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

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Title: Potter's Law - Part Two
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.



Part One

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.

*

Part Three