Potter's Law - Part One (Ron/Dean)

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Title: Potter's Law - Part One
Rating: NC17
Featured Character or Pairing(s): Ron/Dean, Draco, George, Harry, others mentioned.
Summary: How do you fight something that kills with the precision of a curse and spreads like an infection? How do you work with someone who gets to you in more ways than one? How can five men keep the wizarding world safe against all obstacles? This is a story about people, about relationships, about romance, but most of all, about passion.
Warnings: Non-graphic minor character death . Graphic slash. EWE.
Word Count: ~30,000
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's/Artist's notes: Written for thrihyrne and weasley_fest. Writing this was long and painful and wouldn't have been possible without:
ridicu_liz who's just awesome. I reread your comments whenever I need a laugh.
thimble_kiss who spots plot holes and mistakes in the details like no other while stubbornly claiming she doesn't even like plot.
secretsolitaire who stepped in at the last minute and saved me from a few thousand words of useless description. (I'm still working on that promised ficlet)



Originally posted here (1), here (2) and here (3).
*

Potter's Law

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.

*

Part Two
Part Three

Comments

[daisymaeevans.livejournal.com]

This is fantastic! I've only had time to read the first part and I'm already hooked. Great job.
Hugs-
Daisy

[vanseedee.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much, I'm so glad that you like it. ♥