Two

A/N: With thanks to my beta, JunoMagic.

St Mungo's Cover-Up!

'... thousands of men hospitalised... too few beds... Minister forced to act...'

Hermione found herself at a loss as she sat down to a proper brunch for the first time in almost two weeks. Her reward for working for every waking moment of her life? Slightly under-cooked scrambled eggs and burnt toast. Lovely. Breakfast aside, she just couldn't decide whether she would most enjoy continuing where she had left off in her latest novel, or whether it might amuse her to scan the newspaper headlines. Presumably, some things might have happened outside St Mungo's at some point during the last few weeks.

Picking up the Prophet purely because she did not have to get out of her seat to do so, Hermione blinked a few times when she realised that she had unknowingly chosen this morning's edition. It wasn't the paper itself that surprised her. Although the date was a bit of a shock, more to the point was the fact that instead of the usual hysteria and spew she expected about the outbreak of Virus Tumescens Terribilis Magicus, affectionately known as the 'P-virus', she was greeted by something very different, yet oddly the same.

Ministry Announces New, Revolutionary Policy

to Deal With the P-virus

The Prophet is pleased to announce that as a result of your letters and our petitioning on our readers' behalf, the Ministry has finally answered the pleas of Wizarding Britain with a new policy designed to minimise the amount of patients in St Mungo's and consolidate family values in magical families in one fell swoop.

In his address to the nation last night, the Minister looked tired and in pain as he implored the wives of England to 'please look after' their husbands. Here at The Prophet, we received inside information that the Minister did arrive at the office this morning looking markedly better than he did last night. It seems that as in other endeavours, the Minister and his family plan to lead by example.

*'carer' is defined by the Act to mean: any person over seventeen years of age willing to take responsibility for the afflicted party, including but not limited to: the preparation and administration of medication, provision of nourishment, general assistance in going about his daily business, and such other assistance with alleviating the symptoms of the P-virus as is morally right and proportionate to the level of intimacy between the relevant man and woman. Preference will be given to wives, de-facto spouses, mistresses, any other woman who can provide evidence of an existing relationship of no less than three months duration, or the first able-bodied female petitioner with a clean bill of health from St Mungo's Hospital, in that order.

Hermione's breakfast went stone cold as she read this article once, then again to check that it was not a figment of her apparently very healthy imagination.

They cannot be serious...

She wasn't sure whether to be more disgusted on the behalf of England's womenfolk, or concerned about the very real risk that some of those men would end up at the mercy of any old harpy who wanted a ride.

Turning half-heartedly back to her breakfast, Hermione sifted back through her memories of the last month or two, trying to piece together how such a simple virus had turned into the most serious magical epidemic since the first outbreak of Dragonpox.

Having only just completed her mandatory four years of training and two years of supervised practice when the epidemic broke out, Hermione had thought the most difficult task she would face this summer would be deciding whether she wanted to work permanently in Spell Damage or Potion Poisoning. At that time, the hospital-wide memo informing staff that there was a new magical virus and telling them to watch for early symptoms had been a running joke.

'Priapism?'

'We should just send them home to enjoy it...'

'Who on earth called it the "P-virus"?'

'Don't take the piss, mate. It's the performance problem affecting privates!'

Like most other Healers, Hermione had giggled a little with her co-workers about the memo. They had all assumed that the people in Magical Bugs would deal with the new illness. That was their speciality...

Unfortunately, from about the time that the first male Healers had started showing symptoms, everything had quickly spiralled downhill into the proverbial shitstorm that had been her life for the past fortnight. St Mungo's administration had left only a skeleton staff in the other wards, and re-rostered everyone capable of walking around and uncapping a vial of Paineeze XXX to Magical Bugs or the waiting room while the researchers down in the basement had been told to leave whatever it was they had been doing and get to work on a cure.

A cure hadn't been forthcoming, and when it was discovered that the virus was non-fatal, the researchers had mostly been glad to move back to their other projects, leaving their fellow Healers to deal with the sudden deluge of patients armed with nothing better than age-old painkillers and muscle relaxants. They might as well have been placebos for all the good they had done.

Worse, due to the instructions for a press release getting lost amongst the extra order forms and other paperwork associated with a huge increase in both inpatients and clinic visits, the public hadn't been informed of the virus until they had come to the hospital with a screaming man or boy in tow, only to see another few hundred similar cases in the wards or waiting rooms. The only positive thing about the royal (and aptly labelled) cock-up by the Public Relations Department was that it had made little difference in the long run. The incubation period of the virus was relatively long. Anywhere from a month to six weeks. Adding this to the fact that most men hadn't actually complained about their symptoms until they were in the third and final phase of the illness, the result had been that by the time St Mungo's had realised what they had been dealing with, it had been far too late to preach prevention. To cut a long story short, Hermione and all the other female Healers had been averaging a day off per fortnight for the last six weeks, with no end in sight.

Looking around her messy flat, Hermione felt depressed when she realised that she had forgotten what to do with free time. Recently, more serious cases had been presenting themselves, leaving even less time for gallivanting. Home remedies and other desperate attempts to find relief had led to some seriously alarming conditions. One man had actually tried to hex his own bits off...

All the wards were literally cracking under the strain of the straightforward cases, let alone the special ones. Throwing the new Ministry policy into the mix, St Mungo's was going to be an even scarier madhouse for the next few days.

Hermione sighed.

She should probably head straight back to the hospital in the afternoon.

When she arrived at the hospital at around two o'clock in the afternoon, Hermione's former supervisor wasn't surprised to see her.

'They need more hands down in Magical Bugs, as usual. But be prepared for pen pushing wherever you go today,' Healer Payne stated tiredly, not bothering to look up from the stack of discharge forms she was signing.

'So we're really just throwing people out? Do we turn them away at the door, too?' Hermione asked moodily. The more time she had to think about this Ministry policy, the more insane it seemed.

Mary Payne looked up at Hermione through almost bruised-looking eyes.

'What the Ministry is asking women to do is barbaric and inexcusable, Hermione, but it doesn't change the fact that we can't do any more for those men here. As for turning people away, we must free the beds for people who truly need our help. A boy with a bad bite from a home-grown Venus mouse-trap mutation came in this morning, and he almost lost the hand because Healer Pye is still on leave and the Healer-In-Charge of Poisonous Bites at the time was unable to be found. Turns out she was busy brewing in her office. We're short of Paineeze XXX again.'

'But the law is totally mad! We may as well be condoning the rape of both men and women!'

Healer Payne closed her eyes as she reiterated flatly, 'Well, we can't keep them here. Tired Healers make mistakes.' Opening her eyes again, she pinned Hermione with her gaze as she continued, 'We also cannot dispute the results obtained by our sisters in France. Sex helps, and that cannot occur here.'

Still thoroughly disgusted, but knowing that further arguments were pointless, Hermione tried a different tack.

'What about those without family or friends to take care of them?'

'They will remain,' the older woman replied, 'but we have been given strict directions to clear eighty percent of the beds taken up by P-virus patients before the end of the week.' She met Hermione's eyes and gave her a look loaded with meaning.

She doesn't even really want to keep those men...

'And the special cases?'

A deep sigh. 'Normal protocol. As soon as they are out of danger, those with carers will be sent home.'

Knowing that there was nothing else worth saying, Hermione turned to trudge back downstairs when the doors of office suddenly burst open, and a panting trainee blurted out, 'Healer Payne! You're needed immediately in room seventeen. A man has been brought in with an extreme case of the P-virus. He's barely breathing!'

As far as Hermione knew, room seventeen, one of the private suites reserved for only the most seriously injured, was currently inhabited by a man who had rubbed a Liquid Ice Potion all over his member in the hope that it would 'freeze the pain'. She made a mental note to check up on the fate of that man before turning to the task at hand.

'Come,' Healer Payne ordered briskly, flicking her hand in Hermione's direction. Proving that she still deserved her reputation as one of the most respected Healers in Britain, the sprightly old witch was out of her chair in a moment, hurrying out of the office as if she hadn't all but lived at St Mungo's for the last month or so.

Since they were in the Plant and Potion Poisoning wards on the third floor, Healer Payne's first question as they moved towards room seventeen was standard.

'What potions has the patient ingested?'

'That's the problem, Ma'am,' replied the trainee. 'He seems to have withdrawn into himself and gone half-crazed from the pain. Won't speak a word.'

'How do we even know he took a potion?' Hermione queried sharply. This sounded more like a case that should have gone to Spell Damage first. Most wizards and witches were wand-happy. They only turned to potions when spells wouldn't work.

They had reached room seventeen.

'I think you'll understand when you see who the patient is,' the trainee stammered, standing respectfully by the door while the qualified Healers entered first.

It was a scene Hermione would never forget.

On the bed, curled up in foetal position, hands clutching tightly at his family jewels, lay none other than Potions master Severus Snape.

The man's face was a mask of agony. His breath was coming shallowly, and a quick diagnosis spell revealed that his pulse was dangerously rapid. As Healer Payne muttered more complex diagnosis spells in a vain attempt to get some idea of what Snape had ingested, Hermione tried a different approach. Gently placing a hand on his shoulder, she asked, 'Can you hear me, Professor?'

Voices.

Pain.

Merlin's fucking grandmother's tits, the pain.

More miserable than he had ever been in his entire, very much pain-filled life, Severus struggled to stay conscious despite the overwhelming pull towards black oblivion. It was imperative that he keep a vague record of who was around him and, more importantly, what they were doing to him. He knew that there was no way in hell that the Healers would be able to identify the cocktail of potions he had taken over the past few days using external testing, and though he was already in unimaginable pain, he feared the consequences of certain other potions being poured down his throat.

He also needed to keep a tight lid on the pain. Knowing that there was nothing he could do to make it better, Severus had long ago resolved to shut down every stray thought, embrace the agony and hold on. It was taking every ounce of his legendary control not to scream and flail like those men he had seen so many weeks ago. But that served no purpose and wasted energy.

He was better than that.

Better, perhaps, but that didn't mean he had anything other than maybe one last reserve of strength and control to stop them from doing something. Communication was just asking far too much.

Pain.

Voices.

From far away, 'Professor...

you...

... hear me?'

Stupid.

Sudden, unexpected contact.

One feeble jerk later, and Severus was staring into a pair of concerned-looking brown eyes. While trying to pick out all the different shades of brown in them, everything from amber to dark chocolate, he could almost forget the pain. Well, not forget it, that would be impossible, but he could try.

Pretty.

'If you can't tell me, can you show me?'

Yes.

Looking into the eyes rather than at them, whoever this was made it easy; her eyes almost seemed to draw him in. Rapidly unloading some of the mental stress of the last few days (or was it weeks?) was a relief, but the connection was not long enough for even a significant improvement, and Severus ruthlessly slammed his control back in place as soon as he found himself ejected from the other mind.

He didn't even care that his ears vaguely picked up a whimper coming from his own throat.

Hurts.

Then, not a moment too soon, it finally came.

... darkness...

Since she was by no means convinced that the ex-professor could hear her, Hermione was not expecting to be immediately assaulted by a positively nauseating ocean of pain and suffering.

Just before she forcibly broke off the connection, she felt more than heard the faintest of whimpers, a weak cry for help. Trying very hard not to be completely shaken by what she had just been exposed to, Hermione took a deep breath or two before quickly relaying her information to Healer Payne.

'He's been taking potions. Ones I don't recognise, so we had better not give him any more. Shall I perform the Mortis Similis?'

How can he be so quiet? How can one mind carry so much strain without breaking?

As soon as Healer Payne nodded, Hermione wasted no time in using a complex charm to put the man into a magically-induced, death-like coma.

Best that he not even be semi-conscious while they ran tests and tried to put his system back to rights...