Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns everything Harry Potter and makes the money. I just play with her characters on the weekends.

Even in the low light, I could tell that my former Potions professor had changed drastically. I mean, I hadn't really seen much of him since leaving Hogwarts, other than at the odd Order meeting that I had attended. Those times, Snape had been rigid—both in emotions and stance—thin, wary, and had a permanent scowl etched on his face. Oh, he still looked like that, as I came to see when I glanced up into his dark visage, but all of those things were personified so that he looked as gaunt and disturbing as the creatures that hunted us.

Us. Wait. What was he doing there?

"Cat got your tongue?" he asked maliciously, and I could tell he had a sneer on his face.

"Just trying to decide if you're one of them."

He snorted. "Mors Viscus?" Then he did something very peculiar. He unbuttoned his left sleeve and rolled it up to reveal a hideous scar that ran from the bottom of his wrist to the indent of his elbow. His whole forearm was nearly devoid of flesh; only marred skin and bone remained. "I sabotaged the final curse before it began... at least in me."

He retrained his wand between my eyes. I tilted my head towards it. "Do you mind?"

"Yes." The wand didn't move. "Why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same question." Slowly, I wrapped my fingers around his right wrist and moved his hand away, standing afterwards. "It makes sense that I'm here. Well, not here per se, but in this region."

"Dragon reserve—yes, I know." Snape still kept his wand at the ready. "But why are you here, in Normafa?"

I pointed between him and me. "I could ask you the same thing. You have no business here that I know of."

His lips thinned in agitation. Good. "If you must know, my only remaining relative lives..." He faltered at this and I glimpsed a deep sadness that faded in the next second. "Lived," he corrected. "My great uncle lived here. Until recently."

Nodding, I wrapped my arms around my body, for there was a chill in the air and my jeans, tee shirt, and flannel over-shirt weren't that warm. "What happened to him?"

He snorted mirthlessly. "Probably one of the Mors now. I didn't stay to watch."

"The Mors?" I'd always referred to them as Zombiferi. Maybe he knew more? "What are they?"

He seemed to be on the verge of telling me, when he abruptly turned his head towards the entrance to the dilapidated barn. "Something's coming." He glanced back to the bales of hay and grimaced. "They'll find us if we hide."

I was about to suggest we leave, but he surprised me by wrapping his arms securely around me. I have to admit I struggled, but only for a moment, because in the blink of an eye we were airborne. Clinging to him in sheer terror seemed like a better idea.

The air was frigid as we whisked over forests and deserted motorways. My teeth were chattering; I was so cold. Snape must've heard them, or felt me shaking, for in the next instance a Warming Charm had spread to encompass us both. I would've told him how grateful I was, but I didn't want him to drop me for being impertinent.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how he could literally fly without the aid of a broom, but again I found that question better left for when my feet were firmly on the ground. I'm not afraid of flying, quite the contrary—I do... well, did it all the time with my dragons—but with a wizard and no broom it's a unique experience.

I didn't know how long, or far, we had flown, but I could feel him falter in his grip around my stomach. I had to restrain myself from wrapping my legs around his waist to compensate. There's no telling what he would've done to me if I did. Probably hex my bollocks off, and that's just for starters.

I became extremely worried when my feet started occasionally hitting the top of one tree or another. At that point, I figured I'd rather face his wrath than end up with a tree limb embedded in my arse.

Reaching up, I grabbed his neck as best I could with one hand and yelled, "We need to land!"

There was no verbal response, but he nodded and scanned the area below for a suitable place. Apparently he found something, because he banked off to the left, finally landing without a hitch near an opulent man-made pool that spanned nearly the entire length of the structure beside it.

Releasing my other hand's death-grip on his frock coat, I moved away to collapse on the grass. "You need to warn a bloke before you do something like that."

"Like what?" He dusted himself off and peered into the building, its interior visible to those outside due to the floor-to-ceiling glass covering the exterior.

"Taking off like a bat..." Damn.

It was interesting, watching his lip curl into a sneer. "Like a bat of the dungeons, Mister Weasley?"

"I don't suppose you could call me Charlie?"

"I do have that capability. Whether I choose to employ it is another matter."

Prat.

I stood on shaky legs and looked into the pool at the green marble flooring. There were lights that shone into the water, their verdant tones glinting across anything that came near. It was idly mesmerising.

"I don't sense anything nearby. It may be safe to stay here, at least for this evening," Snape said as he started walking to the right. Soon, he disappeared around a corner.

"Damn it." Bugger couldn't even wait for me. Hopping off the concrete dais, I followed him and came to a halt not far from where he stood. "Abacus Wellness and Business Hotel," I read the sign overhead. "We must be in Herceghalom."

"Still in Hungary," Snape muttered. He glanced around and then cautiously pushed the doors to the hotel open.

The lobby was empty of staff and patrons. We didn't dare make any noise, at least not at first. We crept past the reception area, which was decorated in earth tones, and scouted out the rooms on the first floor. There was a lounge, a spa, a restaurant—which I would have to remember to visit shortly—and a cordoned-off area where the actual hotel chambers were located.

Lights were still shining, so I had to wonder if the place had been attacked already. I didn't see any bodies or blood, nor had we attracted any of the creatures with our movements, that I knew of. When I glanced over at Snape to ask him his theories, I was taken aback. I knew he was pale, but bloody hell! He looked positively ashen in the light beaming down upon him. I even noticed a slight tremor in his hands as he held his wand aloft in front of him.

"Snape?" I whispered urgently.

He glared at me over his shoulder. "What?"

"You should rest... and eat."

"Typical Weasley." He tsk'd. "Mortal danger lies before us, and you're thinking with your stomach."

"You're a bastard!"

"That's all you can come up with?" He sniffed with disdain. "They used to say you were the smartest spawn of the ginger bunch, next to William. What happened? Do you miss your mummy?"

I didn't care that he was looking sickly. I didn't particularly care that he'd probably saved my life back in Normafa. No one insults my family. Balling my hands into fists, I charged at him.

Now, I admit to having a bit of a temper. I go from serene to seething in a split second. Heated words, loud shouting, bare-fisted fighting—it gets rid of the aggression—and then I canter off in a different direction and forget all about it. It's over as quickly as it began. Most of the times, I just punch a hole in a wall or something along those lines. But I'd never before hit a person... ever.

And then I knew why. The moment my knuckles connected with Snape's cheek, enormous and overwhelming guilt flooded through me. What the hell was wrong with me? I was fucking mortified! I winced in remorse when I noticed the purple bruise swell just under his left eye.

He worked his jaw back and forth, his gaze narrowed and menacing. "Feel better?"

My mouth hung open. "Feel better? I just hit you! How is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Touching his injured cheek with the tips of his fingers, Snape harrumphed. "From the moment I found you, you've been anxious with pent up emotion. In order to survive this plague, you can't go around half-cocked, so-to-speak. I provoked you into releasing a great deal of that energy, though I happened to be in the way." He crossed his arms with a smug look. "So, I ask you again... feel better?"

I was caught between gratitude and frustration. I did indeed feel much lighter than I had before the outburst, but there was no way in Hades I was going to tell him that. He was arrogant enough as it was, no need to compound the problem. However, I knew he would smirk at me knowingly until I answered, so I relented. "A little," I said begrudgingly.

Thankfully, he found that acceptable enough. "Check behind the main desk to see if there are any room keys."

"Why not use Alohomora?"

"I have found that using magic draws their attention, as if they are seeking it out." He pocketed his own wand. "I use it defensively, and never if not absolutely necessary."

I shrugged and did as he ordered, eventually finding several keys that corresponded with room numbers on the first floor.

"When did you know you could fly?" I asked out of curiosity as we searched the rooms.

Peering into one of the chambers, he lifted his rather large nose and inhaled deeply. "This hotel has been vacant for some time," he pronounced, side-stepping the question. "We can restock our supplies and rest for a short while."

There was something exceedingly odd about him. I mean, odder than usual. First, he'd found me in the most unlikely of places. Visiting his family—that much I can accept. Then, he'd grabbed me and we'd flown off. Other than the nut-numbing experience of hanging on for dear life, I could deal with that, as well. No, what unnerved me was his ability to tell if those things were near or if they were coming. How did he know?

"You think too much," he mumbled. We entered the room, and he sat down on the white duvet that covered one of the beds.

"According to you, I let my stomach rule," I chided him. I wanted to be just as nasty as he had been, but his weary countenance stilled my tongue—a near impossible feat.

He nodded and let himself fall backwards to land on the chocolate brown coverlet. "And since you do, I think it more than adequate that you be the one to locate us some nourishment."

I watched him close his eyes and lay his hands on his chest in a death-like repose. It was eerie and beautiful at the same time. I don't know how long I stood and stared at him like that, but the clearing of his throat brought me out of my reverie.

"Gazing upon my princely visage will not gain us needed sustenance," he said impatiently without opening his eyes.

I shook my head and left the room in search of food.

When I returned to the room, arms laden with foodstuffs, I quietly opened the door and deposited my cache on a nearby table. While I was gone, Snape had moved up on the bed and was curled into a feotal position, his breathing somewhat shallow. I went to the side of the bed and knelt down. His face was pasty white with a slight sheen of perspiration coating his skin. The inky locks that were normally lank were plastered against his head. Without thought, I tucked them behind his ear.

Bleary eyes opened slowly, and Snape gave me a small smile—a sure sign he was delirious.

"When is the last time you had a proper meal?" I asked.

"About two days before I found you," he wheezed. "My great uncle needed to be dealt with, and food was not paramount in my mind." His lungs sounded clogged, and when I touched his skin it felt feverish.

I know I had to be frowning, for he did the most unusual thing. Raising his right hand, he smoothed the furrow on my brow with his thumb in an affectionate manner. I was afraid to pull away, but in a sense, I didn't want to. There was nothing sexual in the gesture, not that that would've bothered me. I'm an equal opportunity lover, be it male or female that catches my fancy. I didn't think Snape was capable of showing any kind of warmth towards another human being, however, so this took me by surprise.

He continued to caress the worry lines, murmuring melodic words in a low tone that I'd never heard before. I was so entranced by the lull he created, it was several minutes before I realised that he'd stopped, and the feverish gleam had faded.

"Do you think you can stand some soup? You need to rehydrate."

After he nodded, I stood and rummaged through the stash I'd collected, finding a tin of tomato soup and a package of thin digestives. I had to return to the kitchens to fetch the bowls and tea-stuff that I'd forgotten—I'd been used to roughing it on the reserve, so they had completely slipped my mind—and set about to heat the soup via a Bluebell flame. It was small and targeted only the soup, so I didn't think Snape would grouse about it.

The soup warmed up, I poured it into a mug so that Snape could drink it instead of having to use a spoon. By the time I was done, he was propped up against the headboard, the duvet pulled up to his chest.

"Here. Careful." I wrapped his hands around the mug and stayed beside him until I was sure he wouldn't spill it. I couldn't help but smile when he closed his eyes in what looked like ecstasy upon swallowing his first few sips.

"You're a tolerable cook, Charles."

"Charles?" I could feel my mouth screwing up in a moue of disgust. Only my mother called me Charles, and only when I was in trouble. "Charlie," I corrected.

He arched a lone brow, and his lips quirked. "Charles," he repeated before taking a long drink.

I stuffed a digestive biscuit in my mouth to keep from snarling at him. As I chewed and watched him savour his soup, I thought it safe to ask him some more pointed questions. "When did you learn you could fly?" I said trying to keep the crumbs from spewing out.

The cup halted halfway to his lips. "When I met the Dark Lord," he responded hesitantly.

"How old were you?" I quaffed some of the honeyed mead I'd found in one of the temperature-controlled rooms in the back of the kitchen. To be honest, I was beyond amazed that he was answering any of my questions.

"Seventeen," he whispered. "He sensed potential and took me under his wing. Literally."

"He taught you how to fly?"

He nodded. "And other things."

I sat to his left on the bed and glanced at his arm. "What happened here?" I tapped his forearm.

Instantly, he became stiff and pulled away from me. "None of your concern."

"Considering I'm the only person around for over a hundred miles that has a coherent thought in his head, I thought you might trust me and tell me what's happened to you."

"Your worry for my welfare is touching, really," he spat and buried his nose in the mug.

"Don't be a git." I munched on another digestive. "How long were you in Normafa?"

Though he had a mutinous expression his face, Snape answered, "Two weeks."

"And before?"

"In England... what's left of it."

Dear god, no. Not home, too! "What's happened to everyone?"

A look of regret and shame fill his eyes. "We happened."

"We?"

"The Death Eaters," he clarified after a long silence.

When no further explanation seemed forthcoming, I ground out, "Elaborate."

"When the Dark Lord fell, he activated his last and most fearsome curse upon his followers. It was the one he'd been saving, in the event of his loss." At that, he set his mug on the bedside table and rolled up his left sleeve again. "I had the rare opportunity to know what was coming, and I prepared."

There was no sinew, no visible muscle of any kind left on his forearm. He had apparently carved off his Dark Mark, taking a large portion of his arm with it. All that was left was scarred and gnarled flesh covering a stick-thin limb. It was a wonder he had any function at all in his hand.

"Barely," he answered as if hearing my thoughts. "I can't grip anything and can only perform the simplest of tasks with it."

"Why did you complain about me touching it earlier?"

"I'll show or tell you things when I think them pertinent, not before then."

"So, if you have a spell that would disarm one of those things, you'll wait until it's eaten half of my neck and shoulder before you'll tell me, is that it?"

Snape retrieved his mug and smirked against the rim. "Possibly."

I shouldn't have been surprised. "Possibly?"

"I would wait until it ate a portion of your bicep before imparting such wisdom."

"Don't do me any favours," I snorted. Getting up, I rummaged through the provisions I had procured, to see if there was anything more substantial than biscuits.

"There is one spell that might be useful," I heard him say quietly.

Since he was a stubborn git and prone to work according to his own whims, I remained silent instead of immediately asking what that spell might be. When five minutes had passed between his mentioning the spell and actually telling me, I knew I had done the right thing.

"I created a slicing hex when I was a student at Hogwarts. In past weeks, it has proved useful in slowing the Mors' movements, if not incapacitating them altogether."

"Why didn't you just use it in Normafa, when we were trapped in the barn?"

His eyes shuttered almost immediately and it put me on edge. "My magic has suffered in the past few days." He stroked the side of the mug with a long finger, the action soothing and mesmerising in turn. "I find that if I cast a spell, I don't have enough energy to complete another in quick succession. I chose the avenue of greatest potential outcome. Had I cast Sectumsempra, and there had been more than one or two of those creatures, we would not have escaped. Removing our presence from the scene seemed more logical."

"Sectumsempra?"

He nodded. "Mors Viscus can neither feel the gashes inflicted upon them by the spell, nor lose any blood from the cuts, but they can be slowed should they lose a limb, such as a leg."

I was thoroughly and morbidly fascinated with the topic now. "What are they?"

"As I said before, they are us." He drank the last of his soup and handed me the mug. "Those bearing the Dark Mark were infected with the Dark Lord's last curse, the last effort at ridding the world of filthy Muggles. The moment he died, the Mark began to fester, to seep into the blood, spreading its muck throughout the veins of those it inhabited."

I couldn't help but glance at his arm again. "How do you know if you..." I just pointed to his fleshless limb.

That shuttered looked entered his eyes again. "I knew it would happen, having overheard a conversation the Dark Lord had with Fenrir Greyback towards the end, so I did this—" He clasped his forearm. "—and conjured a glamour in the interim until I could find out the specifics." Snape frowned as he stared at the wall behind me. "I have first-hand knowledge of the effects because I was there when it took over Draco Malfoy."

My eyes widened; I know they did. I'd forgotten the Malfoy heir had received the Mark. Well, not really. I mean, I knew Lucius Malfoy had, everyone did, but I didn't think he'd force his only child to succumb to that... that...

"Monster," Snape whispered. He touched his mouth with trembling fingers.

I'd observed Severus Snape in many situations—bad, terrible, and downright too horrible to comprehend—but his reactions at that moment were scaring the shite right out of me. "What happened?"

At first, I didn't think he'd tell me, for which, given the subject matter, I wouldn't blame him. But he did. And afterwards, I wished he hadn't.

"I have no recollection of where Lucius Malfoy was at the time, but Draco was near me on the battlefield." Snape sat up a little and lowered his head, his long hair obscuring his face. "I remember him collapsing, inhuman screaming coming from him as he clawed at his arm." He wiped his hand over his face and shuddered. "His body became rigid, as if he were being Crucio'd, repeatedly. His screams never stopped until he damaged his vocal cords and started coughing up blood."

Though I didn't want him to stop telling the story, I did notice that it was very painful for him to recall the incident. Hoping to ease the shivers now wracking Snape's body, I rose from the bedside and fixed a cup of tea, handing it to him after depositing cream and sugar into it.

He accepted it without hesitation.

"Draco's eyes changed first," he commented before sipping from the cup. He blew out a pent up breath after he swallowed. "Where they were once grey and arrogant, they were now milky, clouded over, as if the colour had disappeared altogether. He was in my arms at the time his struggles had ceased. When he turned his head towards me, I called his name, but he didn't respond. By that time, I knew the Dark Lord had activated his curse, but I was constrained by my limited knowledge of what exactly it would do. I immediately released him and moved to a small ridge near the Black Lake."

It was full on night now, and, while I didn't relish sitting in the dark with no proper defence, I wasn't about to disturb the mood Snape found himself in. It made his tongue loose, and that could only mean invaluable information. I'd learned about his true role in the Order and with the Death Eaters from Mum, but it had only been six months since the end of the war, and trust was a high commodity where this man was concerned.

"When Draco stood and began walking towards me, I nearly embraced him," Snape continued. "Had I done that, it would've surely meant my death. The boy was..." He took another long sip of his tea. "The only word I can use to describe his look is hungry."

"Hungry?"

"Turn on a light or something, please."

Nonplussed, I searched for a small lamp to turn on, finally finding one near the entrance to the room. "Better?"

Though he grimaced with the intrusive brightness, he nodded. "Tolerable." He drained the contents of his cup and returned it to me. "Mors Viscus are motivated by one thing: the desire to consume living flesh."

I swallowed convulsively.

"They are dead flesh, driven by the stimulus to feed; there is no high level brain activity, just basic motor function to enable them to seek food. Residual memories may exist in what is left of their brains, which causes them to gravitate towards known locations. That is possibly why Draco came after me first." He tucked a strand of limp hair behind his ear. "There may also be some very rudimentary use of tools, for example hitting a barricade with a stick, but they are just as likely to bash at that barrier until their hands break off." Snape grimaced fiercely. "So far, they back away from fire, but they won't think any further than how to get from where they are to where you are."

"What happened to Draco?"

He glanced away. "For all intents and purposes, Draco was dead. All the spells, hexes, curses I directed at him did not slow him in the least; he just kept walking towards me with a singular lust. It was then that I noticed that several of my brothers also exhibited the same behaviour as Draco: the same blank but hungry gaze, the same mindless, driven stalking. When I was surrounded by eleven of them, I quickly Disapparated."

"To where?"

"My home at Spinner's End. I was extremely fortunate that the curse hadn't spread quickly enough to make Apparating or Disapparating at that point dangerous." He raised his head and stared at me in earnest, almost begging me to believe him. "I tried to warn others, to tell them the signs and whom to avoid at all costs." He lowered his head again, shaking it back and forth. "But I was attacked on sight by most everyone, so I couldn't warn them properly."

I'd seen whole villages or more turned into those things. "How did it spread? If it only affected Death Eaters, how did Muggles and the wizarding world become like this?"

"Because they are dead, Mors will ignore each other. If they happen across an old piece of meat, be it a severed limb or tin of beef, they will ignore that as well. A Mors does not care what species its prey is, as long as it is living."

"My dragons," I whispered. If they could wipe out entire cities, they could certainly bring down a wounded dragon.

"Dead flesh decomposes; ergo they continue to decay, though at a far slower rate. Eventually, they will stop working altogether. When there is no muscle left on the bones at all, the Mors can no longer move and so are no longer a threat." He snorted mirthlessly. "It's ironic that they are weaker than a live human, considering they consist of nothing more than decomposing flesh, yet can overpower most wizards and witches." Clenching and unclenching his fist, he ground out, "No, their strength is in their vast numbers, no sleep requirements, and the fact that they're not constrained by pain or any consideration of self-preservation."

"You still haven't told me how they spread."

"You keep interrupting me," Snape snarled. "Like a precocious child who wants to know why the sky is blue, or the grass is green."

"You keep going off on these tangents!"

He crossed his arms mutinously and thinned his lips. "Fine, I'm going to sleep then." He turned away from me and pulled the duvet over his head. "And turn off that damn light!"

I wanted to hex his arse. Really, I did. I even had my wand raised to do so, pointing right at his back. But the words never left my mouth. I tried to make my lips form the spell that would send a stinging sensation all over his body, but it felt like my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I reasoned that the man had literally been to Hell and back... and still living through it each day. He'd seen one of his own die in his arms only to have that same one revert to a pathetic, senseless being with a severe case of the munchies.

He was spot on when it came to my insatiable need to ask questions and I felt more disgusted by what I'd been contemplating than ever in my life.

Setting several wards on the door and windows, I turned out the light, crawled beneath the covers of the other bed, and lay there for several minutes, wondering if Snape would tell me more tomorrow, or if he would be his usual arsehole self and not say a word until it was too late.