Chapter Two

Draco was sure that if he stared at his cauldron for another minute, he'd go insane. The same went for the folio Stockell had given him, the research notebook he'd spent a day and a half filling with every idea and theory that crossed his mind, good or bad, his dwindling stock of potion ingredients, and the small collection of vials which were each filled with a potential cure in every shade of yellow imaginable.

He hadn't slept for nearly two days, instead spending his time preparing cures. The initial tests he'd run on Friska's infected cell samples looked promising. Nevertheless, Draco knew each one was a failure.

Probably.

In the beginning stages of research, it was rare to see any results, no matter how well the researcher understood the theory behind the method. Processes needed tweaking, variables needed to be accounted for, changing circumstances needed to be adapted to. Yet here he was, an uncertified Healer, succeeding where greater minds before him had failed. On his first attempts, no less. It left a nasty feeling in his gut and a cynical twist on his lips.

Then his stomach growled. Maybe that nasty feeling was something else. Hunger, dehydration, exhaustion, lack of human contact for two full days… The Techs called it 'lab madness', and there were two known cures: ignore it and keep working, or get out of the laboratory.

Draco unquestionably needed out, which was probably part of the reason he didn't understand the Techs.

He placed a Stasis charm on his cauldron, stood quickly, and immediately wished he hadn't. The sudden change in body orientation caused his blood to rush to his legs, blackening his vision and making him teeter. He grabbed hold of the edge of the desk and closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose and walking himself through the diagnosis.

This was simply orthostatic hypotension due to hypovolemia. A head rush, in layman's terms. Any moment now, his baroreceptor reflex would activate, his heart rate would increase, and his vision and balance would return to normal.

It happened as he thought it, and, as expected, he was fine. He made it to his desk, drank a few glasses of water, and munched on a Chocolate Frog. Stretching his legs felt like just what he needed to clear his head. He grabbed another Frog and headed to the staircase, not realizing where he was going until he reached the door marked 'B'.

He grimaced. The Basement was the only floor not listed on St Mungo's floor directory, and was therefore the hospital's best kept secret. Hermione worked down here, too. Visiting her completely undermined his plan to pull away. But Draco was no stranger to self-sabotage, and he was through the door before his sanity could offer him a better suggestion.

The Basement was a small floor – a single hallway, which was downright miniscule compared to the warren of wards and wings on the other levels. Near the stairwell on the right side was the entrance to Hermione's laboratory. He let himself in and was surprised to find it empty. He dithered for a few minutes anyway, enjoying the temperature-controlled, thrice-filtered air. The smell of nothing after being submerged in the odors of the sick (defecation, blood, and ammonia), the healing (antiseptic, perfume, and flowers), and the funk of his own laboratory (sulfur, chlorophyll, and, strangely, buttered toast) was a relief.

He ghosted his fingers over the controls of her Muggle equipment, curious but not willing to risk her fury if he accidentally switched a setting or two. He thought he could run them without any major malfunctions; he was reasonably intelligent, after all. However, his very limited experience with Muggle technology – a nearly catastrophic experience involving tinfoil and a cooking box called a microwave – had taught him that it could be both unpredictable and counter-intuitive. He had no desire to experiment on much more expensive and sensitive machines.

Farther down the hallway, also on the right, was the Research Library. It was Hermione's second favorite place, after her laboratory. It was very much like the Hogwarts Library, with one exception: no Madame Pince. In her place was a Reference Desk. All one had to do was scribble a subject, title, author, or question onto a signed piece of parchment and slip it into a slot atop the desk. It was a simple enough protocol, and everyone approached the desk with high hopes of success.

Unfortunately, the desk was as old as the hospital itself and as temperamental as Pince during exam week. If one's writing was not precise enough, the Desk may read the request incorrectly and inundate the requestor with irrelevant texts. If one's question were too vague or too specific, same problem. Merlin forbid if the requestor made a spelling error. Worse still was if the request was dropped into the slot a bit too forcefully. Sometimes, the Desk would spit it right back out and refuse to accept it until the requestor submitted an apology. Other times, it would get 'lost', and then the request was never fulfilled.

Draco had had several such issues with the desk and gave it a wide berth, searching for Hermione within the stacks and at her favorite corner table. She was not there, either. Draco highly doubted Hermione would be hiding in the Morgue, so he resigned himself to visiting the last of the four Basement rooms.

To the left of the stairwell, across the hall from Hermione's laboratory, was the entrance to the Alternative Research Alley. The Alley was as small, dark, and obscure as its namesake. Draco did not like visiting.

Hermione's office occupied a mere quarter of the Alley. Another quarter was dedicated to a common area, which was crowded with a coffee pot, a dented kettle, a threadbare, wretchedly uncomfortable futon upon which Hermione spent about half of her evenings, and an ancient wireless radio that either picked up white noise or Russian chamber music.

The other half of the Alley was devoted to an old married pair named Renata and Alfredo Renaldo, who studied the healing powers of Astronomy and Divination, respectively. Their work was largely theoretical; Draco could count on one hand how often either had set foot in the lab. He didn't need any hands to track how often those visits had been work-related.

He nodded politely to the couple as he passed. Renata nodded back at him with wide eyes. Alfredo stared impassively for a moment, then consulted the crystal ball before him. He giggled maniacally as Draco closed the door that separated their offices.

He took a seat in Hermione's chair and reclined as far as the old supports would allow. Her office was so different from his. Her desk was a disaster. He could barely see the polished wood below piles of Muggle notebooks, pyramids of scrolls, several framed pictures of her friends, family, and cat, and coffee mugs that needed to be cleaned. A bundle of dried roses (a birthday gift from Potter – Draco was miffed he hadn't thought of it first) hung upside down beside her door. A landscape painting of a vast, sunlit meadow hung on the one wall that wasn't covered with scribbled reminders and scholarly articles she'd found interesting. When she was feeling particularly stressed, she expanded the painting and stared at it. He'd often joined her at it at Hippocrates' School; it had worked better than he expected.

Draco sometimes wished his space had the personality Hermione's did. His walls were bare, his desk Spartan, and his research neatly filed away out of sight. Hermione often remarked that it was a good thing they had never roomed together, for she would have surely driven him mad, but Draco had seen her bedroom once before and knew that her living space was kept just as meticulously as his was. Any place she spent a significant amount of time was tidy. Her laboratory was proof of that.

In fact, Draco was quite confident that they could cohabitate very well. Convincing her of that was another matter entirely. Not like he cared any more. Because he didn't. Before he could examine just how thorough his apathy was, the woman herself stumbled out of the Floo, bringing with her a significant amount of ash and the scent of Satsuma.

"Oh!" she gasped, her step faltering slightly. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I'm surprised you finally made it home," he said, lightly sarcastic. "It's only been two days after Renout ordered you to."

"Yes, well, I needed a shower."

She navigated around him easily, bracing her hand on his shoulder as she locked her bag in the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet. Then she leaned over him to look for a mug. Her breasts pressed against his arm, and Draco forgot all about his apathy.

"Is this a hint?"

"Not at all," she said, as if scandalized at the idea. "Coffee?"

She grabbed a mug, which Draco hit with a quick Scourgify as it passed by his ear.

"Disgusting habit you've developed," he remarked casually.

Hermione shrugged. "It's an acquired taste. You can blame Alfredo for it."

"I do."

She laughed through her nose and went to get coffee. Draco Summoned a chair and waited for her to finish exchanging pleasantries with her office-mates. She closed the door once again, took a seat, and held the brew below her nose, looking blissful as she inhaled its aroma.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Draco swallowed thickly, trying not to notice the appealing flush of her cheeks and the new brightness in her eyes.

"Did those books you requested for me come in yet?"

Hermione nodded and waved at the filing cabinet. The second-to-bottom drawer rolled open and two thick books popped up. Draco grabbed them, glanced at the titles, and waved the drawer shut. He set the books on her desk.

"Whenever I ask the Desk for something, it takes a week. You ask, and it takes a day. I feel like you've missed your calling."

She considered him for a moment, then took another sip. "I think it's because I say please."

Draco's eyes widened, and then he laughed. "You say please?"

She cocked her head at him and said seriously, "Of course."

He chuckled again, his smile lingering. Of course she said please. That was why he loved her: she always surprised him. The silence was a bit too long and his expression probably a bit too soft as Hermione shifted and cleared her throat.

"So!" he said quickly. "How's your cure coming along?"

Her brow furrowed. "Well enough, I suppose. I read through the research packet we were given and ran a few preliminary test of my own, but…" She sighed. "I don't know. Something about it seems strange to me. It's similar to the poliovirus, you know."

Draco nodded. "Similar viral structure, replication strategy, and method of transmission. I've read the file, too. What of it?"

"Well, I contacted a colleague from Guy's and St Thomas', who managed to get me a sample of one of the poliovirus vaccinations. I doused some normal mammalian cells with it –"

"Your own cells, I'm assuming," he said with a pointed look.

Hermione dismissed his look with a wave. "Why not? My body is a quick and convenient source, and I never have to worry about obtaining consent. Anyway," she continued, smiling at Draco's laugh, "I introduced some of the Collier's infected cells into the inoculated group. Nothing happened."

Draco sat up straight, his body tense with excitement. "Infection occurs immediately in most cases. Within minutes. The Muggle vaccine actually worked?"

"No."

Draco sat back in his chair and scowled. "What happened, then? Because it was either something or nothing."

"I observed them for five minutes and measured the viral load. Still nothing. I did the same at ten minutes, fifteen, thirty, and an hour. Then two hours. I came back every hour on the hour, and at hour ten saw that I had missed the entire thing! The inoculated cells became infected. I repeated the test and watched the sample from hours nine to ten. At nine hours, fifty-seven minutes, infection began."

"Merlin," Draco muttered. "Temporary immunity."

"Very temporary," she corrected. "Not long enough to make it a viable, real-world solution. Not to mention that it's a form of prevention, not a cure. The vaccine didn't do anything to the infected cells. Still, it's a start. The vaccine I used was the oral version, which uses an attenuated, or weakened, version of the poliovirus. It usually requires three treatments to provide immunity to the three polio serotypes. I only did one dose. There's the Salk vaccine, too, which uses a chemically inactivated form of the virus. Collier's might react differently to that."

"Why not just use the chemical that Salk used? You could inactivate the virus directly in the cells."

She smiled at him gently, almost pityingly, which is how Draco knew that he was very, very wrong. "The chemical Salk used was formalin, more commonly known as formaldehyde."

"Which is extremely hazardous to human health," Draco finished for her, catching on immediately. "Right. Wouldn't help to have both Collier's and formaldehyde poisoning."

"Not to mention the possibility of cancer, if you happened to live through the Collier's."

"Which no one has done."

"Yet."

Draco smiled at her and drummed his fingers against his knee.

"How's your research coming?"

He shifted in his seat. "Well, I thoughtI was on the right track. I've filled at least eight vials with potential cures."

Hermione sat up so quickly that she nearly spilled coffee onto her lap. "Really? Draco, that's great! How –"

"Thought I was," he interrupted sternly. "Now I'm not so sure."

She furrowed her brow. "Why? What made you change your mind?"

"You," he replied.

"Me?" she scoffed, obviously trying not to laugh at him. "What could I have done to disprove your work?"

"I only left my cells for three hours. You left yours for ten. Just because cells were no longer actively lysing doesn't mean the virus had ceased to replicate or that its defenses had been broken. I bet that if I repeat my experiments and let the cells sit for as long as you did, they'd begin lysing again."

"What was your viral load like at the end of the three hours?"

"That's the only good news, I suppose," he said with a sigh. "Viral load had decreased to less than three percent."

"The titer needed for infection is over five percent."

"I know."

"Well, that's fantastic progress!"

"But not a cure," he said bitterly. He leaned his head back and shut his eyes. "The patient is running out of time."

"Then we shouldn't waste it." Hermione set down her empty cup decisively. "We need to get back to our labs. Come on. Up you get."

She tugged at his arm, and he rose with a groan. She cut off his grumbling with her lips against his. They were gone before he could fully comprehend what had happened.

"Don't give up. You're doing great," she said quietly. Her hands dropped from his forearms to his wrists, then to his hands. "A few more trials and you'll have a potion named after you."

He smiled at her and pressed a light kiss to her nose. "I sincerely hope so."

She laughed and gently pushed him away. Then she opened the door, and the warmth that had bubbled between them was sucked away.

"I'll be in my lab or the library. Just send a memo if you need me." She spoke briskly, brushing past him without a glance. Draco tried not to glare. The way she could shift from warm to cold with no more than an opened door was his least favorite thing about her. She was so compartmentalized, so strict, as if she had forgotten how to bend the rules since she split up from Potter and Weasley.

He followed her through the Alley, closed the door, and grabbed her wrist before she could disappear into her lab. "Dinner in the cafeteria." It was more of a demand than a question.

She winced; Draco at once knew that he'd overstepped.

"It depends on how much I manage to finish," she hedged.

He let her go and stepped back, trying to maintain his composure when all he wanted to do was grab her by the shoulders and shake. "Very well," he said evenly. "I'll see you later."

XOX

"Tell me exactly what happened."

Draco looked around Regina Whyte's office. He'd never been before. Never had a reason to. She usually had better things to attend to than a fourth-year resident, especially one who would not be working on her floor. He was surprised they let him out of the Ward, considering… Considering…

"Mr Malfoy? Can you hear me?"

Her office was tastefully decorated, but cold. It reminded him of his own office, in a way, but where his was bare, hers was accented in black, grey, and white. A swirling piece of abstract art in those same colors adorned the wall behind Whyte's chair. A landscape painting would have been much more comforting, but perhaps that was the point. One shouldn't feel comfortable when meeting with a Department Head. He certainly was not comfortable now.

A streak of red appearing in the painting's churning mess, and Draco's stomach turned over.

He doubted he'd ever be comfortable again.

"Draco."

Her tone was sharp. He stopped staring at the painting and began staring at her.

Everything was disconnected. Separated somehow. He did not bother grasping for the threads that would tie things together again. They would come on their own, he knew, and then he would wish that they hadn't.

"I understand that this has been a shock for you."

She understood nothing.

"I personally guarantee that you will receive the very best treatment."

There were no guarantees but oblivion.

"But we can only begin that process after we've learned what happened."

What had happened?

"I need you to tell me everything, starting from when you arrived in Room Four."

Room Four.

Something rushed at him. Understanding, or was there suddenly a fierce wind? Draco blinked and furrowed his brow. An entire lifetime had passed between then and now.

"You received a memo," Whyte prompted in a gentle voice. "A memo from Maurice Stockell. Who is Maurice?"

He knew that. He could answer that. "Attending Healer of the George Giles Quarantine Ward." His voice sounded weak and echoing, as if it were coming from outside of his body. He didn't like it. He cleared his throat.

"What did the memo say?"

He could answer that, too. "He wanted us –"

"Us?"

"Hermione." His response was immediate. Hermione was calm in the chaos, light in the void. Her very name brought him clarity. He repeated it and felt stronger. Regina made a note on her parchment. He hadn't even seen her pick up a quill.

"Continue."

"He wanted us to get our cures and meet him in the Quarantine Ward."

"What for?"

"Testing. The patient –"

"Name?"

"Robert Friska. He had Collier's. And Stockell…" The memory grew fuzzy. The abstract painting above her shoulder undulated in time with the contents of his stomach, revealing once more that harsh flash of red. Bile bit his throat. "He wanted us…"

Whyte snapped her fingers. "Focus, Draco. What did Maurice want you to do?"

"The patient was out of time. If we wanted to cure him, it had to be soon."

"So both you and Ms Granger had what you thought were cures."

Draco shook his head. "No. Not Hermione. She wasn't confident in what she'd done. She thought there was more to it. She thought we were being hasty. She was worried…" He'd seen her agitation so clearly: how she gnawed on her bottom lip, how tightly her fingers gripped her notebook, how her eyes flit from Stockell to him to Friska to the floor to him again.

The room blurred. Whyte snapped her fingers again. Draco slowly turned his eyes back to her.

"You explained your treatment to Mr Friska," Whyte continued.

"Yes."

"You're certain he understood that your treatment was an experimental procedure that could very well be fatal?"

His voice cracked. "Yes."

Whyte nodded. Draco thought she looked relieved. "Ms Granger has corroborated that neither you nor Maurice coerced Mr Friska into accepting treatment. Maurice has provided me with a copy of the signed consent form. Regarding the death of Robert Friska, you will suffer no consequences."

Draco could have laughed: all he had now were consequences.

Whyte sighed heavily and shuffled the papers before her. "I will now read from Ms Granger's statement. Please stop me if you notice any errors or omissions."

She began, and Draco listened up to when Friska had accepted the treatment. Then there was another roar, another rush, and memories surged forward. Her words were washed away in the torrent, and Draco nearly drowned in the flood.

Overwhelming, but piecemeal. They came in brief flashes of a whole that would have been indecipherable to anyone who hadn't lived it.

A thin man in wire-rimmed spectacles hunched forward in a hospital bed, clutching his throat.

A spray of blood. The world turned from orange to red, and wet, and warm. He tasted copper and salt.

A punch to his gut. A deluge of frigid, bright orange water.

Salt turned to acid as beige vomit swirled down a brass drain.

A pair of wide brown eyes full of the same dread that squeezed his chest and made the room tilt.

Draco clutched the arms of his chair, his fingernails finding no purchase in the smooth leather. A pressure on his back helped guide his head and neck to between his knees. He tried to measure his breathing, but all he could manage were dry, choking gasps.

"I'm…"

"Draco, please, calm down. We're going to help you. Maurice?"

It came in waves, powerful surges that pounded away his reality. The room shifted again. The rug beneath his feet crested close, so close that he could see each fiber, and then sunk away in a valley so low that Draco felt like he was miles above it. His head spun. He clutched it hard, pulled his hair, but no amount of pain could relieve the pressure of implosion.

"We need a Calming Draught, quickly! Breathe, Draco. Breathe."

A vial was placed to his lips, but he pushed it away. Hands tried to restrain his arms, but he pushed those away, too, and then pushed himself up. Up, and away, and then he was flying. Through a field of people surrounding him, whose grabbing fingers were stung whenever they ventured too close to his skin. Through a pair of doors and into the clarity of a brisk autumn day, where the implosion finally ceased and all the loose threads finally tied themselves together and stretched taught, baring the truth plainly, without adornment or the possibility of misrepresentation.

There was no draught for him. No calm. No guarantees. No understanding. No comfort.

There was only infection, and Draco's new life as the infected.