Chapter 27 For the Blood is the Life

A/N: Thanks and gratitude to excessivelyperky, whose endless store of knowledge and understanding of motivation keep this tale on its convoluted track. Blessed be!

Holmes stood up and brushed off his robes, still chuckling. Imagine: Snape thought that Russell was a man! His eyes narrowed. He had said nothing to the contrary. Truth be told, he had avoided any mention of Russell's gender during any conversation he had had with Snape. I ascertained straightaway that he was smitten with his intern, and I determined not to give him any inkling, nay, not a glimmering, that I too would suffer from the same affliction if I were as self-indulgent as he…. Holmes had always been as honest with himself as he could be, if not with others. Perhaps it was time to come clean; perhaps that would be what it took for Snape to trust him.

He walked back to the laboratory bench, where he was conducting a blood test. He had taken a drop of blood from Hermione Granger, and was testing it with the curative serum he and Snape had devised from Maura McNicholas' blood. He looked again at the test tube; no clotting, no separation. Delicately he inserted a fine glass pipette into the tube, withdrew a tiny drop and deposited on a clean glass slide. He put a cover slip on it and perused it under his Swiss magnifier. At least Snape had been able to magically increase its power somewhat. He sighed. He could clearly see the virulent entities in Miss Granger's blood corpuscles; they writhed and squirmed and now and then divided. It was obscene. The "curative potion" slowly surrounded the infection and the entities moved more slowly. It was slow, and it didn't restore the faint luminescence that Wizarding blood exhibited when its magic was intact. He had seen it in Snape's blood. Nevertheless, nothing would be lost if he tried the serum on Miss Granger.

He swivelled around on his stool. His eye caught a rack of blood samples. Why not? He took a particular phial, marked "SS," from the rack. Again he prepared a slide with a drop of Miss Granger's blood, and this time he added a drop from the phial at hand. The cover slip spread the drop smoothly on the glass surface. He moved his candelabra closer, cursing it for not being an electric lamp, and bent over the magnifier.

Gradually, the corpuscles in the blood of his second sample subsumed the infinitesimally small virulence that infected Granger's blood. Must have a larger sample. He found a clean phial, decanted a millilitre of Miss Granger's blood into it, and added a small amount from the "SS" phial. Very carefully, he pipetted a drop of the combined bloods, put it on a slide, and examined it carefully, hoping against hope, feeling his heart pound with excitement. A faint luminescence glowed within the phial.

The laboratory door opened. "Harrumph," the sound intruded on Holmes' concentration. Without taking his eyes away from the magnifier, Holmes waved one hand in a beckoning arc. The Potions Master loomed at his side, looking like barely-warmed over Death incarnate. "Holmes, I must apologise..."

"Shut up and look here!" Holmes gritted. He seized Snape's sleeve and pulled him down to peer through the magnifier. "Do you have any idea what this is?"

Snape looked. Then he looked up at Holmes. "Whose?"

Holmes straightened up. "Yours," he stated. "Your blood, and Miss Hermione Granger's. Your blood corpuscles are devouring the infection in hers. I put a mere bit of your blood into a millilitre of hers, and you can see the result."

Snape stood still, stupefied. "Did you hear me, man? Your blood is curing hers!"

Snape sat down on a stool. He looked up at Holmes, unable to speak. Then he stood up and slowly withdrew his wand from his sleeve. "I do not hold with foolish wand-waving," he said, "but it can be useful as a focussing device. Apparently my blood can fight the influenza. Can it also restore magical abilities?"

Holmes pondered the question. "I cannot identify magic under the magnifying glass," he stated, "but the combined bloods showed a faint luminescence. I believe that your blood, which has its magical properties intact, may be instrumental in restoring Miss Granger's magic, and perhaps that of others."

"We used Miss McNicholas' blood as the basis for a curative serum. I deduce that we have the right medium for influenza, but the wrong application for restoration of magic."

Snape tapped his wand in the palm of his left hand. "I do not follow your reasoning."

Holmes began to pace about the laboratory, his grey eyes lighting as he began to draw his hypothesis. He patted his pockets: if only he had his pipe! He turned to Snape: "Miss McNicholas' blood can alleviate the influenza symptoms, but cannot return magical abilities. Do you recall the Law of Contagion?"

"Yes, it has done nothing for our research." Snape peered at the slide again, his mouth turning down at the corners. "There is not enough blood in my body to cure all of Miss Granger's blood infection and restore her magic, little say the rest of the sufferers!"

Holmes looked fixedly at the Potions Master. "By your own definition, the Law of Similarity holds that a small amount of a substance represents the totality of that substance, and the Law of Contagion holds that such a substance passes its properties to anything it touches. It works because magic makes it work."

Snape rose. "Are you saying," he said, "that if I employ the Law of Contagion on my own blood, and thereby cure one subject, that subject's blood will cure another?"

"It's your law," stated Holmes. "You understand it; I do not."

Snape grimaced. "It is your mind that has provided the solution, if solution it is."

He leaned on the laboratory bench, staring at the slide with his blood and Hermione Granger's blood. Then he looked up. "There is a potion," he murmured, "that applies the Law of Contagion to a substance."

"Does it work?"

"That is not known, but it is studied as a curiosity by Potions Masters. I have it here," and he took down a thick book from a shelf. From the look of it, it was old, old. Carefully, Snape set the book down on the laboratory bench. Holmes stood at his shoulder as he opened its old, brittle pages with great care.

Holmes looked closer. "Is that Latin?"

Snape turned a few pages. "In some part, it is. Some of it is Greek, some of it is the ancient language of the Druids, and some of it is probably not of this world." He looked further, then, his long finger traced a line, and then another. "I have it here."

He turned to Holmes: "The potion is brewed out of common ingredients, but their order of addition to the brew is far from usual. Then, too, the incantations are obscure." He straightened. "I shall begin the potion immediately."

Holmes backed up as the Potions Master strode swiftly over to his store of cauldrons. "Is there any way to tell the strength of the resulting potion?"

"Not to my knowledge, since I have not brewed it heretofore." He looked down at his hands, scarred with many years of handling caustics and poisons. "You will need a much larger supply of my blood; that little phial will not be enough."

Holmes drew a deep breath. "You are putting your own life at risk, Snape."

"Yes, I know. I will tell you this, Holmes," and his black eyes blazed as he leaned on the laboratory table, "I will give every drop of my blood, if need be, to restore Hermione Granger to health. I would give my life for hers. Make what you will of that." He strode across the dungeon and flung himself into his desk chair.

Holmes walked over to the desk and sat down in the side chair. He crossed his legs, steepled his hands. "Snape, you do not have to say any more. I will confess to you that I too harbour tender feelings for my intern. She is the same age as Miss Granger, that is, she is of age, but not at her majority. I would, without hesitation, give every drop of my blood to save her life, and I would gladly lay down my life for her, since she already has my brain and my heart. Make what you will of that."

Snape stared at him for a long moment. Then, he rose. He took a bottle of Old Ogden's Firewhiskey out of his desk, and two glasses as well. "Well, Holmes, what do you say to a toast to two lovesick old fools?"

"I say, bring it on, sir. We have work to do." They clinked their glasses, tossed back their whiskey. Holmes went to the small table holding his blood-drawing apparatus.

"You may become quite weak from loss of blood, Snape," he said. "I am going to withdraw a half of a litre and pray that that will be enough. Your body will restore the blood in some time; you must eat quantities of beef liver and spinach."

Snape grimaced. "Using your famous detection abilities, can you determine how this scourge can be reversed on its maker? Whilst I am preparing the Contagion potion, you can administer the curative serum from Miss McNicholas' blood to Miss Granger, if you will. It cannot harm her, and at this time, I am willing to try anything." He considered. "I may be weak, as you say, and will need assistance with the potion. Headmaster Dumbledore is known for his skill with potions; l shall Floo him."

"Snape, If we can cure this scourge with Wizarding blood and your potions and incantations, what has your Dark Lord accomplished? What advantage has he gained?" Holmes stalked back and forth, his hand returning again and again to his jacket pocket in search of a pipe he missed desperately.

"Voldemort is insane," replied Snape. "His real desire is to be the only Wizard alive, omnipotent, with Muggles reduced to the status of animals and perhaps a few chosen Death Eaters to provide him with the constant flattery he requires. I doubt if he has even entertained the thought that his plan might fail."

"That is evident from the methods he employed in causing the infection," Holmes said. "I have ascertained that he infected the corpses somewhere other than Hogwarts, and then transported them, using your Floo network, to the places where they would spread the magic-destroying influenza."

"And how did you arrive at that conclusion?"

Holmes shrugged. "It was elementary, my dear Snape. The victims' blood contained the virulence in an advanced state, indicating that they had been given the infection almost a week ago. Furthermore, it killed them immediately. They ingested a substance that contained the influenza in a pure state, and instantly it set about reproducing in every part of their bodies, including the brain, the heart and the skin. Anyone touching them would be exposed to the scourge.

"They were then passed through flames with great speed. Their garments and beards were singed, and when they landed on the carpet in Ravenclaw corridor, their still-smouldering robes singed the carpet as well."

"His insanity is proven, then," commented Snape. "The bodies were sent through a still-burning Floo fireplace, and might have been consumed entirely. Then, if they were sent through at great speed, they might have missed the corridor, flown out of the window and landed in the lake."

Holmes smirked. "Oh, yes, I meant to tell you, Snape. Professor McGonagall has received an owl from a colleague at Beauxbatons. Two bodies were indeed sent there, but they arrived in the middle of the kitchens when the House-Elves were preparing roast goose. They appeared in the midst of the oven, and were roasted to a crisp."

Carefully, Holmes drew some of the curative blood serum into a clean hypodermic syringe. "There is no time to lose. I shall go to the Infirmary and administer this serum to Miss Granger, and then return to withdraw your blood."

"I'm coming with you. We will bring Longbottom back with us. He has recovered from the influenza, and at the very least is dependable and will do as he is told."

Draco dreaded returning to Lord Voldemort's lair, but he just couldn't keep to himself Cornelius Fudge's statement that Sherlock Holmes was only a character in a book. As crazy as he was, Voldemort should certainly take the information seriously. Why, it should be a mere lark to dispose of the creature. And take that Mudblood bint along with him; she's up to no good. As before, he stood in the Forbidden Forest's outskirts, squeezed his eyes shut, and implored the Dark Lord to fetch him.

Half an hour later, he was back in the forest, lying on his side, weeping and gagging and thrashing about. There was not a part of his body that did not ache and burn all at once. As a reward for bringing the information about Holmes, Draco had had his first experience with the Cruciatus curse.

The reptilian face leered down at him as he finished relating what Fudge had told him. "Please, my Lord, if anyone can get rid of this Holmes, it is you!"

The voice, like the rustling of discarded skins, husked: "It interests me that someone was able to animate a mere idea. It is possible that a Wizard with that kind of power could stop the epidemic, restore the Wizards' magic and endanger my plans. But, my dear, we know that this Holmes is not a Wizard. He has no magic. I am more interested in the Wizard who brought him here." A scaly hand stroked Draco's cheek. "Now, if you had brought me that information, my dear, I would have been pleased with you. As it is you have wasted my time. Your father used to tax me with his bibble-babble until I taught him – taught him to behave properly. Crucio!"

Voldemort wrapped his cloak closely about himself. He would have to accelerate his plans to dominate the world if there were any chance that this Holmes might succeed. It was unfortunate that none of Jaeger's infectious serum was left. Leave it to Lucius, that hothead, to kill the old man.

He was confident that the influenza was spreading like the Black Death, afflicting wizards everywhere. In truth, there were not that many wizards, and they would soon be helpless. Gleefully, he contemplated sending his Death Eaters to battle.

Now the time approaches, he thought gleefully. I shall attack and conquer Hogwarts, and make the castle my seat of power. It's about time. It was always meant to be mine. I am destined to rule Hogwarts and the Wizarding World. It is war – a war I shall win. The time to attack is near!

Draco sobbed into his sleeve. He didn't think he could get up; he hurt too much. Fuck, I'm going to die here in this sodding forest. He didn't dare to call out. Spiders, and bats and shite. He wiped his nose on his robe. Damned if he was going to die in this filthy place. He raised his head. He could see Hogwarts in the distance. Hagrid's hut was perhaps a kilometer away. I'll crawl if I have to.