Stupid woman, he berated his partner in his mind as he raced back at the fastest speed his broomstick could fly towards Matilda's screams. Stupid, stupid woman for going alone. What the hell were you thinking? A nice, easy immunization of a sleeping dragon? Nothing's ever that easy.

Fred bent low against his trusty Cleansweep and urged it forward, wishing for the first time in his life that he'd bought himself a new broomstick while he'd still had money from the shop. But while he'd still had money from the shop, there hadn't been time to worry about broomsticks. It would have been selfish, what with the war and all. But now he was wishing that he'd been a little selfish, back in the days of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

The bottles of Immunity Potion tied to his broomstick clanked in their canvas sack, and he slowed down for a moment to make sure they were secured. Charlie had been adamant that he couldn't waste any of these bottles; they didn't have much of the stock left and half of the brewers were out with Doxy Flu, as were most of the dragon keepers. That was why Fred was here in the first place--almost half of the Dragomirna Dragon Preserve's keepers had fallen ill with Doxy Flu, and Charlie had taken a Portkey halfway across the globe to convince his younger brother to come and help.

"Fred, what's keeping you here?" he had asked that night, trying desperately to arouse some sort of reaction from his somber brother. "George isn't going to get better. You're wasting your time."

"He will," Fred said automatically, more out of a still-lingering, stubborn hope than out of any real conviction.

"Have you ever seen Frank and Alice Longbottom? The same thing happened to them." Charlie pressed him relentlessly, ignoring his own pain at talking about his family this way. He wanted George to recover, they all did, but he knew, deep down, that it was hopeless. Why couldn't Fred see? "George is just like them, Fred. They won't get better and neither will he."

"Shut up, Charlie."

"It's the truth."

"Shut up." Fred's hands were clenched into fists, and Charlie felt a grim satisfaction at getting his brother to at least feel something. "I'm warning you, just shut up."

"Fred, you're just sitting here in what used to be your life. Get a new one. Come with me to Romania. We need you. Be a part of something again."

"The Order needed me, and where did that get me?" Fred turned away from his elder brother, his face deliberately hard. "Go find someone else, Charlie."

Charlie sat staring at him, then slowly stood. "I'm wasting my time," he muttered to himself, but loud enough for Fred to hear. "You can just sit here, wallowing in your own misery. You deserve something better. You were meant for something better." He turned and moved to the door, but stopped as a final, desperate hook came into his mind. He looked over his shoulder at Fred and said quietly, "You'd get to fly."

Fred stared into the flames, his face unreadable. Charlie gazed at him for a long moment, that final hope slowly dying, then sighed and turned away. "Goodbye, Fred."

"...Charlie, wait."

Much as he would hate to admit it, it had been wonderful to be living again. At first, he'd lived solely for the wind and the ground streaking away before him, and he'd lose himself in the joy of flying again--but eventually he lived for being part of something again, just as Charlie had predicted. Charlie, for his part, had watched with satisfaction as Fred slowly but surely became himself again. He'd always bear the pain of what had happened to George--and he'd probably never truly be the same; how could he, after losing what had always been a part of him?--but he was healing, and that was good enough for now.

The roar of a dragon reached Fred's ears--Romanian Longhorn, he marked, he'd developed a keen ear for dragon calls, and besides it was the right region for one--and he hung a sharp right towards the sound. Hope the bloody beast doesn't stir up others in the region, that's the last thing we need right now. The Dragomirna Dragon Preserve housed all kinds of dragons in its massive expanse of forest and mountains, and even with the territorial herds dwindling with this outbreak of Dragon Pox, it seemed a little crowded sometimes.

His eyes fell upon a clearing, and an immense golden-horned dragon towering above a frightened-looking woman.

"Matilda!" he shouted, and pulled his broomstick into a dive.

---

Matilda's head snapped up at the sound of his voice, and Fred was relieved to see her still alive. His eyes roved the ground, and he saw her wand flung far from her body and her broomstick in splinters. There was a very long and bloody gash down one leg, and she was half-collapsed on the muddy ground.

The Romanian Longhorn hadn't heard him, and Fred heard a massive, deep-chested rumble as the dragon inhaled and prepared to exhale a billowing sheet of flame. Swearing, he pulled his broomstick out level and shot across the dragon's line of vision. The dragon's flat head pivoted on its long, scaly neck and it spat out a ball of flame at him, abruptly changing its mind about attacking Matilda and going for the larger threat.

Fred would be the first to say that he wasn't as good a flyer as Harry Potter, and he wasn't sure that he could play cat-and-mouse with a full-grown dragon like his friend had--but still, Fred had seen four different approaches to tackling a dragon those many years ago, and maybe using a bit of each...

Weaving his broomstick back and forth to avoid getting hit with any of the sporadic jets of flame, Fred pointed his wand at the ground and Transfigured a rock into a sheep. Just to make sure the dragon found it, he added, "Sonorus!" and loud bleats filled the air.

The Longhorn's glittering eyes fixed hungrily on the sheep, and with a single snort of flame, the sheep was no more. The trees behind it, dry after a summer with less rain than was common, began to crackle and warp, and soon the small stand of trees was ablaze, and spreading to the other trees.

Fred would have done something (a forest fire was in no one's best interests) if the dragon hadn't returned its attention to him. Another burst of flame and the twigs at the end of his broomstick had caught. Swearing even more violently, Fred pointed his wand over his shoulder and shot a jet of water at the flaming tail. When he turned back around, the dragon's scaly head was directly in his path. Instinctively Fred jerked the handle of his broomstick up and shot towards the sky--

--when suddenly he heard Matilda scream.

The forest fire had caught to the trees around and above her, and Fred could barely see her through the haze of smoke and waves of heat. A jolt of panic hit him, and without thinking about the dragon he spun into a dive towards her.

Suddenly there was an earsplitting bellow of triumph and an ominous, whistling roar, and the wind was knocked out of him as the dragon's tail struck him. Fred hit the grass with a sickening thud, feeling like he had been broken in two, when the grass before him caught fire. With a startled yell, he threw himself up and backwards, only to crack his head against a smoking branch. Wincing, coughing, and spitting blood, he staggered to his feet and looked around for his wand.

The dragon screamed above him at the same instant his eyes fell on his wand. With reflexes born of Quidditch, he dove forward, avoiding another jet of flame. His hand clenched around the smooth wood, and he leapt to his feet and spun to face the rearing dragon. "Conjunctivius!" he yelled desperately, but the poorly aimed Conjunctivitus Curse ricocheted off the dragon's scaly nose as it swung its head forward to hit him.

Fred Weasley was a Gryffindor, and one of the bravest at that. He was also reckless, and a little foolish. It was a combination of these traits that made him do what he did next.

Bracing himself, Fred grabbed hold of the dragon's golden horn as it came plunging towards him.

The dragon shrieked in confusion and reared back, with Fred hanging on for dear life. A dragon's weakest point was its eyes, he knew, and he had the clearest shot from here. "SOMNIUS!" he roared, and the jet of light hit the dragon square in the eye.

The dragon blinked, and stopped thrashing. Fred hung on anxiously, praying to every deity he had ever heard of that his Sleeping Spell had worked.

Slowly, the dragon's eyes closed, and it swayed on its feet before crashing to the earth with a deafening sound.

Fred lay on the ground for a moment, trying to discern how many of his bones were broken and whether or not he was alive or dead. Then the crackling of flames reached his ears and a blistering heat began to scorch his face, and he pulled himself to his feet with a groan. "Matilda?"

"Fred!"

"Matilda!" Staggering slightly, he ran towards her voice. The entire clearing had erupted into flames, and he threw up his arm to shield his eyes. Dimly, he saw a human figure in the midst of the blaze. His stomach clenched in fear as he knelt beside the wounded woman. A charred branch had fallen on her, crushing her lower body. Wracking his brain for water spells (he knew so many, they were required knowledge for dragon handlers, but he couldn't think surrounded by fire and death), he grabbed the branch and pushed it off of her, with more strength than he knew he had. "It's all right, Matilda, you'll be all right," he found himself reassuring her as he bent and scooped her into his arms. Both of them coughing from the smoke and heat, he staggered beyond the flames and fell to his knees, setting her down to rest on the ground.

Turning back to face the flames, he brandished his wand and bellowed, "Aquaundo!"

With an overpowering roar and an immense blast of force, an immense surge of water shot from his wand. Holding it like a firehose, Fred struggled to stay upright and control the water until the flames had died. When the last tree had been drenched, the world tilted and faded to black as the ground came angling up to meet him.

- - -

With a groan, Fred drifted back into consciousness. His head throbbed, his chest burned, and each breath sent a shooting pain through his ribs, but he was still alive. He opened his eyes and felt a sudden jolt of panic--he couldn't see. Everything was black.

"Lumos!" he said instinctively (God, please don't tell me I'm blind), and he felt a surge of relief when his wand flared to life and illuminated the darkness around him. The sun had set--he must have been out for hours... The immense form of the dragon was gone--he wasn't sure why it hadn't eaten them when it had awakened, but he wasn't about to complain.

He suddenly remembered his partner. "Matilda?" he asked into the darkness, lifting his wand higher.

His eyes fell on the woman beside him, and he immediately began cursing himself for passing out. Her face was oddly pale, and he could hear the uneven, labored sound of her breathing.

Directing the beam of wandlight at the remains of the trees, he prayed that it hadn't been burned to bits, and thus was relieved when he found it in poor shape, but still in one piece. The twigs had been burned at the ends, and the wood was warped and blackened from the heat, but it still had the general look of a flying broomstick.

A few moments later, he had carried his semi-conscious partner to his broomstick and taken off (the bottles of Immunity Solution were long gone--Charlie was just going to have to live with it). Within minutes, he knew that this was going to be a long night--the burned broomstick was flying barely half as fast as it used to, and the sun was rising by the time they finally set down in front of the Dragomirna Keepers' Lodge.

Charlie, his face pale against his freckles in the morning light, came rushing out before Fred had even staggered off his broom. Catching his brother in a bone-crushing hug, Charlie was berating him even as he squeezed him to death. "Where the hell have you two been? I've been trying to figure out how the hell I'm going to tell Mum I got you killed--" He broke off suddenly, noticing for the first time Matilda's half-conscious state, the blackened condition of Fred's broom, and Fred's coating of soot, sweat, and blood. Charlie stared. "What in Merlin's name happened to you two?"

Fred shoved his brother off and clutched his ribs in pain. "Dragon--fire--she's hurt," he managed to gasp, leaning heavily on Charlie.

"You're not entirely in one piece yourself," Charlie reminded him. The elder Weasley brother carried the injured witch inside, Fred refusing help to stagger in by himself.

"We've had a few problems here ourselves," Charlie told him in a low voice after they had set Matilda down on a couch. "Some of the other Keepers have come down with a weird kind of Dragon Pox."

Fred, holding an ice pack to his cracked ribs, frowned. "Is it serious?"

Charlie indicated an open door to their left, and Fred glanced inside. Seven or eight Keepers lay sleeping on cots inside, being tended to by some of the others. All of those sleeping had a peculiarly greenish cast to their skin, and reddish welts on their arms.

Fred looked more closely at his brother. He'd previously thought his brother was pale from worry, but now that he looked closer he noticed a definite greenish tinge. Charlie noticed his direct gaze and looked away. "I'll be all right." He examined Fred closely. "You seem to be all right, too. You don't have any of the symptoms."

"Which are...?"

"Sweating, shaking, greenish skin, reddish welts, and a definite cough." Charlie ticked them off on his fingers.

Fred's stomach twisted. "Charlie...Matilda's got it, too."

"What?"

"She was coughing the whole way back...I thought it was just because of the smoke, but she was sweating and trembling, too."

The brothers looked at each other, then raced back to Matilda's room. They stared at the witch now unconscious on the bed, and her skin definitely seemed tinted with green against the white sheets.

"She got pretty banged up by that branch and the fire, too," Fred muttered. "Is this thing fatal?"

"One person's died, but they were injured already." Charlie's face was somber. "Given her condition...it may be fatal for her, too."

Fred took a deep breath as he gazed at his hurt partner. She had been a year above him at Hogwarts, and played on the Hufflepuff house team (which had led her into an on-and-off relationship with Oliver Wood, he recalled). When he joined the Dragomirna Preserve team, she had volunteered to be his partner, and he soon learned that she was brave and hardworking, loyal to the last, and perfectly embodied the traits of her House. She had listened to his rambling stories about he, George, and Lee, and been a shoulder to cry on those nights they had spent in the field... She was his partner, and his friend. He couldn't let her die.

"I've got to get help for her," Fred said quietly. "I'll take her to St. Mungo's."

Charlie looked at him sharply. "Fred, I don't think--"

"I have to, Charlie." Fred turned away. "She needs help, now. I've got to get her there fast..."

"You can't Apparate," Charlie put in. "She's too weak, and Apparition's difficult cross-country."

"Flying's too slow, and I don't think that I could hold on that long," Fred mused out loud.

Charlie thought for a moment, then his face lit up as if remembering something. "Fred, have you ever traveled by ship? Magical ship?"

Fred frowned, vivid flashbacks of Durmstrang's resurrected shipwreck coming to mind. "I've seen it done."

"There's a harbor connected to the Floo Network here--the Mangalia Docks," Charlie told him. "Take Matilda, and tell them you're a Keeper who needs emergency transport to London. They have a system worked out for us; we use it all the time. They'll take you up the Thames to London, and they have a station to disembark there. You should be able to Floo to St. Mungo's then."

Fred grinned and clasped his brother's hand in wordless thanks. "We'll be back before you know it," he promised, then went to Matilda's bedside and picked her up. He carried her to the fireplace, and Charlie helpfully tossed in the Floo powder for him.

He stepped inside and said loudly, "Mangalia Docks!" and Charlie's face disappeared in a flash of green fire.

He held Matilda tightly as they whirled through the fireplaces, and there was a slight jarring as he stepped out in a cloud of soot.

A loud noise met his ears and the smell of the sea filled his nose. He blinked a few times, and stared.

Several large, wooden ships stood at dock in the midst of a hustling, bustling dock. People stood in queues to board each one, and there was much clanging of bells and calling of names. The slick cobblestones were lit by old-fashioned lamps, and the waves splashed over the quays to drench the stones. "Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't quite this," he muttered. "I didn't think it'd be so big..."

"Welcome to the Mangalia Docks, sir," a bored-sounding voice said from behind him. "How may I help you?"

Fred spun, still carrying Matilda in his arms. A young witch stood in a small booth, chewing blue bubble gum with a disinterested air. Evidently she had heard what he had said and surmised he spoke English. "I'm a Keeper from the Dragomirna Preserve," Fred said hastily. "I need emergency medical transport to London."

The young woman glanced away from the mirror in which she had been coiffing her bleach-blonde curls with interest. "Dragomirna? Oh, you want Dock Twelve." She pointed down the quay to a small boat with no line. "That's the boat we've got reserved for you lot. It's the fastest one." She punched a button on the machine on her desk that resembled a Muggle cash register and a bright green ticket popped out of the top. "Eleven Sickles, please."

Fred made an impatient noise. "Look, can't you just charge it to the Preserve? I'm in a hurry."

The young woman gave him a steady look, then sighed. "I'll need your name, if you please."

"Fred Weasley," he informed her through gritted teeth. "I need that ticket, if you please."

Her eyes darkened. "Weasley, eh? Tell that brother of yours to call me back," she sniffed as she handed him his ticket.

Fred rolled his eyes. "Sure. Thanks very much."

He strode down the quay, attracting a few looks from the milling passengers because of the woman in his arms, but he ignored them until he reached Dock Twelve.

The small boat seemed deserted, except for a single, dim light in the cabin. Shifting Matilda's weight in his arms, Fred called, "Hello? Anyone there?"

A small man in a blue suit and a three-cornered hat popped out of the cabin door a moment later, holding a smoking pipe to his lips. When his eyes fell on Fred, he grinned broadly and strode towards Fred with a rolling gait. "Ahoy, there, lad!" he said cheerfully, extending his hand for Fred to shake. "Cap'n Barret Barclay. What can I do for ye?"

Fred shifted Matilda in his arms to free a hand to shake Barclay's with. "Fred Weasley. I'm a Keeper at Dragomirna; I need to get my partner" --here he indicated Matilda-- "to St. Mungo's, in London."

"St. Mungo's, in London?" The little man laughed, and his round belly shook. "No need to be qualifying it, me boy, there's only one St. Mungo's." He had a lilting, rough voice that was almost hypnotic to be listening to, and despite the state he was in (one of fear, nerves, and exhaustion), Fred found that he quite liked him. "Well, come aboard, Freddie-m'boy, and let's see how fast we can get 'er there."

Ignoring the "Freddie-my-boy", Fred strode up the gangplank and followed Barclay into the cabin, where he found a couch to lay Matilda on and a blanket to cover her with. "Be careful, she's got a touch of Dragon Pox," he warned.

Barclay was examining her as he spoke, and nodded. "Aye, that she does. Doesn't seem like any Dragon Pox I've seen before, though, and when ye've traveled all the waters I have, you see it all."

"That's why I've got to get her to St. Mungo's." Fred sighed and collapsed on the couch beside her, feeling the strength drain out of him. Closing his eyes wearily, he wondered if St. Mungo's could give him something that would let him sleep for a week; he felt he'd deserved it.

Barclay's rough laugh shook the cabin again, and Fred's eyes snapped open as a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. "No, none of that, me boy, I'll need your help to steer this poor scow." Leading him out back onto the deck and drawing a wand from his pocket, Barclay asked, "Ever sailed before, Fred?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well, you're about to learn." Barclay crossed to the tiller and took hold of it; with his wand he cast off the mooring ropes, and the small ship headed out to sea.

As soon as they were clear of the harbor, the coastline began to slide by at a near-incredible rate, and Fred quickly realized that while he felt neither wind nor any other sensation of speed, they were going ridiculously fast. "Doesn't the ship go underwater?" he asked, feeling foolish but not knowing what else to say.

"If you're going inland, yes, but while we're traveling open water we stay above," Barclay replied pleasantly. "Now, lad, look up at the sky."

Fred looked up and couldn't hold in a gasp. The sky, overhead like a blue, speckled bowl, was dotted everywhere with more stars than he'd ever seen in his life.

Barclay laughed, a gentle laugh that was nothing like its precursors. "They're beautiful sisters, aren't they, sea and sky?"

Fred nodded dumbly, his eyes fixed on a constellation that had become very dear to him--Gemini.

"Now listen, boy." Barclay's voice had a note of command, and Fred jumped and turned to him. "We need to travel towards the North Star."

"Polaris?"

"Ye like clarifying things, eh, lad? Don't ask silly questions. I need ye to find it for me while I'm concentrating on steering this rig. We're going too fast for me to stop paying attention. Get to it."

Fred lifted his eyes back to the sky, his eyes searching for the first step in finding the star. It was the first thing Professor Sinistra had taught them and subsequently ground into their heads every lesson; thus it was quite simple. Ah--there it was--Ursa Major. His eyes traced out the Big Dipper, and from there the two stars at the end of the cup, Dubhe and Merak. Then from there, straight up.

He laid a hand on Barclay's shoulder and reached the other hand up to point. "Right there."

The captain smiled and swung the tiller over. "Well done, lad."

As the sea streaked away below them, Fred leaned over the rail and watched his own reflection slide by. He looked a bit worse for the wear, all rumpled and dirty, but no worse than he had on occasion, stumbling out of his room with George in a cloud of smoke--

The thought of George made his throat clench, and he turned from the rail and went back inside the cabin. Bone-tired, he fell onto the couch beside Matilda and slept soundly until Barclay woke him, and said that they had arrived in London.

---

"Matilda. Wake up." He paused, waiting for a sign of recognition. "Come on, 'Til. Wake up."

She stirred slightly and groaned. "Unhh...my head..."

"Yeah, I know. Come on, we've got to go. We're here." Fred gently pulled her onto her feet, and caught her as she swayed. "Here, lean on me."

Matilda frowned as she took stock of their surroundings. "Fred, where is this?"

"We've just docked in London."

"Docked? You mean we're on a boat?" she asked, astounded.

"It was the fastest way to get here."

"Why did we need to get 'here' at all?" she asked as he slowly led her out onto the deck.

"Because you're really very sick and we need to get you to St. Mungo's." Fred prayed she didn't ask him to elaborate; how could he tell her how sick she really was?

"I certainly feel sick," she moaned. "Ohh--excuse me." Moving faster than Fred thought she could in her condition, Matilda sped to the side of the boat and spent a few moments retching into the black water. Fred patted her back helplessly, remembering to hold her hair back for her. When her stomach had settled, he led her down the gangplank, said goodbye to Captain Barclay, and watched his ship slide underwater.

Fred looked around. They were in a very large underground cavern, with a long river of water running between the stone banks. The ceiling reached up in a large dome, giving testament to its construction by water. There was a small ticket booth, and inside another bored-looking witch sat reading a Witch Weekly. She gave Fred the merest of glances before returning her eyes to the magazine and turning the page, a sound that echoed loudly in the massive cavern.

A moment later, a pair of loud cracks filled the room, and their echoes filled the air. Fred and Matilda winced, covering their ears.

"Oh, sorry!" one of the newcomers, a young woman who seemed near to Fred's age, said hurriedly. "We didn't know it would echo--"

"It's all right," Fred reassured her, checking a groaning Matilda. "She's just--er--not feeling too well, and I don't know if the loud sound--"

"She does look a bit ill, doesn't she?" the other, a skinny man who looked older, said with a frown. "Bit green, too. What she's got isn't catching, is it?"

"Er...bit of seasickness," Fred lied. "She's never traveled by boat before, have you, 'Til?"

"Can I sit down?" she asked with a quavering voice, and Fred hastily led her to one of the benches. As she put her heads into her hands, the young woman sat down beside her and said in a soothing voice, "That's it, dear, put your head down, rest a bit," and patted her back.

Fred wished she wouldn't touch her; he didn't know if that strange type of Dragon Pox was contagious or not... He realized the man was looking curiously at Fred's dirty, smokestained condition and he quickly turned to him to offer explanation. "Er, I'm Fred Weasley, I'm one of the Dragon Keepers at the Dragomirna Preserve--that's in Romania--"

"Weasley?" the man asked curiously. Then his eyes lit up. "Hey, you've got a brother? Ron Weasley?"

Fred smiled briefly. "One of several. 'Ickle Ronniekins, Order of Merlin, First Class; shiny plaque on the mantel, but no real value." Naturally my own Order of Merlin, being a lowly Third Class, means nothing to the public. And I suppose no one remembers the joke shop...

The guy grinned. "David Crayler. Great to meet you."

Fred reached out to shake his hand, when suddenly he felt a sharp sting in his arm and saw something blue streak past. He frowned slightly and shook David's hand, when suddenly an overpowering feeling of giddiness swept over him--to be replaced a second later by shock as he rose off the ground and began to hover in midair. "What the--"

David smacked his hand against his forehead. "Oh, damn. That Billywig got out again--Joanna, see if you can catch it!"

As the young woman drew her wand from her pocket, Fred groaned. "A Billywig? What the hell did you have a Billywig for, anyways?" He knew he was being rude, and he didn't really care--he was short on sleep, half-sick with worry for Matilda and Charlie back in Romania, and he was now levitating three feet off the ground. He had license to be rude.

"I work for Honeydukes," David supplied, bending down to pull a small, worn book from the heavy backpack he had been carrying. "We're testing a new flavor of Fizzing Whizzbees, and we're using Billywig stings..."

"Last time I eat them, then," Fred muttered.

"Hmm?"

"How can you get me down, then?" Fred said, more loudly.

"Well, I think I've got some antidotes in here...precaution, you know..." David frowned and paused in his digging. "Or maybe those were antidotes for Doxy bites..."

Fred groaned.

"No, wait! Here it is!" David said triumphantly, pulling the small vial out of his backpack. He stretched up on tiptoe to hand it to Fred, who took it gratefully and downed it in a single swallow.

When his feet were firmly back on the ground, Fred cast an appraising glance at David's backpack and the numerous pockets therein, and decided not to stick around to see, or get stung by, anything else. "Well, it was nice meeting you; thanks for the antidote," he said cheerily, going over to Matilda and helping her to her feet. "Be seeing you at Honeydukes, then..." With a lighthearted wave, he led Matilda into a lift similar to the one used to enter the Ministry of Magic, and as the doors closed David and Joanna disappeared.

The street was mercifully deserted--even if Matilda's Pox wasn't contagious, Fred didn't want to be responsible with a bunch of Muggles coming down with diseases incurable by magic. Speaking of Muggles...where in London are we?

Fred nudged Matilda. "Hey, 'Til, you're Muggle-born. Have you ever been down to this part of London before?"

She wearily lifted her head and looked around for a streetsign. Finally she nodded. "There's a Wizarding pub down the street."

"Great. Which way?"

"Left. It's Stoker's Den, have you ever heard of it?"

Fred stopped dead. "That's a vampire pub. Doesn't it lead into Knockturn Alley?"

"Fred, it's the closest one...The Leaky Cauldron's too much of a walk, and we're in a vampire district already. The best thing to do is just get a room at the pub and then Floo to St. Mungo's in the morning."

Damn Hufflepuffs. So reasonable. "All right. Lean on me, let's go."

Stoker's Den was a tiny pub, smaller even than the Leaky Cauldron. Fred felt a shiver run up his spine as they stepped inside, and Matilda moved a little closer into the circle of his arm. Every single eye in the pub turned to them as they began to pick their way through the tables, lit with eerie red candles that gave off a particularly bloody glow. Fred tried not to notice how much they stood out--Matilda with blonde hair and Fred with his vibrant red; every single member of the pub had thick and shining black hair, standing out against pale skin. Their eyes seemed fixated on Matilda, in particular...the atmosphere had definitely turned hungry.

A slim, pale woman with long black hair stood behind the counter. Her eyes were black and cold, and there was a sinuous seductiveness to her movements. "What will it be?" she asked, and Fred felt another shiver as he glimpsed a pair of pointed eyeteeth.

"Just a room," he said firmly, and felt an awful chill at the way a whisper seemed to go around the room.

"Would you like a drink first?" The woman had a strange, compelling accent, and Fred felt himself beginning to sweat. "It would be on the house. Your friend looks like she needs one."

Fred swallowed hard. He'd heard some nasty rumors about this place. The proprietress slowly handed him the key to their room and he took it, sliding a Galleon across the countertop. "Um, no thanks. Just the room."

She leaned forward and her eyes glittered. "You know," she said in a low voice, "...Your friend reeks of death. We can help her..."

Fred took a deep breath. "No, thanks." Putting his arm protectively around Matilda, he steered her upstairs.

"Fred, I changed my mind," Matilda said the instant they were safely upstairs, "let's go find the Cauldron."

He sighed. "I wish we could, but I already paid. That was my last Galleon. I'll see if I can get to Gringotts tomorrow..."

Matilda began to cough, a tearing, racking cough that made her whole body shake. "I don't want to stay here tonight, Fred," she said weakly when the spell had passed. "I'm scared."

Fred bit his lip and sat down beside her. "You know what? I am, too. But we'll stay, and be on our guard, and then Floo to St. Mungo's in the morning." Taking his wand from his pocket, he closed the door and locked it with his wand.

"Fred, I don't think that's going to work..."

"Well, I don't have any garlic..."

Matilda began to cough again. "It's c-c-cold in here," she choked. "Can you build up the fire?"

Fred snorted as he knelt near the fireplace. "Something tells me they don't get much call for large fires around here." As he suspected, there was no wood. Frowning, he took one of the austere wooden chairs from the sitting area of the room and tapped part of the back with his wand. "Diffindo." Tossing the chunk of wood onto the fire, he led Matilda into the bedroom. There were no windows, so Fred was reasonably certain she would be safe in there. He'd been an indifferent study of vampires when Professor Lupin had taught them, but he remembered they had a nasty habit of getting into locked rooms through windows. "'Til, you stay here. Get some sleep. I'll stay out in the sitting room and watch the door."

Matilda touched his cheek fondly. "Fred, you've barely gotten an hour's sleep since all this started."

He shrugged casually. "No, really, I got all the sleep I needed when the dragon knocked me out. I'll be fine. You just sleep." Putting a hand on her shoulder and gently nudging her down, he pulled the wool blanket up to her waist and left the room with a smile.

To business. Grimly, he took the chair he had dismantled for wood and set it against the wall. Sitting down, he leaned back--and instantly became dreadfully bored. Boredom coupled with exhaustion made his head droop, and he was almost dozing off when the fire popped loudly and roused him.

He set his jaw and pulled his wand out of his pocket. Come on, Fred. You fall asleep and you wake up a vampire. Stay focused. He began mentally rethinking every spell he had ever heard, hoping for one that might have the right properties to make a vampire back off. I'm horrible at conjuring, so garlic's a no...Lumos doesn't make sunlight, just light... What else, what else?

Fred suddenly smiled. Something that he and George had cooked up, back when they thought Harry was the heir of Slytherin... Sure, it was a bad joke, but it might come in handy after all--

Suddenly, there was a faint hissing, and mist began to creep in under the door. Fred started to his feet, wand clenched in his hand. The mist slipped through in a cloud, and then billowed up into a human figure. Fred's heart began to pound as the proprietress smiled wickedly at him.

Don't look into their eyes, Lupin's voice seemed to echo back to him through the years, and Fred desperately tried to avert his gaze, but the woman's dark eyes held him locked in place.

"You may not have wanted a drink earlier," she purred, "but I'm thirsty."

Fred's hand tightened around his wand. He opened his mouth to speak, but he found that he couldn't.

She stepped forward slowly, her eyes glittering, but Fred (painfully, and as though someone was holding him back) lifted his wand. "Not another step," he choked through an unwilling throat. I can’t let her get past. I’ve got to protect Matilda.

"Or what?" she asked throatily.

Fred closed his eyes. I hope this works. "Cruxis!"

The vampire screamed in horror and threw up her hands to shield her face. With a howl, she spun and fled.

Fred, released from her spell, took a deep gasp of air and sank to his knees beneath the silver crucifix he had conjured.

"Thank God you take a classical approach to vampires, Fred," Matilda said weakly from the bedroom doorway. "I didn't think that would work on a real vampire versus a storybook one."

"Thank God I was an idiot who teased Harry Potter," Fred panted. "Back when we all thought he was the heir of Slytherin, George and I--" He broke off, swallowed, and continued in a more normal tone, "George and I would conjure those sometimes when we met him in the hallway. I never thought I'd be rewarded for being an arse." He took a deep breath and said in a nonchalant tone, "I don't think they'll bother us anymore tonight. Get to sleep."

"You?"

"I'll stay up, just in case."

There were no more unwanted guests that night, but Fred stayed awake just the same. Unpleasant visions of his own blood dripping from his bitten neck kept jolting him with terror every time he closed his eyes.

The morning sun was bright and strong by the time Fred and Matilda ventured downstairs. The pub was deserted, thankfully, and the pair made their way to the fireplace. A tall goblet full of glittering powder stood on the mantel, and Fred reached in for a handful. Tossing the powder into the fire, the welcome green flames were warm after the chill of the night before. "After you, Matilda," he said with a little bow.

She nodded and stepped into the fireplace with his assistance. "St. Mungo's!" she said aloud, and vanished in a flash of flame. A moment later Fred stepped after her, and as the green flames tickled his skin, he reflected that he was very glad to be rid of the Stoker's Den.

He stepped out of the fireplace and found himself behind Matilda. Directly ahead was a sign that said "Welcome to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries", and beneath it was the Welcome Desk. Thankfully, it was so early in the morning there was practically no one there.

The Welcome Witch smiled at Fred--after George had been admitted, Fred's constant visits had put him on a first-name basis with most everyone in the hospital. "Mr. Weasley. What a pleasant surprise. Are you visiting?"

"Checking in, Meredith," he said with a shake of the head, and indicating Matilda.

Meredith's eyebrows lifted, but she handed Matilda a clipboard with a sheet of parchment attached to it and a Self-Inking Quill. Reaching into a box under her desk, she handed Fred a small glass vial. "Since she seems to be rather weak, if we could get a statement from you instead, Mr. Weasley, with everything you know about her injuries..."

Fred nodded and touched the tip of his wand to his temple. Concentrating hard on everything Charlie had told him about the strange Dragon Pox, he pulled the wand away and noted with interest the silver strands clinging to the tip. He'd never seen thought before. With one finger he popped open the lid of the vial and slowly lowered the thought in. He handed it to Meredith as Matilda handed back her clipboard. Meredith scanned the parchment as she attached Fred's vial with a Sticking Charm. Nodding, she reached into another box and pulled out a small, lime-green paper airplane, labeled with some letters Fred couldn't see to read. "Just one moment," she told them, and sailed the airplane down one of the halls.

A moment later, a young woman in Healer robes (though with a patch that proclaimed her a Trainee) with a long plait down her back came down the hallway. She stopped short when she saw Fred and Matilda, and she smiled hugely. "Matilda! Matilda Wardley!" Rushing forward, she gave her a quick hug then stepped back--apparently she knew the properties of Matilda's condition. "And, hello, Fred."

"Hi, Susan," he said with a brief smile. Susan Bones, former Hufflepuff (and apparently, friend of Matilda), was one of the Healers assigned to the long-term resident ward. "Do you know which ward we're in?"

"The Chauncey Oldridge ward, number 27." With an arm around Matilda's shoulders, Susan steered her up two flights of stairs and down a long, polished hallway to a ward with a gold #27 engraved on it.

Several Healers stood inside, consulting a small basin full of swirling, liquid silver. A tall man with greying hair turned around as the three came in. Susan led Matilda to the far end of the ward and helped her lie down, and Fred would have followed if the tall Healer hadn't stepped in front of him.

"Ah, Mr. Weasley. I'm Healer Bristol."

Fred smiled briefly, casting a glance over the man's shoulder to see if Matilda was all right. Susan was mixing her up a potion, chattering all the while. "Nice to meet you."

"Take a walk with me, Mr. Weasley." The man had a deep voice that brooked no argument, and Fred suspiciously followed him out of the ward. Once the door had closed behind him, the man put his hands behind his back and spoke very directly. "Well, I'll be perfectly honest with you, sir. Your friend is dying."

Fred nodded shortly. "And...?"

The man looked reflective, his eyes straying up to the crystal globes that lit the hallways. "We looked at the memory you gave us, and there was no doubt that we've seen this before. It's a much more severe variety of Dragon Pox, that attacks the lungs. It gradually begins to take over all space needed for breathing until eventually there's nothing left to breathe with." He spoke in a clinically detached manner, apparently immune to the expression of horror on Fred's face. "We can give her potions to help her breathe while she's still got something left, but there's no cure for this. Judging from how far along she is right now, I'd say that she's got two weeks."

Fred stared at him. "There's no cure?" he asked faintly, feeling a sinking, hollow feeling in his chest. "No...there has to be one... What about all the other Keepers, what about my brother?"

"This is a hospital, sir. I'd appreciate it if you didn't shout."

Fred shook his head, anger overcoming despair. "There has to be something you can do!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley. Miss Wardley is a hopeless case." With a curt nod, he turned and went back inside the ward.

Staring after him for a long moment, Fred felt a dreadful urge to break something welling up inside of him. There was suddenly a loud shattering noise, and Fred jumped and looked up. Two of the crystal bubbles had broken, and after the initial satisfaction, Fred slowly grew ashamed of himself. Wandless magic. Bloody curse. Drawing his wand, he muttered, "Reparo," and watched the pieces fly back together.

"You know," a clipped and polished voice said from behind him, "you could seek the advice of the legendary Healer."

Fred whirled and found himself staring at a painting of an aristocratic Healer. "Who?"

"Hippocrates, of course." The man took off the monocle clenched in one eye and polished it on his robes. Lifting it to his eye again, he frowned at Fred. "I say, you're looking a bit seedy."

"Shut up," he said automatically. He couldn't stand people like this. "How do I find Hippocrates?"

"Well, he's dead, you know. He has a portrait."

"Where...is...it?" Fred said slowly, trying to rein in the anger he still felt at the Healer's words.

The man looked pensive. "I don't know. There used to be a medieval Healer whose portrait hung in this hallway. I didn't believe most of what he said--it was complete rot--but he believed very strongly in the legend of Hippocrates' Portrait." He gazed closely at Fred. "There's a riddle. I'll give it to you.

"I sing of a tale worthy of myth and legend,
Few who doubted were later enlightened.
I tell the story of how St. Mungo came to be,
An apparition that Bonham had come to see.

"Grecian wizard of the past was this great man,
Through him Mungo Bonham's vision hath began.
When the hospital was built, Hippocrates' ghost was at peace.
Bondage upon his soul, this world hath finally release.

"A portrait of this ghost is all we have now,
One summer night is all that nature would allow.
A night he'll come to share his boundless knowledge,
The only time when this ghostly portrait gain earthly passage.

"Alas, we know the time but ne'er the place ...
Place whence the Healer's presence be grace.
Many-a-claim from those who saw and were helped,
Many-a-patients his healing presence hath been felt.

"And that's the story." The Healer's eyebrows lifted, and he gazed at Fred with a slight twinkle in his eye.

Fred's mind was whirling. The Great Healer himself, Hippocrates...the man was legend incarnate. Many of his remedies had been lost to time...

He might know a cure.

A small light of hope had begun to shine through the knot of despair in his chest. I'll find the portrait. I'll do it. Turning back to the strange Healer, Fred opened his mouth, but swallowed the words he was about to say when he discovered that the man had gone.

---

The ward was quiet, and Matilda and Susan its only occupants when Fred reentered with a new feeling of determination. Crossing to her bedside, he found that there was a small table set up beside it with a small cauldron, a mortar and pestle, some other tools, and an array of plants. From the look on Matilda's face, he could tell that Susan was telling her the bad news, and when the injured woman's eyes flicked to him, he knew she was begging him to change the subject. "What's all this?" he asked in a lighter tone, indicating the table and ingredients set up.

"I need to make a paste for these burns," Susan told him, indicating the burns on Matilda's arms and legs. Standing up from where she'd been sitting, she smoothed the front of her robes and moved to the table. Just then, a hassled-looking woman stuck her head in. "Sue, you'd better come quick, we need all the hands we can get--"

"What's happened?" Susan asked anxiously as she crossed to the door.

"Massive explosion at the Exploding Snap factory--fifty-four injuries, and twenty Muggles, to boot--"

Everyone winced. Susan cast an agonized glance between Matilda and the ingredients for the paste. "Helen, these are really serious burns, they need immediate attention--"

"You go," Fred said quickly. "I experimented in joke products for years; trust me, I know how to make a burn salve."

Susan cast him a grateful look, and she and her fellow Healer headed hurriedly down to the first floor.

"That's terrible," Matilda said gravely. "Fifty-four injuries...and those poor Muggles..."

Fred nodded as he examined the ingredients. Some of the plants there he wasn't familiar with, but he recognized all the ones he used to make his own salves out of. Tapping the small pile of fuel underneath the cauldron half-full of water, he set it to heating. Picking up the mortar and pestle, he examined the plants and selected a few flowers of St. John's Wort. Beginning to grind the yellowish flowers, he said in a casual tone, "My dad would probably be thrilled to see the Muggles. I'll bet he'd hurt himself on purpose just so he could come in."

Matilda chuckled weakly. She was quiet as Fred poured the crushed flowers into the glass bowl that stood beside the cauldron and selected a bit of dried chamomile. After a few moments, she said quietly, "Did Healer Bristol tell you?"

Fred paused in his grinding for a moment. "Yes."

"And?"

"I refuse to believe that there isn't a cure." Picking up his pestle again, he began to grind furiously. "Not for you, not for the others, and not for Charlie. There is a cure, and I'm going to find it."

"You'll travel the whole world in two weeks?"

"If I have to." Adding the powdery chamomile to the bowl, he picked up a knife and began to chop a stem of aloe. Then he stopped and looked at Matilda. He didn't want to give her false hope, but years of living with the events surrounding Harry Potter, he was almost certain that anything was possible. "'Til...one of the Healer portraits told me about a legend they have here."

Her eyes brightened slightly. "What about?"

"There's a riddle...I don't remember all the words...but it says that there's a portrait of Hippocrates that will appear on one night in summer, and he'll share his knowledge." He took a breath. "I believe it."

"You're going to follow a myth? Fred, you don't know where, or even when, to look."

"I'll find out." He added the chopped aloe to the bowl and picked a few more stems and leaves to slice. "I promise." He added the ingredients to the simmering cauldron, and then a drop of pixie honey to thicken it. Picking up a netted strainer from the table, he covered the pot and drained the water. With a tap he chilled the water, and then dropped the strained mixture in it. A moment later, he put the lump of paste into a bowl and handed it to Matilda.

She was staring at him. "A myth?" she repeated.

He sighed. "It's better than no hope at all."

---

It was late that night when Fred slipped out of the ward (Susan had kindly let him stay with Matilda). Since Hippocrates would only appear at night, he decided to start that very evening.

St. Mungo's was spooky at night. Most of the Healers had gone; only a skeleton crew remained for the night watch. The crystal globes had all turned off, except for one to illuminate each staircase. Fred was a little chilled as he descended to the ground floor, thinking that the logical place to start. Every now and then, a strange noise would echo down the hallway, and Fred would whirl around, trying to dissect the darkness, but to no avail.

It was almost half an hour later when Fred began to feel like someone was following him. It was an unpleasant sensation that he had developed during the war, but a handy one. Occasionally he would catch a strange echo, and turn to look, but only shadows would be behind him. Fred was no fool; he knew about Invisibility Cloaks, but there was no reason for anyone to be following him. There was no reason for anyone to be sneaking around St. Mungo's after hours, in fact--well, except for Fred himself.

There was another echo, and Fred drew his wand. It was comforting to have the wood clenched in his hand.

Suddenly, he heard a low mutter behind him, and before he could whirl around his mind went blank. A peaceful feeling swept over him, erasing all his aches and weariness. It was a wonderfully blank feeling, and familiar somehow. Don't move, a voice said in the back of his mind, and Fred was only too happy to comply.

Drop your wand, said the voice.

Fred's hand began to relax, but suddenly another voice spoke up--the voice of an instinct, ingrained into him through two years of war: Never lose your wand. No, I can't drop my wand. I need it.

Drop it, now.

The voice spoke a little stronger. No, I need my wand...I won't drop it.

Do it!

No, thanks, the voice said confidently.

DROP IT!

"NO!" The spell broke with a crack, and Fred whirled with wand raised. "Stupefy!

The spell shot harmlessly away down the empty hallway, hitting no one.

Fred, hand clenched around his wand, stood frozen, panting with sudden adrenaline, but it was useless. The hallway was deserted.

---

He was still on edge from the mysterious Imperius Curse when he returned to the second floor in his search. From the position of the shadows near the window, he'd been looking for an hour and a half. It was nearly midnight. With a nervous sigh, he moved towards the stairwell, resigned to continue his search on the third floor.

"You seem to be suffering from a case of spattergroit, my good sirrah."

Fred whirled, wand outstretched, but it was only a portrait hanging behind him, a few feet away from the stairwell. "What?" he asked bluntly.

"The unsightly blemishes across your face," the man elaborated. "Surely a case of spattergroit."

"They're freckles, you obsolete prat," Fred said through clenched teeth. "I'm looking for legends, not asking for unwarranted and ancient diagnoses, all right?" He was short-tempered and irritable, and again, he knew that he was being rude but didn't care. "Keep your mouth shut."

The man sniffed as Fred began to walk away. "I'll be sure to tell Hippocrates that the rude young man doesn't deserve his attention."

Fred froze. "Hippocrates?"

"Yes. I was sympathetic to your case, at first, but since you 'don't need ancient diagnoses,' I'll just go to Hippocrates and tell him that."

He spun and stared, mouth agape. "Hippocrates will be here? Tonight? And you know where?"

The Healer tugged at his collar. "I do."

"Tell me," Fred begged. "Please."

"I thought you didn't want my help," the man said lightly.

"Listen," Fred began hotly, then stopped. The man wouldn't tell him like this, he realized. The man probably wouldn't tell him at all, given the circumstances. He had to trick him into it. Thank God I'm a Weasley. Fred closed his mouth and thought for a second. "You're right. I don't want your help," he said after a moment.

The man frowned. "You were begging."

"Yeah, but why would I want the opinions of an old, obsolete dingbat? My problems are more modern," Fred scoffed. "My brain's newer, it works faster than yours. I can figure it out on my own."

The portrait gave an indignant quiver. "Listen, you boorish ape. I was curing disease before your ancestors came out of the trees. I, an 'obsolete dingbat,' know more than you ever will."

"I don't think so," Fred continued to goad him. "I don't think you know anything. You're a quack, that's all. Spattergroit? Doesn't exist. You made it up so it would sound like you had an opinion."

"I certainly do have an opinion!" the man fumed. "And my opinion is that you are an ungrateful little fool who doesn't have a chance at finding the legendary Hippocrates. You're far too stupid."

"You're the stupid one if you can't see genius when it's staring you in the face," Fred laughed scornfully. "I'll find Hippocrates, and I won't need your help."

"You most certainly will!" the man practically screamed, his face a mottled red.

Fred rolled his eyes and began to descend the staircase. "I'll be down on the ground floor, waiting for Hippocrates. I'll give him your regards."

"He's not on the ground floor, he's on the fourth!"

Fred's head snapped up, and he broke into a wide grin. "Thank you," he said with genuine sincerity, smiling at the man who had suddenly paled in astonishment.

The portrait suddenly broke into rueful laughter. "I've been had. My wife always said that my temper would get the best of me. You're clever, young man."

"But not nearly as clever as Hippocrates, I hope." Fred looked up the staircase and took a deep breath. The fourth floor. By George. Giving the old Healer another grateful nod, Fred started back up the staircase, hoping he wouldn't be too late.

"Wait, young man." The old healer looked resigned. "My name is Mungo Bonham."

Fred stopped and stared. "Mungo Bonham?...The real Mungo Bonham?"

"Indeed." The man smiled. "Hippocrates appeared to me many years ago, and instructed me how to build the hospital." He looked down the hallway. "I died from Dragon Pox, years ago; they hung my portrait in this hallway to commemorate. I was a recluse in life, to be honest, and I'm glad I'm not on the ground floor. Dilys is a face all the public knows, she's better for it."

He sighed and continued. "Each year, Hippocrates and I meet to have a little chat. I always know where he'll be."

Fred stepped forward eagerly. "Can you tell me?"

Mungo shook his head. "Alas, I cannot. I have to keep with an oath made with him that I would never directly reveal his position."

Fred groaned.

"Yet I see your great need and understand," Mungo added gently. "After all, a Healer's task is to help find cures and you're in need of him." The man thought for a moment. "If you can answer my question, I'll point you to the right direction." He straightened and asked lightly, "Would you prefer a 'mind game' or a 'game of chance'?"

Staring, Fred leaned back against the opposite wall. "What are the rules?"

"A mind game is a riddle. A game of chance is luck. However, if you are wrong on either, there will be a consequence before you can try again."

That "consequence" didn't sound good to Fred, but neither did trusting lives to luck, either. His mother would never forgive him if he got it wrong, and he wasn't sure that he'd forgive himself, either. He wasn't one of the smartest people in the world, but he was clever.

Back to the wall, he sank down and sat cross-legged on the floor opposite Mungo, steeling himself. "I'll take the riddle."

Mungo nodded, thought for a moment, then cleared his throat.

"Red eyes hath shone,
Valuable is my egg,
I have plenty of backbone,
But lack a good leg."

Fred nodded and titled his head back, closing his eyes. "Red eyes" was no good; there were hundreds of magical creatures with red eyes. A valuable egg...he'd come back to that once he'd narrowed down the list. The last two lines must mean some sort of snake or serpent.

The first creature that came to mind was a Basilisk, but he wasn't entirely sure about that. For one thing, it was all well and good to imagine a massive snake with glowing red eyes, but he thought he remembered Harry firmly saying they were yellow. Besides, Lupin had told them that a Basilisk is grown from a chicken egg hatched under a toad--not particularly valuable.

Setting that aside, Fred thought about the eggs. He and George had experimented with a lot of materials, but some things were too valuable for them to afford. What were those?

He remembered George saying something about dragon eggs, years ago... Now a dragon Keeper, Fred knew all about dragons and their eggs, but none of the ones in the Preserve had particularly valuable eggs (except the Norwegian Ridgebacks, but those were only valuable because Charlie said he didn't want nutters like Hagrid getting a hold of them again). Suddenly, he remembered--Chinese Fireball eggs were valuable in sorcery.

Krum had fought a Chinese Fireball during the Triwizard Tournament. It had been very long, and had a few spindly legs...and several valuable eggs.

Fred grinned. That had to be it.

Suddenly, however, an errant memory drifted back to him. George's voice, talking about their latest Love Potion... We haven't been doing anything wrong, we just don't have the right ingredients. We need some Ashwinder eggs, I keep telling you, Fred--

His eyes snapped open. Lupin had taught them about Ashwinders. They were serpents, with red eyes and grey bodies, and (he had added with a slight smile) their eggs were used in Love Potions. We found an Ashwinder nest at Grimmauld Place, when we were cleaning, and Mum told us to freeze the eggs and then give them to her, and Sirius said we could sell them to the Apothecary in Diagon Alley...

"It's an Ashwinder," he said aloud without thinking about it. "It has to be."

"Is that your guess?" Mungo asked gravely.

Fred bit his lip, a very anxious feeling beginning in the pit of his stomach. He cast one last, fleeting thought at the Chinese Fireball, dismissed it, and nodded. "It is."
Mungo gazed at him for a long moment, then smiled. "You are correct."

All the air in his lungs whooshed out in a huge sigh of relief. He felt drained suddenly, as if everything he had experienced up to this point had just caught up with him, now that he had done it.

It slowly hit him. He had done it. He was going to see Hippocrates; he was going to cure Matilda. Shakily, he rose to his feet. "Thank you. Where can I find the portrait?"

Mungo gathered his robes around him and stood from the chair he had been painted in. "I'll show you." Turning, he stepped out of his portrait and after a moment appeared in the next, striding puposefully past its occupant towards the stairs.

"We should be careful," Fred said quietly, walking beside him. "Someone hit me with an Imperius Curse earlier--"

Mungo stopped and looked curiously at him. "An Imperius Curse? Did you see them?"

Fred shook his head. "No, there wasn't anyone there. Not that I could see."

The old man chuckled slightly. "Did it tell you to drop your wand?"

Amazed that he was taking an illegal curse so lightly, Fred nodded slowly.

"It was just security. Their job is to disarm intruders. When you broke the curse--you did break it, didn't you?--I assume they followed you to watch, and then realized you had a right to be here." Mungo looked supremely pleased. "One of my better ideas. This way."

Pushing the security system from his mind, Fred followed the old man up the winding stairs to the fourth floor, apprehension growing with every step. A thousand what-ifs were rushing through his mind like a river--what if it doesn't work, what if he doesn't come, what if there is no cure?

They emerged onto the fourth floor, and Fred felt his heart clench as they passed the ward where George lay. He was suddenly struck by an overpowering urge to either go in and see him or fall to the floor weeping. Firmly deciding to do neither, Fred shook himself and followed Mungo to the end of the hallway, where a single-paned window glowed with clouded moonlight. There was a strange, unreal quality to it, and Fred found himself holding his breath.

Five floors below, in the entry room, the clock began to toll midnight.

The clouds shifted, and pale light bathed the corridor.

Fred gasped. The silver light on the glass began to solidify into opaqueness, and indistinct shapes and colors began to appear in the white background. The window is the portrait, he realized with shock.

A figure slowly began to take shape, and like a mist clearing, the remaining moonlight on the painting vanished, revealing a silver-haired and bearded old man with ancient and wise eyes.

"Good evening, Hippocrates," Mungo said in a tone of utmost respect.

The great Healer turned towards the portrait's voice, and smiled gently. "And a good evening to you, Master Bonham." His grey eyes flickered onto Fred, and narrowed slightly. "And who is this?"

Fred stepped forward, feeling oddly humbled in the presence of such a legend. "Fred Weasley," he said, trying to match the respect Mungo had shown in his voice. "I've come to ask if you could heal someone for me. The...the Healers don't know what to do."

Hippocrates tilted his head slightly. "What has happened to this friend?"

"We work at a dragon preserve in Romania, and she's come down with a pox... They've seen it before, and they say there's no cure--"

Hippocrates held up a hand for silence. "She?" he asked, in a resonatingly deep voice that reminded Fred of Dumbledore.

"My partner, Matilda Wardley."

"Your friend?" The Healer's voice was penetrating.

Fred didn't see what the ancient wizard could mean. "Yes..."

Hippocrates and Mungo exchanged a glance, and then Hippocrates nodded slowly. "I will see this woman."

They strode through the corridors in silence, the two portraits and an apprehensive Fred, until they reached the ward. Unlocking it with a tap of his wand, Fred stepped inside and saw the two Healers appear in the portrait above Matilda's bed.

She looked even worse than she had the last time he had seen her. Her skin was green, and he could hear her breath rattling in her chest as she slept. She looked like she had aged years since he had last seen her happy and healthy--and it felt like a year since he had slept. Suddenly he was so exhausted, with fear and worry and plain overwork, that he felt as if he was about to faint. He took a few deep breaths, and after a moment took Matilda's hand in his. It felt cold and frail, and dread crept into his heart. "Can you do something for her?" he managed to ask Hippocrates.

The Healer was studying her closely, and Fred's question hung in the air. Fred waited patiently, exhausted but hanging on for the Healer's words.

The silence dragged on, until finally Hippocrates spoke. "Yes."

Hope began to rise again, and he clenched Matilda's hand slightly. "What do you need?"

"Hellebore, bloodroot, and aconite."

Fred's chest constricted. "Those are poisons."

"Yes," Hippocrates said simply.

Taking a deep breath, Fred rose from his seat, almost regretfully dropping Matilda's hand. When he returned with the poisons, Hippocrates gave him several precise instructions on cutting and crushing, and when he had finished he was left with a small cup of a dark, almost black liquid.

"She must drink it," the ancient Healer instructed him. "Wake her gently. She is very ill and must be handled carefully."

Fred sat beside her and gently propped her up against him. "'Til?" he said quietly. "'Til, wake up."

A moment later, Matilda's eyelids fluttered open, and she began to cough, her entire body shaking with the force of it. "F-Fred?" she managed to say, her slightly unfocused eyes gazing at his face.

"'Til, I did it," he whispered, unable to keep the triumph from his voice. "Drink this." Lifting the cup to her lips, he held her steady as she drank the strange potion.

All at once a strange convulsion seized her body, and he felt a flush of heat spread through her. Her face paled sharply, her whole body shaking madly, and then suddenly it stopped and she fell back into his arms, limp and still.

No! Horrified, Fred threw the cup away in disgust and pulled her close to him. "'Til--Matilda--say something--"

Agonized seconds crept by, but she didn't move. Fred lifted a disbelieving face to the two Healers in their portrait, unable to believe that their 'cure' had killed her--

Hippocrates smiled softly.

A weak voice whispered, "Fred?"

His head snapped down and he felt a wild joy sweep through him as Matilda gazed up at him in confusion. Her face, though still pale, was no longer green and he could hear her breathing long, deep breaths. Her dark eyes, clouded before with sickness and pain, were clear, though exhausted.

"'Til, you're okay!" he gasped, pulling her up into an embrace. "Thank God..."

"I feel fine," she whispered, "just so tired..." Remembering, he laid her down against the pillows, arranging them to a more comfortable position with a lightness in his heart that wasn't in his exhausted body.

"Sleep well, 'Til," he said softly. She smiled faintly, her eyes beginning to close, and as he gazed down at her a thought came to him. He had moved mountains for her, trying to make sure that she would be all right... Curiously, he leaned down and gently kissed her, and was surprised by how right it felt.

"Goodnight, Fred," she murmured as he leaned back, and her eyes closed with a smile on her face.

"Goodnight, 'Til," he said quietly, touching her cheek lightly. When her breathing was slow and regular, he added in a whisper, "I love you," and stood to go.

The two ancient Healers were waiting outside as he left the ward and locked the door with his wand. "Thank you," he said quietly, turning to them. "I'll tell the Healers in the morning about the potion, and then we can go back to Romania, and heal my brother Charlie and the others--" Something stuck about that sentence, jogging a thought in the back of his mind, and he broke off, frowning slightly.

"No thanks are required," Hippocrates said courteously, bowing. "I am merely glad that this old man could help save lives once again."

Fred nodded, still trying to think of what it could be...that he was forgetting...

As Hippocrates and Mungo began to walk away, it suddenly hit him.

My brother...

"Hippocrates, wait!"

The old man turned, eyebrows lifted slightly. "Is there something else?"

A wild, desperate feeling like hope had ignited in his chest. "There's--" His voice cracked, and he tried again. "There's one other thing. My--my brother, George--he's upstairs, and..." He hesitated, knowing that this was a fool's hope but that it was worth a shot. "The Healers say there's no cure for him, but..."

That same gentle smile broke over the old Healer's face, and he nodded. "Take me to your brother."

Fred couldn't stop himself from trembling. This is stupid, George can't be healed, why are you wasting your time? he repeated over and over in his mind, but he couldn't stop his heart from wishing, hoping, believing that Hippocrates could help--

"This is it," he heard his own voice saying, and drawing a clever pocketknife from his pocket, he unlocked the door.

Passing a slumbering Lockhart and the Longbottoms, he quietly conjured and Silenced a curtain stand around the bed that he had been trying not to think about for months now.

George was thinner and paler than he used to be, and he twitched as he slept, his brow knitted in fearful dreams. Fred felt his heart constrict as he sank into the chair (that was always there, always just for him) beside his brother's bed. As always, the tears came unbidden to his eyes as he remembered how they used to laugh--

"What happened to him?" Hippocrates asked softly.

"Tortured by the Cruciatus Curse," Fred said shortly. "I don't know if you--"

"It is ancient, evil magic," Hippocrates whispered. "The spell may be Latin, but it was invented long before that. I know of it." The old man's eyes held ancient grief as he gazed down at George. "Awaken him."

Fred reached forward and touched his brother's shoulder. "George," he managed to say around the sudden lump in his throat, "wake up."

His brother's eyes, once as bright and blue and twinkling with mischief as his own, were dull and uncomprehending as they slowly opened. He stared up at the portrait, then noticed Fred. A tiny smile of recognition dawned on his face as he sat up and reached to touch Fred's face and the sudden tears there.

"There is a spell," Hippocrates told him in that same, saddened whisper. "You must draw upon your own memories of him, and if it is strong enought, the magic will carry your strength of thought to him. Phasmatis memoria."

Closing his eyes and taking his brother's hand in his right and his wand in his left, Fred summoned all his memories of his twin, feeling hot tears burn his eyes as he remembered flying, Quidditch, the shop--

"Phasmatis memoria."

A white light began to encompass the two of them, and Fred's eyes opened to gaze through the white nimbus at his brother's face. George's eyes were at first confused, then they slowly widened with amazement. After a few moments, the light began to fade, and George closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. Fred, feeling even more drained and exhausted than before, slumped forward in his chair, his eyes desperately fixed on his twin, his last chance for sanity.

George's eyes flickered open, unfocused, and after a moment they settled on Fred.

A happiness so profound he felt his heart would burst filled him as his brother grinned at him. "Hey, Fred."

Somewhere, outside, the sun began to rise.