Chapter Text
“I try to discover a little something to make me sweeter. Oh baby, refrain from breaking my heart.” - Erasure (A Little Respect)
November 21, 2012
Professor Snape,
I am writing to you as the Director of Public Wizarding Health, the title I’ve held for some five years. In my work as a liaison between the network of Wizarding Hospitals and the Ministry of Magic, I find myself in need of a consultation with an experienced Potions Master who is competent in the basic healing arts, is familiar with the Muggle world, and can exercise discretion when working on an important project. As you may have guessed, the list of those meeting this description is quite short.
I understand you do not wish to be bothered and have gone to great lengths to maintain your privacy. Your associate, Mr. Cecil Fernhide, has agreed to deliver this letter to you, but assures me you will not answer. I am fervently hoping the lure of a puzzling problem that requires someone with your unique experience and insightful mind might sway you. If so, I would like to meet in person at a place and time of your choosing to discuss the particulars. Mr. Fernhide can provide my contact information. I appreciate your consideration.
Regards, Hermione J. Granger Director of Public Wizarding Health Ministry of Magic
December 29, 2012
Professor Snape,
I am certain you are aware of an illness that has taken the lives of several wizards and witches in Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, and Austria. I believe it to be the same virus impacting the Muggle world. I am also certain you’ve heard the rumors that this malady can steal the magic of those who contract it. I am afraid I cannot dispute this rumor.
I wrote to you for assistance with this concern several weeks ago. I am hoping you will reconsider my request, as my research and the assistance from others in the fields of the healing arts, potions, and even curses have proven fruitless. If you do not wish to see me, I can forward my notes to you through a secure courier if you will share your location. I am afraid I cannot hand this confidential material over to Mr. Fernhide as it pertains to serious matters of public health and governance. I will protect your privacy to the utmost of my ability, and the Ministry will pay handsomely for your assistance. Please reconsider.
Sincerely, Hermione J. Granger Director of Public Wizarding Health Ministry of Magic
“Sending them home is a mistake, Kingsley!” Hermione exclaimed as she pushed herself up to stand across from his desk, her hands pressed flat against the worn surface.
Kingsley leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what you’d have me do, Hermione. They are children . We can’t hold them at school and keep them from their parents. Especially not with the Prophet running headlines like that. Their parents will have our heads.”
He gestured to that morning’s edition of The Daily Prophet. The picture was of a ward in a Paris hospital with not a single bed empty. Wizards and witches were shown, struggling for breath or weakly coughing. Many of them were old, likely a hundred or beyond, but a fair few were younger. The headline in bold letters read, “Deadly Illness Leaves Some Survivors as Squibs.”
The sight of it made her sick. From the moment she had heard of this illness in September, she’d dreaded the day they would be making decisions like this. Her weeks of preparation felt useless, like sand sifting through her hands as she tried to get a handle on how to best address the concern.
“They could be contagious. We already have two confirmed cases at Hogwarts. It stands to reason other children have the virus and haven’t presented symptoms yet. You send them home, they will infect their families.”
Kingsley scoffed. “We can’t lock them all up in that castle and tell the families to hope for the best.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t be obtuse. Quarantine the students in smaller groups with a staff member who can care for them and continue their instruction. If any become ill, send them to the Hospital Wing to prevent spread. If that becomes overrun, we can arrange for mediwizards to outfit and staff an additional ward, perhaps in the Great Hall. If any of the children become seriously ill, we evacuate that child to a secure facility that can continue the quarantine while treating them.”
“That will cause panic, Hermione.” When she opened her mouth to interrupt, he held up a hand to cut her off. “You know it will,” Kingsley continued. “We’ll have angry, upset parents at the gates of the school within the hour.”
“If we just explain–”
“If you had children in that school, would you not be at the gates demanding to see them?”
“Yes, but if we just explain to the public that this illness tends to run its course within one to two weeks for children then–”
“You cannot reason with them.” Kingsley stood up and walked to the window of his office. She watched the rigid set of his back and shoulders. After a long moment, he said, “They will insist on taking their chances to have their children at home. Besides, if we hold the children there against their parents’ wishes and some of them lose their ability to perform magic or lose their lives then…”
She sighed. “Logically, you know I’m right.”
He turned. “I don’t disagree with you.”
“Those children could go home to parents or grandparents who are more susceptible to complications. The Bulgarian hospital I consulted with via Floo yesterday told me that it hits those over a hundred the hardest. However, there are still deaths and...complications...among those between the ages of twenty-five and ninety-nine.”
“How many?”
“Deaths? It’s too early to say with certainty. Likely a thirty percent mortality rate for those over a hundred. Ten percent for adults under that age. Less than one percent for children.”
Kingsley’s expression was grave. “How many lose their magic?”
She brought a hand up to scrub her eyes, trying to relieve the stress and tension. “We’re just not sure. It may be temporary. Their bodies may be recovering from–”
“How many?”
Hermione shrugged. “Of those who survive, about half of those over a hundred lose their ability to wield magic. Thirty percent of adults under a hundred. Very few children.”
“This could…” Kingsley sat down hard in his chair. “This could effectively decimate our wizarding population.”
“Exactly,” she told him. “That’s why we need to quarantine the children at Hogwarts and tell everyone they also need to quarantine in their homes, limit their interactions with those they don’t live with. Just for a few weeks until we get this under control.”
“We can’t just shut the entire–”
“We can ,” she insisted. “We must or this will get out of hand quickly.”
“Hermione, it’s already out of hand. France, Hungary, Romania–they are all overrun with it. I suspect some wizarding folk from there have fled here to escape it. And they very well may carry it with them.”
Her knees felt weak, and her stomach roiled. “Yes,” she agreed, letting herself fall back into the armchair across from Kingsley's desk. “You’re absolutely right.” The problem felt overwhelming.
“I don’t think locking down Hogwarts with the children there is going to solve our problem,” Kingsley said in a weary, but kind voice. “What else can be done? What about your research?”
“We need to arm everyone with information. They need to know everything we know.”
He snorted. “Which isn’t much.”
“We know enough. We know it presents as a flu with possible severe respiratory distress. We suspect it is airborne and highly contagious. We know you’re contagious for nearly a week before you show symptoms. We know the illness runs its course in about a week, give or take. We know it is most deadly to the elders of our population. We know it attacks the magical abilities of some, rendering them unable to perform even simple magic. However, we don’t know if this is permanent or temporary.”
“What’s the oldest case you’ve found?”
“I’m unsure. The cases in Bulgaria are likely not the first cases. While I can’t confirm it, I think this may have started in southern Russia. A hospital administrator in Volgograd shared redacted records with me unofficially. If they are correct, then this started in late-June there.”
“And?”
Hermione shook her head. “Those who survived and lost their magic are still without it.”
“Completely?”
“Completely,” she confirmed as her gut twisted.
“It’s January. They’ve been living as squibs for half a year.” Kingsley stated what she was thinking, what had been plaguing her thoughts for the past two days since she’d received the missive from the healer.
“Yes, I know.” She folded her hands tightly together and placed them on Kingsley’s desk in an attempt to stop her fidgeting. “That’s why we must move fast. The illness moved slowly at first, but with exponential growth, it can sweep the entire wizarding population here within a couple weeks if we don’t do something to mitigate the spread. We need to move now .”
“And a cure?”
She exhaled a harsh sigh. “Nothing. I have a team at St. Mungo’s working on it. We’ve set up a quarantine ward there. Slughorn was no help, though to be fair I wasn’t able to share everything with him since he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. I reached out to two other Potions Masters who specialize in brewing for mediwizardry, but they were also stumped.”
“Severus?”
Hermione slumped back in her chair. “If it’s him–and I’m all but certain it is–he hasn’t replied to my requests. Perhaps you could–”
Kingsley let out a bark of laughter that sounded more bitter than joyous. “He certainly won’t talk to me, Hermione. I attempted to speak with him before he was released from hospital, but he wouldn’t see me. And I tried to offer him a job years ago when he was officially exonerated and awarded the Order of Merlin.”
“I thought he didn’t accept that,” she said.
“He didn’t. They awarded it in his absence. When I went to his home to deliver the award and offer him the job, he slammed the door in my face. Told me that his most fervent wish was to be left alone. Not too long after that, he disappeared. ”
She could just imagine the scene, and she found it oddly amusing. “Well, I’m sure he was quite miffed by my two letters, then. Perhaps the third time’s a charm?”
“It can’t hurt,” Kingsley agreed.
“I don’t even know that he can help, but if anyone can then...well, then it would be Professor Snape. He probably hates me from my years being a thorn in his side at Hogwarts, so it’s not like a third attempt will do any more damage.”
“Agreed,” he replied.
“We still need to tell everyone what is going on.”
Kingsley stared at the quill and pot of ink on his desk for a long moment before nodding. “I’ll Floo the Prophet and have them send someone around.”
“ Not Skeeter,” she told him.
That night Hermione sat down at her writing desk and scratched out a hasty letter to her old professor, a figure that loomed larger than life from her childhood.
January 23, 2013
Professor Snape,
Two students at Hogwarts are confirmed to have contracted the virus. It is likely many others have been infected with it and are yet to show symptoms. St. Mungo’s has established a quarantine ward to care for those who experience severe symptoms. They have three wizards there already, but there are likely others who are treating the illness with Pepperup and tea from their homes. Mortality rates are anywhere from ten to thirty percent for adults, depending on age. Of those who survive, twenty to fifty percent of adults lose their ability to perform magic. The statistics are better for children, but those under eighteen are still at risk. I cannot find an instance of someone who has lost their magic regaining it after recovery. I believe the loss may be long-term at best or permanent at worst. Tomorrow’s Prophet will contain some of this information, but not all of it as the Ministry is concerned it would cause panic.
While I am proficient at Potions, I do not have your knowledge, skill, or experience. The other Potions Masters I’ve consulted and those who have been working with the hospitals in Bulgaria and France have been unable to make any meaningful progress on a cure. As I mentioned before, I will do what is necessary to protect your privacy if you will agree to provide me with your thoughts.
Please reconsider. This is a most urgent and dire matter. You may reach me through any avenue of communication.
Hermione Granger
She folded and sealed the letter, adding on an incendiary charm that would destroy the letter should anyone other than Severus Snape attempt to open it. Then she penned a second letter to Cecil Fernhide and sent both to the wizard by Owl.
As expected, everyone was in an uproar after reading confirmation in the Prophet that the rumors of this illness having an unusually high mortality rate were true. She’d spoken to all of her friends, especially those with children. As Kingsley had predicted, all the parents were quick to swoop in and pull their children out of Hogwarts. The two sick children were sent to St. Mungo’s quarantine ward even though they were having only mild symptoms. It was best to avoid exposure to their respective families and potential increased transmission of the virus.
The headline in the Prophet simply read, “Ministry Urges Quarantines at Home to Stem Deadly Illness.” Hermione fought to include all they knew, but she had been outvoted by Kingsley and the Council the night before in a closed door meeting fraught with tension.
“They aren’t imbeciles,” she had told the Council. “The Prophet ran a story two days ago about how this illness is making squibs out of Wizards. Just come out and say it. We know it is true.”
She’d lost the argument by a narrow margin, and the Prophet was told to play along or the Ministry would no longer use them as the official mouthpiece to manage the crisis.
To her friends, Hermione was as honest as she could be. She told them to stay home and avoid being within four metres of anyone who didn’t reside with them. She urged delivery of any necessities and casting a careful cleansing spell over anything coming into their homes. And when they brought up whether the illness could make them a squib, she let her silence speak for itself. Even Neville could read between those lines.
She heard the skittering talons of an owl on her windowsill as she was sitting down at her kitchen table with a cup of tea to review some correspondence. She’d shifted her base of operations to her flat now that the Ministry offices were closed. It was just as well. She could work better with fewer interruptions.
Instead of an owl, she found a raven fluffing its feathers with what appeared to be impatience while she opened the window to accept the letter. “If you’ll wait, I’ll just–”
The raven did not wait. By the time she turned to her fridge to get a piece of meat from her leftover dinner, it had taken off into the night. She tossed the letter on top of the stack she planned on going through as she retrieved her cup of tea and considered her next move.
There was little she could do as far as directly caring for the ill. She’d done her best to prepare the workers at St. Mungo’s on how to protect themselves while treating these patients. She’d already met some resistance to her suggestion to use Muggle methods to address the respiratory side of the illness. Perhaps the handful of healers she’d convinced would employ those methods so the others could see the benefit of using more than a Pepperup potion.
Without the Council willing to formally tell everyone that catching the virus could mean living the remainder of their life as a squib, she couldn’t do much in that regard either. She just hoped her meaningful silence and the rumors from other wizarding communities were speaking loud enough to make everyone cautious.
That left the cure or a possible vaccine to prevent contracting the virus. Her table was heavy with Muggle medical texts and hundreds of pages of articles from medical journals she’d printed at a Muggle library. It was all alongside relevant texts from St. Mungo’s library and the Ministry’s archive, including ones that went into great detail on the creation of medicinal potions. She’d been through it all before but was hoping a second time through would yield answers. The Ministry already had the task force at St. Mungo’s working on it in cooperation with teams in France, Poland, and Bulgaria. But Hermione wouldn’t sit idle waiting for someone else to piece together the puzzle.
She dropped onto her straight-backed wooden kitchen chair and took a sip of tea as she picked up the most recent correspondence. She nearly choked on her drink when she saw the unmistakable, elegantly spidery handwriting of her former Potions professor. She’d spent her first six years of magical schooling anticipating his commentary on her essays. Any approval was always lukewarm and stilted. It still nagged at her that he’d never acknowledged her work as being anything more than satisfactory. Then again, the man had been under immense stress, acting as a spy against the most volatile, unhinged, foul wizard that had ever lived.
Her tea forgotten, Hermione slipped a finger under the black wax seal and scanned the letter. It was short, and he’d signed with just his initial, but it was most definitely Snape.
January 24, 2013
Ms. Granger,
You may send your questions and any notes to my attention at the Silverleaf Apothecary offices. Mr. Fernhide will ensure it reaches me. He is compensated well to follow my directions and respect my privacy, so he will not read what is sent. However, lingering concerns about confidential information can be alleviated by using the same charm you cast on your last missive.
S.
She read the letter three times before huffing and tossing it on the table. She should be glad he’d written back. If only his letter made her feel like he was an ally instead of her annoyed former professor who had promised nothing. Still, she couldn’t afford to ignore him.
She spent the remainder of the night organizing her notes and making copies of the promising bits of the texts. In the end, she had a small box with well over a hundred sheets of parchment. She was waiting at the door to Silverleaf Apothecary the next morning. Promptly at nine o’clock, a wizard with wispy grey hair on his receding hairline turned the corner. He wore a nice set of dress robes with a leather attaché case swinging from his right hand. He was lanky, pale, and just over six feet tall. As he got closer, she saw his expression was dour and his thin lips were pressed together making them nearly nonexistent.
“Mr. Fernhide?”
“Yes,” he agreed, pulling out his wand to unlock the door and remove the wards.
She shifted the strap of her bag to settle it better on her shoulder. “Hermione Granger, Director of Public Wizarding Health. I have–”
“Yes,” he said, interrupting her planned speech. “Mr. Snape told me to expect you. Said you wouldn’t settle for a courier service to deliver whatever it is he’s agreed to review for you.” She watched in silence as he opened the door to the office.
The building was inconspicuous and the door unmarked. She only knew this was the office for the successful Silverleaf Apothecary because she’d gone digging a couple years ago when she suspected Severus Snape was the owner. Almost every apothecary carried Silverleaf potions; they were considered the gold standard and had an accordingly hefty price tag. Hermione herself used a couple of the potions regularly instead of brewing her own.
The door swung open and Cecil Fernhide raised his brows as he waited for her to enter. She slipped inside to find an austere office devoid of anything that felt like Severus Snape. The walls were stark white, the wooden floor was stained dark to contrast. A set of glass display shelves caught the light from a sunroof, glinting bottles lined up in an orderly fashion. There were dozens of different labels, likely one for each potion Silverleaf carried.
“The sunlight will degrade many of those potions,” she pointed out, turning to look at the desk and two armchairs across the room.
Fernhide placed his attaché case on the desk as he said, “Yes, Mr. Snape did inform me of this. These bottles are merely for display purposes. You’ll find they are empty. Silverleaf doesn’t have a retail space. We only sell to apothecaries or hospitals.”
Hermione gave him a tight smile. “Professor, uh, Mr. Snape told me I could trust you to deliver a package to him. I’d like his opinion on a matter of some importance and urgency.”
“Of course,” he waved his hand as if indicating that she should get on with it.
Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out the box wrapped in twine. The lid had a charm of destruction on it. If Fernhide or anyone other than Snape opened it, they’d likely end up in St. Mungo’s with singed fingertips after the entire package caught fire. “It goes without saying that my notes are for his eyes only,” she warned.
Fernhide nodded. “Of course,” he said again. “I’ll ensure he receives the delivery posthaste.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fernhide.” Feeling a bit off kilter from the discrepancy between her memories of Seveus Snape in the Potions classroom of Hogwarts to this austere office lacking any kind of personality, she turned to go.
“You know, Ms. Granger, you’re the first person to assume Mr. Snape is behind SIlverleaf. What made you believe this?”
She turned back to look at Cecil Fernhide. He was watching her with interest. “Only a few would be capable of the caliber of potions Silverleaf offers. It was obvious to me after I looked into it.”
“I must admit, I am surprised he agreed to correspond with you.”
Hermione snorted a short laugh. “I wouldn’t say we’re having a dialogue, Mr. Fernhide. He’s agreed to read my notes, nothing more. Besides, I have information that may be of interest or importance to him. I don’t believe this has anything to do with me. In fact, he probably dislikes me.”
“Perhaps,” Cecil Fernhide agreed, nodding at her. “Good day, Ms. Granger.”
As soon as she stepped out the door, Hermione berated herself. She’d been unbearably stupid to walk into an enclosed room with someone that very well could be carrying the virus. Her excitement over Snape’s agreement to look at her notes and her haste to get them to him might be her undoing. She tried to calm her mind as she walked a few blocks, crossing the street to avoid the people who were out on a Thursday morning in late January. She imagined living the rest of her life without magic, and that thought took her breath faster than the chilly wind did.
She needed to be more careful. Everyone needed to be more careful. Things would surely get worse before they got better.