Author's Notes:
There are no hotsmoochytimes in this chapter because we're actually approaching the second lot of horror chapters (you have been warned). It will get very, very bad for a while before it gets better. But I am, first and foremost, a romance writer. So rest assured there will be plenty of that, too. Later.
Neville Longbottom did not want to be at Grimmauld Place.
The small refugee community on Taransay Island had just been through hell and back, and they needed every working wand available to help put things to rights again. Harry and Ginny's recent departure from Taransay had been hard enough on everyone. He didn't quite know how, but after they left, Neville seemed to be calling more shots than following orders.
He was not used to being the guy behind the clipboard, but if Taransay wanted…no, needed him to point and direct, then he would be that man for them. This was why Rufus Scrimgeour's unexpected visit and subsequent request to have him go back to London on a herbology consulting mission, of all things, was met with some resistance.
"No," Neville said to Scrimgeour, which was a word Neville was quite sure the Minister did not hear very often.
Scrimgeour's lips thinned. And then he said, very reasonably (damn the man). "Tell me of another Magibotanist who can help."
Neville thought long and hard. Possibly too long and not quite hard enough because Scrimgeour eventually grunted, as if they had reached the same conclusion.
"Pack your things, lad. You leave for London within the hour."
"Minister, I cannot simply leave these people right now."
Scrimgeour disagreed by nodding, which was very disconcerting. "Yes, you can. I'll remain behind to look after Taransay until you're done at Grimmauld Place."
A small, tentatively curious crowd was already gathering in the makeshift 'village green' in the middle of the tent city, where Neville was speaking with Scrimgeour. This space was used for the occasional haphazard bout of soccer or cricket, and in one unfortunate experiment—badminton. Not even an enchanted shuttlecock could withstand the Hebridean version of 'breeze'.
The magical folk stepped forward from amongst the assembled gawkers, recognising their Minister. Several senior citizens were looking misty-eyed to see him there. Everyone was still slightly emotional, Neville realised. Molly Weasley had suffered an acute case of wobbly chin when Harry had left and taken Ginny with him. Like her mother, the youngest Weasley had a way with people and had been a favourite of both the Muggles and the Magicals. She promised to keep the rest of the Weasleys updated on Ron's progress.
There was another man from Grimmauld Place who had accompanied Scrimgeour—an older man whom Neville did not know. He wore a cowboy hat, cowboy boots and was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, watching them. All that was missing was a sheriff's badge and a six-shooter at his hip. A small Muggle boy approached him and pointed at his hat, at which point the man took it off and set it atop the boy's head. It covered the lad's eyes, but you could still see the beaming smile just under the brim.
Scrimgeour introduced him as 'Agent Richards', from the US Wizarding Senate.
And if that wasn't newsworthy enough, the Minister proceeded to explain it was best that Neville and Agent Richards hurry back to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible.
"I'd rather not leave my team alone with Draco Malfoy any longer than necessary."
Draco Malfoy, Neville thought, and then snorted. "Ha-ha. Good one, Minister."
A week later, Neville was seated cross-legged on the faded rug in the middle of Scrimgeour's temporary office at Grimmauld Place. Around him were stacks of books and several scrolls—one of which he was having trouble keeping unfurled. After several frustrating minutes, he looked around for a paperweight and eventually settled for using one of his shoes. The fireplace sputtered, burned green for a moment and then a crouching Ginny Weasley stepped out into the room. She straightened, brushed the soot from her clothing and walked towards Neville. In her hands was a framed Chinese watercolour featuring a mountainous, tree-covered landscape.
"This it?" she asked, without preamble.
Neville took the painting from her. He produced a magnifying glass and peered closely at the artwork "Oh, well done, Ginny! Looks to be it! Was it hard to get to?"
Ginny sat on the floor beside him. "Thankfully not. Kew Gardens Library is a ghost town."
Neville gave her a commiserating look, noting how dejected she sounded. "Harry said you'd never been to the Gardens before."
"No," she confirmed. "Neither has Ron. We both have always wanted to go. And trust me, you don't want to see them in the state they're in now. Overgrown is putting it mildly. But the Herbarium and Library are pristine."
"And the Millennium Seed Bank?" Neville whispered, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.
"Intact, as far as I could tell," Ginny said. "As well it should be. It's meant to be able to withstand one of those Muggle nuclear explosions, isn't it?"
He blinked with relief. It was embarrassing to admit, but occasionally Neville had nightmares about something untoward happening to the Seed Bank. Like someone leaving the door open and letting the moisture in, for example. For botanists (and Magibotanists alike), the Seed Bank was a botanical Noah's Ark. Only he was no Magibotanist, not really. It was just a hobby, which was why he really needed to be concentrating on what was in front of him right now. Professor Sprout would, of course, have been the ideal person to bring in on the Grimmauld Place operation, but she was not available. Neville would have to do. It was almost amusing how many times he'd been thrust into unwitting responsibility.
Unlike Hermione, thought Neville, who seemed to be inherently responsible for most important things.
"It's very pretty," Ginny said, tilting her head to the side to observe the painting.
"'Tis," Neville agreed. They both stared in silent, aesthetic appreciation.
And then Neville picked up his shoe and smashed the glass frame.
Ginny winced, but looked on eagerly to see if what they were looking for was there. Neville picked away the broken glass and then very carefully peeled the painting from its backing board. He turned the parchment over and there, in minute script, but still clearly visible, was an inscription in English.
"A-hah," breathed Neville. He held the inscription up to the light, running his lamentably grubby thumb gently across the writing. "This inscription adds to the dozen other similar references we've now collected on how to extract the Nectar from our specimen."
"You mean this Majestic Mountain Peach in that book Malfoy and Hermione brought back from Hogwarts?" Ginny asked.
"Kunlun Mountain Peach," Neville corrected, with a smile. "And yes, the text lists the Peach as the most powerful preservative known to magic. Its famous Nectar is exactly what Hermione and Malfoy need to augment ReGen. There isn't anything more potent. Apart from the Philosopher's Stone, of course."
"And I imagine that would be much harder to get seeing as Philosopher's Stones don't just grow on trees," Ginny commented, then frowned. "So where do you find this special peach tree? Kunlun Mountain, I assume?"
Neville shook his head. "Kunlun Mountain is about as real as Mount Olympus. And I suspect the plant in question is not, in fact, of the prunus genus at all. I think it's really some kind of tuber—like the Mandrake."
Ginny made a sound to convey her growing impatience. "Where do we look for it, then? Is there even a specimen to be found? How is it going to help Ron if we don't even know where it is or what it looks like?"
"Oh, I know exactly where to find the only Kunlun Mountain Peach to still exist," Neville said. And then he looked distinctly troubled.
"Well?"
"See, this is where it gets a little tricky."
Hermione tossed the old copy of Time Magazine onto the kitchen table, where the Cowboy was presently going through a stack of supply requests—a task that needed to be taken over in Scrimgeour's absence. Richards picked up the magazine, glanced at it and then gave Hermione a curious look. His gaze moved to Neville, who stood at the doorway, eating a piece of toast.
"I prefer Cosmo, but thanks for thinking of me, Miss Granger."
Hermione rolled her eyes and then pointed one nail-bitten finger to the figure on the cover. "Neville says this is the man who has our Kunlun Mountain Peach."
Richards frowned down at the picture of a striking, black haired man in his early-thirties. He was seated sideways across a baroque armchair, a lopsided crown on his head and a sceptre in his hands. The smirk on the man's face had a disturbingly Malfoy-ish quality to it.
"This…peacock?" Richards asked, incredulous. "Are you sure?"
"Poshitif," said Neville who was demolishing his marmalade on toast. Taransay had unfortunately been a marmalade-free zone. "Alexander Amarov is the world's foremost collector of magical oddities. Among those in the know, it has been rumoured for many years now that he has managed to acquire the Peach."
"Right," Richards said. "He's an eccentric Muggle billionaire, isn't he? What the hell did he want it for?"
"I think he knew what it was, but he has no idea what to do with it. His family originally made their money in botanical pharmaceuticals and somewhere along the line, Amarov developed a fascination with magical flora," Neville explained.
"Allegedly magical flora," Hermione corrected. She was leafing through the article. "Before the Infection, he was never able to prove any of his claims regarding the existence of Magical folk. Or else I'm sure the Ministry might have had something to say about it."
"Alright, so Alexander Amarov probably has the Peach," Richards said, standing up. "Let's pay the man a visit."
"Do we know where he is?" Hermione asked. "I mean, he might not even be alive, right?"
Richards was already heading toward the kitchen stairs. "I can find out easily enough. Let me speak to my people on the Floo."
When the Cowboy was gone, Neville began preparing what was his fourth or fifth piece of toast. He'd lost count. "Who are 'his people', anyway?" he asked Hermione.
"I don't know, Neville. But they seem to have lots and lots of guns."
The lights in the basement ward were flickering.
There was no electricity supply to be sourced off the grid, but a second-hand generator had thus far been used to supply Grimmauld Place with power to all non-essential systems. The clinic and laboratory were rigged to run off a smaller, uninterrupted supply that was magically operated and as such, would not fail. Despite its decrepit state, the larger generator had been running well for the past six months, but had lately begun to develop problems. Harry was looking into it, or so he had promised.
The ward was pitched into momentary darkness, with nothing but the beeping red, blue and yellow lights and numerical displays on the equipment in Ron's room.
"Damn these lights," Padma complained. She was about to walk out into the corridor to turn the main switch off and back on again, when the ceiling lights returned.
Emily Finch was sitting in the chair beside Ron's bed, seemingly unperturbed by the intermittent blackouts. "You look dead on your feet," she told Padma, and then pulled a face. "Oops. Bad choice of words…"
Padma had enough energy left in her to laugh. "True. On both counts." She had been about to commence Ron's nine p.m. check-up. Emily was on a lab break, but dropped in for a visit with Ron just as Padma had arrived.
"Go and have a cup of tea or something," Emily said. "I've got this."
"His CVC needs to be looked at. And Mercer noted his blood pressure was slightly elevated yesterday, also—"
"Jesus, Padma, I can read the notes. Don't worry. Take a break or I'll tell Granger on you."
That made Padma snort. She removed her stethoscope from around her neck and groaned when the lights flickered again. "Hermione happens to be the Patron Saint of Overtime."
"Yeah, but she gets super annoyed when any of us take on a double shift without running it past her first."
Padma pondered this. "I think that may have more to do with messing up her roster. Hermione's ideal world is a world that runs on rosters. But I am going to take you up on your kind offer." She began to pack away her medi-kit. "A cup of tea would be very nice. And these lights are giving me a bloody migraine."
"You know, Dr Mercer's on his break, too," Emily said, with a conspiratorial smile. The student nurse took a pair of latex gloves from the wall-mounted dispenser and began to pull them on. "I'm sure he'd love your company. Last time I saw he was in the kitchen trying to drink coffee through something called a Tim Tam."
Padma's eyed widened. "Don't play with me, Emily. Did you say there are Tim Tams in this house?"
"Uhuh," Emily said. "Neville Longbottom apparently had some stashed away at Taransay."
"Merlin, that's it. I'm definitely clocking out for Tim Tams!" Padma picked up her medi-kit, but paused just outside the sliding, grill door, "Are you sure you're fine here with Ron?"
"Positive! Go!"
Padma went. Emily still wore a faint smile as she went about performing a routine check of the equipment, before approaching Ron. She removed the sheet entirely and pushed aside his hospital gown so that she could inspect his central line, as Padma had advised.
Emily immediately frowned. Something was very wrong. The skin around the catheter was the colour of an old bruise—yellow, black and purple—and it looked like it was beginning to suppurate. Already the flesh around his sternum was taking on a viscous sheen. And there it was…the smell. They all knew that stench so well by now. Emily hurriedly flicked through the patient notes to check when Ron had received his last dose of ReGen.
Could it be that someone had forgotten to administer it?
No. It was only three hours since his last dose and it had been given to him by none other than Hermione.
Hermione and Draco Malfoy talked about the ReGen Threshold like it was some kind of bogeyman lurking in the not-too-distant future. They were working themselves to exhaustion currently to find a means to stave off that dreaded inevitability. It was all for nothing, because Emily was quite sure she was looking at the Threshold currently. And that was bad news for everyone else on the outside who was currently surviving via ReGen.
"Shit," Emily hissed. She ran out to the corridor to see if Padma was still there.
She wasn't.
Emily walked back to the cell. Apart from Ron's outward appearance, nothing much had changed besides his blood pressure. The beeping and soft, rhythmic whispering of the equipment calmed her, somewhat. Nothing was going to be achieved by her running upstairs to call everyone to Ron's cell. Kate McAlister was on duty soon with Professor Yoshida. Emily decided to take a blood sample to their virologist first, and make absolutely certain of her suspicions before Harry, Hermione or Ginny Weasley were informed. It would be the prudent thing to do.
With shaking hands, she took a syringe from the supply cabinet and approached Ron. The clipboard of notes had been left on the edge of the bed. Emily's hip brushed against it and the plastic clipboard clattered to the floor. She instinctively ducked down to reach for it.
The lights flickered again and then the room was plunged into darkness.
The clipboard had fallen somewhere under the bed. Emily crawled on her hands and knees now, still holding the capped syringe. She stretched her free hand out as far as it would go, moving her palm over the floor to feel for the clipboard. Her fingers found it just as her cheek came into contact with Ron's hand. It had been hanging over the edge of the bed.
Not at all where Padma had left it. His skin was warm…
Ever so slowly, holding her breath, Emily crawled backwards—retreating from the bed and from Ron. Her eyes were opened wide and her mouth had gone completely dry. She was too terrified to even swallow because of the sound it might make. She stood, rising centimetre by centimetre, unfortunately coming into contact with an unused IV stand in the corner. It rolled across the floor briefly. In response, there was a quick, soft noise from the bed—like sheets being pulled sharply across the mattress. Emily wanted to run, and damn it she could run so very fast, but not in this darkness, possibly into a wall or a pillar or into whatever it was that was moving around the—
Another sound; a long rattling breath that seemed to go on for eons.
Lights. Pleasepleasepleaseplease….
She was not Magical, she did not carry light with her like Padma or Hermione or Harry.
Suddenly, it was bright again. Too bright. Emily winced and covered her eyes with her forearm, but not before she saw the tall, hunched figure standing beside the bed. It took a few seconds for her pupils to adjust, but when they did, she uncapped the syringe with wildly shaking hands and held it out defensively in front of her.
Ronald Weasley's eyes were wide open. They were not brown, like his sister's. Emily had forgotten just how blue they were.
And they were staring straight at her.