Much Ado About Fungus

Chapter 4 – Much Ado About Fungus

"So there are Aurors on duty," Madam Pomfrey said as she eyed Harry, Ron and Luna as they waited in the lobby of the hospital wing. She obviously didn't like what she saw, for she clucked her tongue and pulled two bottles of Pepper-Up from one of the pockets of her starched, white pinafore and handed them to the men. "Drink these before you collapse, the both of you."

Harry accepted the potion gratefully, chugging it in one gulp. Once his ears had stopped steaming and he had wiped his streaming eyes, he said, "Yes, ma'am, though we're short-staffed as you know."

Madam Pomfrey looked as though she could use some Pepper-Up herself. Her eyes red-rimmed and her face pale and wan, she looked as though she had been keeping the same hours that he had. On prior visits to the school, he had received much warmer greetings from Pomfrey, but today, she seemed harried and on her last nerve.

"So I've read. I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Ms. Lovegood, but I really must get back to my patients. It seems that your Rash has struck Hogwarts as well." Ron cursed colorfully, and her face tightened as her gaze became more intense. "You aren't contagious, still, are you?"

"No," Harry said quickly, speaking through the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "That is, I don't think so. But you said that the Rash is at Hogwarts? Who..."

"Hagrid came down with it first, poor man, two weeks before we read about it in the Daily Prophet. He's fine now, but several students have contracted it in the meantime, and I've had to pull beds out of storage! St. Mungo's can't tell me what it is, how to treat it or anything! I've even had to isolate some of the students because they were fighting in the medical ward. Merlin knows how difficult it has been to keep it out of the paper."

"Madame Pomfrey," Luna interjected when the flustered woman paused to breathe. "Does Hagrid still have Fang?"

"Of course he does. Though how that old dog has survived this long..."

Ron's eyes widened, and he interrupted Pomfrey with an excited gleam in his eyes. "Oh! If he somehow got into those mushrooms and brought back whatever it is that infects people..."

"Didn't you get spores on you last time?" Harry interrupted this time, and Ron flushed hotly before he turned back to Luna.

"Are you sure you didn't touch them?" he asked her, eyeing her from head to toe in a manner wholly unlike his previous examinations. Harry was glad that he was finally taking this seriously.

Luna just shrugged. "A mushroom spore is smaller than the eye can see and is ejected from the gills. If the spores are truly the mode of infection, I might not have to touch them. It would depend on the amount of spores needed to infect."

"We need to tell Hermione. It will help with her research," Harry said and then turned to Pomfrey. "You should have someone search the castle for patches of small white mushrooms. Filch, maybe," he said with a slightly wicked grin and then added, "but make sure he knows to quarantine them once he's found them." He paused a moment to collect his thoughts. "They grow in rings on vegetation, but kill everything around them. Has anyone seen Fang lately?"

His face falling, Ron whispered, "The dead rat in the forest..."

Harry nodded his head once, sharply, and Luna's blue eyes saddened. Pomfrey had begun to wring her hands. "I really don't know, but I could send someone to check..."

"Better not," Ron advised with a sad shake of his head. "Harry, we should find that patch and destroy it. Burn it. There are probably others..."

"I'll collect samples, first..." Luna started, but Ron cut her off.

"You should stay here. We'll collect them and burn the rest."

Ensconced in her office and deep within the Zone, Hermione was furiously jotting notes into a college-ruled, sewn-bound Muggle notebook. She hadn't been able to progress much further than temporarily alleviating the effects of the rash in her Labrats. She took a moment to smile smugly and draw the trademark symbol next the name of the product that she fully intended to market once this Rash fiasco was over. This was one of the most extensive tests she had performed with the creatures, and their reactions to the infections and potions had been in line with the results she had obtained from her own observations of Rash patients and data collected from St. Mungo's.

She hoped that the increase in cash flow from the Labrats would offset the loss she was taking by shutting down the clinic. She was out of most of her base potions and could no longer treat victims of the Rash. Because of the time she'd spent in the laboratory researching the Rash, she had not been able to brew what she needed to stay open, and most of her employees had called in sick. Most probably were sick. Come Monday, the A New You would be temporarily closed for business.

'Not that anyone has come for a Transfiguration in over a week,' she thought glumly. All of her recent patients had been Rash related, and the humanitarian in her had forced her to charge no more than a nominal fee that barely covered her expenses.

Sighing heavily, she focused on her notes. The death toll amongst her subjects was relatively low, and only the rats created in conjunction with Dark magic showed no signs of improving. She had been able to pinpoint the cause of infection to foreign particles in the blood, but what those particles were, she couldn't say. They seemed to be organic, but she had found nothing like it in her research of parasites, both magical and mundane.

The odd thing was that she had not been infected, despite the fact that she had been exposed to the Rash innumerable times. It had taken actual blood transfusions to infect her rats. The highest concentration of infection seemed to be in the Ministry of Magic and had spread from there. The first reported cases were among the Aurors. But how was it spreading? She was pretty certain that Ministry employees were not in the habit of swapping blood. Something just didn't quite add up. Perhaps a visit to the Ministry was in order...

A sharp rapping sounded on the door, startling her. The nib of her quill snapped, and Hermione swore loudly, throwing the useless thing at the door from which the sound had originated. On silent hinges, the door cracked open wide enough to admit a handsome blond head and two silvery eyes.

"Was that an offer or a demand?" he asked with a smirk and a wink.

Hermione cursed again and threw the notebook at his face. He pulled it out of range just long enough for it to hit the doorjamb in a flutter of pages and then stepped through. "I'll take a rain check, then," he said as he settled into the leather-upholstered chair in front of her desk.

"Please, have a seat," she said with false magnanimity. "No, this isn't a bad time. How kind of you to ask."

"Excellent!" he exclaimed. Ignoring her sarcasm with a smile, Draco leaned back in the chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. She couldn't help but notice how well formed his thighs appeared to be under the lightweight wool of his chocolate brown slacks. The first three buttons of his crème linen shirt were unbuttoned, and the effect was that of an iced mocha topped with whipped cream. Her stomach chose that moment to growl, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since a very early breakfast.

"Malfoy..."

"Call me Draco. My most valued clients do."

Pursing her lips, she considered and quickly discarded the idea of throwing her inkpot at him. There was a good chance that she would miss and stain the plush white area rug under her desk. "I'm not a client."

"Yet," he drawled, raising a thin, blond eyebrow at her. She wondered if the rug might need replacing, anyway. "I think we got off on the wrong foot the other night. My dear godfather is not known for his people skills."

Hermione gazed at him for a long moment, her features schooled into impassivity. She honestly couldn't say what the smarmy blond was up to, and it bothered her. Part of her wished that he would call her Mudblood filth not fit to lick his boots so that she could slap him. Another part, the one that was mentally calculating the inventory of her potions supplies, wanted him to whip his contract out of his pocket so that they could review terms. Then she could have Security escort his smirking face out of her facility. After a brief mental tug-of-war, the businesswoman in her won. She settled forward in her chair, her elbows propped on the polished mahogany surface of her desk, which was barely visible under a slew of paperwork.

"Funny, I hadn't noticed."

"That's my girl."

It took patience learned from years of being best friends to two impulsive young men to not reach over her desk and wring his pale neck. Her foot twitched in sympathy. "Malfoy..."

"Draco. I insist." Her stomach rumbled again, much to her mortification. His grin stretched. "But enough about business. I've stopped by to take you to a late dinner. This time for pleasure." He purred the last word as if he were rolling a bite of sinfully delicious chocolate mousse over his tongue.

"I don't think so." Gurgling loudly, her stomach disagreed. Apparently, it was of the opinion that the possibility of forthcoming mousse was more appealing than preserving her pride. Not to be directed by minor gastronomical discord, she settled back in her chair and applied her best stonewall face. It was an expression that could repel even the mightiest of siege towers and had been used to thwart proposed all-night beer fests at her flat.

Draco – Malfoy – cocked his head to the side and regarded her thoughtfully, tracing the ridge of his lips with an index finger. It was a gesture that she had seen Snape perform many times while she had been in school, and her younger self had wondered if he had washed his hands after handling potions ingredients all day. Now, the movement was decidedly sexy, and she suddenly wanted another chance to watch the old Potions master do it to see if it looked as good on him as it did Malfoy. She had a sneaking suspicion that it might look better. He had thin lips, it was true, but they were well formed and clearly defined with a sharp notch just below the nose. Many a witch and wizard had had that notch Transfigured onto their own lips. Draco's lips were plump and had a tendency to pout. They were cute, certainly, but lacked the character of Snape's lips.

Quirking the feature that she had been so avidly watching, Malfoy abruptly sat forward in his chair. "It would annoy Severus. Last time I mentioned taking you out, he threw shit at me."

Startled out of the analysis of lip shapes by his sudden movement, she asked distractedly, "What? What kind of shit?"

"Dragon dung. He was in the garden."

"Alright, then." Hermione wasn't quite sure what came over her for her to have agreed, but it might have been the sudden mental image of Snape and Malfoy in loincloths wrestling in a muddy garden. Shifting restlessly, she tugged at the hem of her skirt. The lascivious paths that her thoughts tended to take regarding the two men were beginning to disturb her by their frequency; she was a sexually starved creature indeed, but they were starting to get out of hand. Belatedly, she realized what she had just said and quickly added, "If it will annoy Snape."

He stood with a lean, toothy smile, and she was once again reminded of a jungle cat. She was hungry anyway. If she did accompany Malfoy to dinner, perhaps they could get back to the safe, dry issue of potions distribution. Taking his extended arm, she asked, "Is that why you want to take me out? Because it will annoy him?"

"No, it's because you have a rack almost as brilliant as your business sense. Annoying Severus is just a bonus."

Hermione chose not to comment. She was fairly sure that, brilliant rack or not, if Malfoy knew what had just gone through her mind, then he would have run screaming.

Unfortunately for her stomach and Malfoy's scheme, St. Mungo's chose that moment to Floo. When she had first moved into this building, she had chosen this particular office for herself because of the tall, narrow fireplace in the corner. On most days, she found it convenient, if somewhat prone to shoot soot onto her rug. This evening, however, it became a potential new target for her inkwell.

"Ms. Granger," a disembodied woman's head said from the green flames. She stopped when she saw Hermione arm-in-arm with Malfoy and blinked distractedly for a moment in seeming disbelief.

Irritated that the Healer was surprised to see her going on a date (though it really wasn't, but how was the Healer to know?), Hermione's reply was more waspish than usual. "Yes, Healer Foulweather?" she snapped over her shoulder, her hand still resting on Malfoy's arm and her back to the Floo.

Healer Foulweather was either more adept at interpreting social cues than Malfoy or less inclined to ignore them. "I apologize for interrupting, but we've noticed an interesting development amongst some of our patients infected with the Rash. I'll Floo back, later, though, because you look busy..."

"No, that's fine," Granger said, and much to Draco's chagrin, she dropped his arm and turned toward the Floo. With a parting dismissal, she gave it, and the Healer's head within, her full attention. "Maybe another time, Malfoy."

Draco stood behind her, forgotten for the moment, simultaneously seething and exalting. Granger was researching the Rash. This was a perfect opportunity to learn more about it. However, he did not appreciate being so casually set aside or ignored. Reclaiming the leather chair in front of Granger's desk, he tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not an easy feat for a Malfoy.

"Is there a problem? Has the Malum Quiesco stopped helping?"

"Yes and no. We ran out of it two nights ago and it takes over a week to brew. But that's not what I wanted to talk about." Foulweather took a deep breath, running a hand over her slicked back hair, which was surely twisted into a tight bun. "As you know, we decided to keep several of the Ministry Staff overnight – the ones that were showing unusual inclinations for violence."

Granger's head bobbed, her own elegantly coifed hair beginning to leak wayward, chestnut curls. Draco admired the way the expensive golden silk of her blouse clung to her torso and contrasted becomingly against the creamy column of her neck. Her pert posterior was sheathed in coffee-colored cashmere ending at the shapely curve of her calves. A demure slit at the bottom of the skirt tempted his fingers to tweak it open and peer higher. Would those pearlescent stockings reach all the way up or terminate in lacy bands across her thighs? It was a question almost as pressing as the goings on at St. Mungo's and was making his mouth water.

"It was a good thing we did. As the hives began to lessen, they began to develop... things... under their skin."

"Things?" Granger asked. He could tell by the tone of her voice that she didn't approve of the non-technical term.

The Healer shook her head and smoothed her hair again. "I've not seen anything quite like it before. It's as if they have tiny worms or snakes under the skin. When we tried to remove them with a simple extraction spell, they dodged the spell and then swam away!"

"Interesting." That wasn't the word that Draco would have used. He shuddered and resisted the urge to scratch at the sudden itch behind his right knee. "Did you try anything else to get rid of them?"

"Yes, of course, but to no avail." Her face turning away from them, the Healer addressed someone behind her for a moment, and then turned back to them. "Sorry, that horrible Umbridge woman just tried to take a bite out of her nurse," said the Healer as she shook her head. "We have them all confined to Benjamin Barker's Ward for the Violently Insane, it's gotten so bad." Glancing around quickly, the Healer lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hermione, I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but..." she darted a last, quick look over her shoulder, then continued, "we have word that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is suggesting that Hogwarts be evacuated!"

"Evacuated?" Hermione asked incredulously, her weight shifting from one foot to the other to thrust one hip to the side. Draco tucked his hands under his thighs to prevent them from wandering.

"Apparently, one of the Aurors – I think it was Harry Potter!" she whispered excitedly, "found the cause of the infection on the school grounds." Her face disappeared again, then reappeared a moment later, her skin pale and eyes wide. "And I agree with him. I'm supposed to keep this quiet, too, but..." she lowered her voice to the barest of whispers, "seven people have died of fever. We couldn't do a thing for them." Through the Floo connection, Draco heard the sound of a door slamming against a wall and raised voices. Foulweather's face paled. "I have to go. I'll Floo later."

The fire sputtered green sparks and then banked to a bed of orange embers. Granger stood motionless, still staring into the hearth. Clearing his throat and pulling his hands out of their confinement, Draco made his presence known.

She whirled, almost losing her balance on her slim heels, and fixed him with an annoyed frown that would have made his godfather proud had he liked the chit. "You're still here!"

"Where would I go?"

"I'm sure there is a lonely rock out there waiting for you to crawl back under it," she said, crossing her arms under her breasts. Draco made a mental note to induce that particular action more often. It really did offer a spectacular view.

"Your wit never ceases to amuse. Come on." he picked up the pot of Floo powder on her mantle and offered it to her.

"I don't have time for dinner, Malfoy..."

"One must always make time for dinner," he said authoritatively. "However, I assume that we are going to pay Potter a visit at the Ministry first." When she opened her mouth to protest, he interrupted once again. "I have a vested interest in this 'evacuation of Hogwarts.' And, if what that Healer said is true, the Ministry might not be the safest place for a woman alone, however capable she may think she is."

Hermione scowled at him but chose not to respond to his last comment. "I was going to see if Harry were in his office, yes," she said slowly, reluctantly, tapping her fingers against the silk that covered her folded arms. "You might as well come, since you would probably follow on your own, anyway." Sighing loudly, she snatched a pinch of powder and tossed it into the fire, saying, "Ministry of Magic, Harry's office!"

Draco smirked and followed suit.

Harry was not in his office, although he had obviously been there recently, and it appeared that he had not been idle. Giant maps covered every bit of free wall space: one of London and one of Hogwarts and its surrounding grounds. White pins had been stuck into many different locations, including deep within the Forbidden Forest, several sections of the castle, and the Ministry of Magic's Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Purple pins also dotted the maps. Clusters of purple pins seemed to radiate from the white pins. In the center of his desk, which was miraculously cleared of papers (though Hermione later spotted them piled haphazardly in a corner of the room, Ron-style), sat a glass aquarium with several sealed bags of white mushrooms stacked at the bottom. A glass cover had been Spellotaped to the top. The rubbish bin was full to overflowing with empty Chinese take-out cartons and sticky bottles of butterbeer. The room stank of greasy fried rice.

Malfoy wrinkled his nose delicately and looked around in disgust. "Not the tidiest bloke, is he?"

Ignoring his comment, Hermione frowned as she read a bit of parchment that had been tacked to the wall over a presumably unimportant section of map. So engrossed was she that she did not notice Malfoy silently un-spelling the tape off the aquarium and levitating one of the smaller bags of mushrooms into a trouser pocket.

"They think that the Rash is caused by mushrooms," Hermione said after she had digested the odd list and maps. Her voice was suffused with wonder and, if he wasn't mistaken, a hint of jealousy.

"Fascinating," he said dryly. It really wasn't, but Severus might find it so once Draco told him from where the sample had originated. Considering the man's reticence about getting involved with anything to do with the Rash, Draco should probably put off revealing that bit of information until after the Potions master had begun his research.

"Yes, I've never heard of mushroom spores that could cause skin irritation, violent behavior, and snaky things," she twisted Healer Foulweather's non-technical term in her mouth with a grimace of distaste, "under the skin. Many are poisonous, but..."

She darted a glance toward Malfoy, who was standing near the desk with his hands in his pockets. Chewing the inside of her lip, she debated the wisdom of taking a sample of mushrooms back to the office. She supposed it would be safe enough if she decontaminated the outside of one of the bags and then took it straight back to the lab where she could quarantine it properly. Studying it would give her the perfect opportunity to use her new HAZMAT suit, and having a sample could certainly speed up the development of a treatment, perhaps even an inoculation. It concerned her that she had yet to observe the parasites Foulweather had mentioned in her own subjects. Was a proper infection, one from the source, required to get this result or were the rats too small to observe such a symptom? She would have to check.

Harry had probably tried to contact her earlier, but she would have been incommunicado in her lab. Quince was home sick, nursing his own infection and therefore not available to take messages. The thought of her invaluable assistant with writhing subcutaneous parasites made up her mind. She would take a sample. Harry surely would have given her one had he found her, and she did not want to disturb him at home...

"Well, the Boy Wonder seems to have turned in for the night. Shall we move on to dinner?" Malfoy asked as he wandered the small, cluttered room, his hands still stuffed in his pockets, stopping a moment to peruse Harry's list. Shrugging, he stepped up to her and offered his arm.

"I suppose," she agreed, though the promise of productive research was almost more enticing than satisfying her grumbling belly. Consoling herself with the decision to collect a sample and start anew on her research after dinner, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. After all, she was famished and would have to eat something before starting her research.

Harry sat on the sofa in the living room of number twelve, Grimmauld Place in an exhausted semi-stupor for ten minutes before he could place what was wrong.

He didn't smell food.

It was evening – pushing midnight – and he could not smell what Ginny had prepared for supper. Nor had Ginny come to greet him. No matter how late he came home, Ginny was always there to kiss him and feed him, even if she had dozed off on the very sofa on which he sat and had to scrub the sleep from her eyes first. He had always figured that the habit would fade in time and that he would eventually have to sneak into a Ginny-warmed bed and try not to wake her as he wrapped her in his arms (not that he would complain!). This break in routine was more disconcerting than he would have thought.

Lugging his aching, tired body off the sofa, he lumbered up the stairs and into their bedroom.

The bed was empty, untouched.

Harry stared at the collection of oddly shaped throw pillows, which, every few months, somehow seemed to breed another pillow. The girl pillows had lace; the boys had tiny rosettes. The ones that had both lace and rosettes, well...

Where was Ginny?

"Ginny? I'm home!" His call was swallowed by silence. Harry peeked into the closet just in case and then stepped out of the room, glancing up and down the empty hallway.

"Ginny!" Adrenaline began to wash though his system, carrying away the dulling fatigue to leave only stark, sharp-edged clarity. With energy he hadn't possessed minutes before, he flew through the house, giving each room a professional searching and moving onto the next without ceasing his shouting. He ended up in the living room, panting and slightly hoarse, and did the very next thing that came to mind: Flooed her mother.

"Mrs. Weasley? Hello?" he yelled into the Floo, knowing that he would wake the household and not particularly caring. The matron eventually wandered into the room yawning and clutching a worn, patchwork dressing gown around her middle.

"Harry?"

"Is Ginny with you?" he asked without preamble. "She's not at home."

Mrs. Weasley managed a disapproving frown at Harry's reference to their living arrangements through her next yawn. "No, Harry, dear." Twisting her girth for a view of the kitchen, she squinted at something Harry couldn't see. Turning back to him, she said, "But the clock says that she is traveling. She probably went to visit a girlfriend and ended up staying later than she had expected. She's an independent young woman, Harry Potter, and her world doesn't revolve around you, you know. And haven't you been working beastly long hours, lately?" She said this last with another frown and the knowing kind of look that a mother has when her children have been complaining to her.

Feeling foolish and neglectful, Harry blushed. "Well, yes, but wouldn't she leave a note?"

Mrs. Weasley yawned again before answering. "Perhaps, if she thought you would arrive first."

"Right," he mumbled. "Sorry to have bothered you."

"Go to bed, dear," she said kindly, relenting a little. "I'm sure she'll be back any time now."

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley." Harry pulled his head out of the Floo, watching the flames lose their green cast with a sheepish grimace. He was a heel, wasn't he? Flying off the handle just because Ginny wasn't around to wait on him. No doubt she had been feeling lonely these last few days, and she had just wanted a little companionship. Though it was quite late, he had been coming home much later recently. He had taken for granted that she hadn't come down with the Rash and had soaked up her pampering like a greedy sponge. Though now that he thought about it, she had seemed distant and withdrawn. She hadn't complained (at least not to him), but she hadn't been happy.

He would simply have to make it up to her.

Instead of following Mrs. Weasley's advice and going to bed, Harry turned down the lamps, the fire in the hearth the only light in the room, and curled up on the sofa. He would wait for her for a change.

The kitchen in Severus' house on Spinner's End was awash in cheery, yellow sunshine, and the refreshing fragrance of mint from the garden wafted in through the window over the sink. It was a humble Muggle kitchen; the counter and floors were tiled in simple white ceramic, a utilitarian faucet arched over a smallish porcelain sink, and plain cabinetry painted the same crisp white of the tile lined the walls. It was not at all similar to the lavish kitchen of Malfoy Manor, with enormous hearths that could accommodate ten-gallon cauldrons and wrought iron woodstoves whose grilled fronts glared like demons when lit. There was something about being able to fix a cup of coffee in his godfather's Mr. Coffee without the aid of a house-elf and reading the Daily Prophet at the tiny dinette that made Draco feel liberated. It was such a simple thing, but one he couldn't explain to his friends like Blaise, who still had his morning tea delivered to him in bed.

It had become a ritual for Draco since he had begun to live with Snape after his father had banished him from the Manor. Even on gloomy days when the kitchen was lit by electric light and the windows were shuttered against the rain, he would read the paper and listen to the stuttered gurgling of the coffee machine as the kitchen filled with the aroma of rich brew. He still didn't know why his godfather let him stay, giving him exclusive use of the second bedroom when Draco was not shacked up with his latest squeeze. Severus said that it was because he made the coffee in the morning. Though unaware of such a thing as coffeepot timers, Draco was still sure that there was something more to it. Severus was unwilling to elaborate, however, so Draco left it alone.

Scanning the litany of bad news screaming from the Prophet as he sipped at his mug of strong coffee, Draco felt the cheeriness of the sunlight speckling the tabletop dim slightly. All was not well in wizarding Britain.

"Draco, I want you to tell me exactly where you got those mushrooms."

Glancing up from the morning paper at his godfather's forbidding tone, Draco blanched and dropped it into his oatmeal. "Merlin's balls..."

Severus stood halfway through the doorway to the kitchen, his body partially hidden by the door and the shadows that tended to gather in the parlor. A sheen of moisture glistened over lips that were pinched and drawn down into tight frown. His normally immaculate white lab coat was splattered with a purple substance and hung sloppily open, revealing his gray undershirt, dark with a spreading stain of sweat at his chest. Severus raised a shaky hand to push his hair out of his eyes, and Draco's eyes widened at the sight of large purple welts dotting the backs of his hand and marching across his face. The lines around his mouth and across his forehead had deepened since Draco had seen him the previous evening, and heavy bags hung under his eyes. Glaring at him through a curtain of lank black hair, Severus had a sinister air about him that Draco had not felt in years.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to alleviate his headache, Severus felt his eye twitch at the gobsmacked look on his godson's face. He knew what he must look like: the Rash had infected him within hours of opening the bag of mushrooms that Draco had so casually handed to him the previous day, the spores seeping through a tiny tear in his gloves. His skin teemed with itchy purple bumps that stung when his clothing chafed against them. The fever had started not long after, and he alternately shivered and burned as he sweated himself to dehydration. He hadn't been more furious with the boy since the death of Dumbledore.

The young man clambered to his feet, but Severus raised a dissuading hand and tried not to lean too obviously against the doorjamb. Enunciating the words very slowly and precisely, forcing the sounds past his parched throat, he repeated, "Where did you get them?"

Draco gaped at him for a moment before recovering himself and plucking the paper out of his oatmeal. Folding it carefully, he set it on the table, his face schooled into impassivity and his gray eyes never leaving his godfather's face. He exhibited all the signs of a Slytherin preparing himself to get out of trouble. "As I mentioned earlier, they were collected from the Forbidden Forest."

"And as I mentioned earlier," Severus growled hoarsely, anger roughening his voice as much as the effects of the fever, "I wanted nothing to do with this newest epidemic."

His Adam's apple bobbing the length of this throat, Draco swallowed convulsively, but his gaze and voice remained steady. "You might have. I don't recall." Rising to his feet, he slid the chair under the table with the barest scraping of wood on tile. "But you obviously aren't feeling well. Let me..."

"Silence!" Draco flinched and cowered reflexively, but the effort it took to hiss that word made Severus sway on his feet. "Explain yourself."

All at once, the years of maturity melted from the young man, and he was left a terrified first year confronting his furious Head of House. Had Severus not had a pounding headache and burning fever, not to mention skin that felt like it would crawl off his flesh, he might have chuckled. Like a punctured balloon, Draco spewed forth his story in a great, undignified rush. "I got them from Potter... I nicked them from Potter's office. He and the Weasel were researching causes of the Rash and had samples..."

"So you thought it wise to bring such a sample into my home?"

"No! I mean, yes!" He shook his head as if to throw off his momentary lapse into childhood. With a deep breath, he continued calmly, "I intended that we be the first company to develop a cure. How did you get infected? Didn't I tell you that they were poisonous?"

"I didn't do it intentionally, idiot boy!" Dry heat suffused his body, and sweat began to bead on his brow and above his lips. His head throbbed with so much pain that it felt as if his eyeballs were being pushed out of their sockets. He was assured that they weren't, however, because Draco would have said something. "Though if I had known exactly what they were, I would have incinerated them on the spot! They must be tracked down and eradicated. All of them, before this infection has a chance to spread any further."

"Uncle, I think that you might be overreacting..."

Severus wanted to shake the boy, but was having too much difficulty standing on his feet to be manhandling uncooperative godsons. His fever was blisteringly hot, burning through his fury, leaving nothing but exhaustion like ashes and wisps of anger that vanished like smoke. "You don't understand," he said wearily, fighting to swallow as the lining of his throat tried to stick together. "They are suffused with Dark magic. Unnatural. Evil." From Draco's worried look, he thought that he must sound like he was raving, but he was deadly serious.

"You're not feeling well. Let's get you..." Draco had taken several cautious steps forward and was about to grasp his elbow when Severus summoned the energy to slap his hand away.

"I will not be patronized!"

"Alright! But you're hardly able to keep your feet. I'll let Potter and Granger know..."

"What has she got to do with this?" he asked quickly, fighting to keep the sudden, gnawing alarm out of his voice. The floor underneath his feet tilted to the right and he swayed, clutching at the doorjamb with hands slippery with sweat.

"She was there when I took them... Severus?" Draco reached for him again, but Severus stumbled away, backing into the living room. He hated that Draco was witnessing his weakness, but he had to know...

"Severus, let me help!" Draco said as he followed him into the parlor, his arm extended and his face a mask of concern.

Ignoring him, Severus licked lips that were as dry as his throat and rasped, "Has she touched them?"

"I don't know!" Draco snapped as he ran a hand through his hair, tugging out the ribbon in worried frustration. Severus was one of those constancies to which he could cling when he needed a bit of reassurance in his fast-paced, fluctuating life. The future to which he had looked when he was a teenager was vastly different than his current existence. Most days, he thanked his ancestors that he wasn't kowtowing to a soulless snake-man with delusions of grandeur. Those relatively few moments when he regretted that his path hadn't followed the prescription of his father, he could mope to Uncle Sev and receive exactly what he expected: a kick in the pants. That He-Who-Never-Caught-Colds was deliriously ill and bandying about words like "evil" in reference to a packet of mushrooms was unsettling, to say the least. He hoped that Granger formulated some sort of remedy soon, even if that meant he couldn't corner the market. "I don't think so. Though I do know that she has been working on something to help with the symptoms with limited success." Pausing to think, he added, "I wouldn't be surprised if Potty has given her a sample of her own."

Severus staggered and caught himself on the back of the sofa, though only just. The few patches of olive-complected skin that wasn't swollen with purple hives had paled to the color of snow, and his bloodshot eyes were two embers burning from deep within his skull.

"She... she can't..." Severus shook his head and listed against the sofa, his body seeming on the verge of collapse. Deciding to disregard the man's protests, Draco strode forward and steadied him with an arm around his shoulders. "Unhand me, you foolish twit of a..."

"Shut it, Uncle. I'm putting you to bed. As long as you've cleaned the spores off your skin, I should be fine... You did Vanish them, right?" Severus' head had dropped forward, his long black hair obscuring his face, but Draco thought that he heard a grumbled affirmative. "Then there you go. I'm sure Granger will be careful."

Draco pulled him from the sofa, surprised at how much of Severus' weight he had to support, and guided him to the narrow staircase that led to the bedrooms. His head jerked awkwardly when he said Granger's name, and Draco shook his head. When the old man felt better, they would have a good laugh about how he, in his delirium, focused on the bird's safety. Well, he would. He wasn't sure how funny Severus would find it.

A/N: Thanks to my betas, readers, reviewers and especially the mods, who correct and post our fics despite inclement weather and shortness of hands!