Warning: This story may be hard to read for anyone with anxiety over disease and illness, especially given the current climate.
A Muggle Plague
Fear sat thick and heavy over the small Muggle village in Northern Scotland. Witches and wizards wearing the St Mungo's Healer robes rushed from one quiet house to the next, the Bubble-Head Charm distorting their features, making them look as hazy as ghosts.
It was an apt comparison, Hermione thought as she stood in the middle of it all. This was a ghost town, after all.
Bodies lined the narrow pavements, eyes wide and unseeing, green-tinged skin covered in bright red boils. Dragon pox. A disease that, up until recently, Muggles had been immune to. But not any more.
"Madam Minister?" A witch in lime green robes stepped in front of Hermione. Her gloved hands fiddled with a loose thread that clung to one of her sleeves, and her voice shook as she said, "It's confirmed. Dragon pox again. The deadliest outbreak yet."
Hermione closed her eyes and exhaled a heavy sigh into the bubble that covered her head. "How many?"
"The entire village. One hundred twenty-six people," said the Healer. "No survivors."
Hermione's breath caught in her throat and tears stung at her eyes. She had anticipated this. Over the past three months, this new strain of dragon pox had wiped out one town after the next, leaving no one untouched. But knowing it and preparing herself for it were two different matters. The former was easy; the latter was anything but.
Endless questions streamed through her mind, all melting down to one simple thought: why? The witch standing before her wouldn't have the answer, no one would, and asking wouldn't help anyone. So Hermione straightened her spine and focused her mind on something she could fix. "Has the Muggle media caught on to the situation yet?"
"No, ma'am. The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes has been monitoring everything very closely. The Muggles are not yet aware of the disease."
Hermione nodded but knew that their luck would not hold for long. Soon enough, people would start to wonder why they had not heard from certain of their friends and relatives, and they would start asking questions. The situation needed to be resolved. Now.
The usual bustle of morning traffic through the Ministry of Magic seemed subdued and sluggish from where Hermione observed it through the large window in her office. Most everyone had cast the Bubble-Head Charm upon themselves, although some favoured Muggle face masks. One wizard appeared to be wearing a decontamination suit. A metre of space separated every person walking through the Atrium, as though a single accidental touch would kill them on the spot.
A disease that had once been nothing more than a minor concern for most had now become everyone's worst fear. It didn't matter that the fatal strain only affected Muggles. People were afraid, and fear did terrible things to rationality.
When yet another fight broke out below, Hermione turned back to her desk.
Fists flew faster than words nowadays, altercations arising out of nothing. The slightest touch, sneeze, or insult was like igniting a spark over a pile of dry leaves. There hadn't been any riots as of yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Hermione slumped into her seat. The guards would deal with the brawl downstairs. She had to figure out a long-term solution; she had to fix the problem. How she would do that, she had no clue, but it had to be done, and the thought of waiting around for someone else to do the job made her skin crawl. So she sat, and she thought, and she read because those were the things she did best.
She ignored the tears streaking her cheeks as she read through the fatality list. She disregarded her growling stomach and focused on what the experts had to say. She spurned her drooping eyelids in favour of another night of research. Her needs took a backseat because they were of no use to anyone, not when people were dying at such an alarming rate. There was only one thing she truly needed: a cure.
A knock sounded at the door, and Hermione's assistant popped her head through the opening, a large folder in hand. "The research paper you asked for, Madam Granger."
"Thank you, Laura. I'll get right on that."
Hermione overlooked Laura's concerned glance as she flipped open the file and pored over it.
A few years ago, there had been a breakthrough in cure research for dragon pox. A discovery that, given the proper means and funding, could eradicate the disease in magical folk. It was still in its testing phase, but perhaps with a few tweaks to the formula, it would cure Muggles also.
Hermione read through it from start to finish, collecting every scrap of information and finding none of it helpful until she got to the very last page. There laid the names of the Healers and Potioneers who had amassed these facts and figures, and at the very bottom of the list, one name stood out from the rest: Draco Malfoy.
An itch tingled Hermione's skin. She rubbed the scar on her forearm, the place where Draco's aunt had carved the word 'Mudblood' into her while Draco had watched.
It was in the past now. Draco had been a child caught up in things he hadn't understood, much as Hermione had been. He'd made mistakes, but then so had she, so had everyone. That was what war did. It spread fear like a disease, and with fear came actions that no ordinary person would take under better circumstances. At least Draco had seen the error of his ways. He'd repented; he'd helped people, cured them … or perhaps not.
Hermione's mind whirred, inching toward a conclusion, dread settling in the pit of her stomach.
Draco Malfoy—the boy who had repeatedly thrown the 'Mudblood' slur in her face during their time at Hogwarts, the pure-blood supremacist, the ex-Death Eater—had his name attached to a project relating to dragon pox, the disease that was slowly wiping out Muggles.
After everything she'd been through during the war, Hermione had stopped believing in coincidences, and this one sat, staring her right in the face.
Draco Malfoy had done this. He must have done.
But where was her proof?
She couldn't very well bring the matter to the Wizengamot with nothing but a theory. She needed evidence, and she knew how to get it.
Malfoy Manor loomed over her, tall and imposing as though warning her to turn away. The overcast sky conveyed the same message, but despite the tremor running through her hands, Hermione refused to give in.
The device George had given her for the occasion hung around her neck—a silver chain with a red disk at its centre. It was a voice recorder, one that was magically linked to a Self-Writing Quill.
Once activated, the necklace would transmit everything said in its presence to the quill, which would transcribe the entire conversation. She hadn't told George what she wanted it for, knowing that he would tell Harry and Ron, both of whom would try to talk her out of it. Hermione had left the quill at home along with plenty of paper, so if things went sideways, at least her findings would be discovered.
The old doorbell rang for only a moment before a house-elf wearing a suit, tie, and suit-vest opened the door and bowed low. "Madam Minister," it squeaked. "It is an honour to welcome you to Malfoy Manor. Please, come in."
The elf stepped aside, its long nose dragging against the floor as it kept its body inclined.
"There's no need to bow," said Hermione, managing a strained smile as she clasped her shaking hands. "What's your name?"
The house-elf straightened and looked up at Hermione with big brown eyes. "Gilly, ma'am."
"It's nice to meet you, Gilly."
Gilly's thin lips stretched in a tentative smile. "I shall announce your presence to Master Draco. One moment, please."
A soft crack followed as Gilly Apparated away, leaving Hermione alone in the Malfoy's antechamber. She let out a long breath, nerves jumping and nails digging into skin as the tremor in her hands persisted. She was being silly, and she knew it. There was no real danger here; had she thought there was, she would have asked Harry to come along, maybe even Ron, regardless of their recent separation. Malfoy wouldn't attack her. Even if he did, Hermione held the suspicion that she was the superior dueller.
As the adrenaline spread from her trembling hands to the rest of her body, she rolled her shoulders and scuffed her feet, halting the movement quickly lest her shoes leave track marks against the white marble.
Gilly popped back in as Hermione checked the floor for smirches. "Master Draco will see you right away, Madam Minister. This way, please."
Hermione dutifully followed Gilly down a hallway lined with portraits. The gnawing in her stomach worsened as they travelled along the darkly familiar path.
The drawing room hadn't changed since the last time she'd stepped foot in it. Portraits hung from dark purple walls. An ornate marble fireplace and a great gilded mirror took up most of the far wall. Armchairs, bookshelves, and a grand piano dotted the large room. The only difference was the crystal chandelier, which once again hung from the ceiling.
Hermione found herself staring at the spot beneath the chandelier where not a dent nor stain marred the smooth surface of the floor. Ice spread through her veins and a shiver ran up her spine as she considered how unfair it was that this room showed no disfigurement from the ordeal it had witnessed, whereas her body bore a scar that remained to this day, too deep to ever truly heal.
"Minister," that disdainful drawl said, snapping her from her thoughts and guiding her gaze to the other side of the room where Draco Malfoy stood, all sharp features and cold grey eyes, "what can I do for you?"
He was the spitting image of his father, a man who had killed and tortured out of greed and a lust for power, a man who had enjoyed every second of it. Fear coiled in Hermione's belly as she considered the possibility that Draco had inherited more from his father than his looks.
"It's about the dragon pox situation, Mr Malfoy," said Hermione. The ice from her veins slipped into her tone, thin and brittle.
"Yes, I assumed as much. Shall we sit?" He gestured toward the armchairs by the fireplace, and although Hermione struggled at first, she managed to unglue her feet from the thick carpet.
Calm. She had to remain calm.
Draco waited until she had sat down to do the same. "Shall I send Gilly to fetch some tea?"
"No, thank you. This won't take long."
Draco's eyebrows rose a fraction, and with a wave of his hand, he invited her to continue.
She slipped her hand into the pocket of her robes. A discreet flick of her wand activated the necklace. "What can you tell me about your work on the dragon pox project?"
"Nothing you haven't already read in the project's research paper. I presume you read the whole thing?"
Hermione nodded and shifted in her seat, inadvertently sinking further into the plush cushions. The silence stretched between them as the uncertainty on how to proceed played in her mind. Draco said nothing. He watched her, waiting until the hush became too much, which it soon did.
"Certain things might not have been written down," she said eventually with hardened resolve and an edge to her voice.
Draco's eyes glinted like steel. "Such as?"
Hermione pressed her lips together and tilted her chin up, making the implication of her words evident in every line of her body despite the mad race of her heart. For some reason, Draco started laughing. It wasn't a sound she'd ever heard before. It caught her so off-guard that her mouth fell open.
"Honestly, Granger, I expected this accusation from Potter, not you."
Any trace of mirth vanished from his features as he rose and moved to a long table lined with crystal decanters. He poured himself a glass, downed it in one, then poured another, hesitated, and filled a second glass as well. He brought both back over to the armchairs and set one on the end table beside Hermione's elbow.
"Bloody Gryffindors," he muttered, going to stand before the fire. "Even the rational ones. You're all so …"
"So what?" Hermione asked, eyes narrowing.
He shifted his gaze back to her, the flames throwing eerie shadows over his face. "Bigoted."
"I beg your pardon?" The shrillness of her voice stung her ears, and she found herself struggling from her seat, all traces of fear forgotten.
Draco didn't flinch, not at her tone, nor at her flailing. "You heard me. You always accuse a Slytherin—me in particular."
Hermione scoffed as she finally pushed herself from the cushions. "Don't act all innocent, Malfoy. You know why you're always treated like a suspect."
"Do I?" he spat, his cheeks tinging pink, his temper flaring. "Because I thought that I'd been pardoned for what I did during the war. I believed that I've spent the past twenty-one years making up for the role I played. Has that not been enough?" A gleam that teetered between rage and madness burned through his eyes. "Tell me, what more do I have to do to prove myself? Or is that an impossible feat I cannot hope to accomplish?"
"You expect me to believe it's a coincidence that dragon pox has suddenly started affecting Muggles just as you finish doing research on the disease?"
A sneer twisted his features. "Did it escape your notice that I was not the only one who worked on that project?"
A reply fought its way to her throat but got stuck there and left her gaping as the implication of his words reached her brain.
Draco shook his head and went back to staring into the flames. "Jumping to conclusions makes you look far less intelligent than you are, Granger."
"You're saying someone else did this?" she asked, and she watched him, checking for any sign of insincerity. His impassive expression gave away nothing, but the slight loosening of his shoulders did. "Who?"
His sigh was barely above a whisper. "I don't know." He turned to face her, and the distance between them, which had become significantly lesser during their argument, now felt improper. "I started noticing discrepancies in the findings about a year into the project, but with so many people doing so many different things, it was impossible to pinpoint the origin."
Hermione's thoughts, which had been busily analysing whether it was ruder to stay within Draco's personal space or take a step away, sprang back to the conversation at hand, anger flaring up once more. "And you didn't think to mention this to anyone?"
"For the love of Merlin," Draco snapped. "Who would have believed me?"
She pressed her hands to her hips, a habit gained from spending so much time with her ex-mother-in-law. "You had proof."
"Barely. Whoever is responsible for this was good at covering their tracks. I had suspicions, nothing else."
"Well, maybe if you'd shared those suspicions with someone, they could have helped you get to the bottom of it."
"Who? Who could I possibly have confided in? My social calendar has been remarkably light over the past two decades, you know? I can count on one hand the people I call 'friend.' Less, now that—"
He cut himself off. Teeth snapping shut with a loud click and jaw tense as his gaze darted to the only picture that sat atop the mantle. Astoria Malfoy smiled down from a frame surrounded by candles. A blood curse had taken her life not seven months ago, yet Hermione hadn't given her a thought.
Silence stretched once more, broken when Hermione said quietly, "I'm sorry for your loss."
He inhaled a shuddering breath, eyelids falling shut. "And I for your divorce."
Hermione shrugged. "It was amicable."
"It always struck me as a rather odd match," he said, opening his eyes to peer down at her. "I figured you'd end up with Potter."
She shook her head—she'd lost track of how many people had said that exact same thing to her since her divorce. "Harry's the closest thing I have to a brother."
Draco nodded slowly. His gaze went distant and filled with something that might have been longing, but he shook it off quickly and got back to the issue at hand. "I wrote up a list of possible suspects. Anyone rumoured to bear ill will towards Muggles. It's quite extensive, I'm afraid."
"Of course it is." Hermione sighed. "Are you free to bring it to the Auror office now?"
He had turned toward the door but now glanced back at her. "Come again?"
"Harry will want to open a case file right away."
Draco pursed his thin lips. "I'm not comfortable getting involved with Aurors, that one especially."
"Aurors investigate crimes. That's their job, and Harry is one of the best. He can help."
With a heavy sigh and a sagging of his shoulders, he relented. "Very well."
As he said the words, a loud shriek rang through the room. Hermione slapped her hands over her ears, but it did no good. Her eyes darted around, trying to locate the source, but Draco found it before she did. He drew his wand and pointed it at her. Fear zinged through her, but before she could think to dive out of the way, the shrieking stopped, and Draco lowered his wand.
"Mind explaining why your necklace started making so much noise, Granger?"
Hermione's cheeks burned red, and she promised herself that she'd have a firm word with George later about using her to test his prototypes. "I thought I could get you to confess to modifying the cure so that it targeted Muggles."
He eyed the necklace and then turned that piercing stare on her. "A recording device?"
Hermione nodded and held her breath, waiting for an explosion of outrage, but it never came.
He simply raised an eyebrow. "You know that a recording obtained without consent is unlawful, don't you? Unless, of course, you have a warrant. Are you branching out as a covert informer for the Wizengamot, Minister?"
It almost sounded as though he was teasing her. She narrowed her eyes at him, but the knowledge that she was in the wrong had her lowering her gaze to his chest and saying quietly, "The recording would be admissible in court if the judge considers that the importance of the evidence outweighs how it was unlawfully obtained. I checked the case-law before coming here."
"Of course you did," he said. He huffed a short breath that might have been a chuckle and turned on his heel. "Come along then, Granger. We have a killer to catch."