Becoming Silhouettes

Chapter 8 – The New Feel Awful

Hermione startled guiltily as Draco stepped out of Severus’ bedroom and into the hall. Two blond eyebrows shot to his hairline, but he lifted a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Flushed with embarrassment, Hermione could only nod and tiptoe after him as he led the way downstairs. She had heard the conversation between Draco and Severus winding to a close, but still she had lingered by the door, anxious to catch anything else that might have been said. Not that what they had said had meant much; it was what they had left unsaid that was most important. They had been able to communicate so much with a few casual phrases and significant pauses. Despite her good sense, she had developed grudging respect for Draco for not only blackmailing Severus without actually stating as such, but for leaving the room with all of his limbs attached.

Her younger self would have been horrified by the whole situation: a friend of hers blackmailing a family member with lies and her shamelessly eavesdropping in order learn how to snare said family member after having just rifled through his personal possessions. Her older self simply gave a figurative shrug and chalked it up to life in the real world where one did what one must to attain one’s desires. She did wonder just what Draco was willing to do and where he drew the line at decency. Could she blackmail a member of her family? She liked to think not. However, from Severus’ reaction, she had a feeling such actions were par for the course for Malfoys and Snapes.

“A self-preservation thing,” she muttered quietly to herself as she followed Draco into the sunny kitchen. What did that mean coming from a man who had been all but stalking her for years, collecting her image in album after album? What made her so appealing visually, yet repulsive in person? She knew that they could get along well – the last two days had proven it. She wanted to get to know him better; she simply had to convince him that he wanted to know her – in the flesh, that is.

The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor pulled her from her thoughts. She glanced up at Draco, who was watching her with an unfathomable expression reminiscent of his godfather. He gestured for her to take a seat, and she dropped into it, uncomfortably aware of what he had just caught her doing. He must think her a sneak. Worse yet, an inept sneak. She hated to appear incompetent.

It was then that she noticed how carefully the table had been set. Several pieces of toast were piled on a plate set in the middle of the table next to a steaming pot of tea. A cube of butter, a small jar of jam, sugar and milk were clustered near the teapot, each with a separate utensil. Two place settings were arranged at opposite sides of the table, the plates and teacups positioned symmetrically with obvious concern for detail. In a heavy blue glass vase, two enormous sunflowers lit the kitchen with color almost as much as their namesake. Next to her plate was a folded Daily Prophet and a scroll that looked suspiciously like a contract.

“Looking for towels again?” Draco asked dryly, referring to yesterday’s excuse for invasion of privacy, as he took his seat across from her.

Hermione blushed, but met his eyes, raising her chin a little. “Why didn’t you tell him?” she asked instead of trying to defend her behavior. There weren’t any good justifications, for one, and she really was quite curious as to why he would take implicit blame for something she had done.

He shrugged with one shoulder. “There is no guarantee that I won’t.”

Swallowing noisily, Hermione watched as he slid a piece of toast onto her plate and smirked at her. Then, the implications of his statement sunk in. She frowned and plucked the butter knife from the dish, pointing its dull tip at him. “I won’t sleep with you,” she growled.

Draco blinked, seemingly in honest surprise, and then shot her an annoyed grimace. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need to blackmail women into my bed any more than I need ‘master plans.’ However, my little eavesdropper, I do have some paperwork for you to look at.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, nonplussed. Was that all he wanted? She could hardly believe it. A sudden idea occurred to her, and she schooled her features into what she hoped was a cowed expression. Feigning reluctance to cover a small frisson of excitement, she unrolled the scroll and skimmed the contract, her eyes searching for a particular clause – one that would give her, as the client, rights to drop by the contracted master’s lab to inspect the brewing of her patented potions. It was a common enough clause and would give her a pretense to spend time Severus. However, she couldn’t let Draco know that she was now eager to sign Wyrm and Prince as her supplier – he would surely try to gain an advantage.

Finally, she found it near the bottom of the scroll as part of the guarantee of quality control. Smiling internally, she sighed and tried to look resigned as she took the peacock-plumed quill from Draco’s outstretched hand. Usually, she had her solicitor check the contracts before she signed, but before A New You had become so successful, she had learned to read them for herself. She had to give Draco credit – it was a well-developed contract, much more fair than she had been expecting. The only things that she did not like were the duration (ten years) and the sole supply agreement, meaning that Wyrm and Prince would be the only Potions distributor that could brew and supply her potions. Her previous supplier had had a similar clause, and look where that had got her: signing a deal with a devil to further her goal to get under the robes of an ex-Professor.

Exclusivity for a decade or not, she would sign. As accommodating and companionable as Draco had been, she didn’t trust him not to go to Severus if he thought it would be in his best interest. Besides, it might take her ten years to get under Severus’ robes.

‘Draco had better keep his mouth shut,’ she thought as she scrawled her name at the bottom of the contract in glittering purple ink. The moment she was finished, it rolled itself closed and disappeared in a cloud of sweetly scented purple smoke. She knew that two copies would be made: one for her, which would appear in her office; one for him, which would go wherever he stored such things; and the original would be archived at the Ministry.

Exuding smug satisfaction, Draco poured her a cup of tea and added a dollop of milk, just as she liked it. They had shared several meals over the last couple of days, sometimes in Severus’ room as he slept and others at this very table. His willing domesticity had shocked her at first, as had their easy camaraderie. She was actually getting to like him – not that she trusted him. Correction: she trusted him to be a conniving, manipulative snake. She supposed it was just as well that she liked the prat, considering her plans for his godfather.

It did concern her that Draco seemed to have similar plans for her. Whether or not he would truly stoop to blackmail was anyone’s guess, but she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Even more concerning was Severus’ reaction when he found out about her short foray into his office. She didn’t doubt that it would come to light sooner or later, and she thought it very important that he find out in a controlled environment – one controlled by her. Hermione took a large bite of dry toast and pondered her next step. She might as well get the un-drugged Severus used to her company…

“To a bright new business future that will make both of us piles of Galleons,” Draco announced as he toasted her with his cup of tea, his gray eyes gleaming with avarice and something else.

Hermione raised her teacup in return, returning his smirk. “To a bright new future,” she repeated, adding silently, ‘that will include seducing the reclusive Master Snape.’

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her from over his teacup. “Now why am I getting the impression that that was too easy?”

“You consider chasing me with a contract for over a week and then blackmailing me to sign ‘easy’? I’d hate to hear what you define as difficult.” Draco shrugged one shoulder, winking at her, and Hermione rolled her eyes. He was teasing her, of course. “Speaking of difficult,” she said as she took another bite of dry toast, “I want large-scale brewing of my Rash treatment to start as soon as Severus is well enough. Of course, I will be on hand to assist with and supervise the first several batches.”

His eyebrows rising toward his hairline, Draco blinked speculative gray eyes at her. “Sev is more than competent when following written instructions. He rarely allows me into his laboratory when brewing,” he cautioned her.

“You haven’t signed a contract that granted you rights to supervise the brewing of your own potions,” Hermione pointed out. “And considering the fact that it was partly due to your carelessness that he was infected, I’m not terribly surprised.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I was not the one that put damaged gloves on his hands. I simply declined to mention certain… ah… properties of that particular sample.” Taking a sip of tea, he regarded her over the top of the cup. “He will not be pleased.”

“He’ll manage,” Hermione said with a wry smile. “And he should be able to start tomorrow morning if he takes it slowly. I would rather he stay abed longer, but we just don’t have the time to wait. I’ll be back at… say, half-past nine?”

Shrugging carelessly, Draco topped off both of their cups. “Alright, then. It’s your funeral. I’ll see that Severus is prepared.”

With a nod, Hermione polished off her piece of toast and chased it with the entire contents of her teacup. Draco’s face fell slightly, but she ignored him. Rising out of her seat as she dusted crumbs from her fingers, she said, “I should check on my patient one last time before I track down Harry with the good news that I’ve got a cure.”

---

Hermione tapped lightly on Severus’ bedroom door before pushing it open, her smile fixed firmly in place. She was determined to show him that no matter how unpleasant he chose to be, there was no chasing her away. It was a matter of wearing down his resistance, she figured, until he gave into his obsession with her and accepted her as a part of his life. As Harry and Ron could attest, she was nothing if not persistent.

She almost sighed in disappointment when she saw that he was sleeping, his head tilted to the side and the air whistling through his long nostrils with the faintest of snores. Then again, he might be faking it. Brow furrowing, she leaned over him, watching for the small signs that would betray him. If anyone one could fool a trained Healer to think that one was asleep, it would be Severus Snape. After a long moment, her shoulders slumped slightly, and she surrendered to the urge to sigh. She couldn’t tell one way or the other.

She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Draco that she needed to check on him. Claiming her favorite spot on the edge of his mattress, she pressed her palm against his cheeks and forehead, checking for a residual fever. He was a little warm, so she eased her hand under the nape of his neck. The skin was hot and moist, and fine black hairs, sticky with sweat, clung to her fingertips.

“Still slightly feverish,” she muttered, trailing her fingers along his hairline behind his ear. She felt confident that the fever would be gone within a couple of hours, and he would be well enough to start brewing in the morning for a short while. If the situation hadn’t been quite so desperate, then she would have recommended that he stay abed for another day or so. Unfortunately, she really did need the help, and as long as he took it easy, he should be fine. She would see to it that he took care of himself. However, she’d let Draco break the news of the cooperative nature of their project.

Smiling to herself, she brushed the high planes of his cheekbones with her fingertips. Even with a faint flush, his skin glowed with an olive tan. He had probably acquired it while gardening, she thought wistfully. He was sure to be a sight for sore eyes in a tee shirt and jeans, sweating and grubby up to his elbows. She would insist that he take a shower before touching her, and then she’d follow him upstairs—

“Ms. Granger, I must insist that you unhand me at once!”

Hermione blinked at him, startled to realize that not only were his eyes open and his face drawn into a fulminous glare, but that her hand had buried itself into his somewhat oily hair. Reaching over with one clammy hand, he latched onto her wrist and pulled it free. She didn’t resist, reclaiming her wayward hand as if it had every right to be in his hair in the first place.

“I was checking for fever, as you well know. You were faking sleep,” she said with a small, wry smile. “I suppose I would too, if I had Draco around to play nursemaid. Though, you are well enough to have attempted breakfast with us.”

“You were taking liberties with my person,” Snape said silkily as he crossed his arms over his chest and scooted backward until he was reclining at a steeper angle. Hermione had noticed that he’d done it earlier that morning when he had awoken sober and clear-headed. Perhaps the vulnerable position of lying on his back bothered him.

“Would you like to sit up?” she asked solicitously. “I could bring more pillows.” Snape shot her a black look, and she smiled back. “I had to put your favorite set of pillowcases in the wash, but they are probably dry now.” Severus didn’t answer, choosing instead to stare out the window.

Sunlight slanted in through the curtains, illuminating the patch of comforter under which his feet formed a tall peak. He had big feet for a man his height, lean and dusted with wiry dark hair like the rest of him. Each toe was long and well formed, the toenails trimmed and healthy. The rough calluses Hermione had expected to find were absent, and his skin was soft and smooth.

“I could give you another foot massage,” she offered without thinking about it. Her hands were itching to touch him again and for him to receive her touch with pleasure.

He flinched away from her, drawing himself even higher on the bed and pulling his arms closer to his body. His voice was deadly soft when he finally spoke. “I suggest you leave.”

Hermione sighed heavily, not bothering to hide her disappointment, and stood. “Alright. Draco can handle it from here.” She walked to the door and then paused at the threshold. “The offer will remain open.”

---

Spinner’s End was oddly quiet now that it was just the two of them. Draco was surprised by the unexpected emptiness that Hermione had left when she had Flooed home. In certain ways, Draco enjoyed the peace, though Hermione hadn’t been a noisy or boisterous houseguest by any means. She simply had a presence to her that was now noticeably absent. He missed having someone around that would talk to him; Snape had remained steadfastly silent since breakfast.

She had left in haste, too. After finally getting a glimpse of the Daily Prophet’s cover story regarding the fall of St. Mungo’s, she had grabbed her belongings and dashed off with a quick parting word that she’d “be in touch.” He could only assume that she was anxious to find her two buffoon friends.

All in all, Draco considered the pursuits of the last couple of days a solid success. Severus was well on his way to a full recovery and was as difficult as ever. Blaise owed him one hundred Galleons for the bet he had made against Hermione willingly working with Death Eaters, and he was on a sure path to another one hundred Galleons. When he presented the contract to his recalcitrant godfather, Severus would have to admit to being wrong.

The only feat he hadn’t yet managed was to coax Hermione into his bed. He had been encouraged when they progressed to a first name basis, but she still held him at a wary arm’s length. In fact, she had almost seemed oblivious to his advances, interpreting his flirting as a joke.

‘She was distracted by Severus’ illness,’ he thought, somewhat consoled until a realization struck him. ‘She was distracted by Severus!’ He tried to imagine how a woman could be drawn to his godfather when he, Draco, was in the same household. He was smart, funny, devastatingly handsome, wildly successful… and he hadn’t spent his lucid moments belittling the swot… well, recently, that is. Unable to fathom it, Draco decided that he was simply being too subtle. She might require the direct you’re-a-witch-I’m-a-wizard-let’s-get-drunk-and-screw approach. It was a waste of his talent, but he supposed it was the end result that mattered. Then again… she might want old-fashioned wooing: stolen kisses in the shadows, small sentimental presents, that kind of rot. Draco was obviously out of practice with that technique, for most women came running when he crooked his finger at them. He had told her the truth when he had said that he did not have to resort to blackmail. Regardless, he had to be forthright about his intentions.

And if she really was taking an interest in Severus? Draco paused at the mantel above the parlor hearth to give the notion serious consideration. He now knew that his godfather had an obsession, borderline unhealthy, with her. “Self-preservation,” Severus had said. He must not have wanted to reveal his unrequited affections to a woman that he expected to reject him. Instead, he used each personal encounter to drive her away. It made sense in an anti-social, Severus sort of way. If Severus thought that Hermione shared his regard, would he change his mind and pursue her? Draco shrugged, pulling a pinch of Floo powder from the ornamental pot on the mantel. Either way, Draco had the A New You account in the bag, and he was up to a little competition. Obsession or not, a man had to strive for what he wanted, and if Severus wasn’t going to bother, then Draco had no compunctions against snatching her up for himself. Inactivity on Severus’ part was as good as declaration of surrender.

Draco grinned toothily. Wouldn’t his father be furious?

“Malfoy Manor, library,” he enunciated clearly as he tossed the powder into the small fire. Settling onto his knees on the hearthrug, he pushed his face into the green flames. As he had expected, his mother and father were seated in two matched brocade wingbacks, each with an expensively bound book in his and her hands. His mother glanced up first, and upon spying his head in the flames, carelessly discarded her book on a delicately carved end table and rushed to the fireplace.

“Draco! Finally! I’ve been worried sick, what with the—”

“Calm yourself, Narcissa. He’s a grown boy making his own decisions,” his father sneered from his chair. She tilted her face slightly away from her husband and rolled her eyes.

“You know where I’m staying, Mother,” Draco said with a sigh, bracing himself for a pecking. His mother had the worst case of empty-nest of her entire peer group, doubtless due to his exile from the Manor.

“The last time I Flooed, Sev told me that you were with some girl named Caroline and that she didn’t have a fireplace connected to the Floo Network.” Narcissa grimaced prettily, her wrinkled nose indicating what she thought of a person without a Floo.

“Another Mudblood bitch, no doubt,” his father grumbled from his chair. Narcissa waved a quelling hand.

Draco resisted the urge to rub it in – she had been Muggle-born – but Draco hadn’t Flooed to irritate his father. “Carol-Ann, and that was over a month ago. I’m back at Uncle Sev’s. But that’s beside the point. Have you been following news of the Rash in the Prophet?”

“Some new scourge released by the Muggles,” his mother said with disgust, wrinkling her nose again as if she could smell the scum responsible. His father snorted in agreement. “Maybe now something will be done—”

“Muggles didn’t do this, mother.” In a rush of words, Draco explained the source of the contagion, its inherent evil, and how quickly Severus had fallen ill. He also made a point to mention that Hermione (and he called her by first name, much to the apparent displeasure of his father) had developed a cure and had brought Severus back from the brink of who-knew-what. As he spoke, Lucius grew paler and paler, leaving his chair to stand in front of the fireplace by his wife.

When Draco had finally wound down to the end of his story, Lucius, in a voice notably lacking its characteristic drawl, said, “It sounds disturbingly similar to a project that I worked on before the end.” Draco frowned at him; by “the end,” Lucius always meant Voldemort’s final defeat. Draco despised the euphemism. He looked back on it as more of a beginning. Narcissa blanched to the color of a sheet and wrapped long white fingers around her husband’s forearm.

“Project?” Draco asked sharply. “What do you mean?”

Lucius grimaced in remembrance as he absently patted his wife’s rigid hands. “When the Dark Lord—” Narcissa gasped reflexively, and this time, Lucius began to pry his wife’s hands from his arm as he winced in pain. “When he was holed up here during those final months, part of the punishment for my… disgrace… was to assist with research and experimentation in the transference of… essence.”

Frowning in confusion, Draco asked, “What kind of essence?”

“The essence of a human being, Draco,” Lucius said as if Draco were being dense on purpose. “Specifically, his.”

“Hadn’t he already made several Horcruxes?”

“A Horcrux is a fragment of soul placed in one object, and if that object is destroyed, then so is the fragment of soul. This was the transference of the entire soul, as well as memories, personality, will – a possession of sorts. I suspect that his eventual goal was to reform his soul and transfer it to a younger, healthier body when his dominion was secured. In the meantime, he wanted another failsafe in case events didn’t unfold as he had planned.

“He expressed frustration and disappointment with his experience using that idiot Quirrell as a host for his essence – the possession was incomplete and uncomfortable. He charged us with finding a method of preserving one’s essence and then joining that essence with a suitable host.”

Lucius took a deep breath, ignoring his son’s impatient glare from the fire, tinted green by the light of the Floo connection. “We were not able to complete our task, but we did come close. I won’t go into the details of our experiments,” he said darkly and shuddered. Narcissa shook her head emphatically.

“Father, that’s all very… ah… interesting, but—”

“We found an obscure strain of magical mushrooms that was all but extinct,” said Lucius, interrupting him. “Centuries ago, it was used by a Dark wizard to gather a small horde of thralls. The mushrooms were infused with the wizard’s essence and used to ensorcelled all those in his territory who had a natural talent for Dark Magic.”

Draco stared at him in silence for a long moment. “Are you saying that the Dark Lord is alive, well, and recruiting with fungus?”

“No, idiot boy!” Lucius snapped. “I told you that we didn’t succeed. The Dark Lord is dead. He wouldn’t let us use anything of himself until we had surety of results, and as I said…” He trailed off, staring into space for a moment with horror flickering at the backs of his eyes.

“Who was the Dark wizard? What happened to him?” Draco asked when he was sure that his father was not going to finish his sentence.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, and for a moment Draco thought that he wouldn’t answer. Finally, he said, “Ah, but therein lay the tragedy. A filthy Muggle mob armed with farming equipment overwhelmed the thralls and murdered them. Fearful of discovery, the Magical community struck his name from all records and destroyed his lab, trapping the wizard within and immolating him.”

The three Malfoys fell silent, the only sound in the room the quiet snapping of the wood as it burned. The flames reached a knot in one of the logs, and a sharp pop broke the stillness with a cascade of green sparks. Lucius and Narcissa startled in unison, their eyes haunted. Draco watched them solemnly, his mother clutching at his father and his father internally battling the ghosts of past demons. In that last year of the Dark Lord’s terror, Draco’s parents had protected him from projects such as these. He hadn’t objected; after his experience with trying to plan the murder of Dumbledore in his sixth year at Hogwarts, he had had enough of Dark Lord sponsored extra-curricular activities to last him a lifetime. He hadn’t known what his father had been working on in the bowels of Malfoy Manor, and he hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t regret his parents’ protection, but knowing some of this sooner would have been helpful. Regardless, his father had given him much to think about, and he wanted to talk it over with Hermione and Severus.

Running a hand through his hair, the Floo magic crackling along the roots of his hair with the gesture, Draco suggested wearily, “Perhaps you should consider taking a holiday until this is all over. The beaches in Spain are particularly lovely at this time of year. I know that you can get around the restrictions that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has placed on travel in and out of Britain.”

Lucius remained silent for a long moment as Narcissa wrung her hands. Finally, she spoke in a voice strained with worry. “Of course we can. But, Draco, it doesn’t sound like you plan to go with us.”

Taken aback, Draco stared blankly at her for a moment. She was exactly right: it hadn’t even occurred to him to leave town. Even knowing the seriousness of the epidemic and watching the crumbling of order in Wizarding Britain, he had been busy trying to find a way to profit from it. Moreover, he had accomplished that feat. Hermione had signed his contract, so Wyrm and Prince would be the brewer for each and every unit of treatment to quell the Rash. Unless…

The niggling worry from earlier in the morning when Hermione signed the contract returned in full force. ‘Unless she intends to sell the cure at cost, or worse yet, give it away for free.’ Draco had to smother a groan. If Severus went along with the idea, and he just might because he was annoyed by Draco’s blackmailing, then he would have no recourse. A New You would still be a cash cow of a client, but he had better stay to make sure that his business associates didn’t fall too far into the red pit of altruism.

Draco shook his head, hating to see his mother’s fearful expression, but knowing that his decision was for the best. “No, Mother. I have to stay here and keep an eye on things. If left unobserved, Hermione,” Draco’s lip twitched when his father flinched, “and Severus will bankrupt me.”

Lucius nodded stiffly. “It would be only what you deserve for fraternizing with Mudbloods, but at least you have decent business sense.”

---

Harry sat in the bathtub and stared blankly at the tiny bathroom window. The steam from the hot water had clouded the glass, and tiny droplets of condensation were slowly creeping down, leaving clear, spidery trails that seemed to tear at the orange-lit London night beyond. Harry thought that the fogged window and polluted night sky must be a sort of analogy of his own mind: clouded with exhaustion, but if he was to start thinking clearly, his thoughts would be dark and tainted. Suddenly, the bath didn’t feel as good as it had a moment ago.

Ginny had been missing what, three, four days? Harry couldn’t remember: the days and nights had blurred, stitched together with skirmishes against murderous wizards with glowing red eyes and mass memory modifications when Muggles got too close. Occasionally, they were called to protect Muggles from uninfected wizards convinced that Muggles were responsible for the infection. During one such fight, the wizards had refused to back down, choosing to attack the Aurors who were only trying to defuse the situation. One Auror had been killed, and the mob of wizards had Disapparated so quickly that no arrests had been made. Then, the entire squad had been reprimanded for not setting Anti-Apparition wards.

When he wasn’t performing his duties as an Auror or eating (sleep had become a luxury he couldn’t afford), he and Ron, with help from the rest of the squad, searched for Ginny. All of the Aurors still on duty had been instructed to keep an eye and an ear out for her. Her friends and family had also been put on alert and had promised to contact him or Ron if they heard anything (Mrs. Weasley wasn’t speaking to him anymore). He still made a point to visit her favorite places to eat and shop, though most of them had been closed down. Unfortunately, with no leads, they made very little progress.

When he had been a teenager and Sirius had been on the run from the law, he had wondered why wizards as powerful as Aurors could not find one man. The notion had disturbed him when he had thought Sirius was out to kill him and delighted him when he had been revealed as his loving godfather. He was sure it frustrated the living piss out of the Aurors assigned to hunt him down – he was feeling that very frustration now. The fact was that a clever wizard could thwart even the Aurors if he didn’t want to be found.

Harry’s train of thought stumbled to a halt. Could Ginny not want to be found? Was she hiding from him? Harry shook his head with enough force to slosh water out of the bath. No, Ginny wouldn’t do that to him, no matter how angry she was. She wouldn’t do that to her family, either.

His next thought struck him hard, and Harry grew cold despite the warm water in which he was soaking. Could someone else not want her to be found?

Harry leapt out of the bathtub and snatched a towel from the rack as he wrenched open the door. Dripping wet, he pelted the down the hall holding the towel haphazardly in front of his groin. “Ron! Ron!” he shouted, reaching the stairs before hearing a response.

“Shut your gob!” Ron hissed from Luna’s bedroom doorway. “Luna’s just fallen asleep— aw, mate! Cover yourself, will you?”

Glancing down, Harry realized that he had grabbed a small hand towel instead of a bath towel. Futilely trying to wrap that tiny thing around his waist, he settled for holding it in place, leaving a large gap at one thigh. He lowered his voice to a whisper and padded over to Ron.

“I think Ginny has been kidnapped!” Harry hissed with a quick guilty glance into the room where Luna lay sleeping fitfully. Even in the low light of the bedroom, Harry could see the purple rash that spoiled her complexion. She had fallen ill yesterday and now had a fever. It wasn’t severe, and before retiring, she had assured them both that she didn’t feel all that bad, but Ron felt horribly guilty for brushing off the possibility of her being in danger. Harry was quite sure that if Ginny weren’t missing, then Ron would be playing the devoted nursemaid. As it was, Harry had to listen to him moan about what a cad he was and then reassure him that Luna had been exposed before Ron had done anything insensitive or stupid.

Harry really, really hoped that Hermione came through with the cure sooner than later.

“What makes you think that?” Ron asked, his face paling as he slipped out of the room and closed the door softly behind him. Goosebumps raced down Harry’s arms and legs as the water cooled on his skin, and he clutched the towel tighter around his hips. Ron pointedly did not look down.

“Think about it: we can’t find her, she hasn’t contacted us. None of us really believe that she ran away.” Ron pulled a face and rolled his eyes. “Except for your mum,” Harry added. “It’s as if someone doesn’t want her to be found!”

Ron leaned against the wall, his skin gaining a green tint behind his freckles as the energy seemed to leach from his limbs. His voice trembling faintly, he asked, “But who would want to kidnap Ginny?”

Harry shook his head, but before he could reply, a familiar shout traveled up the stairs.

“Harry, are you there?”

“Hermione!” they exclaimed in unison and bolted for the stairs. They entered the living room at a dead run, skidding to a stop with a flourish of long limbs.

Whirling to face them, Hermione greeted them with a wide smile. “Harry, Ron! I— Oh, honestly, Harry!” Folding her arms under her breasts, she rolled her eyes. It was at that moment that Harry realized that he had lost purchase of one corner of his hand towel. He was now flashing his bits and bobbles at his best female friend.

Ron barked out a laugh. “Ha! Maybe you should put some pants on, mate.”

Flushing red, Harry turned on his heel and pounded back up the stairs to do just that. Ron kept his eyes averted, theatrically shielding his face with a hand. He tore into his bedroom and dressed in a flash, throwing on the first pieces of clothing that he could find. Scant minutes later he was running back down the stairs and into the living room. Ron and Hermione had seated themselves on the couch, and Ron was filling her in on all that had happened since they had last seen each other. From his wild gesticulation, Harry guessed that Ron was re-enacting their last battle. Hermione looked far from impressed.

She glanced up at him as Harry took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. He didn’t like the speculative look that she was giving him – as if she were sizing him up. Blushing again as he remembered just what it was she could be sizing, he said defensively, “It was cold.”

“I’m sure it was,” Hermione assured him with a patronizing tone that he knew well.

“Ginny’s had no complaints.” He wasn’t sure whom he was trying to reassure, and it hadn’t come out as confident as he would have wanted.

Ron interrupted with a smirk. “Well, actually—”

“Shut up, Ron.” Harry didn’t want to know what those complaints were or how Ron had heard them. They also had much more important things to discuss. Hermione seemed to agree.

She squeezed her eyes closed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “So, in a nutshell, wizarding Britain is tearing itself apart, Muggles are being blamed for the Rash, Luna is sick with it upstairs, and Ginny has been missing for four days, possibly kidnapped.” Harry and Ron both nodded. Setting her bag on the couch next to her, she withdrew a small vial. “I can help Luna now.”

“You did it?” Harry exclaimed, scooting forward to sit at the edge of his seat.

Hermione grinned. “Yes, it’s been tested on a human subject and seems to work.”

Ron crowed and reached for the vial, but Hermione pulled it out of reach. “Not so fast. I’ll administer it myself after I’ve examined her properly.”

“Hermione,” Ron whined, pouting as he made another grab for the vial. “We know what the problem is!”

“Knock it off, Ronald!” Planting her empty palm against his forehead, she pushed him away.

“Come on, don’t be this way!” Ron had devolved from whining to downright petulance.

“Could we please get back to the important issues, here?” Harry said, his voice intentionally quiet as he fought with his rising temper. It was at times like these that he was wholeheartedly glad that Hermione and Ron had broken up. “Ginny has been kidnapped.”

Hermione stood abruptly, robbing Ron of his prop and sending him face-first into the couch cushions. Ignoring his muffled cursing, she said, “Your right, Harry. I’ll check on Luna and give her the first dose. Then, we’ll discuss the Ginny situation.”

Slinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she strode purposefully toward the stairs. Clambering off the couch in jumble of long limbs, Ron trotted after her. Harry stared after them, mouth slightly agape in disbelief that she wasn’t staying to hear him out. It didn’t even sound like she believed him!

“Ow, Ronald!” Hermione’s voice floated down the stairwell, accompanied by the thudding tread of Ron’s big feet. “Watch where you’re stepping!” His mumbled apology was unintelligible, but sounded unrepentant.

Left alone in the living room, Harry shut his mouth with a snap and slouched into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Would it have killed her to let me finish?” Harry grumbled to himself. Yes, Luna was sick, but she wasn’t that sick. Her symptoms were not even close to the severity that his or Ron’s had been. This, after hiding for days in her laboratory, doing who knows what… Oh.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head into his hands. “Idiot,” he muttered. “She was creating a cure.” She was also a Healer, and he had a sick resident. She was only doing her job. Feeling supremely selfish and exhausted to the bone, Harry allowed his head loll against the cushion. Closing his eyes, he decided to give Hermione a couple of minutes to reappear before going after her.

---

“I think we should let him sleep,” a female voice whispered near his head, sending ripples of sound through the rich blackness that had enveloped him. On some level, Harry recognized the voice as Hermione’s, but couldn’t quite recall why that was important – or why it might irritate him. He was sure in a distant, fuzzy kind of way that he should pull himself out of the buoyant darkness and answer her, but he was far too comfortable. In fact, if he were to simply sink a little further into the dark, then he wouldn’t be bothered by disembodied voices…

“Maybe.” That was Ron’s voice, Harry thought muzzily. Good old Ron. “He’s been stretching himself pretty thin, what with being on call and searching for Ginny.”

At the sound of Ginny’s name, Harry’s body jolted violently, the peaceful half-doze shattering like a delicate crystal goblet dropped on the floor. Wrenching himself upright, Harry blinked his eyes open at his two friends who were hovering over his chair. Hermione shot Ron a glare.

“Harry, you look done in. Perhaps you should go back to sleep,” she said soothingly. Leaning over him, Hermione peered into his eyes and pressed her palm again his forehead.

Shaking his head, Harry stifled a yawn widely and batted her hand away. She pursed her lips and gave him an impatient look, but waited for him to speak. “I can have a kip later. The important thing now is to figure out who took Ginny and how to get her back.”

“Luna’s doing well, by the way,” Ron muttered as he sank back into the couch.

Instead of joining Ron on the couch, Hermione took a seat in the other overstuffed chair. “But you don’t know that she’s been kidnapped for certain,” she said, now all business. Harry didn’t like the skepticism that was gathering in the corners of her eyes.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Harry watched disbelief flit across her face and continued, his voice gaining volume, “Otherwise, she would have contacted us by now.”

Hermione gave him a somewhat pitying look. “Harry, who would want to kidnap Ginny?”

It was the same question Ron had asked, but delivered in a much different tone. Standing abruptly, Harry began to pace his living room. “I don’t know! But I know I’m right!” And he did – the gnawing worry that had been chewing on the back of his mind had latched onto the idea with tooth and claw and refused to let go. He knew that something horrible had happened to Ginny, and kidnapping fit the bill.

“Doesn’t it seem more likely that she simply got stranded somewhere? Her owl is probably on its way, just detained by all this Rash business.” She waved a hand, dismissing fire, death and chaos with an airy gesture.

“Luna said that it could be caused by the Fearsome Japanese Fungus Demon, known for overtaking gardens and chasing families from their homes,” Ron said with a confident air. Smothering a groan, Harry scrubbed his stubbled cheeks with the palms of his hands. Ron had clung to everything that Luna had said recently as if her ideas were the best things since the invention of racing brooms.

Hermione stared at him impassively. “Japanese Fungus Demon?” Turning to Harry, she raised an eyebrow. “You think Japanese Fungus Demons have kidnapped Ginny?”

Refusing to answer such a ridiculous question, Harry stomped over to the fireplace and lit the hearth with a quick spell. “I’m alerting the squad to my theory. How much of that cure do you have, Hermione, and when can you make more?” he snapped.

“One other vial besides the one Luna will need. I have a new supplier lined up – I’ll see about getting enough to treat about one hundred mild cases in forty-eight hours. For severe cases, the same amount would treat no more than twenty.”

Ron hissed through his teeth. “We’ll need a way to dose the crazy ones, too. They won’t sit still to take their medicine. More likely try to bite your hand off.”

Turning to him with a startled expression, Hermione said, “You are absolutely right, Ronald. The brewer is top notch; I’m sure we’ll be able to come up with something quickly. Nebulize it, maybe. Yes.” She blinked several times as she stared off into space, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth to nibble on it as she thought. “Though I’d have to… unless I powdered the bezoar… and I would have to increase the potency… hmm.”

Ron leaned forward to snap his fingers in front of her face, and she scowled, swatting his hand away. “Earth to Hermione. You aren’t making any sense.”

Still glaring, Hermione stood imperiously and smoothed her hands down her pants. It was only then that Harry realized that the usually immaculate and fashionably dressed (according to Ginny anyway, Harry hadn’t a clue about fashion) Ms. Granger was wearing a rumpled pair of gray sweats and sported a messy bun held in place with two tongue depressors. He wasn’t sure, but her shirt might have been a man’s button-down several sizes too large. He didn’t have a chance to comment, however, because she pinched a tiny amount of Floo powder from the pot on the mantle and cast it into the fire.

“I’ll keep you posted on my progress,” she snapped over her shoulder, just before stepping into the green flame. “Hermione’s flat!” she exclaimed and vanished with a whoosh.

Blinking at the heart of the flames where she had just stood, Harry waited until the fire was a healthy orange before tossing in his own pinch of Floo powder. Of all the things happening, Hermione dressing like a slob was the least of his worries.

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A/N: I apologize for the long silence. This story is not abandoned, simply neglected. A gift fic in another fandom snagged my attention and creative efforts. I know, not an excuse.

The title for this chapter comes from the song Love is the New Feel Awful by the Dandy Warhols.

Thanks to my beta, ann1982, and to those of who are still following the story!