before - everyone had them at least occasionally - but this was ridiculous. They'd started a couple of days earlier. He hadn't thought much of it at first. He'd been tired the days before, and when the cramps had begun to get more frequent and more painful, he'd decided to go to the hospital. And now they wouldn't stop. It hurt so much.

Time stretched. Minutes became hours, and when the Healer woman finally came back, Marlon felt as if an eternity had passed. The room was full of robed people, or so it seemed. They told him their names but Marlon couldn't keep them in his brain. There was an odd sensation of dissipating. He didn't know if it was from the potion the woman had given him earlier, or from whatever bug he'd caught.

They moved him. And someone told him he should have come to the hospital sooner. Smart arse.

Marlon's throat was dry, and he swallowed against the unpleasant scratching. It didn't help. He would have asked for a glass of water, if it hadn't been so much effort to talk. It was exhausting enough, trying to focus on what was going on around him. That was another thing that had become difficult - focusing. Everything was so fucking blurry.

"Can you tell me where it hurts?" the black one asked.

Marlon groaned. Arms, legs, hands, feet, head, stomach, chest, shoulders, back, arse, bollocks, he thought, but answered only, "All." His voice sounded strange, even to himself.

On the other side of the bed the ginger man started to talk. "Did anything unusual happen in the last few days? Did you hear any spells you didn't recognise? Have you been ill, did you meet anyone who was ill, or do you by chance know a woman named Melissa Johnson?"

Marlon turned his head to look at him and was hit with a fierce wave of nausea. He retched, but the only thing that came trickling out of his mouth was stomach acid; he'd got rid of his food hours ago. The nurse took care of it, and he tried to remember the questions Healer Ginger had asked. He couldn't, so he shook his head, silently pleading for something to make the pain go away.

Merlin, he wouldn't have dragged himself to that idiotic Ministry function if he'd known that he'd end up in hospital two days later.

*

Harry followed Ron out of his office. He didn't like hospitals, didn't like the smell, the atmosphere, all the white walls, white faces, white sheets, white floors. Even the lime-green robes of the Healers added nothing but a sickly touch. Hospitals made him feel ill by proxy. And yet, he'd asked to be the investigating Auror when Ron had alerted the Ministry. Harry didn't question his best friend's judgement. Not to mention that the report had made every alarm bell in his head go off.

"Where's Dean?" Harry asked. As far as he knew, Dean had been working on the case, too.

"Looking after our new incomers. Dunno if he can make it. Don't think we'll need him, though." Ron pushed the button of the elevator.

Harry nodded. "I read your report about the virulent curse. Don't think I understood it all, but I understood the part that said we have a spreading fatal disease on our hands." He was looking from the closed door of the elevator to Ron, who had dark circles under his eyes and looked tired. He had a frown on his face and Harry could feel the tension radiating off of him. "You have three patients, one of them dead, right?"

Ron shook his head. "That was yesterday. Now we have five infected persons. You'll find their names in the file I just gave you. One of them is dead, one is in a critical state, the rest are stable right now. We still have no bloody clue how to heal them."

The elevator arrived with a soft thud and a tinkling sound. They stepped inside and Ron touched the sign that said 'Basement'. Harry grimaced. He neither liked the basement, nor the work that was done there, nor the man in charge of it. To distract himself, he opened the file and thumbed through the first few pages. "That makes one patient five days ago, two more patients yesterday and another two since then?" The speed with which the disease travelled was increasing. "How bad can it get?"

Ron shrugged and lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "Bad. I'm trying to find a way to stop the infection. Ideally we'll develop a vaccine that works before and after contamination. Dean's working on something to stop the symptoms of the curse, as it's the curse that kills our patients."

They stepped out of the elevator and turned right, avoiding a nurse that came rushing down the hallway. It was a pretty, pink-cheeked woman, not much older than Harry himself.

"Nurse Brown," Ron explained. "No idea what she's doing down here; she's working in the Isolation Ward."

Artificial and too-bright light lit the white walls and grey floor as they walked down the corridor and passed door after door until reaching the one with the sign 'DEAD - Department of Experimental Analysis and Diagnosis'. Harry thought not for the first time that the one who'd come up with this title should be crucioed. Ron opened the door, and they entered.

While the rest of St. Mungo's was clinical but at least tried to appear welcoming, there was no such thing here. Everything Harry could see was either white or gleaming metal. There wasn't a single curve in this room, just straight lines and sharp angles. The edges of the desk that dominated the right side of the room looked deadly. Harry imagined the head of the DEAD sharpening them himself every night, just because he could. There was a large metal table on the left side of the room, a body lying on it, covered with a white sheet. Melissa Johnson, Harry reckoned.

"Welcome," a familiar voice drawled, managing to fill that one word with amusement, contempt and arrogance. "It's a pleasure to see you."

Harry's smile was tight. "Malfoy. Lovely as always."

"Isn't it just?"

Ron sighed and rubbed his eyes. Harry knew the gesture; Ron was counting to get his temper under control. After a moment, he spoke. "Can you give us a quick update on what you're doing?"

"Naturally," Malfoy said and smirked. "What we have here is something new. It's remarkable. I'm trying to find out what exactly the curse did to the virus." There was a gleam in his eye, and Harry realised that Malfoy was excited about this. He was probably already imagining the ways in which this disease could make him famous. If Harry hadn't known that Malfoy was the leading expert in his field, he would have hexed him. Even at the age of twenty-nine, that was satisfying.

"I've performed several tests and examined the body," Malfoy continued. "I am positive that the curse increased the virulence. In combination with the severity of the infection, that should be your main concern right now. Once the patients are here and in quarantine, they won't spread the virus further. The problem is that Dragon Pox is infectious days before any symptoms appear. It's spreading right now without anyone noticing and far more aggressively than a curse-free version of the Pox."

Harry swallowed. "Does that mean this can wipe out the whole wizarding population? And what about Muggles?"

"No," Malfoy said. "The infection is still Dragon Pox. It will only infect wizards and witches. Also, everyone who had the common version is immune."

"It includes you, Harry," Ron said. "You got it from Teddy two years ago."

Harry nodded. He'd had it, and Ron had been the one who'd given him the tincture that had helped. "Is that all you know?" he asked.

Malfoy looked affronted. "Ask the berks in the green robes what they have and then complain about me. Or even better, find out who invented the curse. They would know how to cure it."

"Stop it, Malfoy," Ron interjected. "You, too," he said to Harry. "I've made a batch of radiation tests. I'll send you the results; maybe you can make sense of them."

The farewell was terse and only a few minutes later - after Ron had shown Harry Melissa Johnson's body - they were back in the elevator.

"I'll have to go back to the Ministry," Harry said. "Dawlish isn't happy about your suggestions, especially that you want to warn the public. He thinks it will cause panic."

"People are dying here," Ron said. "It won't stop until we find a cure. Didn't you hear Malfoy? It's more virulent than Dragon Pox. Whenever you're in the same room with someone who's infected, you're in danger of being infected as well. Next week we won't have enough beds; in two weeks we'll have an epidemic, in four weeks a pandemic. Do they even know what they're dealing with? We can't bloody stop it."

Harry put a hand on Ron's shoulder. "That's why I have to go back. Just keep trying to find out how to stop it, I'll do the rest."

"Good luck, mate," Ron said before Harry left the elevator.

Harry took the floo to the Ministry. He still wasn't comfortable with this method of travelling, but at least he didn't land on his arse anymore. He went to his office first. On his desk, Harry found a long list of names. He'd assigned a trainee Auror to check the backgrounds of the three patients he'd known about and list all relatives and friends. Before checking the list, Harry wrote a quick memo, asking the trainee to do the same with the additional two names he'd received from Ron.

With the list and his quill, Harry left his office to go to their small cafeteria. There was one on each floor of the Ministry with tables, some sofas, coffee, sweets and sandwiches. Harry had decided to go over the list there for two reasons. Firstly, he didn't like the office atmosphere of his office - the desk seemed to glare at him constantly - and secondly, there was a good chance that Dawlish, who was at a meeting at the moment, would go to the cafeteria first, and Harry needed to talk to him as soon as possible.

He compared the alphabetically listed names of the relatives and friends of Melissa Johnson, Marlon Alcock and Allen Burgess, the third victim. Burgess's list was short, and there was no name Harry recognised. Johnson's list was longer, and Harry found a name he'd already seen on Burgess's list. When he came to Alcock's list, he groaned. It was very long, and he knew many names. When he checked the personal information in Ron's file, he knew the reason. Alcock was working for the Ministry. Well, at least they would take the case seriously now, Harry mused.

He got up, poured himself a cup of tea and searched for one of the chocolate biscuits he liked most. Just as he found one, Dawlish entered.

Harry abandoned his coffee and approached the man, list in his hand. "Sir, I need to talk to you. Now, please."

Dawlish regarded him and nodded. "Come to my office in ten minutes, Potter."

He did. And he explained what Ron had told him, what Malfoy had told him, the results of the background checks, and what Harry thought the prospects were.

Dawlish didn't interrupt. He was a bright man who had learned from past mistakes and taken over the Auror department at a time when it had been in shambles. He worked closely with Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, and Gawain Robards, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His Aurors, Harry among them, respected Dawlish as a man who wasn't afraid of taking responsibility, making difficult decisions and knowing exactly what it meant to be in the front line. He also knew some wicked curses.

"I want you to check each and every name on that list," Dawlish said eventually. "Find out who already had Dragon Pox, who is likely to be infected, who already is infected. If in doubt, send them to St. Mungo's. Take Bones and Boot, plus two trainee Aurors. Make a second level list. We have to be prepared. Go through the list of wanted criminals and go through the archives. Look for similar cases. Talk to your friend at the Department of Mysteries, she'll be able to tell you more about developing new curses. Daily reports. I'll talk to Robards and Shacklebolt."

"Sir, we must warn the public."

"Not yet, Potter."

"But sir -"

"Not yet. Potter."

Harry talked quickly now. "This is serious, sir. Ron - Healer Weasley made it clear that we're on the verge of an epidemic. It's killing people and it's spreading rapidly. We can't afford to wait."

Dawlish seemed to consider it and then opened the thick notebook that was lying on his desk. He pointed to a name and an address. "Contact Paul Bouchet; he works for the hospital St. Claire's in Paris. He's a renowned specialist in handling magical infections. Talk to him and ask him to come here. He's helped us before. He's helped everyone before."

Harry copied the address on a small scrap of paper. "Who is he?"

"He's a Healer who is doing research in Paris. He's called whenever there's an emergency, no matter where. He knows more about infections than any other wizard. It's time to call him. We'll talk about public warnings when he's here and has assessed the situation."

"But-"

"Go, Potter, you've got work to do."

Harry scowled but knew better than to ask again. He got up and turned towards the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dawlish rubbing his temples.

"This case is giving me a headache," the head of the Aurors grumbled.

Harry went to the Auror's floo, threw some powder into the flames and shouted the address of Paul Bouchet's office, hoping the man would be there. And indeed, he was.

Bouchet was around fifty, Harry reckoned. His hair was greying around the ears; his glasses were perched low on his nose. There were harsh lines around the corners of his mouth. He was wearing crisp, white Healer robes and studying a piece of paper. Harry started to talk, introducing himself, and Bouchet was so startled that he pushed over the hideous green candle that was glowing on his desk, cursing in French.

The conversation went better after that incident, and when they ended it, Harry's impression of the man was far better than the first glance had indicated.

*

"You look like shit, Thomas."

"Thank you, Mum," Dean said and took a sip of his coffee, watching Seamus scratch his belly and pour a cup for himself as well. Not that Dean doubted it. It was early in the morning, his head was throbbing and in the last six days he'd hardly slept, working almost constantly. He dreaded going to the hospital as he was sure that in the last five hours while he'd slept, the number of patients had increased again.

"I'm not as pretty as your Mum," Seamus said cheerfully. "Nor do I have such beautiful-"

"Careful, Finnigan," Dean interrupted.

Seamus grinned, but he also looked worried. "Take care o' yourself. Don't go catching that bug, aye?"

"Nah, we're safe at the hospital," Dean said, even though Nurse Brown, the nurse that had been one of the first ones to look after Johnson, had showed symptoms of the disease and was now lying in one of St. Mungo's beds instead of keeping them in order. They should have been more careful right from the start. "Apropos hospital. Time for me to go. Cook something for when I come home, yeah?" He knew that it wasn't something that was ever going to happen. "Ask Katie if she's had Dragon Pox. If not, tell her to stay at home. And make sure she does."

Ron was already in his office when Dean arrived.

Harry appeared not much later, greeted them and conjured a third chair. "What's the situation?" he asked.

"Five more patients since you were here yesterday," Ron said. "And we're no closer to healing them."

"Alcock doesn't look good," Dean added. He'd checked on the ward before coming to Ron's office and found Marlon Alcock in a very bad condition. "Don't think he'll survive another night." Dean poured himself a cup of coffee. He was still tired and hoped the caffeine would help. "Did you or Malfoy have any luck?" he asked Ron. He knew that the two of them had run another series of tests. Ron had developed an experimental vaccine, the third one, actually, but so far there had been no positive results.

Ron shook his head. "Don't ask. It's fucking depressing."

"Maybe this infection specialist," Harry checked his notes, "Paul Bouchet can help."

"What?" Dean asked alarmed, just as Ron uttered a colourful curse. "You're kidding."

Harry looked confused. "He'll be here in a couple of hours, coming in from France. He's an infection specialist, Dawlish says-"

"We know who he is," Dean interrupted. "I've worked at St. Claire's and Ron knows him probably even better." He looked over to Ron and saw that the other man wasn't any less shocked about this piece of news.

"They can't do this," Ron said. "I won't give up that case."

Dean shook his head. "It won't be your decision."

"What are you talking about?" Harry still didn't seem to see a problem. "He's an expert. He's done it before; he can help. I've talked to him; he appeared to be very competent."

"And do you know what that help looks like?" Ron was fuming. "He'll walk in with a bunch of people with big bags, move into our offices and take over our files. We'll be lucky if he lets us stay and watch. I was in Tokyo in 2003 when he was helping. I've read about all of his cases, I know how he'll proceed. He might be competent, but he sure as hell is a ruthless arsehole."

Dean nodded. He was already thinking about what that could mean. "We should make copies of our files, just in case. And get some of those samples."

"Good idea," Ron said. "I'll make sure that everyone knows what's going to happen, and inform Malfoy."

"Wait a moment," Harry said and got up just as Ron did the same. "You're overreacting. Nothing's going to happen. He's just coming to help. He's not going to take over the case. That's insane. St. Mungo's will stay in charge." He turned to Dean who'd already started to copy the files. "No need to do that. Have you gone mad?"

"The only one who's gone mad is the one who decided to call Bouchet," Dean muttered, concentrating on the spell he was currently casting. He didn't want to lose any information because of a sloppy charm. "One of his assistants was a friend of mine when I worked at St. Claire's. I know exactly what's going to happen, and 'nothing' is far from it. A couple of hours, you said?"

"A couple of hours," Harry confirmed. "But he doesn't have any rights to overtake anything."

"Don't worry," Ron said. "He'll have all rights by the time he's here. He's working for the Ministries, not for the patients. He's good at fighting epidemics, no matter what it costs. And we're only a burden. Believe me, politicians love that man."

*

Marlon Alcock died on July the seventh at 9:13 in the morning, one hour after Harry had left Ron's office and two hours before Paul R. Bouchet arrived at St. Mungo's. His death occurred far sooner than his Healers had predicted.

*

Draco was stunned. He sat back in his chair and breathed for a moment, then repeated what he'd done earlier. He leaned forward, looked at the small circular glass where he'd isolated one singular cursed cell. A nifty spell he had invented himself and patented had magnified the cell so he could see it clearly. He raised his wand and aimed, casting a special diagnostic scan he'd been working on. It caused the cell to quiver and glow for a moment before it went back to its original state. That was far more reaction than he'd got with anything else - which was zero.

Draco's heart beat faster. That was why he put all of his energy into this job. Politics - the way his father had always been juggling people - was nothing for Draco. He didn't have the patience to suck up to and manipulate imbeciles each and every day. This, though, dabbling with life itself, creating and destroying, being famous for finding cures and learning about the mechanics of deadly weapons, was something that made it worthwhile to get up in the morning. Here in this basement and stored away in Draco's mind was more power than his father had ever had. And while Lucius was hated even by those he'd literally made, Draco, albeit grudgingly, was admired and respected. That was the cherry on top.

He was about to try another variation of the spell that might show him why it was working. The more variables he tried, the better he could isolate the curse, which meant he could adjust and tighten the grip on it. Then the door flew open and Weasley stood in the doorway like a prophetic apparition - an apparition with its hair all over the place and sloppy robes.

Draco scowled. "Weasley. Do me a favour and send Thomas. I want to know the results of his tests."

"Dean's busy at the moment. I just wanted to warn you. Bouchet is on his way. You should back up what you have."

Draco looked up. That was interesting. "Paul Bouchet from St. Claire's? That means the Ministry is taking it seriously." Draco supposed that one dead and a total of four infected Ministry employees so far had been one of the reasons for finally waking up, even if they'd been a couple of days late to the party.

"It means you should prepare yourself for being reduced to a coffee boy and your equipment being taken over."

Draco chuckled. "I'm the head of this department. Bouchet is an excellent researcher and a brilliant strategist. There is no logical reason not to use my expertise."

"Good. I warned you. Do what you want. See you, Malfoy."

And just as he'd come, Weasley disappeared, quickly and far more dramatically than necessary.

Draco pondered what to do. Suggesting a back-up was ridiculous; what kind of moron didn't have secure, easily accessible, always up-to-date back-ups of his own work - and a way of protecting everything from eyes that had no business looking? He decided to add a few samples from the two bodies, keep on working and wait for Bouchet. Draco was looking forward to an intellectual exchange with someone whose work he appreciated.

The man who entered the DEAD two hours later wasn't Paul Bouchet, though. It was a dimwitted, rude monkey who recited his master's thoughts. It made the skin on the back of Draco's neck crawl. There were worn patches on the hem of the man's robes and his hair was greasy. Draco had a hard time concentrating on the piece of paper the man had given him. It didn't matter, though; Draco had read enough official papers to know exactly what it meant. They were taking away all his responsibility, demanded to see all his files and had the right to tell him what to do.

"You don't mind me copying this, do you?" Draco asked, but didn't bother waiting for a reply. He would need a copy if he wanted to present it as evidence to the Ministry Regulation Office. Gawain Robards would regret the day he'd signed this deplorable insult.

Draco didn't just copy the letter. He did three things while he turned around and placed the letter on the high second desk with as much hesitation as he thought he could get away with. Firstly, he moved his wand in a circular motion on the underside of the desk. It activated a series of preset charms that locked away the experiments and research he did in his free time, hid any research concerning new potions and charms he was working on and everything that a less open-minded person would find objectionable. Secondly, he tapped the surface of the desk on a designated spot, which sent a prewritten memo to Weasley and alerted him of the French invasion. And then, of course, he also copied the letter, stashing it away in a small bag.

He turned around and smiled a cold, assessing smile at the man. "I appreciate you not disturbing the recent radiation tests. The files are over there." He pointed. "The bodies of our two dead patients are under the two body-shaped sheets on the other side of the room." He pointed again and sneered. "Now be so kind as to report my full cooperation." Draco made shooing gestures with his hands. "I have work to do."

*

Dean heard Ron shouting in Abercron's office down the hall. Backing up all their files had taken much longer than they'd thought. Mainly because they had two new patients to care for. One of them was Hannah Abbott, who'd been in the same year at Hogwarts and whom he still saw now and then. They weren't close friends, but he liked Hannah. Seeing her in the hospital bed, face tight from the pain, was even worse than having to watch strangers suffer.

And then there was Alcock's death. Judging by the Johnson case, Alcock should have lived at least another twenty-four hours. They'd taken various samples and run a few tests before sending him down to the DEAD. It didn't add up.

Bouchet and his team had shown up eventually, and the man had gone directly to Head Healer Abercron. Shortly after, they'd been summoned. Only Ron had gone, though. Dean had continued to back up files and stack them in Ron's bottomless bag. It wasn't exactly legal, what he was doing, but it wasn't exactly reasonable what Bouchet was about to do either. Dean decided to think about it later, when they'd either succeeded in finding a cure or ended up losing their jobs.

"Just a bit longer, Ron," he muttered and copied the test-results from various cell scans. Every sheet had to be copied with a spell that would have worked faster if the numbers and curves hadn't been as crucial as they were.

When the copies were done, Dean put them into the bag and placed the file back into the container where it belonged. Then he took the next one. Ron was still yelling. Dean didn't know how long he could continue like that, but he hoped for a few more minutes.

The door to the office opened, and Dean wheeled around, hiding the file behind his back. He realised belatedly that it hadn't been a smooth move as he had the word 'guilty' written all over his face. It could have been worse, though; it was only a nurse, holding a small piece of parchment. "This was trying to get into Healer Abercron's office. It's for Healer Weasley, I thought you might want to have it." She gave it to Dean and nodded with that knowing nurse's gaze that always made Dean wonder if all nurses were legilimens, or if it was just part of the job description to know everything.

He took the note and scanned it. So Malfoy had visitors as well. At the moment, the information wasn't helping, but he appreciated Malfoy letting them know. After stuffing the parchment into the pockets of his robes, he started copying again.

Just as he'd finished the last file, he heard a door slam and hasty footsteps approach. Dean threw himself into the chair and did his best to look nonchalant when the door to the office opened.

It was Ron. Dean let out a deep breath.

"We have about ten minutes. Abercron is discussing the details of the operation with Bouchet. We're out of the research." Ron nearly hissed the last part; his teeth seemingly wanted to clench. "We're supposed to give all our files and results to the French fuckers."

Dean couldn't bring himself to complain about the cursing; he agreed wholeheartedly. "I've got it all," he said, nodding at the bag.

"Then bring it," Ron said. "They're taking my office."

They left the room. In a gesture of defiance, Ron took his pot of coffee and his favourite cup.

"Where are we going?" asked Dean.

"Your office. Obviously." Ron had already started to walk.

"Obviously," Dean muttered.

Dean's office was smaller than Ron's and far cosier - or so Dean thought. He'd painted the walls in a warm orange tone and had put a squishy armchair and a comfortable couch in it. Seamus regularly pointed out that it was pathetic to sleep in one's office, but Dean had decided not to take advice from someone who'd been known to stay in a men's loo overnight because he'd been too pissed to find the pub's floo.

"We can't stay here," Dean said after they'd settled down and shared the rest of the coffee. "If they find out that we took all the files, they'll have our balls for breakfast."

Ron nodded. "We need a place with enough space, available ingredients and basic lab equipment, ideally someone who can help us with charms and potions; that someone shouldn't give a rat's arse about the fact that this is an unauthorized investigation of a deadly epidemic."

Dean chuckled. There was no doubt who Ron was thinking of. "And George would go for it?" he asked.

"In a heartbeat."

"Then let's ask him." Dean looked at his watch. "He's probably working right now."

"We won't have to ask. I'll send him an owl with the latest news. We'll just have to wait until he breaks down the door."

Dean looked at Ron. "What latest news?"

"You didn't see the new list of the infected yet, did you? Ron asked. "Eames just gave it to me."

Dean shook his head, and Ron handed him the list without another word. With a frown on his face, Dean read it. When he reached the last name, he lowered the sheet. "Merlin," he said.

*

George knew the little owl that was fluttering around his head. He cooed at the excited, fluffy ball with a soothing voice that could have calmed down a rampaging giant and then shot a stunner from the hip. Pig never saw it coming and dropped out of the air like a dead fish. George caught him, placed him on the counter and removed the small scroll of parchment. Then he called Verity and disappeared into the back. It was safer to be out of the way when she ended the spell - not because Pig was dangerous, but because Verity's stinging hexes were nasty and for some reason she didn't approve of hexing owls.

George was whistling when he unrolled the parchment. Then he started reading and the whistle died on his lips. It was a conscious effort to keep breathing and unclench the fingers that held the letter. He put it on the rough surface of his worktable - black from uncountable explosions, but tidy nonetheless - and smoothed it out. He tried to remember what Ron had told him about the mysterious illness. Words like 'dangerous', 'fatal', 'highly infectious' were clouding his mind, and he cursed himself for not listening better, for not offering his help right away.

Minutes had passed since he'd read the letter, and George found himself bent over the table, staring at the parchment, doing nothing but trying to breathe and thinking of a funeral long ago and the one person he'd clung to after his world had been ripped apart. "You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'll let you go that easily," he muttered and apparated to St. Mungo's without even bothering to tell Verity that he was going.

The letter had said that Ron expected him in Dean Thomas's office. George knew where that was. He'd been there once before with a bottle of Firewhiskey and the request to discreetly remove a rather embarrassing curse. While he was waiting for the elevator, George pondered if it was wise to break into the quarantine ward before seeing Ron. The receptionist in the lobby had told him that no visitors were allowed, which meant that there was a good chance he'd be thrown out if someone detected him. Not that he thought they would, George had broken into far better secured areas. Still, contrary to popular belief, he wasn't entirely unreasonable, and when the elevator let him out on the seventh floor, he turned toward Dean's office, not knocking before opening the door.

George smiled the smile that almost looked real and that he had perfected over the years. There weren't many people who could see behind it, and George was protective of that small circle. He threw the crumpled letter at Ron, who was sitting on something that a decade ago had probably been a couch. Dean occupied the only comfortable looking chair, so George went over to the desk to sit on it.

"What's happening?" he asked.

Ron explained it, and George ignored the ever tightening knot in his stomach. According to Ron they had two days, maybe even four, to come up with a plan. He watched the clock on the wall above the door, the large, black hands moving mockingly in endless circles. George started to count the hours they had left then multiplied by sixty, thinking that less than three thousand minutes was hardly enough time to stop an epidemic. Although, if he was honest with himself, this wasn't about the epidemic. It was far more personal.

He nodded at the small bag. "You should get that out of here soon. Go to the shop. Tell Verity to close it and go home. Take your bag to the workroom, use whatever you need. I'll be there in an hour, maybe two. Then we'll talk about the rest."

"Where are you going?" Dean asked.

George just grinned.

"The ward is closed. You won't be able to get in there." Ron obviously knew him better than Dean did. But not well enough if he thought a simple quarantine ward would be a problem.

"I'm just going for a walk. Fresh air is good for your health. Good time as any to start with it."

George shook his head in a small but unmistakable gesture when Ron and Dean both protested. "Don't touch the cauldron with the purple liquid. It's-" He paused and searched for the right word, then settled for, "experimental."

"George, wait," Dean called. "It won't do any good, he's not-"

But George didn't hear the rest. He'd already closed the door behind himself, determined to find Lee Jordan.

He went down the hall, ducking inside a small room when a nurse came around the corner. He needed to be less conspicuous. A look around made him almost snort. He'd found the room where they kept their freshly laundered work robes. George passed the shelf with the Healer robes without giving them a second glance. People knew the faces of the Healers, they'd notice a stranger, and George's build was too different from Ron's to try and pass for his little brother. He chose nurse robes, hoping that with all the new patients in the ward, they would have called in nurses from other parts of the hospital.

The robes were surprisingly comfortable; George only hoped no one would notice his shoes. For a few seconds he listened with his ear pressed against the door, and when he didn't hear anyone, he stepped outside and walked briskly - like someone who had work to do - toward the door with the big blinking letters 'Quarantine - No Entry'. He pushed it open and walked inside.

*

George was back at his shop less than two hours after he'd left it. It was still early afternoon, so he was surprised to hear voices from the back. He'd thought that Dean and Ron would go back to the hospital. Obviously they were still there, though, and with them what looked like all their files and samples.

"There's a reason you're still here?" George asked by way of a greeting. He didn't mean to be rude, but the visit had shaken him up. He wasn't used to seeing Lee weak and helpless, much less complaining or showing signs of pain.

Ron looked up when George spoke. "We're discussing whether going back makes sense." He paused and studied his brother. "You didn't run into trouble, did you?"

The corners of George's mouth twitched in spite of the situation. "Who, me? Never," he said with too much conviction to be anything but suspicious. "You don't want to go back to St. Mungo's?"

"We want to," Dean answered. "Ron thinks we're of more use here, though."

"How so?" George asked, even though he had a very good idea what Dean meant.

"Nurses can do the job we're supposed to do at St. Mungo's right now. It's wasted time. We could spend it making the difference between finding the solution tomorrow or in a week. A lot of people can die in a week."

"Or in a month. Who knows what Bouchet is doing," Ron added. "Maybe we can stop the curse."

"It could cost our jobs, though," Dean said.

Ron shrugged, and George felt a surge of affection for his little brother.

"You're Healers, start to heal those people." George used his wand to banish everything they wouldn't need from his worktable. Small vials, boxes and jars went flying through the room and sorting themselves neatly into the shelves, tools gathered at the sink to be washed, and finished products found their boxes. It took less than five minutes before everything except the cauldron with the purple potion was gone. George moved this one by hand, very carefully, after casting a preservation and a containment charm. He brought it into the storeroom and covered it with a thick black lid, then cast another charm that would alert him if anything changed.

Dean still didn't look convinced, but just like Ron, he'd started to spread and organise paper and samples.

Ron took a step back from the table and squinted. "We need to sort this. Make a list of everything that's relevant, revise the results, try to find patterns. Then we can split up. You," he looked at Dean, "work on the curse, I work on the Pox, and you," he stabbed his finger in George's direction, "look for anything we overlooked."

"I'm not a Healer," George said.

Ron snorted. "No, but you invent poisons, spells and ways to save your own arse with the best of them."

*

Between 4pm of July the seventh and 9am of July the eighth, twelve infected persons were admitted to St. Mungo's, and three patients died. The Daily Prophet printed a press release from the Ministry of Magic that warned the general public and told them to 'avoid crowded spaces', 'stay at home' and 'record any signs of illness'. It was further stated that there was 'no reason to panic' and that they had 'everything under control'.

*

Ron had a cup of coffee in one hand and something soft and sugar-sticky from the bakery across the street in the other one. They'd worked until early in the morning, all three of them, until Dean had apparated home and Ron had crashed on George's couch. "When are you going to open the shop?" he asked his older brother, who was busy behind the counter.

George raised one eyebrow. "You don't really think that I'm going to open the shop."

When Ron looked closer at what George was doing, he saw that George was painting a sign that said 'Shop closed because of top-secret plague research.' Ron decided not to think about it. For some reason George was always getting away with such things.

"Where's Dean?" George asked.

Ron looked at the magenta-coloured clock above the counter. "At the hospital. He said he'd go and tell Abercron we're on a holiday and that it would be safer for both of our jobs if I don't come along. No idea what he meant by that."

George snickered. "Me either." He added some sparkling stars to the sign and charmed them to flash in different colours. "He knows you well. And he's one of the good guys. Smart and handsome and such."

Ron rolled his eyes. "You sound like a salesperson."

"I am a salesperson. And I recognise a good product when I see one."

Ron threw the bun at George, regretting it instantly as it had been the last one. George caught it and stuffed it into his mouth. "I've been thinking about that curse," George said after swallowing messily. "I don't think you'll be able to get rid of it with a simple spell, even if you knew-" He couldn't finish the sentence as he was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Come in, Thomas," George yelled. "It's open."

Ron didn't think it was Dean, though. He opened the door and nodded at the man. "Malfoy."

"Weasley."

George looked from Ron to Malfoy and back to Ron. "Care to explain?"

Ron knew that George loathed Malfoy. But if there was one person for whom George would let Malfoy work in his lab, it was Lee. It was the reason why Ron had written an owl the previous evening, telling the man where they were and asking him to join. They needed any help they could get, no matter how annoying it was.

Malfoy walked inside as if he owned the shop and threw his bag on the counter. "My superiors are under the impression that I am willing to conduct Dragon Pox mass screenings."

"What the hell. Every nurse can do those," Ron said. It was ridiculous. Even the Ministry, or at least Abercron ought to see that something was wrong about letting St. Mungo's most qualified Healers do assistant jobs in the middle of a crisis.

Malfoy just huffed. He'd found the door to the workroom and was surveying the work they'd done the previous evening. "I think I can add a few things," he said after reading their list.

"Come in," George said sardonically. "Why don't you make yourself at home?" George took the sign from beneath Malfoy's bag, throwing it off the counter in the process, and practically slammed the sign into the shop window. "Touch anything and you're dead," he muttered.

They were all sitting around the big work table that normally housed George's experiments when Dean arrived, Harry in tow.

"Did you find out anything?" Ron asked.

Harry shook his head. "Someone is killing people deliberately, and we still have no idea why they would do this."

"What?" Ron asked surprised.

"Yeah. Your file says that if someone has the knowledge and the power to curse Dragon Pox, they could have cursed any other virus."

Ron tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the Aurors had failed to see the obvious pattern.

"I mean," Harry went on, "why would they choose Dragon Pox to spread the virus and not, say, the common cold? The result would have been far more devastating."

"Think, Potter," Malfoy drawled.

"Think?" Harry rolled his eyes. "If it was that easy, we'd have found something."

"Would someone else explain it, I fear my words are too complex," Malfoy said.

"The only thing that's too complex here is your ego," Harry answered.

Next to Ron, Dean was pinching the bridge of his nose and took a sip from a small vial. "Headache," he said by way of explanation when Ron looked at it questioningly.

"We talked about it, too, yesterday," Ron said. "Malfoy wasn't here, but he's probably come to the same conclusion." Ron bit back a comment about why Malfoy would have had no problem figuring out the reason.

"Tell me," Harry demanded.

Dean took over. "We think that they chose Dragon Pox not despite the limitations of the infection, but because of them. Look at the list of infected people." He grabbed the list and gave it to Harry. "Take a guess at how many of them are half-bloods and Muggle-borns."

Harry shrugged. "Don't know. I know only a couple of those. Lee's mother is a Muggle, and this guy from the Ministry is a Muggle-born, and her as well." Harry pointed at the names in turn.

"Three of them are half-bloods, the rest are Muggle-born. There's not one pure-blood," Dean said.

Harry looked confused. "We didn't check the blood status. How can the infection be that selective?"

"It's not," Dean continued. "The creator of the curse just used one important fact. Pure-bloods usually grow up with other magical children; so do most half-bloods. By the time they go to Hogwarts, almost all of them already had Dragon Pox. They are immune. Muggle-borns and half-bloods who weren't raised in the wizarding world don't have contact with other magical kids when they are young."

"Like Lee," George said. "He grew up in Muggle London, living with his mum."

Dean nodded. "They don't get the Pox; they aren't immune. And once they are adults, the chance to get it is small. Even if their children are sick, they usually aren't infected. You were lucky, Harry."

Harry smiled faintly. "Story of my life."

"There's just one thing we haven't figured out yet," Ron said. "We don't know why we don't have any infected children so far. The youngest person with the virus as of yesterday is," Ron checked the list, "seventeen years old. It fits, because if there's really someone who wants to wipe out all Muggle-borns, they don't want to kill all the pure-blood children at the same time. But we have no clue how they're doing it."

"I can answer that." Malfoy summoned his bag and took out a sheet of paper, copied it a few times and handed it out to everyone. "I've been wondering how the curse works without the magic of the one who cast it."

Dean sat up straight. "Me, too. Usually, the power of a curse depends solely on the one who casts it. Every spell I perform uses my magic and can only be as strong as I am in the moment of casting. This curse was originally cast at least ten days ago, maybe two weeks, and it must get weaker every time a cell divides. It happened millions of times now; there can't possibly be anything left of it. It should have erased itself."

Malfoy nodded. "It should. It didn't, though. And I've found the reason." He pointed at the sheet he was holding. Malfoy had drawn the timelines of those who'd died. The symptoms were all similar, but the time between them varied significantly. "Look at the first one; it's Johnson's. Four days from the first severe cramps to death. Now look at Alcock's. The same symptoms, headache, cramps, vision, breathing, heart-failure in roughly half of that time. And then the one below, it's somewhere in between."

Ron nodded. "I thought the differences were due to the speed with which the infection was spreading."

"It's not," Malfoy said. "Turn the sheet around."

Ron did as he was told and saw that Malfoy had compared the spread of the infection within the bodies as well. It was almost identical.

"Fuck, that's ingenious," George said and looked up. "It's reverse cursing. The curse takes magical energy from the victim, not from the one who cast the spell. The curse will never die, it will go on as long as someone is alive, has that damn illness and is feeding it with their magic. The stronger the magic of the infected person is, the faster the person will die." George had put the sheet down and was looking at Malfoy. "That's the reason why children won't become ill. Their magic isn't strong enough to support the curse. They are infected, but the curse won't work and their immune system has enough time to sort out the problem."

Harry looked horrified. "And it will make them immune for the next round of the curse, when the next generation of Muggle-borns and half-bloods have entered wizarding society."

"Eight points to Gryffindor," Malfoy said. "It would have been ten if you'd raised your hand first."

"Give Harry a list of the Death Eaters who are bright enough to invent such a curse," George said. "It can't be very long."

"I haven't been a Death Eater in years," Malfoy said and there was a deep frown on his face.

"You know them, though. And don't be touchy," George snapped with the same frown on his face.

Malfoy thought for a long time. "Lestrange or the Puceys. Everyone else is either dead or in Azkaban. It could be someone younger, though, or someone who hasn't been one of the big name Death Eaters. I wouldn't know them."

"What about Malfoy senior?" George asked. Ron, sitting next to his brother, saw that George had his hand wrapped around his wand under the table; despite the nonchalance in his voice, he was aware of the danger of the question.

Malfoy only shot him a hard look. "It's not his style." Ron noted that Malfoy hadn't denied that his father was capable of doing it, which made the answer more believable. Knowing Harry, though, the Aurors would look at Lucius Malfoy as closely as at the other ones.

"Anything else that's interesting for me?" Harry glanced at his watch. The rest of them shook their heads. "I'm heading over to the Unspeakables, maybe they found out something. I'll be back tonight. Good luck, everyone."

*

They had been working for hours, and Dean rolled his shoulders as not only his head, but also his back was hurting from sitting hunched over stacks of paper and trying to solve the puzzle. He was trying to isolate the symptoms of the curse, find out how they were caused and find a way to cure them. Ron was working on a way to separate the curse from the cells. Malfoy was working with George. They'd found out that as long as those two didn't talk more than absolutely necessary, they were very productive. They were both good at coming up with unconventional solutions.

"Oi! Boys!" George yelled shortly after noon. "Think we're onto something here."

Dean wondered if it was a special Weasley gene that made one talk always a shade too loud. He pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead for a second, hoping his headache wouldn't become a full-blown migraine.

"What is it?" Ron yelled back. Dean groaned.

"Remember when I said that I don't think that you can stop that curse with a simple spell because technically you'd have to cast it at each infected cell in a person's body?"

Ron frowned. "No, actually."

George paused. "Well, anyway. I'm almost sure that we can do something similar to what they've done with the curse. The Daydream Charms aren't as complex, but the general principle is the same."

Malfoy coughed.

George glared at him. "The general principle is the bloody same," he repeated. "We've tinkered with the formula and once someone comes up with a countercurse, I think we can transfer it into a potion solution, multiply it and send it out to get those cells."

Dean walked over and looked over George's shoulder. "How does it work? How did you find that out?"

"Don't question his methods," Malfoy said dryly. "Just be glad that we're all still alive."

"Shut up, it's working," George said.

Dean didn't know if he ought to be more surprised about the lack of venom in George's voice or that Malfoy didn't hex him. They'd obviously found some common ground to work on. Just like he himself and Ron had in the last days.

"Wonderful," Draco said cheerily. "Now that we sorted that out, are we going to talk about Thomas and his headaches, or am I supposed to ignore it until he's cramping?"

There was stunned silence. No, actually Dean thought there was stunned silence, but on second glance, everyone was looking at him. He'd been the only stunned one. "What?" he asked. "I get migraines. I don't have the curse."

Ron scratched the back of his neck and had at least the courtesy to look uncomfortable. "Are you sure?"

"'Course I'm sure," Dean said.

"How can you be sure?" George asked. "Are you immune? Did you have Dragon Pox as a child?

Dean shook his head. "I grew up with Muggles. And that's not the point. It's not unusual that I have a headache."

"That's true," Ron said.

"Very well. A test wouldn't hurt, then, would it?" Malfoy looked smug. Dean wanted to kick him.

"I reckon it wouldn't hurt. Dean?" Ron asked.

"Yes, Ron. I suppose it wouldn't hurt." Unlike his head; that one hurt like a bitch.

"All right," George said and hit the table with his flat palms. "Break for everyone. You do some testing, I'll go for a bit of fresh air and Malfoy, dunno, brush your hair or something. I'll be back in an hour with food." George was out of the door before anyone had time to react.

"Where's he going?" asked Malfoy.

"Breaking into St. Mungo's," Ron answered.

"Imbecile," Malfoy muttered. "Jordan is probably in a coma by now." He apparated, leaving Ron and Dean alone in the workroom.

There were three different ways a Healer could test for Dragon Pox. The first one required a sample of the patient's blood. A spell was cast, and after four to five hours, the result was visible. It was the most accurate test, but took too long. The second test was quick and reliable, but they didn't have the potion that was necessary to perform it.

The third test, and the one Ron was about to use, was a complicated diagnostic spell and required some experience. The results were available immediately. In about ten percent of all cases, an indicated infection was a false alarm. When the test was negative, however, a Healer could be absolutely sure that the patient didn't have Dragon Pox.

"Sit down?" Ron asked.

Dean shook his head. "Let's get it over with."

"Come on, I'm not going to pull out your teeth. At least lean against the table."

Dean did as he was told, his face relaxing as he reminded himself that it wasn't Ron's fault. "Just be quick and don't poke me with your wand," he said and pulled off his shirt.

Ron snickered. "That's not what they usually say."

"To use the word usually, you'd need a sample that is bigger than two," Dean answered, feeling naked under Ron's gaze.

"Wait and see. My Dragon Pox tests are what legends are made of." Ron put three fingers of his left hand on Dean's right collarbone. Dean flinched, even though he'd expected the touch. "Keep your shoulders relaxed, keep breathing." Ron moved his fingers in a steady line along Dean's collarbone until he found the right spot. He pressed his palm against Dean's chest, thumb resting on Dean's breastbone.

Dean relaxed his shoulders and tried not to think about how close Ron was. It wasn't uncomfortable, Ron's hand was warm, there wasn't too much pressure, and the touch was almost gentle. "Do you think we can stop it?" Dean asked.

Ron shook his head. "I don't know. But we have to try. We don't know how far Bouchet is and what exactly he is doing." He ran the tip of his wand along Dean's left collarbone and down his breastbone to his stomach, casting the diagnostic spell that would close the circuit and show him if there was a magical infection in Dean's body.

Dean heard himself breathing, felt his own heartbeat, felt Ron's magic inside his chest, warm and glowing. He closed his eyes and welcomed the warmth, opening himself to the friendly invasion. Ron was performing the test with the utmost care. The warmth was spreading; it increased steadily but slowly. Ron gave Dean enough time between stages to get used to it. As long as Dean was relaxed and didn't try to fight it, it wouldn't hurt.

"Almost there," Ron said and ran his wand back up, stopping when he reached the hollow of Dean's throat. Then he moved his hand down Dean's chest, and Dean shivered, annoyed at his own reaction and tensing. He gasped at the sudden pain in his chest.

Ron stopped his movements, but didn't cancel the spell. "It's okay. I'm not moving until you relax," he said and stepped closer. The soothing voice and Ron's solid body - Dean had gripped Ron's hips for support - helped Dean to relax and get his breathing back under control. The pain lessened, then disappeared, and Ron was able to continue. Dean stared at a point on the far wall, keeping his mind blank, concentrating on everything but Ron's hands.

"You're clean," Ron said a short time later. "No trace of Dragon Pox."

Dean took some deep breaths and let go of Ron. He hadn't believed that he'd caught the curse, but it was still a relief to hear Ron say it. He reached for his shirt, stopping when Ron put his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Wait a second," Ron said and put his wand on the table next to Dean. "Did you ever talk to a Healer about those headaches?" He took Dean's face in both hands, palms on Dean's cheeks, thumbs pressed against Dean's temples and the tips of his fingers prodding the base of Dean's skull. The touch was startling, at first, but Dean didn't object.

"I am a Healer. I've been having those since I was a kid. Don't you think I'd know if it was something serious?"

"No, I don't think you would." Ron was concentrating, his fingers at the back of Dean's neck. "Relax those muscles, dammit."

Dean snorted. "Is that what you usually say?" He wasn't sure what he should look at, the touch and the closeness of Ron leaving him with mixed feelings, torn between comfort, curiosity, awkwardness and something he wasn't ready to identify.

Ron laughed and tilted Dean's head back, followed the line of his jaw with his thumbs. His face was close and his eyes were looking intently at what he was doing. "Why did we stop hanging out?" Ron asked.

Dean didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound like an accusation. Maybe it was the touch that stopped him, the warm pads of Ron's fingers and the matter-of-fact way Ron held his head. His headache lessened from the touch alone, and he leaned into it just a tiny bit.

"I miss it, you know?" Ron was looking into Dean's eyes and Dean wondered if he really needed to say it.

"You kissed me," Dean finally said.

"I was drunk."

"You laughed at me and insulted me." Dean was surprised at the lack of anger in his voice. He studied Ron's lashes and the funny crinkles adorning the corners of his eyes.

"I was drunk. I had a girlfriend. I apologised. And I meant it."

"The kiss or the apology?"

Ron was cradling Dean's face in a way that had nothing to do with an examination. Dean's breath caught in his throat and he looked into those blue eyes, trying to see what Ron was thinking, but for once, Ron's thoughts were a mystery.

"What?" Dean asked quietly when Ron didn't move and didn't talk.

Ron smiled and finally let go of Dean's face. "I was just thinking that I really hate it when George is right."

*

George felt sick when he left Lee's room. Lee was lively, colourful and loud. He had nothing in common with the grey-faced man in the bed, fading and twitching from charm-suppressed cramps. George had seen that he was in pain, even though he'd been unconscious. It was the first time in all those years that he hoped Lee's rating of his own magical abilities - that they were below average - was correct. It would buy them some more time. He walked down the corridor, head held high, face impassive, trying to look like a nurse. He wished Lee was there to make lewd comments regarding his costume.

Ron, Dean and Draco hadn't been at the hospital for almost a whole day now. Maybe Bouchet and his team had found out something useful. George stopped and considered how risky it was to have a look around, grinning wryly as he realised that there was no risk involved at all. George had done what he could with the potion that would carry the countercurse. He couldn't help with the rest. It didn't matter if he was at the shop or unavailable because someone caught him stealing information.

He changed direction and headed for Ron's office. George knew the room; he'd been there a few times. Plans were for Slytherins, he told himself and hoped his luck and ability to think quickly would make up for his lack of preparation. Lee would give him That Look when he found out.

George started to run when he saw the door and ordered his face to look shocked. He practically threw himself through the door, started to talk agitatedly and stopped mid-sentence. The office was empty. Excellent. He refrained from looking back in case anyone was watching him and closed the door behind himself. He found various lists on the cluttered desk and copied them. He didn't know what he was looking for; he just hoped the others could use any of it. There was a list with names and dates - he copied that as well, even though half of it was obscured by a green stain - one with diagrams and a small jar with something that looked gory. Gory was good, he decided and pocketed the jar.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes, and he was about to leave, not wanting to push his luck, when he heard footsteps approaching. He looked around, his heart beating rapidly. If he'd been as thin as Ron, he could have tried hiding behind the plant, he thought sardonically. There was nothing in the room that would hide George, though, and crawling under the desk was both stupid and uncomfortable. Also, Fred and George had tried this with Snape once, which had taught them never to do it again.

He heard words spoken in French on the other side of the door and realised that there was only one way to go.

One of the lists still in his hand, George threw open the door. "There you are. I was sent to find you. Your assistant wants me to give this to you. It's urgent."

The older one of the two men, the one George had addressed, took the sheet and looked at it, hardly even acknowledging George's presence. A frown was forming on his forehead - George's cue to leave.

"I have this already," the man said with a thick French accent.

George waved his hand. "He said it's important. I'm sorry, but I have to look after my patients. Bedpans." He turned around and hurried down the hallway, stopping only for a few excruciating long moments to wait for the elevator. He reached the lobby and the apparition point, grinning as adrenalin pumped through his veins.

*

"Food!" Ron exclaimed and grabbed the bag George was holding. His stomach grumbled and the mood had dropped in the last half hour while they'd been waiting for something to eat. "Greasy pub food. You're my hero."

"I've always been your hero, prat." George put the bag from the Leaky Cauldron on the last unoccupied edge of the table, reached into his pockets and pulled out paper and a jar.

"What's that?" Ron asked, opening the bag of food and finding fish and chips. He passed the bag to Dean and looked at what else George had brought. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the diagrams and the content of the jar. "Is this what I think it is?" He took one of the lists.

"I have no idea what it is, but it comes straight from your desk, which means it's yours. I was allowed to take it, wasn't I? I'd hate to have done something that could get me in trouble."

"Aren't you clever." Malfoy sounded bored. He was eating something that looked far too green and healthy for Ron's taste. "Hand it over. You can start looking smug if something comes out of it."

"How's Lee?" Dean asked.

George's grin faltered. He bit his lip before answering and shook his head. "Far worse than yesterday."

"Was he conscious? Can you describe his state? Did you see a chart or something where they noted potions and charms?" Dean had taken a sandwich from the bag but kept asking.

"He wasn't conscious, but he wasn't completely gone either. Like he was in pain but couldn't wake up. He was moving a bit, kicking with his legs. Grey face, and his eyes were moving under the lids. There was a charm shimmering silvery just above his chest. No chart."

Dean nodded.

"How long?" George asked.

"Hard to say," Dean answered.

"Don't give me that shit. How long?"

"Twenty-four hours," Ron said. 'At most', he added silently, chewing on a piece of fish that tasted like cardboard. He wasn't hungry anymore.

Someone cleared his throat and all eyes in the room shifted to Malfoy. "If we stopped panicking and feeling sorry for ourselves, we could have a look at those." He pointed at a sheet of paper that was still crumpled from George's pocket.

Dean took it, frowning as he read. "They made Paracelsus core tests. What did they do that for?"

"Maybe they're more stupid than we thought," Ron mused.

"What are those tests?" George asked.

"That's not really important," Ron said. "The point is that they are difficult to perform and take too much time; hardly anyone uses them anymore. The tests won't tell them anything a radiation test can't tell them. Malfoy made tons of those. They have your results, right?"

"Depends on whether they can read or not."

"So why would they make them?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Is that important for us? Is there a list of how many patients they have now? And how many they lost?"

"Here," Dean said.

Ron looked and groaned. There was a total of forty-two names. Nine were crossed out.

"This is interesting." Dean had found another sheet. "Test results and scans from the patients we haven't seen yet. I think the sample is for you, Malfoy. I'll take the results." He grabbed the paper, stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and went back to work. The others did the same.

Outside, the rain was pouring down on Diagon Alley. It was frustrating as the minutes were ticking away and the urgency grew. They were losing friends, others were losing family members and it weighed heavily on Ron. On all of them. He was ready to throttle someone when Harry came back and provided a much needed distraction for everyone.

"Hey," Ron greeted his best friend. "You have anything for us?"

"I'm coming straight from St. Mungo's. You won't believe what happened this afternoon," Harry said, looking at George. "Someone broke into Paul Bouchet's office. A jar is missing and they believe whoever did it stole classified information as well. Bouchet saw the man. He described him as red-haired, freckled and short."

George huffed.

"Yes?" Harry asked. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"No. Besides, I'm not short."

There was a sound that sounded suspiciously like Malfoy giggling. Ron turned around, but Malfoy looked as bored and impassive as he always did.

"Is that all the news you have?" George sounded impatient and the corners of Ron's mouth stopped twitching when he remembered what was at stake.

Harry told them what he'd learned at St. Mungo's while talking with Abercron and Bouchet - which consisted mainly of the current list of infected persons - and Ron told him what they'd found out, starting with the potion Draco and George had developed and ending with their frustration over unnecessary tests at St. Mungo's and lack of any substantial results.

Harry leaned with both hands on the table, looking down at the files, tests, papers, samples they had collected. "I met Hermione this morning. The Department of Mysteries can't help. They don't know any more than we do. I gave her a copy of the file and she's working on it. She's trying to find out more about the curse and where it came from."

"Then we can stop searching the textbooks," Dean suggested. "If there's anything, Hermione will find it. And she'll find it faster than we ever could. We should concentrate on any idea that could stop it."

Everyone around the table nodded except for Malfoy, who blinked and then said. "You know, Thomas, that's a whole new approach. Why did no one think of that earlier? Concentrating on any idea that could stop it! Instead of, say, sitting around and repeating empty phrases."

Harry was still looking at the table, randomly scanning the lists. "What's that?" he said, holding up one of them.

Ron got up and looked over his shoulders at the sheet. "It's a list of our dead patients, and the dates when they were infected and hospitalised. It's not complete, though. These are only those who were infected early on. Why?"

Harry was frowning. "Where did it come from?" he asked.

George cleared his throat. "Hypothetically, it might have come from Bouchet's desk."

"Can I have it?" Harry got up. He seemed to be in a hurry, all of a sudden.

"'Course you can," Ron answered. "We have all the information. We even have it without green stains. Will it help?"

"We'll see. I have to go. I'll be back tomorrow. Call my office if you need me; they know where to find me."

*

Draco had needed two full days to turn what had started with a quivering cell into a new approach. He'd been thinking about the spell he'd used and the result it had caused since he'd had to leave the DEAD. It wasn't ideal here, working in a dirty back room of a toy shop, but it was better than nothing.

The number of tests and experiments he'd made that day and the day before was high. Unlike the others, though, Draco wasn't frustrated. He had that excited feeling deep in his gut that told him that he was onto something. That he might not see it yet, that he might not be able to reach it yet with his mind, but that it was lingering just outside, waiting for him to come and grab it. And Salazar knew he would.

George announced the second break of the day just before seven o'clock in the evening. It was time to eat something and stretch their legs before they started to kill each other. It was obvious that Gryffindors weren't meant to be locked up in one room together for a long time. Even Thomas was getting restless, Draco noted.

The reason he hadn't said anything yet was that he didn't know how much time he'd need to make it work. Also, he needed more resources - other resources than he had there. He needed to go to the Manor and consult his father's library - and possibly his father. While Draco hadn't lied when he'd said that this curse wasn't his father's style, he wouldn't rule out the possibility that Lucius Malfoy could help.

He put down his quill and leaned back for a moment, relaxing the muscles in the back of his neck. Then he got up. "Expect me back later. I'm going to check some references."

"Yeah, you do that," said George. He looked tired. "I'll show you the floo."

The flat wasn't big, and Draco wondered if George was living alone here. The furniture was mismatched, the floor had seen better times, and it shouldn't be legal to own a couch in a colour that was capable of burning a person's retinas to a pile of ashes. There was a big portrait of Fred and George Weasley on one of the walls. Draco guessed that it was on the day they'd opened the shop. They were laughing and smiling, pointing up at the big WWW sign and the brightly lit store front. They looked incredibly young.

Draco took a handful of the offered floo powder. "I won't close my floo. Call me if there's anything." Then he threw the powder, called out the address of his destination and stepped into the fire.

*

Ron cleared away their dirty plates and put them in the sink. They'd had pizza from the Italian restaurant on the Muggle side of the Leaky Cauldron. George had excused himself for half an hour, either to smoke or shower, or maybe this time he was really out to get some fresh air. Ron expected him back soon. It was still early, not even dark yet, and he knew that neither of them would get much sleep that night.

He tapped his wand against the sink and watched the plates wash themselves, wondering why no one had invented a spell yet that would make diseases cure themselves. Just like that, cast it and be done with it.

Ron had never regretted the decision not to join the Aurors - no matter how many people had wanted him to do it and how many had doubted that he'd make it through the Healer program - but sometimes he wished he'd taken a job with less responsibility. Every mistake could mean someone who trusted him would have to suffer. When all was said and done, even with all his training, experience and the things he'd seen and learned in the past years, he was still just Ron. And as much as he'd hated being in his brothers' shadow when he'd been a child, and in Harry's shadow when he'd been older, it had also been easier to play the comfortable role of the forgotten sidekick.

Most times those moments were followed by a mental smack to the head - or a real one when he voiced his thoughts in the presence of Harry or Hermione.

"You look thoughtful," Dean said from the other side of the room. He was standing next to the shelf, leaning with his back against the wall, a sheet with test results in his hand. "Do I have to worry?"

Ron regarded him, the man he'd known for eighteen years, but only really got to know during a time when he'd thought he'd drown in a sea of textbooks. They'd grown closer during that time; shared challenges, pain and successes had made that inevitable. But it had been more than that. They'd kept growing closer even after they'd started working as Healers, always closer, to the point when they'd finally made contact only to shoot apart like two repulsing magnets.

"I do think, sometimes." Ron heard a hint of defiance in his own voice.

"Never doubted it." Dean sounded careful, much like Ron felt. He didn't like the awkwardness between them, but he had liked the silence of the last few years even less.

"It wasn't just my fault," Ron said.

Dean tilted his head. "I never said it was."

Ron took the clean plates out of the sink, not bothering to dry them or take them upstairs. He just put them on the nearest shelf. They'd need them again. "Maybe that's your problem. You rarely say anything."

Dean dropped the sheet he was holding on the table. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"Sometimes it doesn't hurt to tell people that you're pissed off. You cut me off for years. For what? Because you couldn't tell me that I was an arse?"

"I wasn't aware that you needed telling." Dean was as calm as ever. "Can't remember you going out of your way to talk to me either."

"I thought you weren't interested," Ron shot back.

"In what? A friend who stuck his tongue down my throat and then covered his embarrassment by blaming me?" Dean crossed his arms in front of his chest. He was broader than Ron, and Ron suspected he used it deliberately.

"I didn't blame you."

"Funny. Must have misunderstood what you said."

"I wasn't embarrassed."

"'Course not."

"I didn't stick my tongue down your throat."

"No. You slipped and fell on me with your open mouth, then desperately tried to hold yourself up with your tongue. Was that it?"

The corners of Ron's mouth twitched and to his relief he saw that Dean was trying to suppress a smile as well. Ron walked over to him, standing close and putting one hand on the shelf next to Dean's shoulder. "I had a girlfriend. I had never kissed a man before. I was drunk. I'd been trying for weeks to stop myself from staring at your arse. I snapped, did something stupid and tried to compensate by doing something even more stupid. It's what I do. I apologise."

"Did you do it again?" Dean asked. His dark eyes were unreadable.

"What?"

"Kiss a man."

Ron had done it again - not until after Hermione had broken up with him, though. He'd done a lot more since then – with witches and wizards - staying clear of anything that could have become more serious.

He leaned in and moved his hand from the shelf to the back of Dean's head, pulled him closer, thinking that he'd choose showing over telling any time.

Dean's eyes were open as if daring him to proceed. Ron smelled him, spicy and slightly musky after a day of work; it made his pulse quicken and he inhaled, committing it to memory. Their lips met. It was brief, soft, dry and too tentative. Ron took another step closer and increased the pressure, pushing Dean back against the wall, their matching height making it easy to tilt his head and deepen the kiss. He remembered the feel of Dean's lips from the night in the pub, and yet it was nothing like then.

Ron wasn't drunk; there was no excuse. His senses were sharp, and he felt Dean's coarse hair and the soft skin at the back of his neck; he felt the fluttering in his stomach and Dean's hand on his back.

He ran his tongue along Dean's bottom lip, groaning as Dean opened his mouth and-

Someone cleared his throat.

Ron wheeled around and saw George standing in the doorway. His brother's face was tense with worry, but his eyes were sparkling. Ron knew that there would be hell to pay when everything was over. He took a step backwards, panic and defensiveness rising in his chest. "It's not what it looks like," he said and regretted it as Dean's face turned to stone.

Ron wanted to take it back and was about to say so, but George was still standing there and looking at him, and now Dean had turned his back to him, muttering, "Way to go, Weasley," under his breath.

Why the hell was everything always his fault, Ron thought and turned around as well, going back to his own work.

*

At midnight, when the ninth of July began, still long before the sun came up, the first patient at St. Mungo's had to be treated in the hallway. The Isolation Ward had been expanded, but there still weren't enough rooms for all the infected persons.

*

It was half past four when Malfoy came back. Ron found it offensive that at this time of night the man's robes looked impeccable as always and not a single hair was out of place, while Ron stumbled from coffee and pepper-up induced bouts of adrenalin-powered excitement to a bone-tired state of blackened hopelessness and back.

"You're early," George said.

"I always am," Malfoy countered. He cleared the chair he'd used earlier, which had been taken over by random papers with lists and notes. He didn't sit down, though, just surveyed the room. "I don't suppose you found anything."

"I think we've made some progress," Dean said. "We attributed the symptoms to known curses and traced back the origins. Someone combined structures of various spells, amalgamated them and turned them into something new. I've seen this done before, using two curses, but so far we identified at least four. This curse took a long time to develop, probably years. If we can identify all of the components, determine the way they were fused and dismantle the end product, we'll be able to create a countercurse the same way."

Draco said what Ron was only thinking. "And the estimated time you'll need is? Two months, maybe three?"

"Help or get out," George said. "Decide now."

"Calm down, Weasley. I'm here for the same reason you are." George snorted and Draco just looked at him before continuing. "Dismantling the curse won't get us anywhere, not in the given time-frame." He paused - Ron was sure it was for dramatic purposes. "Are we willing to take a risk?"

George cocked his head. "A risk?"

"What if we do something else? Something we haven't thought of yet."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked.

"What if we don't try to stop the curse or stop the infection?"

"How do you want to stop the curse without stopping the curse?" Ron scrunched up his nose, trying to think of something they'd overlooked.

"We already had the solution yesterday. We just didn't see it."

"Huh?" It wasn't so much of a word than a collective exclamation of confusion.

"Remember when we talked about reverse cursing. He," Malfoy nodded to George, "said that the curse won't die. It will go on as long as someone is alive, is infected and is feeding it with their magic. That means that there are three ways to kill the curse. One, the person who's infected dies; two, either the infection or the curse itself is stopped; three, there is no magic to feed it. I'm almost sure that Bouchet is going down route one, quarantine for everyone, round up the infected and wait until they're dead."

Ron nodded. It wasn't a pretty thought, but he agreed with what Malfoy said about Bouchet.

Malfoy held up two fingers and continued. "We've been trying to stop the curse or the infection; that's solution number two. Lovely idea, but it takes too long."

"So what are you suggesting?" Ron asked, even though he suspected what Malfoy was getting at.

"We'll take option number three. We take away the magic, and the curse will starve itself. Or in simple words for everyone to understand: Magic gone, curse dead. It's the one weak point of the master-plan, and I stumbled over it more or less by accident when I was doing a set of special diagnostic scans. I did some tests tonight that show that if you take away the magic, the curse dies instantly. There's no echo, no after-effect, the curse just dies. More importantly, the cell recovers. The damage that the curse causes is not permanent within the individual cells. As long as the person is alive, the cells will recover."

Ron made a face. It sounded brilliant and easy, but wasn't doable. "You can't take away a person's magic."

There was a short pause before Malfoy answered. "Yes, you can. It's temporary and won't harm the person."

"Wait a moment," George said. "You want to make them squibs?"

"Technically they wouldn't be squibs," Malfoy explained. "A squib is someone with magical parents whose own magic isn't powerful enough to cast spells."

George was taking a deep breath. "If we discuss names later and for now call them squibs, would you then want to make them squibs?"

"Yes. They'd be squibs for a few hours."

"And you're going to use something that you probably developed in your basement, prompted by your father's library with a generous helping of dark magic that hasn't been properly tested yet?" George's eyebrows were disappearing behind his fringe.

"Yes."

George considered this. "Works for me," he said.

*

In the end, it worked for everyone. It wasn't because they all thought it was a good idea, though. They had a heated discussion, but eventually they realised that no matter how good or bad or risky the solution was, it was the only one. It was the only way to at least have a chance at saving those people. Yes, they played with the lives and the magic of those who were infected, and yes, the whole experiment could go horribly wrong in many ways. Nevertheless, Malfoy was right; they would never be able to develop a cure in time. If they kept searching for it, these people were dead.

"All right," Dean said because someone had to say something and someone had to make the decision official. "If we're going to do it, we're going to do it right. Show us how it works, Malfoy."

Malfoy drew his wand and cleared the table. Dean expected a messy pile that would land in a corner somewhere; but papers neatly stacked themselves and samples assembled in a straight line on the floor close to the wall. It was a reminder that they would have to go back to all of it if the current theory should fail. Dean didn't even want to imagine what that would mean for all of them and for their friends.

"Chin up, Thomas," Ron said with his lips close to Dean's ear. It was irritating, having Ron in his personal space after what had happened earlier, and still, it helped Dean snap out of his destructive thoughts. He took a step to the side, though, to avoid further contact.

Then they worked. Dean had worked in many teams, but working together as group in the early morning hours of that fateful day was something he'd never experienced before. He realised what it truly meant to be a group, to be more than the sum of the parts.

Malfoy was giving instructions, shouting out names of ingredients, adjusting the formula, talking constantly, sweat on his forehead as his brain worked and his eyes monitored. He had an answer to every question, could explain every aspect of the potion they were brewing and his bag was full of ingredients and already prepared components.

George was manning the cauldron, one hand on the rim, the other directing the content, stirring, stopping, blending. He moved with speed and grace, never wavering, and confident in his movements in a way Dean would never even hope to achieve. He was focused, his eyes on the bubbling, colour-changing substance, his head bowed to smell, to hear, to use all his senses that were honed and trained from a decade of developing, brewing and tinkering.

Ron was overseeing the tables, only speaking to point out when he thought he was spotting a weakness. He wasn't a potions expert, but Ron had an uncanny ability to see deviations in a big picture and forks in a straight path. He was the one who stood one step outside of the circle and watched, removing himself from the details only to spot the mistakes in them. The man with the most explosive temper in the room stood steadily behind them and watched, had their backs. He was there with a presence that emerged whenever Ron didn't have the luxury to dwell on his insecurities.

Dean was covering the bases. He was double checking Malfoy's theory, trying to find the flaw in the plan, the detail that would break their neck and the last hope of their patients. He was making sure that if the potion worked, they'd be able to stop the curse. He used the sample George had brought them. It was still untouched, no tests had been made with it. He was concentrated and focused, didn't allow himself to be distracted by the others and hardly ever looked up from what he was doing.

And then they were done.

Verity had arrived with coffee and breakfast from the bakery for all of them. Dean didn't know if George had asked her to do it or if she'd come on her own after reading the sign and knowing her boss better than to think it was a joke. None of them failed to notice that she was rubbing her temples, looking tired. And sick.

Dean looked away when George took her in his arms, cradled her like a child as she cried and first asked her, then begged her to go to St. Mungo's. She flooed to the hospital from the flat upstairs while Draco, Ron and Dean each ate a few bites of something none of them could taste and prepared themselves for the next step.

George was back within minutes, not saying a word, just drinking coffee and staring blankly at the table.

"I'm going to test it," Ron decided.

"No," Dean and George said at the same time.

Ron got up from his chair. "Do we agree that someone has to? We don't bloody know what it does until we try it. And I'll be damned if I give it to all those people before testing it."

All of them nodded, some more reluctantly than others.

"Then it's decided," Ron said. "At this point we don't need an infection specialist. We need Dean to deal with the curse, George to brew potion in case it needs modification, and Malfoy to beat the shit out of that fucking illness."

"We could try it on one of George's Pygmy Puffs first," Dean said. He didn't like Ron's idea one bit.

Ron laughed; it was a dark sound without any joy in it. "Yeah, let's try a Pygmy Puff. And if that goes well, we should try a crup, then a hippogryff, maybe a dragon and then what? A house-elf?" He checked his watch. "It's nine o'clock. How many people do you think will die while we're poisoning a zoo?"

"I'll do it," George said. "You don't need me. Give me that potion."

"Don't you dare." Ron seemed to be livid. "This is not about fucking pride or selflessness or sacrifice. Think chess," he demanded. "If you give up one player, you better have a good reason and you better get something out of it. Otherwise you'll lose. And I'm not going to lose today."

"Take it," Malfoy said. "We're all here if something goes wrong."

And before they could protest more, Ron did it. He took the potion while they watched, waiting for something to happen, for a sign that the potion was working.

"Do you feel anything?" Malfoy asked after a minute or two.

Ron shook his head. "No. Tastes like lemon juice. My tongue feels a bit off, but other than that..." He paused and seemed to listen to his body. "Nope, not a bloody thing."

"Try a spell."

Ron took his wand that had been tucked up his sleeve and held it in front of himself. "Lumos."

Dean's heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest. That was it, everything depended on that moment. For a second, nothing happened.

Then the tip of Ron's wand glowed.

*

Lee Jordan stopped breathing on the 9th of July at 9:14am.

*

There was silence. Where only minutes earlier there had been the noises of people working - the sound of vials being put on a table, of a silver knife chopping asphodel, of fingers leafing through a book, of a suppressed gasp as something had turned out right, of people muttering encouragements and instructions; there was now nothing but the breathing of four men and the mocking bubbling of a potion that didn't work.

"No one is going to freak out now," Ron said. His voice had a commanding tone. "The potion is more complicated than a customary rotation charm on the new firebolt. We'll fix it."

"There's nothing wrong with the potion," Malfoy said.

"That would be more convincing if it was working," George replied.

"Correct me if I'm wrong." Malfoy was scowling as if daring George to disagree. "You just brewed that potion and you know that it works. The theory is sound, the ingredients were right and you did one hell of a job mixing it."

"Sod off, Malfoy." George sounded angry. "It doesn't matter if we think that it's good. It's fucking not."

Ron closed his eyes and blocked out the bickering. No matter how different George and Malfoy were, in one regard, they were the same. They were good at what they were doing, they were obsessed with their work and they were far too ambitious to give anything but their very best. Ron believed them when they said the potion was working. And the situation reminded him of something.

Years earlier, when Ron had still helped George with the shop, they'd tested the new generation of Daydream Charms. These charms made the hallucinations even more real, including all senses. The first tests had failed, though. Ron remembered George flailing around, running against a wall, talking to someone who wasn't there. While his brain had been hallucinating, the rest of his body had been still functioning, acting out the daydream. They'd had to invent a potion that distributed the charm throughout the whole body.

Ron's eyes snapped open. "Do you have enough of that potion you developed yesterday? The one you made on the basis of the Daydream Charms?"

"'Course I do," George answered. "I was brewing it after dinner when we still thought we could find a countercurse." He paused and looked at Ron. "Why?"

"Because I know why it's not working and I know what we have to do." Ron took his wand again. This time he didn't cast a 'Lumos', this time he aimed at one of the empty vials on the table and tried to transfigure it into a yellow bouncing ball with a red hat. The result was vaguely egg-shaped and had a lump on top. It was of an ugly swamp-green colour. "Dean," he said, feeling hope come back and a rush of excitement. "What did we learn in magical theory about the magical core? When was it, second year in Healer training?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer and then obviously realised the importance of that question. He sat there with an open mouth, looking like a fish, then closed it again. "That's brilliant," he said.

Ron grinned. "You know, that's what they usually say." Dean was giving him a dark look in response; it put a damper on Ron's excitement.

"Could someone explain what..." Malfoy's voice trailed away. "Of course. The magical core isn't a core at all. Magic is in every part, in every cell, in everything a wizard is and has and does." He looked as if he was close to hitting the wall with his head. "The potion works, but it needs time to spread. It'll take hours until it has reached every cell and when the last one has lost its magic, the first one already has its back."

George nodded. "That's where the other potion comes in. I hate to say it, Ronny, but you are brilliant." He was already heading over to the other side of the room where he'd stored the potion. He brought it to the table, setting it next to the main cauldron. "With a bit of modification it can transport Malfoy's potion so that it'll work instantly."

*

It was up to George and Malfoy now, to blend the potions and create something that would combine the characteristics without losing any of the effects. Dean admired the energy that was still in the room. The air was thick with it, even though they'd all been awake for more than twenty-four hours.

He avoided looking at Ron, as the sheer intensity of disappointment and anger scared him. It wasn't something he needed now. And yet Dean wondered what would be left after this was over, where Ron and he stood, and what Ron had been thinking when he'd again pulled back after the kiss. Dean didn't know what the kiss had meant, and why he'd reacted the way he had. Why he'd soaked up the affection like a starved man. He remembered the warm, strong grip of Ron's fingers, the taste of dry lips against his own and shook his head at himself. "How much time do you need for the potion?" he asked.

George exchanged a look and a few words with Malfoy. "Two hours, at most."

Dean nodded. "I'll go to the hospital and talk to Abercron. They need to know that we're coming. I'll prepare everything so we can start whenever you're ready."

Ron got up as well. "I'll come with you."

"No," Dean said. "I'll go alone." He wanted Ron to stay and watch what happened to his magic, and be close to Malfoy and George if there was any unforeseen reaction to the potion. He also didn't want to go anywhere with Ron right then.

Dean came back half an hour later. He was clutching a piece of parchment, the skin stretched taut over the knuckles of his fingers, his eyes dark, his mouth grim. He looked at no one in the room when he spat out the words that tasted vile on his tongue. "We're banned."

"Come again?" Ron asked.

"Banned," Dean repeated. "We're banned from the hospital, you and me." He held out the piece of parchment. "They didn't even let me talk to Abercron or Bouchet. One of Bouchet's assistants," again that bitter taste of bile, "told me that he doesn't believe we found anything, that we're endangering the patients and disrupting the healing process." Dean stopped talking and took a few deep breaths. "He graciously offered to accept a report and potion samples and take them to Bouchet after evaluating the results."

Ron had finished reading and stared at Dean. "We're banned." He pointed at the parchment. "It says that we have no permission to go back to St. Mungo's for the duration of twenty days, unless we need medical assistance."

"Why the ban?" Malfoy asked.

Dean tugged at the hair on the back of his head. "I called him a few carefully selected names and said I wouldn't move an inch before I talked to either Abercron or Bouchet. He came back with hospital security and that piece of shit with both our names on it. I was removed from the premises with a friendly reminder not to come back. Sorry for mentioning your name, Ron."

Ron cursed. He put the parchment down and walked back to Dean, clapping him on the shoulder. "There's work to do. No time for sulking."

*

Harry came back around eleven. He was highly strung after a long night without so much as a moment of sleep - if one didn't count the ten minutes on the Ministry loo when he'd just dozed off. He entered the room in the back of George's shop, recognising the evidence of a long night. Bottles of water and pepper-up potion, empty coffee mugs, dark circles under four pairs of eyes, and the hectic bustle that came from too much caffeine and over-fatigue.

"Morning," he said, not daring to go anywhere near the cauldron where George and Malfoy were working. Its contents smelled foul and had a vile bright green colour.

"Look who's coming to save us," Malfoy answered. It was disconcerting that the usual drawl was missing.

"Any luck here?" Harry was looking at Ron. His best friend was glancing at several tables and diagrams and taking notes.

Ron nodded. "Almost done. I think we got it."

And then Ron explained what they had done during the night, showed him both potions and said they'd have the cure before noon. Harry didn't like the part about taking the magic away from the infected, and he gasped when he heard that it had been tested on Ron of all people. He had the sudden and strong urge to strangle Malfoy - and George as well.

"Are you sure that it's temporary?" he asked anxiously. "Ron, tell me you're sure that this won't harm you."

Ron wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders. "You'll be the first one I'll hex once I've recovered. Promise."

Harry still doubted that taking an experimental potion from Malfoy had been a good idea but it was too late to think about it now and too early to worry about it, he supposed. He was also far too impressed at what they'd created to complain. "I've some news as well." He sat down in an empty chair. "It was Bouchet. He created that curse."

There was a long pause before Dean spoke. "That's some kind of sick joke, right?"

"I'm afraid not. The only sick joke is that I can't arrest him yet, even though I know it was him."

"How do you know?" Malfoy asked.

And George demanded at the same time, "Why aren't you at St. Mungo's and kicking that fucker's arse?" Harry thought it was a valid question.

"I can't just storm in there, stun him and drag him to Azkaban. That's not how it works." Not that Harry hadn't thought about it. "He's working as a Ministry representative right now, and as such, he's under the Ministry's protection. I need special orders to do anything."

"So?" There was a deep line in the middle of George's forehead, and his voice was far too low to sound anything but dangerous. He was still stirring the potion, but the smooth circles he'd drawn when Harry had come in had become jerky jabs. Malfoy reached out and put a hand on George's wrist until his muscles relaxed.

"We have a lot of circumstantial evidence; nothing as good as a witness, though. Robards is hesitating so far," Harry said, thinking that the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was a wimp, frankly.

"Why don't you go to Dawlish?" Ron asked. "Dawlish is head of the Aurors, not Robards."

Harry groaned. "I wish I could. He's at St. Mungo's. The infection was confirmed yesterday evening. And Robards is Dawlish's boss and, of course, mine as well." Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "There are so many people at St. Mungo's now. And it's only been a week. I hope that your potion is working."

"How do you know it was Bouchet?" Malfoy asked for the second time.

Harry looked him, glad to have a reason not to think about his sick colleagues and friends. "Remember the list I found here earlier? The one with the green stain? It's wax from a candle on Bouchet's desk in Paris. I saw him make that stain. It happened when I talked to him and asked him to come to London. He was in Paris then and he couldn't have known the details and names on that list. The stain of wax on the words proves that he had that list before we gave him the information, before he was even in the country."

"Is that all you have?" Malfoy asked.

Harry was just about to answer when Ron interrupted him. "The Paracelsus tests. If Bouchet did it, he wouldn't want anyone to find out anything about the curse. Slowing everyone down with unnecessary tests is a bloody good way to do it."

"He's making a nurse out of every capable Healer who's been working on the case," George said. "There aren't many people left, other than his own."

"And he banned us from the hospital, even though we have a cure," Dean added.

"He did what?" asked Harry, and Dean told him the full story.

It had been one big set-up, Harry thought, and he'd been dumb enough to walk into Bouchet's trap, inviting him to London. "There's more," he said, deciding to feel guilty once everything was over and not wasting his energy now. "Hermione thinks that the epidemic that broke out in India two years ago looked a lot like ours. Do you remember? It was all over the papers."

Ron got up from his chair and started pacing. "'Course we remember. They never found out what killed all those people. Bouchet was in charge of the case. He and his team of Healers were the only people working and researching the epidemic. It was impossible to get any information."

Harry nodded. "Hermione can't be sure, of course, but she sent inquiries to India. And another thing. We searched every inch of Johnson's house, as we believe - and according to Bouchet's list it's true - that she was the first one, the only one who was cursed and not infected. We found residue of an international portkey in her garden. We traced it back, and we know that it came from France. It doesn't prove that it was Bouchet or someone he hired, but there are just too many coincidences."

"What a fucking bastard," Ron said. "Why did he do it?"

"Greed," Malfoy answered. "Every infection makes him more famous and more renowned. He's the first one who's called to an emergency, he's the expert in the field. Everyone knows him, everyone trusts him, everyone relies on him. It's making him rich. And more important, it gives him power. He has the lives of hundreds, possibly thousands of people in his hand. He's in charge, he can kill them with one single curse, and he could cure them, if he wanted to. He probably feels like God himself."

George looked at Malfoy sideways. "You scare me," he said dryly.

"I thought the same once or twice about you," Malfoy said in the same tone.

"What happens now?" Ron asked.

"Robards is talking to the Minister at the moment, I'll meet him in half an hour. Before then, I can't do anything." Harry said, trying not to let on just how much it pained him to watch. He couldn't help a hint of a wince, though. "But the Aurors are ready. Whenever they give us the order, we can start the operation."

"It's been a long time since I've heard this much crap." George said, still eerily calm.

"I know." Harry said, raising his hands in a helpless gesture. "But we have strict procedures. We don't have the right to arrest him yet. If we do it anyway, he might get away with it because of a formal error."

"Not if you have enough evidence," George reasoned.

"The system was developed after the war because so many innocent people have been punished for nothing. If we don't follow strict procedure, we'll have to let him go. He'd be in South America or in Mongolia before we could even blink. We can't risk it."

"Bouchet doesn't change anything at the moment," Malfoy said. "He's not going to heal, but he won't further hurt the people in the ward as long as they're his responsibility. He'll wait and let his epidemic do the rest while he stops those who try to stop it. Let's leave him at St. Mungo's for now, at least we know where he is. Whenever the Ministry finally decides to do something, they'll know where to find him. We have other things to worry about." It seemed as if Malfoy had lost interest in the topic. He turned back to the cauldron and looked pointedly at George, who, after a moment of hesitation, did the same.

Harry exchanged a few words with Ron, telling him about Hermione's and Mrs Weasley's efforts to teach personal shielding charms to as many people as possible, and then he went back to the Ministry to do whatever he could to speed up the process.

*

"Done." George pulled the long wooden instrument with the forked tip and the curled handle out of the potion and dropped it on the table. He used the short sleeve of his T-shirt to wipe sweat off his forehead.

Malfoy closed the book he'd been consulting in the previous two hours and ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it. "Yes, it's finished," he agreed.

Ron groaned and lowered the various diagrams he was holding. He'd almost completely lost his magic in the last hour; when he cast 'Lumos' now, the light was barely visible.

Dean walked over to the cauldron. The potion inside it was clear and looked like water. It smelled of sulphur. "Are you sure it's working?"

"Yes," Malfoy answered.

"What do we do now?" Dean asked.

"Now we take it to the hospital," George said. He hadn't thought of Lee in hours; while making the potion he hadn't let himself, but now that concentration fell off him, it came back with the force of a fist to the balls. They didn't even know if Lee was still alive. He'd last seen him the previous afternoon. Anything could have happened in that time. Ron had estimated twenty-four hours; they were almost over.

"What about Harry?" Dean looked doubtful.

"What about him?" asked George. "We haven't heard anything. How long do you think it'll take until he gets that stupid order? Another hour? Maybe two? How many people will die in that time? We have a potion here that can kill the curse. Everyone who's not dead yet will be able to recover. Every minute counts."

"Spare your breath, Weasley," Malfoy said. "We're going."

"We?" asked Ron.

"Obviously not," Malfoy answered. "Just the two of us." He nodded at George. "You're banned. The alarms will go off if you enter the building."

"Then give me that potion and I'll test it," Dean said.

This time no one protested. George diluted a few drops of potion in a glass of water and handed it to Dean. "It'll last for at least four hours."

Dean took and drank it without another word.

"How do you feel?" Malfoy asked.

"Don't feel anything." Dean took his wand, his hands shaking. "Lumos!" he said, and everyone stared at the tip of his wand.

Nothing happened.

"Alohomora!" Dean pointed his wand at the closed door, but again, nothing happened.

"Let me do a quick scan," Malfoy said.

Dean stood still while Malfoy performed the simple spell that would show him if Dean was a wizard, if he had any magical energy left. It took only a few seconds. Then Malfoy shook his head. "Squib," he said.

George had heard enough. He took a few things from the shelves, among them a couple of small empty vials. He took them to the other room, the room where the cauldron with the purple potion was standing. George opened the lid and funnelled the potion into the vials without breathing, careful not to get any of the potion on his bare skin.

He went back to the workroom and saw that Malfoy had already filled three big bottles with the potion that would kill the virulent curse. Ron gave them the small bottomless bag, and within minutes, they were ready to go.

"Do we have a plan?" George asked before they apparated.

"I'm a Slytherin," Malfoy answered. "I was born with a plan."

*

The silence in the room felt heavy, and the air between Dean and Ron seemed as thick as oil after George and Malfoy left.

"What are we going to do now?" Ron asked, wondering if they should start cleaning up the mess the four of them had made in the last two days. George's workroom looked as if a war had taken place there, which, Ron supposed, wasn't far off the truth.

"I don't know what you're going to do," Dean said. His voice was deeper than usual, his eyes blood-shot, his shoulders slumped, and he was rubbing his temples. "I'm going upstairs and taking a shower. I don't think George would mind." Without waiting for an answer, he turned around and walked out of the door.

"Hey!" Ron called and followed him. "Wait. We should talk."

"Not now, Ron," Dean said. He was walking up the stairs to the flat, his feet dragging, one hand pressed against the nape of his neck.

Ron was still following him. "We need to talk," he said. Since they'd finished the potion, he couldn't stop thinking about the kiss and what he'd done after George had seen them. He'd behaved like a first-class arse. "Come on, please."

"Not now," Dean repeated. He opened the door to George's flat, walked through the living room and into the bathroom. He closed the door, and just as Ron pressed the handle to follow him, he heard the lock click.

*

George was the first to arrive in the lobby of St. Mungo's. Theoretically, they could have flooed to Malfoy's office, but they'd both agreed that it was too dangerous. Malfoy's office was probably occupied, and they'd have a hard time explaining their sudden appearance. The public apparition point in the entrance hall of the hospital was the safest spot.

As George blinked away the disorientation from the apparition, he saw that the lobby had been a good choice. There was chaos. "What the hell?" George said and looked around. The room was crowded; at least a hundred people were standing, sitting, leaning against walls, demanding to see a Healer and talking to passing nurses.

There were people with purple heads, an additional foot, a man who vomited something green, a woman who was burping soap bubbles. Those were the minority, though. The large crowd, and the people who were demanding and talking far too loudly, were people who didn't look ill. "Who are they?" George asked Malfoy who'd appeared next to him.

"Relatives and hypochondriacs," Malfoy said. "Bouchet is effective. See the nurses? They are scanning the crowd and assessing every incomer. I assume that everyone who's not immune will undergo a Dragon Pox test. Infected people are sent to the quarantine ward immediately. The rest don't come anywhere near them. Relatives and friends can either go home or wait. Then you always have those who are convinced they have the deathly epidemic everyone's talking about. They don't believe a negative test."

"But isn't it dangerous here? You said that the infection is far more contagious than Dragon Pox. Shouldn't they throw out everyone who's healthy?" George didn't quite understand why there were so many people here, where the danger to encounter an infected person was probably the highest.

"On the contrary." Malfoy looked around and started to walk toward the elevator. They reached it, but Malfoy didn't stop. Instead, he turned right and pushed open the door that led to the stairs. "This would be the place I'd recommend if you weren't immune. We have heavy-duty shield spells in the whole reception area. This curse isn't the only contagious thing we're dealing with every day. There's no way anyone's going to catch anything while they're down here. It's different in the wards upstairs. We don't have general shield spells there, as they interfere with diagnostic and healing magic."

"Wicked," George said. After the crowded lobby, the silence in the staircase was a relief. "Are you going to tell me your plan now?"

"Better," Malfoy said and started to walk down the stairs that led to the basement. "I'm going to show you."

*

It was calm under the spray of the shower. The water washed away the dirt of the last days, and Dean heard nothing but the sound of it raining down on him, as comfortable warmth surrounded his tired body. George's silencing spell worked very well, and Dean's lips curved into a small smile when he thought about possible reasons why there was such a spell on the shower stall.

For a long time, he just stood there, wondering why his muscles were sore, why he wanted to go to bed and hide under a thick blanket when he didn't even know yet if George and Malfoy had been successful, if Lee was still alive, if Harry had arrested Bouchet.

Dean took the soap, moving it between his hands, eyes closed, face turned toward the water, working up the lather he used then to wash his arms and chest. He moved his hands slowly, got rid of the sweat, of the potion smells, of ink stains on his fingers. He washed his feet and his legs, his back where he could reach. The soap smelled of pine, a spicy scent Dean liked, and he took more, washing the inside of his thighs and between his legs.

He braced himself with one hand against the cool tile, his head leaning forward. Hot water hit his shoulders and ran down his back in rivulets as he cupped his balls, rolling them in his hand. His cock twitched when he wrapped his fingers around the base of it, and Dean chuckled, thinking that it didn't matter what happened or how tired he was, his dick was always happy about some attention.

It was nice, standing there, stroking himself, basking and not thinking of diseases, of potions and of Ron. Dean especially didn't think of Ron, who'd kissed him twice now, and twice had taken it back. Ron with his sharp angles, lanky body, red hair, dry lips, blue eyes, and an intensity that sometimes made Dean forget that his self-control had always served him well.

Dean sighed and let go of himself, too tired to finish the job. Or maybe he just didn't want to do it while thinking of Ron - not this time, anyway.

*

Draco stood at the bottom of the stairs and pointed at the heavy iron door. "This is the basement of the hospital. I expect at least one or two of Bouchet's men to be down here in my lab."

"We're going to your lab?"

"No," Draco said. "There's a long hallway behind that door. It leads past the DEAD, past the elevators, then turns left and right again. At the very end, there's another one of those doors. It has a big sign that says 'Authorised personnel only."

"And we're authorised?" George asked.

"Of course we are. It's the supply unit of the hospital. Air, water, heating, cooling, you name it. It's the second biggest magical supply unit in Britain, second only to the one in the Ministry. Fortunately it's far less secured. Who'd want to manipulate a hospital's resources?"

George made a noise that sounded like agreement. "I see your point." He thought for a moment. "Feeding the potion into the air cycle won't work. You want to use the water." While he was talking, he opened Ron's bag. "But then everyone in the hospital would be in danger of becoming a squib. And what about the patients who are in a coma?"

Malfoy looked at what George took out of the bag - two small vials with purple contents - and shook his head at the question. "All patients are in the quarantine ward, and the water cycles are separated. The brilliance of the plan is that the patients who are in a coma, which are those who need it the most, will get the potion first. You visited your friend yesterday. Did you see a silvery glow over his chest?"

"The monitoring charm? Yeah, I saw that."

"It's not only a monitoring charm. It's a whole set of charms and one of them provides water and nutrients. It's a complicated transfer process that takes water from that quarantine water cycle, the one we can access from down here. And the best part is that it's a steady process. The patients continuously receive small amounts of water so their system isn't overworked. As soon as we pour the stuff into the cycle, it will be transferred to the patients."

George nodded and glanced at the closed door. "And as every patient only needs a tiny amount of potion, we'll have a ward full of squibs within minutes. I like your plan."

*

Ron was standing with his back against the still closed bathroom door, frustrated, as the only thing he'd been hearing for what seemed like hours was the steady noise of the shower. He'd asked Dean to come out, apologised with only the dark wood of the door to look at; he'd hit it with his fist, had yelled at it in frustration, and he'd cursed both the unyielding wood and the stubborn man behind it.

There had been a tiny spark of anger when Dean had closed the door in Ron's face, and it had grown since then, fuelled by the fact that Dean hadn't acknowledged Ron or given him some kind of answer. It burned hot in his gut now, and Ron didn't try to rein in his temper. He'd been doing that for a week now, concentrating on working and not wasting his energy. Dean wasn't the only one who was tired and exhausted, he wasn't the bloody only one who'd worked his fucking arse off.

Ron knocked at the door again, louder this time, but there was still nothing more than the sound of running water. Then he threw himself at the door, shoulder first, and with a satisfying crunching sound, the door gave way, opening and banging against the wall on the other side.

*

"Take this," George gave one of the purple vials to Malfoy. "Don't open it, don't drop it."

Draco raised one of his eyebrows. "Dare I ask?"

"It's new, experimental, not finished, and it might be able to save our arse." Taking it out of his private workroom had been risky, but George didn't care. He'd done far riskier things for his friends. "Throw it on the floor in front of someone. The fumes will make them lose their memory of the last twenty minutes and the following twenty minutes. It's like an instant 'Obliviate'. You might want to hold your breath when you do it. I've not managed to properly control the range yet. I'm still working on it."

Draco stared at the vial. "What did you invent that for?"

"Detention Deleters," George said. "Makes your professor forget all about the detention you're supposed to have. It's not finished, as I said. The end product will work quite differently."

"You're mad. You can't invent a potion that messes with memories and sell it to children. Do you have any idea what could happen? You're completely, barking mad."

"I'm not the one who experiments with potions that takes away a person's magic." Before Malfoy could protest, George shushed him. "Could we postpone our ethical discussion? It's thrilling, but I'd rather save a few lives now if you don't mind."

Malfoy glared but didn't object. "Follow me."

"Not this time." George pushed Malfoy out of the way and opened the door. "I know what I'm doing," he said. "Follow me and don't make any sound." George did know what he was doing. If anyone knew how to walk down a corridor undetected, it was him. He'd done it hundreds of times at Hogwarts with Fred; they'd made a business out of it. Before he went through the door, he tapped his wand on Malfoy's head once, casting the disillusionment charm and repeating it on himself. Coldness spread through his body, and he saw Malfoy seem to melt into the wall behind him. "Now. Let's try to be quick."

*

If Dean wasn't going to come out of the shower, Ron would have to go in. They'd wasted enough years not talking. He was done with ignoring Dean and everything that came with him. Ron pulled his T-shirt over his head and threw it into the nearest corner. Then he toed off his shoes, opened his belt with more force than necessary, unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down over his hips. Pants and socks were the last pieces of clothing, and they found their way to the pile in corner as well.

He was irritated that Dean hadn't even reacted to the sound of him breaking in. There was no way he could have overheard the door banging against the wall. Being ignored was getting old very fast.

"It's your own fault, Thomas," Ron said and pulled back the shower curtain. Dean's startled face was almost funny as Ron stepped inside and pulled the shower curtain closed again. "You don't want to talk outside? Great, we're going to talk in here." Ron's eyes were firmly fixed on Dean's face. He didn't allow himself to look down, follow the lean torso with its dark skin to the hair that thickened around Dean's navel. No matter how much he was drawn to Dean's strong shoulders, to his long legs and narrow hips, he looked at his eyes, his long lashes and the tiny droplets caught in them.

"You're missing the point, Weasley," Dean said. "I don't want to talk at all. Enjoy your shower."

Dean tried to walk around Ron and leave the small stall, but Ron stepped in his way, not letting him go. Ron used his whole body to back him up against the wall. "I want to talk," he said, and it sounded like a growl. "And you're not going to run away." He could smell Dean now, a musky scent mixed with pine. There was a lot of naked skin between them. They were wet, and Ron felt soft flesh and hard muscle; he felt Dean's bony knees, his muscled thighs, his belly, nipples against his own. His blood went south.

*

They went down the corridor, Draco just behind George, doing his best not to make any noise. George was moving like a cat, noted Draco. He was able to make out outlines if he squinted. They'd just passed the door to the DEAD when George stopped and held out his hand. "Back against the wall," he whispered. "Don't move."

Draco did it without asking, even though he hadn't heard or seen anything. They waited, and just as Draco was about to ask what was going on, the door to his lab opened and the man who'd days ago given him the order from the Ministry stepped out, accompanied by a second man. Draco stood very still and held his breath. The corridor was narrow, and while a quick glance in their direction wouldn't reveal them, they'd have a problem if one of them looked closer, cast a detection spell because he heard something, or even touched them in passing.

Draco held his breath and tried to make himself as flat as possible, sucking in his stomach and pressing his palms against the wall. The two men were coming closer, and Draco could smell them as they passed, feel the air move when the nearest man walked past them with only an inch to spare. They were oblivious, though, as they walked down the corridor, stopped in front of the elevators and stepped inside.

Only when the door of the elevator closed and the men were gone, did Draco allow himself to let out the breath he was holding and felt George do the same. Neither of them spoke, and together they moved farther down the corridor.

*

Dean's head fell back against the cool tile. He'd wanted to get out. There was no reason to talk about this now when he was so tired and exhausted.

He'd really wanted to leave, especially because he was still half hard from when he'd touched himself, and his aroused cock had made false assumptions when it had added up shower and naked Ron. And that had been before Ron had trapped him against the wall, and Dean's traitorous body had suggested staying for a bit longer. There were freckles everywhere, long limbs and milky white skin so unlike his own. Ron's cheek was only inches from Dean's lips, and Dean wanted to lean in and taste him, no matter how disappointed or angry he was.

"Go on and talk then, if it's so important," he said, gasping when Ron shifted - deliberately or not - and the friction against sensitive parts of his body increased.

"I'm sorry," Ron said. He wasn't moving, but Dean could feel him trembling. "I shouldn't have done that." His lips were very close to Dean's ear now, Dean could felt his breath on his skin even hotter than the water.

"What makes you think I care?" Dean hated the fact that he was shivering, and that he was leaning into Ron's touch rather than away from it. He was drawn to the warmth of Ron's skin, and the urge to touch was almost painful.

"I care," Ron whispered, making Dean shiver with his lips touching Dean's ear. He was mouthing along the shell, and one of his hands had come around Dean's middle. "I care about you," Ron said again and kissed the spot under Dean's ear. "I care about us."

"There's no 'us'." Dean's voice sounded hoarse and he widened his stance, welcoming the thigh between his legs and groaning when it pressed against him.

Ron kissed along Dean's jaw to his mouth and covered it with his lips. Dean tasted his tongue, let himself be kissed in a way that spoke of promises. It pulled on his temper, the raw, angry spot he usually hid deep inside.

"There could be an 'us'. We're friends," Ron said and kissed Dean between sentences, each kiss leaving Dean more breathless and feeling more vulnerable and raw. "We're good together. I want you." Ron rocked his hips and Dean choked and clutched at Ron's shoulder. "Let's give it a try."

"I already gave it two tries," Dean said, angry at himself because he knew that he'd probably give Ron what he wanted anyway - again.

"I promise to be good this time," Ron said and moved his hand from the small of Dean's back down to his arse, squeezing softly. "I'll make it up to you."

It was the amusement Dean heard in Ron's voice that made him snap.

*

George was glad when they reached the door without anyone noticing them. It had been a close call when the two men had almost discovered them, and more instinct than actually hearing something that had made him stop. Draco touched the lock of the door with his wand, an audible click indicating that it had opened.

"They gave you the password?" George asked, his voice almost too low to hear.

"I'm working down here," Malfoy whispered back. "Of course I know the passwords."

George didn't miss that Malfoy's answer didn't fit the question. "Does that mean they pay a Malfoy for playing with their deadly toys and give him access to all their vital supplies?"

Malfoy opened the door and George followed him inside. He ended the disillusionment charm so that they could see each other properly. Handling the potion would be dangerous otherwise.

"That's what it means, Weasley. As long as any idiot can develop potions that should by all means be banned or punished with an extended stay in Azkaban, there's no use in watching me, is there?" Malfoy had found a tank with the sign 'Water Supply Q1', and George started to unpack the bottles.

"Personally I think there's plenty of use," George said. "I didn't try to wipe out a good part of the Wizarding world because of their blood."

Malfoy looked up sharply. "Neither have I. Stop being a hypocritical, bigoted, prejudiced arsehole, I'm trying to save the part of the Wizarding world you're talking about."

"I'm not bigoted," George said without bothering to hide his small grin. He opened the first bottle and handed it to Malfoy, who poured it into an open cap, then repeated it with the other two bottles and sealed the tank.

George looked at him, biting his lower lip. It was done now. If that didn't help, they'd lost. He'd lose Lee. The sickness in his stomach returned, and before he even noticed it, he'd moved his hand and pressed it against his middle.

"You're not going to faint now, are you?" Malfoy asked without even a hint of compassion in his voice.

"Not just yet," George answered.

*

Ron was grabbed and hauled around. Dean had used his broader body to change their positions in one powerful turn, and now Ron was the one backed up against the wall, a thigh between his legs, Dean's hand on either side of his head.

"You think this is a fucking joke, Weasley?" Dean hissed the words. "Tell you a secret, man. I don't think it's funny."

Dean's eyes were blazing. He was close, his chest pressed against Ron's and the thigh against Ron's bits made it almost impossible to think. "I wasn't joking," Ron ground out. "I fucking meant it."

Dean kissed him harshly, sucking on Ron's tongue, their teeth clicking. Both were panting when the kiss was over. "And how do I know that you won't change your mind? Believe it or not, it hurt the last time."

There was no question of whether Dean was serious or not. Maybe for the first time, Ron saw behind the mask. He wasn't the most sensitive bloke around, but he realised that Dean had let his guard down, and that it was possibly his only chance at a new try. And he wanted one, he really did. "Didn't mean to," he said and wrapped his arms around Dean, just the feel of his back and the muscles moving beneath the skin making him moan. "Fucked up timing." Ron kissed him again, disappointed when Dean pulled back, but meeting his eyes without flinching.

Dean turned off the water without breaking eye-contact.

*

"Let's go," Draco said. He didn't like the look on George's face at all.

"Where to?"

"To Hogsmeade, I've heard that Honeydukes is selling a new brand of caramel chocolate."

George only blinked at him.

"Salazar help me," Draco muttered. "We're going upstairs, Weasley. You have unfinished business? So do I. Not to mention that someone has to be there and tell the Healers what to do once Potter makes his big entrance." Maybe he could get a hold on Abercron. Draco reckoned that by then even the Head Healer had noticed that Bouchet's methods weren't in the patients' best interests.

George cleared his throat. "Yeah. We should go upstairs." He shook his head as if to throw off cobwebs, and Draco saw that his wits were returning. Thank heaven for little favours, he thought. "We'll have to take the stairs," George said.

"No. St. Mungo's staff has those nifty passwords that will get us where we want to without having to stop in between. It's for emergencies, and this qualifies."

George had already opened the door and peered outside, then he renewed the disillusionment charm and went ahead. After making it to the elevator without meeting anyone, Malfoy used his wand to tap the button with the number seven and said the password. They didn't talk as they rode upwards, both lost in their own thoughts, both hoping that a certain name wasn't crossed out yet. When they'd reached the seventh level, they stepped out.

The whole level was quarantined now, red signs blinking along the corridors that were filled with make-shift beds. Nurses tended to patients on the corridor, handing out potions and renewing charms. The stench of pain was thick there, reeking of vomit and tinctures used to lessen cramps. Draco wrinkled his nose and fixed his eyes on George, who was far harder to see here than in the clean, bare corridor in the basement. Draco reached out and grabbed him around his wrist. "Do you know where Jordan is?" he asked.

"I know where he was yesterday," George whispered and tugged at Draco's hand, more to guide him than to get himself free.

It was both harder and easier to navigate unnoticed. No one paid attention to an accidental noise or would notice a slight shimmer of a figure moving when there was so much else going on. On the other hand, the danger of touching someone was far higher, and at one time, they had to halfway crawl onto a bed in order to avoid Healer Eames, whose robes touched Draco's knees as she passed them. Dark circles under her eyes, her hair drawn back in an untidy know, she stifled a yawn as she hurried from one patient to the next.

*

Dean was still looking into Ron's eyes, shivering as cool air met his wet skin. He leaned forward, soaking up Ron's warmth, and made a decision. He trailed his fingers down Ron's arm, wrapping them around his wrist in a tight grip, leaned in and kissed him almost tenderly. "I'm not interested in a quick shag in the shower." He licked Ron's bottom lip and used his teeth to bite it. "I can't apparate home, so I'll go and find your brother's bed now." Another kiss, another roll of his hips, another groan. "Don't bother following me if you aren't going to stay afterwards."

Then he pulled back, giving himself a few moments to just look at Ron, who was standing there with water dripping from his wet hair and gathering in the hollow of his throat. He was tall and slim, dishevelled and heavy-lidded, his mouth half open, his eyes glazed, and Dean pulled back the curtain before he could reconsider the idea of a quick shag in the shower.

*

Bernard was on 'deathwatch'. He didn't like the name - he was a Healer, after all - but it's what Bouchet called the task of looking after those who'd been labelled with a red circle on the coversheet of their file. There was no chance to save them; their death was only hours away. It was bad this time; they had many young victims in their twenties and thirties, and Bernard hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.

Like most of the team, with the exception of Bouchet himself and his senior assistant, Bernard had just finished his education. It was one of Bouchet's quirks that he only worked with beginners. He said he needed new ideas, but Bernard didn't quite follow the reasoning. There should be at least some experienced Healers who had more practice in dealing with patients and who could react quickly when needed to. Bernard had never questioned the methods directly, though; he wasn't stupid enough to challenge the authoritative, admired, untouchable Bouchet.

Not that it would matter. He would quit working for the infection team once this case was over. A small hospital in Spain had accepted his application.

Bernard looked sadly at the man in front of him and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He wasn't supposed to do that; sweat-wiping was nurses' work, and he shouldn't touch an infected person; it was the most important rule. But Bernard was immune, and no matter how often Bouchet talked about the need to distance themselves from their patients, Bernard disagreed. He was a Healer, and compassion was part of his job, not something to be ashamed of.

Lee Jordan had stopped breathing on his own hours ago. A charm was pumping air into his lungs. His heart-rate was increasing steadily, his whole body was cramping, and they couldn't give him the amount of pain potion he'd need, as it would kill him right away. Bernard had the flask in his hand, thinking that sometimes it was more humane to help someone die in peace than to keep him alive at all costs. He hesitated, pondering what was more important, his clear orders, or the suffering of a man who wouldn't have a chance anyway. He'd seen so much suffering in the last couple of days that he just wanted to give at least one person peace.

Bernard opened the flask and moved it in a circular motion until the fluid inside swirled. He watched it for a moment, entranced, then tipped it slowly, the first droplets leaving the rim and disappearing between the lips of the patient. There was no need to swallow; the potion would be absorbed by the mucous membrane on the inside of Jordan's mouth.

*

They left the shower and the bathroom without drying themselves, went to George's bedroom and lay down on his bed, leaving the door open. They needed to know when someone returned and brought them news.

Ron was on top, Dean solid and strong beneath him, still wet from the shower, smelling of soap and sex. Ron had always been a physical being. He enjoyed touching and being touched. Dean was different; he was reserved, controlled, rational in his words and actions, and yet Ron felt like he was being swept away by a gushing stream, barely managing to draw enough air.

He was moaning, Dean's hands possessively on his arse, fingers digging into Ron's flesh, keeping him in place while Dean's hips moved against him in slow, maddening, endless circles that left him breathless and wanting, sucking on Dean's tongue and gripping his shoulders.

And then their positions were reversed, Dean rolled them, and Ron found himself caught between the mattress and a lover who was in control. Ron forced a hand between them, cupping Dean where he was hard and hot and soft skin and coarse hair, and there was a quiet curse and a jerking motion of Dean's hips, incentive enough to squeeze him again. And then again.

But Dean sat back, held Ron's gaze for a moment, bent down and licked his cock from base to tip in one smooth swipe, the softness of his tongue almost painful on Ron's sensitive skin. Dean took him inside, the heat overwhelming, and Ron moaned when Dean started to suck. It made him pull up his knees, let them fall open, arching his back in blatant invitation. Ron spread his legs wider when he felt fingers slipping lower, touching him there, moving in questioning circles while Dean's tongue touched the tip of his cock and danced on the most sensitive part of his body. Ron pushed against those fingers, both because he wanted them and because the sensation of Dean's mouth was becoming too much too quickly.

"Yes," he whispered when the tip of Dean's finger penetrated him. "That," he said. "All of it."

Dean leaned over him to kiss him. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Ron bit Dean's lower lip. "What do you think?" he asked back and reached over to open the bedside drawer. "Anything useful in there?"

Dean found something and the heat of his body was gone a moment later. His fingers, slick and cool, returned, though.

Ron opened his eyes, propping himself up on his elbows. He watched as Dean prepared him with gentle fingers, stretching him slowly. "I imagined that," Ron said, hissing as Dean found a sensitive spot and rubbed, pressing his own erection against Ron's thigh. "Before the kiss, after the kiss, hell, during the kiss." He moaned, his head falling back as Dean's other hand teased and stroked Ron's cock. He was close to begging.

"Less talking," Dean said, his voice a dark growl. He'd pulled out his fingers and was covering Ron, nudging at first, then pushing, then rocking, then stopping when Ron grunted, a sound not entirely filled with pleasure.

"It's okay," Dean said, "take it slow." He kept rocking, just little nudges that teased and set Ron's nerves on fire as he gradually relaxed. Ron pushed up against Dean as he went on and on with the little nudges and chaste kisses and the hell, Ron wasn't a girl and didn't want to be treated like one.

And still, there was only rocking, pressure against his slick hole, but nothing more. Ron could feel the tip of Dean's cock and moved his hips to meet him, but Dean pulled back.

Ron pushed, rolled them again, straddled Dean, caught his wrists, saw that Dean struggled for control but was just as caught up in his lust as Ron was. And then it was Dean who arched his back and moaned as Ron sank down on him, the burn in his arse exquisite, the soundless 'O' of Dean's mouth even better. He let go of Dean's hands, and they were immediately on his hips, holding him down, keeping him there, not allowing him to move. He was sweating, and God, it was good, but not good enough. "Come on, Dean," he said.

Dean opened his eyes and looked at Ron as he used his legs as leverage and thrust upward. "Do that again," Ron breathed, and Dean did. He moved in hard, deep strokes, lacking his usual grace but none of his strength.

"Touch yourself," Dean said in that low, commanding voice, and Ron wrapped his fingers around his cock and stroked in time with Dean's movements, up and down and again, and deeper inside and harder. He watched Dean watching, he felt himself clench around that thick cock, felt Dean's curls against his arse, his hands on his hips.

It was more than enough to make him come in thick, white spurts on Dean's stomach, his balls tight, his nerves exploding with pleasure. Dean growled and pulled him down harshly, held him there until Ron was spent and a bit longer. Then he threw his head back and made a sound that was hardly more than a sigh, the cords in his neck standing out as he shuddered, as his hips moved in fast thrusts and he followed Ron over the edge.

*

It was an automatic reaction. When George entered the room and saw a man leaning over Lee, trying to give him an unknown potion, he whipped out his wand before thinking about it and blasted the potion out of the man's hand. Only after he'd done that did he realise that it was a Healer who was probably trying to help Lee. Too late now, he thought and shrugged.

"What do you think you're doing?" Malfoy whispered.

The Healer looked around, raised his wand and asked, "Who's there?" He came around the bed, looking at them. "I can see you," he said.

George doubted it. "Hold your breath," he whispered, and when the man was far enough away from the bed that Lee wouldn't be affected, George threw the vial with the purple potion. It shattered at the man's feet, and he looked down, startled for a moment, before his face took on a vacant expression. George waved his wand once in a circle and Malfoy felt a gush of wind. "Start breathing," George said, cancelling both of their disillusionment charms.

Malfoy walked over to the man and felt his pulse. "He'll be all right?"

"Yeah, give him twenty minutes and he'll be fine." George was already standing at Lee's bed, looking down at him. "Could you come over here?" he asked.

Malfoy did; he cast several spells, and George waited, counting seconds, gripping the edge of the bed.

"He's lost his magic," Malfoy said. "The cramps have stopped, and his heart is slowing down. He's not breathing on his own, and I'd rather wait before forcing him to. He's weak, and there's some internal damage." Malfoy smiled. "He's going to make it."

George's knees felt as if they were about to give way. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "What are we going to do now?" he asked.

"You're going to stay here. I'll send a Healer as soon as I can. St. Mungo's staff wears green robes, Bouchet's team wears white. Spare the former, curse the latter, understood?"

"Yes, captain," George gave a salute that was only half mocking, and as Malfoy turned around to go, he asked, "And you? What are you going to do?"

"Unfinished business," Malfoy answered. "And I'll try to find that saviour of ours. He's overdue. I'll take him with me," he pointed at the still blank Healer.

George watched as Malfoy walked towards the door, guiding the man in the white robes. "Malfoy," he said before he could leave. "Thanks, yeah?"

Malfoy looked back over his shoulder. "It's Draco," he muttered.

*

The owl arrived two hours after George and Draco had left. Neither Dean nor Ron had been able to sleep or even stay in bed. They were sitting at the kitchen table, both with a cup of tea, as it was only early in the afternoon, and a bottle of beer, because they'd both agreed that they deserved it. They'd barely talked since getting up.

Dean opened the window and let the bird in. The owl was from St. Mungo's; Dean recognised the marking. It stuck out his foot, and he untied the letter, watching the bird take off at once and fly back out of the window. He looked at Ron, who walked over, clad in boxers just like Dean.

"It's from Malfoy," Dean said a few moments later. His throat felt tight and he leaned into Ron. "The potion is working. Lee will be okay. Harry arrested Bouchet."

Dean felt arms coming around him, and he didn't resist the embrace. "Does that mean it's done?" Ron asked.

"Think so," Dean said. He turned into the hug, let go of the letter and wrapped his arms around Ron.

"I hate being a Healer," Ron mumbled.

Dean chuckled against Ron's shoulder. "No, you don't. You're just disappointed because the nurses aren't as hot as in the magazines."

"What?" Ron asked.

"Never mind." Dean's limbs were heavy, and the mere thought of moving filled him with dread. "I could do with some sleep now."

Ron's chest shook with silent laughter. "Is that a come on?" he asked.

Dean swatted the back of his head. "You've got a big mouth, Weasley."

"It's one of my finest accessories."

*

Even though he was never going to admit it, not even to Lee, not even after a bucket full of firewhiskey, George was sleeping when the Aurors arrived at St. Mungo's and Bouchet was arrested. He didn't notice a thing; the physical and emotional exhaustion had made him fall asleep in an uncomfortable hospital chair with his head resting on Lee's bed, drooling onto the sheets.

A not very gentle slap on the back of his head woke him. "Is that your way of watching someone?" Draco asked, his voice a lazy drawl.

George yawned and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He got up, stretched, scratched his belly and smiled a charming smile at the young woman in green robes who'd also entered the room. "I almost missed you," he said to Draco.

"That's Healer Eames," Draco said. "She's going to have a look at Jordan."

It brought George back to reality. "What about the others?" he asked. "What about your unfinished business?"

Healer Eames answered instead of Draco. "We lost far too many," she said and George heard the pain. He didn't want to know what the woman had seen in the last days she'd been there. There were tears in her eyes as she looked back at Draco. "Nurse Brown is going to recover, though."

"Nurse Brown, eh?" George said with raised eyebrows, grinning when he saw Draco's scowl.

Eames didn't have the time to make a complete check now. She only adjusted the spells, confirmed that everything looked good, and promised to return within the hour.

"Potter brought the Aurors. St. Mungo's is picking up the pieces," Draco said. "Before I go," he hesitated for a moment. "Do you have any plans next month, and possibly the one after that?"

"Plans? For what?"

"Well, someone has to finally find that Dragon Pox cure. Do Thursday evenings sound good?"

George cocked his head. "You want me to help you become famous? What's in it for me?"

Draco laughed; it was a noise that sounded strange and an expression that made him look younger. "I don't know. Have you ever thought about the potentials of a contagious daydream charm?"

George smiled. "Your place or mine?"

*

They were still in bed when Dean heard noises downstairs. He shook Ron until he opened his eyes. "What's going on?" Ron asked, sleep-warm and tousled.

"Time to get up. I think George just came home." Dean sat up, trying to remember where he'd left his shirt.

Ron pulled him back down with one long arm around his middle. "'S not George," he said and kissed Dean's shoulder. "It's my mum."

"Your mother?" Dean turned around, looking horrified at Ron's sleepy face. "How do you know?"

Ron refused to let go of Dean. "Potter's Law," he said.

*

THE END