Written for the 2011 SS/HG fic exchange on LJ and gifted to Mundungus42. This is the prompt: There was a deadly outbreak which nearly wiped out the human race. Living in isolated places Severus, Hermione and Remus travel place to place in an attempt to not only keep alive but to find others who are not affected by the virus. However, things begin to take a more horrifying turn when Snape kills Remus (you decide why). WARNING: Though I did not go all out, there is some gore, blood, nastiness in this fic. This is your only warning. If you flame me because you read it against your better judgement, I shall laugh. An evil scientist laugh, at that. Usual disclaimer: That JK Rowling woman owns everything that is recognizable as HP. I don't. But, I love to do unspeakable things to her characters (and get a kind of perverse thrill from it). Hence, I make no money from putting them through their paces.

If the present world go astray, the cause is in you. In you, it is to be sought ~ Dante

The sky in this Muggle area used to be thick with industrial smog, coating everything in a thin film of noxious residue.

But not anymore.

Now, there is nothing that fills the vast emptiness above, save for the occasional crow searching for its next meal, its loud cawing indicating that it won't go hungry today. I doubt any scavenger has had such an easy time of it in their lives as they have in the past year.

The silence is suffocating. I, who used to prize my isolation, who used to hate the intrusion of others, am now desperate to find the merest shred of evidence that somewhere, someone else lives in this wasteland. I, Severus Snape, truly grieve for what is left of humanity.

I slice open the veins on my left wrist and watch dispassionately as the dark copper fluid wells on my skin, spilling over and into the glass jar below. I have done this so many times in the last months, I am immune to the pain. When the bottom of the jar is no longer visible, I murmur a spell that halts the blood flow and seals the wound. Because of the frequency of this ritual, I bare deep scars on both my wrists, despite the healing charms.

I do it willingly.

Not for some imagined penance, let me assure you; I paid my debt to the Wizarding world with the demise of both of my masters. And not in some misguided attempt to end my existence; I have grown very accustomed to living and I plan to continue doing so, contrary to the current situation.

No, I do it for her.

Not the 'her' of my youth, though I will always mourn the friendship that was lost and forever bear the resulting pain, but her, the one who came back for me.

I pour a carefully prepared unction into the same glass as the blood and begin stirring. Counter-clockwise, twenty times. It is the same number of silver slices in my flesh, ten on each arm. I then add a specialised plasma mixture as a bonding agent, the colour quickly changing from dull brown to orange. It is ready.

And I hear her slight footsteps upon the wooden floorboards upstairs, as if she has some preternatural knowledge of what I am working on. I know she tries not to make a sound, desperately wanting to be as stealthy as I once was, but I seem to have developed a heightened awareness regarding her movements, her general state of being and, most importantly, her health.

I am ever mindful of that.

The top step that leads to the cellar creaks with her weight, and I hear her swear under her breath in frustration. I smile wryly to myself. Her continued efforts to surprise me are amusing, if nothing else.

"I know you heard me," she grumbles.

I arch a single brow, which makes her eyes narrow. She says nothing more and perches her shapely backside upon the stool next to my meagre workbench, crossing her arms to glare at me. I know she sees the accoutrements for the procedure.

She sighs heavily, rolls up the left sleeve of her grey thermal shirt and holds the arm out for me to inspect. "Poke away."

"You could at least pretend to be appreciative," I mutter, grabbing it. Her skin has a peach hue to it, which I note on a piece of parchment. That is a positive sign. If it becomes tinged with grey, or overly ruddy in colour, then I'll know my time is running out.

Her soft touch halts my inspection. "Severus, you know I am beyond grateful."

I know she is grateful. I know very well. She was with me when we discovered what had happened... to everyone. She knows better than any, save one, the horrors of the past twenty months—the same amount of scars on both our arms—and the atrocities that continue to this day.

"Don't be cross," she pleads, swiping at a stray lock that has blocked my vision.

My lips thin into a grimace. I have always enjoyed the capability to instill fear in others with just a sneer or a growl, a piercing glance. Now, I find that I have no wish to provoke such an emotion in this woman sitting before me. She has seen enough to last her five lifetimes.

"I am not cross." Not really. I am just not in a companionable mood.

Before I can tie the tourniquet around her bicep, her hand is cupping my weathered cheek, her long and graceful thumb caressing the dark skin I know is underneath my eyes. "What is it?"

I always yearn for the gentle touch she so generously bestows upon me, but today it makes my soul ache. "I have no more untainted plasma. This is the last batch."

She does not react, except for a small gasp that I wager she wanted to stifle. "Then we'll send Remus out tonight to find another candidate."

Now my mood is not only uncharitable, it has escalated to sour. "The last one he found was dead, killed by the very family he had saved." I shake my head. "How many do you think are left?"

"Tell him to hunt south tonight, instead." So logical and stubborn, this brave witch. She holds out her arm again. "So, get on with it."

I grasp her forearm forcefully, wincing when I see that she grimaces but says not a word. Exasperation bleeds through in everything I am trying to accomplish. "He had to cover hundreds of miles before he even found that human," I remind her as I lace the elasticised rubber over her bicep. "Make a fist."

She does as I ask, pumping her fingers, causing her veins to rise to the surface. Magic cannot be used during the procedure or it will render the potion useless, so it must be done the Muggle way. I have done this at least a hundred times on the people under our care, but it is only palliative in nature, not the actual cure.

I cannot kill this minute monster.

I have always prided myself on the breadth of knowledge I have gathered over the considerable years that I have been alive, always revelled in the sheer euphoria of wholly grasping a concept and then manipulating the composition of said idea so that the benefits far outweighed the consequences. But there are always limits, as with anything of import, instances where one is so focused on what they could do that they never stop to consider if they really should. The ramifications of such acts are often discovered too late.

I cannot kill this thing that was created by nature and twisted into something perverse by man.

I cannot cure the witch sitting before me, who watches me with those earthy brown eyes, the implicit trust that constantly shines from them. I cannot cure the three other people residing in my cramped row house, try as I may.

When I jab the crook of her elbow with the needle, I hear her whimper, though she courageously says not one word to stop the pain that she knows is coming. The moment the potion starts flowing through her veins, the burning agony will contort her body. It is the only way, however, to ensure that she lives.

I hate that I must do this to her.

Amazingly enough, she does not make any further sounds—not while I hold her, after the transfusion. The first time I attempted this process, she had just suffered the throes of a delirious fever after we had Apparated from our original location. While she writhed in the tub, convulsions wracking her body, Lupin held her so that she wouldn't injure herself. Once I administered the potion, she screamed until she lost her voice, her back arched and feet rigid. That was the one and only time I was forced to let her undergo the tortures of impure ingredients.

Her fingers curl on my sleeve, and I know the potion is slowly making its way throughout her body. I untie the tourniquet and lay it on the table, disposing of the used needle. Near to collapse, she lolls forward into my embrace, wrapping her arms around my neck.

I cradle her close, murmuring nonsensical things in her ear to distract her. This also gives me an excuse to bury my sensitive nose in her limp curls as I gently rock her back and forth, despising every shudder her small frame makes.

"Severus," she manages and tightens her grip, her fingers threading in my hair. The ripping and pulling of the strands hurts like hellfire, but I wouldn't remove her hands for all the Galleons in the world.

I am her anchor, immovable, steady and constant. I am her friend, her teacher and, were circumstances better, her lover. For once in my wretched life, I am needed, not for my ability to provide and procure secrets or to be used until Death is knocking on my door, but because they have utter faith in me.

I know she cares for the former greasy bat of the dungeons; I see it in her facial expressions, in every touch, in her words and kindness. I would do anything it takes to be worthy of her.

And yet, I cannot save Hermione Granger.

"Is she sleeping?"

Why is it this man's presence forever ignites my ire? Oh, that's right... because he's a seemingly innocuous werewolf. "See for yourself." I point to the camp bed off to my left in the cramped cellar.

Remus Lupin ducks under the low overhanging archway into the damp area and unfolds his long body to loom over her. "How did she do this time?"

I sneer when he sits on the edge of the bed and runs his disgusting fingers through her hair. "As she always does, Lupin. Nothing has changed."

"Ah, that bad." He turns his unwanted sympathetic gaze to me. "And how are you feeling?"

"I would feel immeasurably better if you were to actually find me a pure-blood or someone with immunity."

He rises at this point and dares to step closer to me. I abhor his existence, but his usefulness to our goal far outweighs my personal dislike for him.

"Do you have any idea what it's like, trying to find a needle in a haystack?" He snorts and shakes his head. "I haven't caught one whiff of a pure-blood in months. Months."

My lips thin in agitation. There has to be a pure-blooded wizard or witch somewhere in the whole of the United Kingdom. "Turn your search south, tonight."

"Where exactly?"

"Try Ottery St Catchpole. The Weasleys lived there. Perhaps they still do."

He grimaces, and I know why. "Do you think they'll still help Hermione after all that business with Ron?"

I glare, hard. "Make them understand." I begrudgingly admit that using Lupin as an enforcer brings me a sadistic sense of delight.

"Should I just bind one if they resist?"

"Whatever it takes." And I mean that literally. Hermione Granger's life is more precious than all the wealth or power in the world. At least to me.

"I wish..."

I hate when he gets maudlin. His guilt mounts him like he is a bitch in heat, which is an apt analogy, given his characteristics. "Wishing will not help Hermione."

He clears his throat and nods. "Right. I'll leave in a few hours."

I glance at him when he doesn't leave the room. I have come to detest the look he wears now, the pleading eyes, the longing I see in the twitch of his fingers as they raise for a hesitant moment and then drop. I know he sees me as a substitute for that mangy cur, Black. A few steps back, and I am no longer within reach.

"Right," he reiterates with a strained voice. Another nod, and he is gone, along with the oppressive air that seems to follow him.

A rustle of covers brings my attention to the witch lying on the bed, watching me with her perceptive gaze. "He is lonely."

With a snort, I return to sorting through the items I will need for my next experiment. "Unless his hands have suddenly been rendered useless, he is more than capable of relieving any stress he might feel."

She laughs lightly. "Is that what you do?"

I pause for a moment and wonder what her question is leading to, for I know if I answer one, there will be another to follow. "In times of great need, I have always managed," I reply evasively.

"I see." She sits up. It is this way after a transfusion: suffer the after-effects, sleep for several hours and awaken hungry and shaky. "So how many times of 'great need' have you had in the past few months?"

There is a mischievous glint about her expression that I don't wholly trust. "Why do you want to know?"

She stands on trembling legs, walks slowly to where I sit at the table and lays a hand on my shoulder. "I wouldn't want to think you weren't human." Smiling impishly, she leans down and brushes a tender kiss on my forehead.

Her touches as of late are increasing in frequency and intimacy, and I fear that she may go too far before too long. "Hermione," I murmur. I can't seem to make my voice sound anything more than garbled. "I am only a man." I refuse to admit to others that my walls are penetrable, but with her, they are practically nonexistent.

Her clear eyes search mine. "I know." Slowly, she descends to touch her lips to mine in the softest kiss I have ever known. It is also the most erotic. "Save me," she whispers against my mouth.

The words fill me with anguish, and I can do nothing but whimper and clutch at her, pulling her close. "I am trying." I tug her between my thighs and bury my nose in the crux of her neck, inhaling deeply. When her arms enfold me within her embrace, I feel the prickle of tears stinging my eyes. "I swear to you on all that is holy, I will find a cure."

She withdraws until she can see me and cups my cheeks in her warm and dainty hands. "I have faith in you. If anyone could create a cure, it would be you." She presses another kiss to my mouth while soothing away the tears that I did not realise were making tracks down my face.

I am held in her arms for several moments, her head lying atop mine while she runs her hand up and down my back in long, slow strokes. On the rare occasion when I have received genuine affection, I have always welcomed it. This is something different, however. This is Hermione assuring me that, no matter what happens, she will not cease her tender care of me. It is her way, this quiet assertion of things best left unsaid.

"Do you remember when I first came to you, asking to be your apprentice?" she muses aloud. Her fingers thread gently through my hair, rubbing the areas she pulled at in her previous struggle.

I tighten my grip on her waist. Of course I remember. That was when everything began.

Two years after the war, the termagant had not changed since her tenure at Hogwarts. Her hair was still an uncontrollable rat's nest, though longer than in the past. While she had grown in height, somewhat, the top of her head still came to just under my chin. I know, because her skull was exceedingly hard when it hit my jaw, as I often peered into her cauldron. Of course, that was always followed by profuse apologies, until I'd tell her to shut her blathering trap and get on with the experiment. She would then glare, grit her teeth, turn up her pernicious nose and continue stirring. Such was the way of our relationship: tenuous at best, contentious and competitive at our worst.

Later that fateful day, Hermione had returned to the Shrieking Shack, where I'm sure she'd expected to collect the cold remains of my corpse, but to her surprise—and mayhap disappointment on Potter's part—she'd found me gasping as the anti-venom potions I had swallowed slowly coursed through my veins. With the exception of some dubious choices in my youth leading to my involvement with the Death Eaters, I had never been ill-prepared in my life, especially where the Dark Lord was concerned. I had foreseen nearly every eventuality, every manoeuvre the megalomaniac had envisioned, which had led to my experimenting on myself for months with toxins that could have easily killed me in the wrong dosage. I had built up quite a resistance to several poisons and venoms, including the one Riddle had milked from that foul serpent. Voldemort had ordered my death, though he claimed he was sorry for it. Oddly, I had never in my time as a Death Eater heard him express his regrets at killing someone. I guess in a morbid way, I should have felt flattered.

Potter had asked me once about my service to the Dark Lord. Yes, there was remorse where his mother's death was concerned. No, I still did not care for his father or his father's miscreant friends. No, not even Lupin. Well, the werewolf was, and is, a slight exception. At least he provided some challenge when it came to playing chess. But otherwise, no. The Dark Arts still held an appeal, as they always would, and no, I would not cease being an unmitigated bastard. My feelings were my own where Dumbledore was concerned and they would remain that way, and no amount of cajoling or Lily's green eyes floating with tears will goad me into saying more. Yes, I still thought him an imbecile with more luck than brains. Begrudgingly, I might have admitted that I found him a tad more tolerable, but since the discussion with Potter was in private, no one but the two of us will ever know the extent of my feelings on the matter. Perhaps, not even me.

Granger was another story altogether. She had spent two years at a Wizarding university, which included Muggle subjects, such as Biology, Chemistry and applied Physics, and had graduated EgregiaCumLaude in the shortest time of any student. Ever. Pedantic swot. Of course, she had put the student body and professors alike to shame, the erudite chit. I had expected that and more, wherever she decided to further her studies. What I had not anticipated was the path she'd fixated on after leaving university: working as my apprentice.

I had never had one and hadn't intended on taking one. When she'd literally stood outside my private quarters for nearly four hours, demanding to be heard on the merits of such a working relationship, I finally let her in, if only to stop the gaggle of gossiping spectres that her tirade seemed to be drawing.

"No."

"There are many advantages to taking me on, Professor Snape. If you would just—"

"No." Better to stop her delusions of grandeur before she has a chance to voice them. "Cease and desist your infernal racket outside my chambers and leave me be!"

"There are many within the Ministry that would jump at the chance to have me work for them."

A malicious sneer curls my lip. "Then go and 'jump' them, Miss Granger. I do not require your 'services'."

She crosses her arms, narrows her eyes and thins her lips to practically nothing. "The credit for any successful research, any improvements, any viable work goes directly to you, along with the entirety of the profits."

I snort. "To what end? I can do these things and more now, and without having to suffer your presence."

I observe the cogs turning in her mind, the shoring up of her courage. "But you do not have access to the latest equipment, whereas I've been given the opportunity to conduct ground-breaking research with the most technologically advanced tools that could increase your profit margin by sixty percent."

Damn. She has a point. Though I do not suffer from the deadly sin of Avarice, a professor's salary is inadequate to indulge in proper research. I stand from my chair by the fire and pace slowly, my hands behind my back. "How long?" I hedge.

A triumphant light enters her eyes, and though I would never admit it to a living soul, the sight intrigues me. "Just until I reach my Masters."

"And how long will that be?"

She bites her lip. "A normal program lasts about five years."

I harrumph. It is laughable that she would take that long. "Which means you'll be done in three."

Her cheeks flush prettily. "I'm glad you have such faith in me, Professor."

I make sure she sees me roll my eyes. "False modesty does not become you, Miss Granger. Please refrain." We both know she would do everything in her power to achieve more in less time than 'normal' people.

"Yes, sir," she says contritely. Her fingers are tangling with themselves. "So, you agree to take me on?"

Against my better judgement, I nod and receive an armful of squealing witch for my troubles. Only in my darkest hours will I indulge in the warmth that embrace brings to me. Only then will I acknowledge that human contact has become so very precious in that moment.

As it was, I could not have asked for a more qualified apprentice. She was diligent, efficient, and I admit that her enthusiasm for certain things filtered down to me. Such as her theory that she could isolate the werewolf genome, ascertain its genetic code sequence and possibly find a way to eradicate it, or at least render it incapable of its destructive mutations. This led us to the research we were doing in China.

We were in Hong Kong, near the Tung Wah teaching hospital in Sheung Wan, having been invited by the Chinese Wizarding community—called Chung-kuo, which meant 'the middle kingdom'—to explore the possibilities of gene therapy and Lycanthropy. The area had experienced a surge in werewolf activity, and to date, I had produced the strongest formula of the original Wolfsbane potion, so they expected me to provide the answer for all their woes. They allowed me access to the finest equipment, the purest of ingredients. That, of course, thrilled my enthusiastic apprentice.

After five months of research into the inordinate amount of lupine activity in the area, rumblings had surfaced within the Muggle nations of catastrophic events occurring with a frequency unheard of in recent years. The Wizarding world was usually sheltered from these events, separate but parallel. Had we not been trying to recover our own society from near annihilation, we would have seen the signs the Muggle world was in jeopardy. When the harsh reality intruded, it was too late.

Granger and I were conducting clinical trials when we became aware that the surrounding Muggle area had grown somewhat frantic. Due to the unstable nature of our experiments, we could not use magic during certain procedures, such as collecting specimens, lest it render the samples worthless. Remus Lupin, who had survived the Killing Curse hurled his way during the war due to his very lycanthropy, was assisting us in the form of a glorified lab rat. He had no family or relations left alive, having dissuaded Nymphadora Tonks of the disastrous idea of starting a relationship with him—which I believed was to the mutual best interest—and once he'd caught wind of our trip, had decided to badger Granger into letting him accompany us. He'd argued that receiving free Wolfsbane potion and a few pricks of a needle here and there was worth putting up with me for months on end.

I thought Lupin's mental faculties were greatly suffering, if he could make such a statement and mean it. Personally, I believe he fancied Granger—whom I'd given leave to call me Severus, though I glared at Lupin every time he tried to do so. I could see his feelings for her in the way he tried to block my proximity to the girl, in the posture he adopted if I happened upon them during an experiment. The mere thought of a relationship starting between the two set my teeth on edge, and I was ever watchful of the flirtations he idly indulged in, the way his pale blue eyes followed every move she made. I told Granger often enough that we would do well to capture a wild specimen to experiment on, but she had a soft spot for the mangy beast, and would not hear of it.

Since our research was housed in a teaching hospital, there were any number of patients at any given time—wizard and Muggle alike. Other than the company funding the research grant, no one truly knew of our presence, and we preferred it that way. In July, during one of the most tedious portions of a test, we were visited by our Muggle liaison, something that rarely happened.

"You must go now," the man says urgently.

Granger and I just look at each other in confusion. Lupin, sitting in a chair with a tourniquet around his bare bicep, snorts. "We can't just leave; we're in the middle of—"

"No," the Muggle says with a cutting motion of his hand. "You no understand. Must leave now, before contamination. No other option." His lips thin with impatience. "Death is in the city!"

He left before we could question him further. By the time he had told us, however, the disease was already decimating the Muggle population. Stunned at his proclamation, the three of us cast a modified Shield Charm and made our way into the overcrowded hallways of the hospital, where we saw hundreds of gurneys filled with patients in varying stages of some horrific ailment.

Why had they not alerted us sooner?

"Severus," Hermione whispered, putting her hand over her mouth and nose. "The smell..." She turned several shades of green.

I quickly merged my shield with hers. After withdrawing a linen handkerchief, I spelled it to smell like cloves and cinnamon. "Here." I pressed it over her nose. "Breathe deeply; it will counteract the nausea."

She clasped her hands over mine, her eyes peeking above the edge of the cloth, watering. "Thank you." Her words were muffled.

We turned to see Lupin still hanging about the entrance from the hospital to our lab, his lips curled in a near feral snarl. "They're all dead," he growled, his nostrils flaring.

"Some still live," I countered, spying a young man thrashing about on his gurney, strapped to the bed, most likely to prevent his escape.

Shaking his head, Lupin advanced, grabbed us both by the arm and dragged us back into the lab. "They're dead, Snape, it's only a matter of hours, if that." He scanned the room and focused on the barred window. "We need to create a Portkey and leave."

"Our equipment. Our research!" Hermione protested.

"Our own lives," I snapped at her. "I survived the Dark Lord, I'm not about to lose my life to some Muggle malady."

"But we can help them!" she protested. "I just need samples of their blood to determine what pathogen is causing this and then we can create a vaccine to—"

"This is something different, Hermione," Lupin warned. I could actually see the hackles raised on his back. "The scent is all wrong."

Though I disliked Lupin on principle alone, I did not discount that some of his senses were more acute than ours. "Wrong in what way?"

The wolf moved towards the entrance to the hospital and placed his hand upon the door to open it a fraction. "I've smelled death before, but this is more." He inhaled deeply then retreated quickly and slammed the door shut. "I can't specify the component that makes it unique, but I think it's... plague."

"Plague?" My tone was incredulous. "You incite panic because of plague?" There were a number of cures for Muggle plague, depending on what strain we were dealing with.

"I don't understand," Lupin said with a frown. "Plague can decimate populations in a matter of months."

"Remus, we just need samples from those infected, and I'll be able to issue the proper antidote to them," Hermione placated.

"I don't believe you two," Lupin growled, darting his gaze between Granger and me. "I just told you there is something different about this outbreak. At this point, we're all contaminated."

"All the more reason for me to obtain samples," she argued, gathering several stoppered glass tubes and capped needles.

In retrospect, I don't know if it was my logic or something I wish remained deep and buried within me, but I grabbed her arm, halting her progress to the door. "I'll take the samples." It was a reasonable statement, as I had been the one to draw Lupin's blood.

Hermione resisted for a fraction of a moment, but nodded. Then she looked at me with those doe's eyes—those damnable eyes that spoke volumes in their earthy depths. "Take all safety precautions," she whispered. "Please."

The irritation from Lupin was nearly a living presence; it resonated in the lab at such a high level. My smirk was triumphant. "I always take precautions."

She placed the vials and needles in my outstretched hand. "I know you do. Just be extra vigilant this time." Her fingers slid along my palm, and I forced myself to keep from curling my calloused hand around hers.

"I'll go with you," Lupin said in a low tone. Of course, he'd watched our exchange. I'd wanted him to. If I had anything to do with it, the half-breed would not touch her... ever.

At the door, she reminded us, "One vial for each stage."

I arched my brow. "Do try to remember I've done this before."

"Yes, well..." She bit her bottom lip. It was a wonder that poor piece of flesh was still attached to her mouth with as much as she gnawed on it. "Just be careful."

I said nothing more and cast another Shield Charm, leaving alongside Lupin. We traversed the short corridor before arriving at the area where there was a virtual cacophony of wails and moans, coughing and retching. I added a Masking Charm to the shield, to prevent odours from assaulting me while I worked.

"I think this one is dead," Lupin said, pointing to a woman who was lying on the tile floor, propped up against the wall. "I'll get her blood moving, and you can take the sample."

"Not too much; I don't want to be splattered."

"Yes, that would be a shame."

Turning slowly, I glared at Lupin and his mulish expression. "Whatever you are pondering, I'd advise against it." I gave him a smug smirk. "She would be very put out with you."

This, of course, achieved the emotional reaction I was going for. Lupin was riled. He tried to lean close, his teeth bared, as if to dominate me. I turned and thrust my arm through his pitiful shield, wrapping my fingers around his throat and pressing him against the wall.

"Come near me like that again, and I won't care that Granger likes to keep you on a leash. I'll end your pathetic existence and send you to meet your reprobate friends." I squeezed harder, delighting in the deep shade of red that began creeping into his features. "Are we clear, Wolf?"

He opened his mouth, but all that he was able to utter was, "Fuck you!"

"Not likely." I slammed him against the peeling paint of the wall. "And if you so much as look at her in a manner not pleasing to me again, I will have no qualms about serving your head on a silver platter." I wanted to do that and so much more. "I reiterate: are we clear?"

Eyes bulging from the pressure around his throat, Lupin could only nod, until I let go and stepped away. "You're a bastard," he said with a cough, rubbing his neck.

"I think it prudent you remember that in the future—don't you?" I turned and bent low to the dead woman. "Now, are you going to keep posturing and pissing about or are you going to help me?"

I could see there was a scathing retort poised on his lips, but he wisely let it drop. Removing his wand, he cast, "Cruor Amoveo," and handed me the tourniquet that had been wrapped around his own arm. "Should last about five minutes."

After placing a pair of Self-Sterilising Gloves on my hands—patented by Percy Weasley, of all people—I found a vein and watched as the blood sluggishly oozed into the tube. "Find others," I grunted to my dubious companion. "I'm almost done here."

Sending Lupin away gave me an excuse to study the patient without him standing over me. Though the woman was dead, rigor mortis had not set in just yet, and the heat pouring off her body was substantial—more so than it should be for someone who had just expired. I suspected fever, one that had progressed to a dangerous level that led to seizures and finally complete cessation of brain function. Blood-tinged sputum covered her mouth and chest area, evidence of multiple coughing fits. There were also petechiae covering her cheeks, indication of forceful vomiting and asphyxiation. Lifting her upper lid, I noticed the petechiae extending into her eyes, which were dark yellow, almost orange.

"I found several more, but I'll have to subdue them to obtain samples," Lupin said, standing above me.

I rose and followed him to five other patients, collecting specimens; three were combatitive and had to be subject to a Petrificus Totalus, one was mentally incapacitated and gave no indication that he was aware of our presence, and the final one assumed we were medical personnel associated with the hospital. The people further along in the disease showed symptoms like those I had studied in the dead woman: raging fevers, vomiting and blood about their mouths. The patients in the beginning stages complained of a headache and chills and looked like they were about to collapse. Shock, most likely.

Once our task was complete, I placed the six vials of blood in a containment sphere and followed Lupin back to our secluded lab, visually assessing patients along the way. From what I could tell, the infection was swift, and the results fatal within days, if not hours.

Entering the lab, I deposited the vials on the workspace designed for more volatile ingredients. "The ones numbered one through five were live patients. Number six was deceased," I told Hermione.

She nodded absently, gloved her hands, shielded herself and plucked a vial from the bunch. Then, she inserted a needle into the rubber stopper top, pulled the plunger and withdrew a minute amount of the blood.

Placing the sample in a test tube, she briefly mixed it with a diluted solution of an electron-opaque solution of ammonium molybdate. The mixture was applied to a coated electron microscope grid, blotted, and allowed to dry. The method was crude, but important in microbiology for fast morphological identification, or so Hermione had tried to explain to me once when I'd made the mistake of asking about her preparations. Apparently, the method allowed for high resolution and three-dimensional reconstruction, using the electron microscope.

Normally, all those preparations were not necessary, as specimens needed to be extremely thin, typically one hundred nanometres. Biological specimens, however, required chemical fixation, to be dehydrated and embedded in a polymer resin to stabilise them sufficiently to allow ultrathin sectioning. Once this was complete, Hermione would 'stain' the sample with a wave of her wand, inundating the organic polymers and similar materials with heavy atom labels, in order to achieve the required image contrast.

It was tedious work, and I watched, fascinated, while her hands moved deftly through each procedure to ensure the results we were looking for.

She placed the sample in the large microscope and closed the door tightly. "Here we go."

As a precaution, there was a magical dampening field within our lab, to counteract our natural energy that could possibly interfere with the operation of the equipment we used. It allowed us to access electrical components with little to no injury. There was always a threat, though, when the electron microscope was in use. The thrum of power when it was activated always caused us to shudder, especially Lupin, who kept as far away from the machine as he could be and still remain within the lab.

After several minutes, an image appeared on a computer screen. Hermione typed something on the keyboard and whispered, "Amplifico." The picture on the screen was enlarged to three times its already augmented size.

Groupings of seed-like clusters in varying shades of grey were revealed.

She typed quickly, and the image was shifted to the left side of the screen while a multitude of pictures flashed on the right side. "What are you doing?"

"Comparing known images of viruses and bacteria, to see what we have here."

Since the microscope was now powering down, Lupin approached on her right. "Focus on the strains of plague."

Hermione typed once more, and the images scrolling by slowed until they stopped. "Yersinia pestis," she muttered, then frowned. "But this makes no sense."

The niggling on the back of my neck agreed with her. Plague was usually curable with antibiotics, with a ninety percent success rate. Why were those people dying? "What do you suspect?"

"In nineteen ninety-nine, the U.S. government determined that this strain," she pointed to the screen, "Pneumonic plague, was considered to be a 'possible, but not likely' biologic threat for terrorism, as it is difficult to acquire a suitable strain to weaponise and distribute it." She chewed on her bottom lip. "Seed stock is difficult to obtain and to process. The heat, disinfectants and sunlight alone render it harmless. That's what doesn't make sense."

"Check the other samples," I demanded. "Maybe there is a variant."

Nodding, she set about preparing the other samples for the electron microscope.

That was when Lupin pulled me aside. "I told you, something is off about this."

I shrugged out of his grip on my arm. "Unless you can tell me what 'this' is, you may keep your fears to yourself."

He growled, and I did a mental calculation of when the next full moon was to occur. Two weeks. So, he was getting antsy.

"Severus, I smell..." He looked hesitant, as if he didn't want to admit something. "Magic."

"Don't be preposterous. There hasn't been any recorded history of the Wizarding world coming into contact with Muggles during any of the plagues past."

"That we know of." Lupin tends to pull on his right ear lobe when he was frustrated or embarrassed. "What if..." He glanced around, as if afraid someone were listening. "What if the reason for all those instances of plague was due to a witch or wizard seeking retaliation for some slight or another?"

I hated giving the idea credence, but it was entirely possible. "Then explain to me why the Dark Lord did not engage in this sort of warfare?"

"Why slaughter your future minions? No one can adore you or kiss your arse if they are dead."

"Inferi can," I argued, though it was a far stretch to say that the zombie-like creatures adored their master.

"Voldemort was not the only Dark wizard, Severus; you know there are some that still live today."

I did—several in fact, myself included. "What are you saying, Lupin?"

"Gentlemen?" Hermione's insistent voice sent another shiver of apprehension through me.

Lupin and I stood on either side of her and stared at the new image on the screen. "One of the patients had Septicaemic plague."

"Meaning what?" Lupin asked.

"There are three types of plague," she explained. "Bubonic, Pneumonic and Septicaemic."

Merlin, I could feel a lecture coming.

"Bubonic, or the Black Death, is more prevalent and spread through zoonotic means, such as an infected flea bite. People infected usually die within four days, without treatment. Pneumonic is contracted through the inhalation of fine infective droplets and can be transmitted from human to human, without the involvement of fleas or animals. If not treated early on, patients have anywhere from two to four days to live. Some, only thirty-six hours."

"Christ," Lupin muttered and shook his head.

She grimaced, and I knew she had saved the worst for last. "Septicaemic plague is more of a concern. It's usually contracted through the bite of an infected rodent or insect, but can also be contracted through an opening in the skin or infected saliva from another human—like via cough. Untreated, septicaemic plague is usually fatal. Early treatment with antibiotics reduces the mortality rate to between four and fifteen percent, but patients that contract this strain must receive treatment within twenty-four hours, or death is inevitable." Her eyes darted to the floor, as if looking at either of us would cause her pain. "Despite it's being treatable, it has a high mortality rate because it's not easily detectable. In some cases, death occurs before any symptoms appear, even on the same day it is contracted."

"Bloody hell!"

My thoughts exactly. "Have you calculated the hypothesized rate of contamination based on your findings?"

Rubbing her temples, she blew out a heavy sigh. "I can't. I don't know where or who patient Zero is."

Lupin looked out the barred window to the streets below. "Assume Hong Kong contains patient Zero and estimate from there."

I nearly laughed when Hermione screwed her mouth up in disgust. "That's highly improbable, not to mention wildly inaccurate. The data would amount to nothing."

"Well, we have to do something!" Lupin shouted.

Hermione and I looked at him warily. "Perhaps you need a moment to compose yourself, Lupin?" I suggested with a sneer. I shifted my stance imperceptibly in front of Hermione, blocking her from the werewolf's view. "Elsewhere."

His eyes widened, his actions presumably catching up with him. "Merlin, I'm sorry! I..."

I raised a brow and crossed my arms, daring him to continue. He didn't, not even when Hermione poked her head around me and looked at him in confusion. He only nodded and quietly slipped out the door, heading in the direction of the living area we were allotted on the top floor of the hospital, which was only accessible to us three.

"He's tired," she reasoned and turned back to the data on the screen. "And I think he's a little homesick."

"Then he is more than welcome to return to England," I snarled.

She laid a hand on my arm. "Just give him time to cool off."

"That will be a very long time in coming." I looked at the red blinking message on the monitor. "What is that?"

She clicked a string of keys and soon brought up what seemed to be a warning: Possible variant mutation found.

"Identify," she murmured as her fingers tapped.

Unknown. Mutation origin not recognised when cross-referenced to previously notated mutations in data banks.

"Maybe Remus was right," she said under her breath.

"About what?"

"About magic being involved."

If that were true, the possibilities—and ramifications—would be astronomical. "Is there a method by which to determine if that is the case?"

With a nod, she withdrew her wand and began drawing an intricate Arithmancy model in the air, the equation glowing as she shifted certain portions here and there. While I was proficient in Arithmancy, I'd never excelled as Hermione had. And that moment I realized why. The computation was phenomenal to behold in its complex beauty. From the calculations she included, I knew some of what she was trying to accomplish, but my esteem for her breadth of knowledge increased as I watched. Not much, mind you, but enough.

Her model complete, she overlaid the glowing script upon the computer, and the spell did the rest. Fast as lightning, the sums flashed on the screen, creating a new design of the miniscule lethal weapon we were dealing with. Several minutes ticked by until the scrolling stopped and focused on one particular image.

"There you are," she whispered heatedly, as if she had found the answer to life's mysteries.

Looking over her shoulder, I observed the same picture of the bacteria from the original image, but with minute differences. Attached to the seed spores was a slightly golden coating that had magnetised certain blood cells to become adhered to it. Those blood cells not attracted to the bacteria were shaped differently, spherically-formed instead of the usual flexible biconcave disks. My God...

"What?"

My gasp must have been audible. Pointing to the odd red blood cells, I said, "Do you realise what you've done here?"

"Yes, I superimposed a sample of your blood upon—"

"No," I cut her off. "Here." I singled out one particular cluster of cells. "Tell me you know the difference between these two groupings."

She gave me a scathing glare. "Yes, it's an indicator of—" Her faced paled significantly. "Oh, God." She quickly ran the Arithmancy model again, except she used a previous sample of her own blood in the calculation. "No!"

Staring at the screen, I could see the golden seed spores attracting every single one of her blood cells, twisting and mutating them. "It appears there was a reason the Dark Lord held the beliefs he did."

Tears brimmed in her eyes. "I know. That still doesn't make it right."

It all came down to blood lineage, that of pure-bloods versus Muggles and, therefore, Muggle-borns. Whoever had mutated these bacteria knew exactly what they would do: kill everyone that did not have the blood of Merlin running through their veins. That meant ninety-five percent of the world's population would be completely wiped out within a matter of months, if not sooner.

It was unconscionable, this rampant destruction. Hermione continued to stare at the screen, and I could tell she was lost in the calculations, the overwhelming knowledge of how many deaths that monstrosity had already caused before it reached us in our secluded location.

She blinked rapidly before turning a worried look to me. "How are you feeling?"

Non-plussed, I posed, "Isn't that what I should be asking you?"

She waved me off. "I'm fine. Tired, a little hungry, but good, considering." She was gnawing on her lip again, and I had the insane urge to put my thumb there to make her stop. "Will you promise me something?"

I speculated what she would say next. No. I will not even think it. I won't even contemplate the possibility. "No," I grated.

Her gaze lowered in sad resignation. "Then I will ask Remus."

In a fit of desperation, I grabbed her chin and made sure she was looking at me. I was tempted to use Legilimency, but I knew she would deem it a breach of privacy, so I refrained. "You will not continue this line of reasoning. Is that understood, Miss Granger?" I had reverted to my professorial tone to convey the seriousness of my words.

"I must consider every possibility that I—"

"No!" I hissed. "You will be your usual swotty self, coddling Lupin and berating me for my intractable nature, and you will do it in the best of health."

She smiled tremulously. "You cannot stop—"

"I can and I will!" Removing my grip, I stepped back and surveyed the whole of our work, scattered about the room. "There is a cure, and I will find it."

Even if it's the last thing I do.