Hermione ended up calling their hotel in St. Petersburg and asking the staff at the reception desk to inform Anastasia that they would be late. Of course, there was no guarantee that the Russian witch would approach it – Hermione had no idea how comfortable she was around muggles – but it was the best they could hope for.

There was simply no other means of contacting Anastasia; all they had was a tentative agreement to meet today, at noon, in their St. Petersburg hotel. Noon was only several hours away, and the two Hogwarts graduates were still in Paris. Hermione was loath to admit it, but there was no muggle way they could arrive in the old Russian capital in time.

Magic was the way to go.

She hated the idea. It was traceable and risky, but there was no other choice. Of course, the main Parisian Floo hubs were off-limits; it would be rather awkward for the still officially missing Hermione Granger to buy one-way passage to St. Petersburg alongside Draco Malfoy.

The Aurors wouldn't understand.

That left portkey travel. Official portkeys were all catalogued by their respective ministries; however, it wasn't uncommon for several to go missing from time to time. There was a market for them, after all. That's how the glorious system of capitalism works: generate a little bit of demand and supply will follow. Whether it's for babies, nuclear arms or cat mittens doesn't matter. Given enough people, profits will always trump morals.

Draco had a vague idea of where to acquire such a portkey; Hermione none at all. She wasn't exactly well-versed in the criminal underground of a foreign country. So she followed Draco, looking at him with trusting, hopeful eyes. Some of you may know that look, been blessed to be its sender or recipient. It's the look of a woman in love, filled with the belief that the object of her affections can somehow achieve anything.

And she most certainly was in love, for how can you not feel that way towards the one who holds you through the darkest hour?

He took them to the Parisian caverns; he'd heard whispers of merchants that were willing to trade in illegal goods. Harry called her cell a few minutes before their descent. Hermione didn't have time to chat, but the several sentences they passed between them was enough to make her smile. She resolved to give her friend a huge hug when they returned home.

Draco grumbled, insisting that a conversation with Potter could wait and where did women even acquire their propensity for idle chatter?!

Hermione wasn't fooled by his snarky manner. She saw the glimmer of humor under his tone, the jest in his words. They weren't meant to be taken at face value. Instead, it felt nice that he was comfortable enough to banter with her. She laughed, agreed, and promised Harry that she'd be in touch.

Then, as Draco led her down, she focused her mind on the task at hand.

How do you find an illegal portkey in a wizarding market? Well, the same way you acquire drugs on the streets of Detroit – by having money and looking desperate. Or being rich and gullible. Or – come to think of it, there are actually a number of ways to score some puffs of powder there, especially by that warehouse area on… nevermind.

Anyway, Draco decided to take the lead, something Hermione starkly objected to. They were in this together, she said. This resulted in a brief, yet heated argument, with Draco getting all huffy and hissing that he absolutely refused to let a girl deal with these criminals.

Given Hermione's history and the nature of their mission, it was a rather ridiculous position to take, and yet Hermione had relented, feeling touched. Seeing Draco's protective side emerge was actually adorable. He, of course, denied any such thing, but they both knew the truth.

She pointed this out, and he stormed away, waving his arms in a very theatrical manner. She giggled and yelled at his retreating back, asking who was wasting time now? The Slytherin pivoted on his heel and returned, salvaging the remainder of his pride by making her promise not to get into any danger. Grinning like a loon, she acquiesced, and he jutted out his chest in victory, looking like some peacock that had just scored a date during the spring mating ritual.

She sent him away with a peck on the cheek.

Draco wandered up to various shady dealers, often making a fool out of himself, but he clenched his teeth, bore their mocking, and finally ended up stumbling into someone who didn't dismiss them out of hand or curse them out. They would never know, but it was the same individual who assisted Rawlings in his escape.

Draco paid a hefty sum, and a portkey for St. Petersburg was in their hands. Luck was with them that day, for the portkey was authentic and activated on-time. Hermione clutched at Draco's hands, the air whirled around them, and they popped out of existence, magic depositing the pair in a shadowy nook near St. Petersburg's Nevsky Prospect.

They were three hours late. Hermione bit her lip, cursed under her tongue, and retrieved her wand. Draco eyed Bellatrix's old weapon warily, but then withdrew his own; a hungry glimmer dancing in his eyes. They disapparated with a pop, rematerialized in the hotel room, and then rushed down to the lobby.

Anastasia, clad in robes that, thankfully, due to the weather, didn't look too out of place, was nervously sitting in a chair, jumping at every sound. A profound relief spread over her features when she saw her friends appear, and she stood to rush over to them, giving any muggles in her way a wide berth.

Hermione hugged her friend warmly, murmuring apologies for their tardiness. Anastasia didn't answer, reciprocating the gesture with ardour. Hermione could feel the witch trembling in her arms.

"What's the matter?" she inquired, succumbing to an urge to brush some wayward locks of raven hair from the girl's forehead. Anastasia's skin was covered in beads of sweat. "Is it that we're late? I'm sorry–"

"No, no," Anastasia shook her head, glancing around fearfully. She sounded panicked; pallid and pale, her skin held a sickly taint. Her lips were swollen from bites; they were as red as coral. "Well… Iz just... Zese muggles, zis city. How can you stand it?! Zere are people everyone, and ze noise–"

As if to prove her point, a car honked on the street outside, inciting a sharp inhale from the frightened witch. "Can ve go? Are you ready?" The words trembled on her lips.

"Of course," Hermione replied, worried at the sight of her friend's distress, "let's just–"

But Anastasia wasn't listening anymore. She grabbed both their hands, greeting Draco with a quick squeeze on the fingers, and rushed towards the closest place they could safely apparate from.

It turned out be a men's bathroom.

"Um…" Hermione wanted to protest, but the sheer iron grip on her wrist left no room for retreat. The space was empty (thank Merlin) and before Anastasia apparated them away, the trio was graced to a vision of five pearly urinals. Under one of them, the floor was dribbled with yellow.

Riveting, thought Hermione, and then the world turned black.

They appeared in some clearing in the middle of a forest, the noises of the city replaced by a twitter of birds and a whisper of wind. Hermione, feeling her feet sink into several feet of snow, gave out a girlish squeak. Draco chuckled, helping her up, and then turned to Anastasia, who had collapsed into the snow, her robes fanning out like a shroud. Her eyes were closed.

"Nast'ya," Hermione said, cautiously approaching the girl. "Are you alright?"

The witch's breathing was rapid and shallow. "Yes," she mouthed, ripping open the top of her robes. She looked a little calmer now, her skin returning to a more healthy color. Opening her eyes, she accepted Draco's extended hand of assistance, using it to sit up. Snow crunched beneath her form.

"I'm sorry," she said wearily. "Iz just… I don't know how you can stand to be zer! All zose muggles!" Eyes flashing with sudden fury, she spat the last word with disgust.

Hermione was taken aback. Anastasia hadn't displayed a single note of prejudice the night before, so where was this repulsion coming from? Had she really misread the girl so much? Was she as bigoted as Draco had been? Hermione quickly corrected herself there, although it led to a stab of sadness in her chest: for Draco still detested muggles. He'd just changed his opinion of muggleborns.

"Is that… a problem?" Hermione hesitantly asked, afraid of hearing the answer. Draco, still holding Anastasia, looked on sympathetically.

"Of course!" Anastasia cried out, shaking her head. "How can you even ask? Have you seen what zey do? How zey live by destroying everything zey touch?!"

"Well–" Hermione began, but Anastasia didn't even pause.

"Venever I come to muggle city, I cannot breathe! I choke on ze exhaust from zer vehicles, from ze toxins floating in air! I see a once beautiful vorld torn down; forest, prairie and river replaced by heartless concrete and building of steel! I see rivers black from sludge and animals suffocated in endless trash! Zey grow meat in ze most horrible conditions, because all zey care about iz money! Money, money, money – iz all zey think of! Zere is no compassion in zer souls, nor even thought for how their children will survive! Ven I sit and vait for you, zey all rush around me, crowds zat go back and forth, lost in a tiny moment zat means nothing! Zey are like dead, like zombies zat only care about zemselves! I hate zem, I hate zem all!"

Silence greeted the end of her rant. Anastasia panted, her chest heaving as tears rolled down from red-rimmed eyes. Draco extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and gallantly offered it. With quivering lips and a grateful expression, Anastasia accepted. Hermione watched as she dabbed her eyes and wiped her face. She felt a little lost.

It made sense, she supposed. Wizarding communities were sparse and often deeply bonded with the land. Most witches and wizards lived in small, isolated factions; by contrast, any muggle metropolis would appear to be a heap of toxic rubbish populated by ignorant hordes.

It wasn't a fair comparison, of course. Wizards were few in number, and so never had to face the challenges of overpopulation, housing, and land development aimed at keeping millions fed and clothed. There were no sweatshops or factories in the magical world – there was simply no demand for mass-produced goods. Most things were made or grown locally, sold or bartered for at a village fair. It was very rare for a business to employ over twenty-five people. Most were family-operated, in fact; professions passed down father to son, mother to daugher.

Also, wizards had magic. Spells don't leave behind carbon dioxide or methane that pollute the atmosphere, nor heavy metals or plastics that poison the ground. A wizard would see these muggle by-products as signs of malice and purposeful destruction…just like Anastasia did. Anastasia, who used her lands to house a sanctuary for wounded animals; Anastasia, who lived in the wilderness, far from areas of urban development. Of course, muggles were a shock to her. Of course, they scared her with their numbers, cars and planes.

Hermione couldn't help but feel she stumbled onto a partial explanation of why Voldemort was so successful among pureblood families. How many of them truly believed in the cause? How many thought that by killing muggles they were aiding the world? Was that their justification for torture and murder? That muggles were worse than animals – that they were a virus, just like Anastasia had stated – and needed to be burned out before they infested the whole body?

Of course, historical factors such as medieval witch hunts and mobs of pitchfork-bearing peasants only exacerbated the issue.

Hermione frowned, looking down at the bitten cuticles of her fingernails. Like a snowglobe, she turned the problem over in her head, recalling her experience from the war that softness only gets people killed, and looked at this as a pureblood would. Maybe… maybe there was a point in such a line of thinking. Muggles were spreading over the globe like wildfire, and they did destroy all sorts of habitats to fuel their own lives.

And, inevitably, this sprawl would begin to danger her own world. It was still possible to make muggles avoid areas of magical residence, but what would happen if all available room ran out? With advances in computing, cloud-based algorithms and data parsing, when would they begin to notice those odd ruins that no one could approach? Ruins that were really wizarding manors, magical infrastructure, or even schools, like Hogwarts?

From this viewpoint, Hermione couldn't help think that while Voldemort's logic was flawed and his methods barbaric, his conclusion – to decimate the muggle populations – wasn't that far off. Maybe there was a blessing in this virus he had left behind.

Blinking rapidly, Hermione came to a shocking realization.

The virus wasn't just an infection. It was…

Power.

It was the potential solution to so many problems. All she had to do was force the spell to obey her desires. Which was possible, wasn't it?

With Frackenburger, she could alter its magical code, turn an instrument of mass-destruction into a scalpel that would make the precise cuts which magical and non-magical cohabitation required.

It wasn't like this was her idea, even. Philosophies like Social Darwinism had always attained some traction. Except, instead of war and disease, it would be her, quickly and painlessly culling the excess muggle population that would always be a potential threat to wizardkind.

It would be a form of euthanasia, or – an even better analogy – an amputation of limb so that the whole could survive.

Hermione blinked again and, with a growing horror, realized she had just begun intellectually advocating the murder of millions for the greater good. People who were innocent and were simply trying to persevere in a society they had been born into. It wasn't their fault.

And yet, a dark part nagged, it isn't a pest's fault to be born either, and yet we zap, trap and poison them every day. Are muggles any different? Remember your feeling in Paris; how good it felt to be a witch and cast magic when most imagine it to be fantasy? Doesn't that make you better than them?

Ok, maybe that was too extreme of a position, but wasn't her primary obligation to her friends? To safeguard Draco, Harry, Ron and other members of the magical world? Wasn't it her duty to ensure the safety of their children – of her children, one day – so that they would never fear discovery by muggles? If she did augment the virus and then unleash it… some muggles would die, true, but that would work towards avoiding a much larger conflict later on, as well as dealing with issues that the inevitable tide of rising global populations unleashed.

In a way, she would be helping them.

Besides, it's not like Harry or Ron would find out. She wouldn't tell them (they wouldn't understand), and it's not like Harry was eager to return to his muggle roots. He hadn't even been aware of this virus before she told him.

Although, if she did commit to such a course, she'd have to ensure a caveat so that parents of magical children – and the children themselves – weren't affected. She couldn't murder her own kind...

Swiftly calculating the stream of constants and variables, she came to the conclusion that it would be simple. In fact, with a reasonable degree of caution, there wouldn't be a single repercussion. The world was at her fingertips, all courtesy of a wizard that hated her kind and had attempted to murder her via his cronies on numerous occasions. The irony…

Still, it was one thing to kill, imperious or torture a Death Eater on the battlefield, it was a whole other game to coolly contemplate mass murder of unsuspecting muggles.

Pursing her lips into a thin, straight line, Hermione banished these considerations for later, stomped over the snow to Anastasia, and knelt down to offer the girl a hug. She was the reason behind Anastasia's anguish, and felt terrible for making her friend suffer. "I'm sorry," she apologized again. "We left you all alone with them, but we're here now." Anastasia, still clutching Draco's handkerchief, sniffled.

"Iz ok," she answered, looking up at Hermione with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I don't really mean vat I say. I don't hate zat much, I was just… scared to be zer by all by myself."

"Oh, honey, I understand," Hermione soothed, taking the handkerchief and gently wiping away the last of Anastasia's tears, "and I'm sorry too." She met the smile with one of her own, captivated by a pair of sparkling and trusting eyes. The were so wide and innocent, almost childlike in their appearance. Feeling a warmth blossom in her chest, Hermione leaned in to press a comforting kiss on Anastasia's cheek.

She smelled of pine and alpine meadows, filled with tracts of blooming perennials – primrose and edelweiss. Her arms were stretched around Hermione's back, tangling in tufts of rebellious hair.

Another sniffle (the exhale tickling Hermione's neck), and Anastasia carefully disentangled herself. A rosy blush tinged her cheeks; her eyes were downcast, abashed.

Darting up, she buttoned up her robes in a series of brisk movements. "Ahh..." she mumbled, "ve have to go now, yes? I must take you to babushka."

"Yes, yes, we do," Hermione agreed, letting her go and standing up, sporting a sappy grin from the simple fact that she had one more friend. Unwilling to embarrass Anastasia any further, she covered it up by busying herself with dusting the snow from the front of her robes.

"And, um, how exactly are we supposed to get there?" Draco piped up. "Do you have a portkey stashed away, somewhere under the snow? Do we need a pair of shovels?"

Anastasia glowered. "No," she snapped, raising her fist at the Slytherin. "I have Drakosha. But I vill hit you very-very hard if you scare him! Understand? He is just little boy."

Draco's face became rather still suddenly, as all of the gaity rapidly fled. "Wait," he gulped nervously, "you mean your pet dragon? You want us to fly on it?!"

No response was necessary. A great roar from the sky replaced whatever words Anastasia might have said, as a dark shape blotted out the sun.

Hermione gave out a heavy sigh. It really shouldn't bother her.

She'd already been on a dragon before, after all. What was one more?

. . . .

. . . .

2 days later

Stifling a yawn, Harry walked the side of the residential street next to Ron. He had to pay special attention to where he was going, forcing his mind to stay sharp and ready. They had a case to solve; Hermione was counting on them, along with thousands of helpless.

It wasn't easy.

Harry was tired, angry, miserable. All familiar emotions he had more than his fair share of during his childhood and adolescence. Sometimes, the urge to wallow in self-pity was overpowering, suffocating him in a inflexible clutch. He always shook it off. While it was true that his past held more tragedy than what many of his peers ever experienced, he also possessed a treasure many lacked.

Friends. His soul was bonded to them, an unshakeable tether that had withstood the combined strain of childhood grudges, jealousy, and that unspeakable suffering they had endured over the course of the war. Even when times were at their bleakest, when hope was but a tiny ember dwarfed in the black sea of despair… even then the bonds had held, their friendship persisting with a tenacity few could ever dream of.

As they passed several wizarding residences, Harry's control slipped, and his mind started to wander, a small, dreamy smile tugging at the edges of his lips. He had spoken with Hermione just over an hour ago. She had been in Paris, sounding hopeful, but rushed. Relaying her recent adventures, she told him about meeting Anastasia at the Shabash; that the witch had confirmed their suspicions about Dolohov and given them a potential lead. She hadn't said much else – Malfoy's voice had butted in, claiming they needed to hurry and could she 'quit her incessant womanly babbling.'

Malfoy was born a prat, had been bred a prat, and would die a prat.

Harry would have never anticipated Hermione's reaction, however. Instead of exploding in a fit of righteous indignation and lecturing her companion on misogyny and the need to respect women's rights, she had actually laughed, gave Malfoy (Malfoy!) what sounded like a playful smack, and promptly followed the rude command, sending Harry her goodbyes.

The Boy-Who-Lived had slumped down in a state of shock. What the hell? Replaying the conversation in his head, he recalled one more oddity – the way Hermione had sounded. It was like her voice had lost some of its post-war rigidity, and there was almost a prance to her words, a lightheartedness he hadn't heard in years.

Despite all of their precautions, Harry still had reservations about letting his friend leave with Malfoy. The Slytherin had seemed safe and eager to help… but you could never be too sure. If the going got tough, would Malfoy uphold his end of the bargain and help Hermione, or would he turn tail and run? Even worse, what if his hateful attitudes towards muggleborns still lingered somewhere deep; would they rise at the worst possible moment?

Harry knew his worries were pointless, partly irrational, and there wasn't anything he could change anyway. Such knowledge had no impact on his feelings however. Worry is the other side of love; together, they are yin and yang, two sides of a coin, as the cost of happiness will always be the fear of losing it.

Still, Hermione's reaction was certainly out of character. He really needed to see her, to check if she was okay. Because, if Malfoy had hurt his friend in any way, then so help him Merlin, Harry would–

Harry Potter had no chance to complete that thought. Ron gasped, his hand flying towards the wand holster on his hip. Harry reacted on instinct. A small part of him cursed his own wavering attentions (a frequent death sentence in this line of work) as his body burst into action. His wand was whipped out a fraction of a second later, eyes scanning the street for any sign of danger. Honed during the war and Auror training, his mind was quickly cataloguing places of potential ambush and routes of escape.

He was unable to find the source of his partner's distress, however, and Ron wasn't exactly diving for cover or shouting spells. Shoulders tense, Harry shot his partner an appraising glance.

With an expression of starstruck horror, Ron was standing still. It looked like he had discovered the secret of the universe in addition to the meaning of life, and it had shocked the living daylights out of him. Harry's eyes followed his gaze.

They were standing on the sidewalk across from an uninhabited house – one that still, according to the documents they had dug up, belonged to a missing member of MCU. It was the last address, corresponding to the final name on their list. Every other entry had been a dead end, and Harry didn't hold any hope for this one as well. He didn't know what leads to follow after this.

But Ron wasn't looking at this house. He was staring at the one next to it.

There, on a snow-cleared porch and leaning on a cane of yew, stood the crooked form of an ancient witch. Glaring at the two Aurors with a look inherent to people past a certain age, she was shaking a withered fist in their direction. Harry's eyes went wide, a puff of breath lodged in his chest. His mind was racing, running a thousand miles per minute, only to arrive at same conclusion that Ron had reached a moment before.

It was inevitable.

Because Harry knew this witch. He had seen her from his desk in the Auror Department many times. He had routinely joked about her host of tiresome complaints with his fellow Aurors. No one took this witch seriously, after all. She was a bit of a joke, a persistent nuisance that everyone hoped would die; preferably sooner than later.

A pit of snakes started to writhe in his stomach, adrenaline flooding his veins. Because this witch's name was Martha Berkins.

And if his guess was right, it meant the world.

There was always a reason for spending half a chapter on Martha Berkins ;) The pieces are slowly coming together now.

I love hearing your thoughts and theories. Some of them are pretty spot on!

My continued thanks to Frogster, as well as you: my readers. I hope you enjoy the rest of this ride =)