AN: It's only fair to warn prospective readers that this plot bunny is the unholy spawn of a threesome bunny and a MLC bunny, raised without rules, and fed on DH to be mostly canon compliant with it (the epilogue was spat out and savaged to pieces).

Many thanks to septentrion and JunoMagic for betaing. Also credit to JunoMagic for the title.

Chapter 1

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, lifted his head from his hands when the door to his office opened. He looked blearily up at his visitor, rubbing at his weary eyes.

"Come in, please, Severus." Ordinarily there would have been a receptionist to let him know of such arrivals, but in current circumstances … Kingsley mentally shook himself, gesturing to one of the high-backed chairs in front of his desk.

Severus seated himself. He looked just as tired as Kingsley felt.

"Is the Wizengamot overconfident?" asked Kingsley, steepling his fingers.

The lines on Severus's face, entrenched by sleepless nights, deepened as he scowled. "Only in how welcoming of this law the public will be."

"The cure is working, then."

"You knew at our last meeting that it was, Minister. It is only now being produced in quantities that make a difference." Severus said with a half-hearted sneer.

"Do you have any idea how many—" Kingsley was cut off by the door banging open.

Lucius Malfoy strode inside, the tip of his snake-headed cane cracking on the polished floor with every step. His usually composed face was contorted with fury, his fair complexion flushed with blotches of red. He marched up to the desk, and thrust a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet into Kingsley's face.

"What is the meaning of this, Shacklebolt?" he spat, shaking the paper.

Kingsley took it, straightening it out to see the headline: 'Ministry Blunders With Marriage Law Scandal'. "I see Rita Skeeter has a successor," he commented blandly.

His calm tone only seemed to enrage Lucius further. "How dare you? I demand to know why a jumped up Auror thinks he can dictate to Wizarding Britain on marriage."

Skimming the inflammatory article, Kingsley was not overly surprised to find that he was the scapegoat.

"For someone fortunate to escape Azkaban, you demand a lot, Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley snapped, bristling.

"Do I?" Lucius laughed hollowly. "It is obscene to order a recently widowed man to remarry."

A contemptuous grunt escaped Kingsley. In his opinion Lucius's 'clandestine' visits to his lovers while in mourning were also obscene.

Seeing Lucius's eyes narrow, Kingsley spoke. "As for this new legislation, I have no choice. I did not write the law, the Wizengamot did. I am sorry that you are required to remarry so soon after your wife's death, but you are not alone. Many wizards will have to do the same thing." Hopefully his words would offer a less insulting reason for his contempt.

"Including the bachelors."

Lucius straightened and spun around, surprised to hear a familiar voice from the high backed chair behind him. Taken aback, he needed a brief moment to regain a fragile semblance of control over his expression. He turned and stepped back so he could face both men.

"What are you doing here, Severus?"

"If you must know, reporting to the Minister on the progress of the cure."

Lucius eyed him resentfully. "Progress? Your brainchild failed to save Narcissa."

Severus glowered back. "It is saving enough for the Wizengamot to bring in this new law. I am also not the only one working on the cure. If you want to blame anyone, old friend, blame your late master. All signs point to him as the architect of this ailment."

"Then why is it affecting pure-bloods as badly, if not worse than the—" he paused, glancing at Shacklebolt, "—Muggleborns?"

His face darkening, Severus stood up. "You are deluded if you believe that the Dark Lord would have cared for pure-bloods to survive when he did not."

Kingsley intervened before the squabble could turn into a fight. "Gentlemen! Both of you are subject to this law. As am I. Your quarrel is with the law, not with me or each other."

There was a tense moment when the Minister wondered if he would be ignored in his own office.

"My apologies, Shacklebolt," Lucius murmured. He turned to Severus. "Perhaps you are right. The Dark Lord admittedly was insane by the time he died. We can discuss this later, over drinks. I'll expect you at eight o' clock, Severus. I will leave you to your meeting." Before Severus had a chance to refuse, he left, closing the door quietly.

One of the house-elves retained by the Malfoys had led Severus into the study.

"Ah, there you are, Severus. I was beginning to wonder if I would have to fetch you."

Lucius was reclining in his favourite chair by the fireplace. But he was not indulging himself in the promised drinks yet, obviously waiting for his guest to arrive. Yes, because otherwise Lucius would be speaking before Severus was led into the study.

"Draw up a chair. Now, what would you prefer? Firewhisky?"

Severus sat down. He held up a hand in refusal. "Thank you, but I must decline. I cannot drink any alcohol when I need to brew."

Lips twisting, Lucius shook his head. "As you will. Surely now that this cure has been discovered, you are no longer needed. Others can brew that potion of yours."

"The demand for it is too great. I cannot stay long."

"May I offer you some mineral water then?" Lucius snapped his fingers and sent the house-elf scurrying for a glass of ice-cold water.

Severus accepted the water and watched Lucius pour himself two fingers of Firewhisky, swirl it around the glass and take a sip.

"What did you tell Shacklebolt about this cure?"

"Why do you want to know?" Severus asked. After Lucius's angry words in the Minister's office, Severus was surprised that Lucius would want to know anything about the cure.

Lucius drained the last of his drink, then deposited the glass onto the table beside him. "Because of this abominable legislation. I have spent this afternoon investigating it, I've pulled what strings are still available to me to find out as much as I can," he rasped. He spoke too soon for his voice to cope with the burn of the Firewhisky. Clearing his throat, he continued in more normal, smoother tones.

"I think I can see the need for this new law," he reluctantly admitted. "How many witches have died?"

"Nearly two thirds in Wizarding Britain. I'm not aware of the numbers in other countries, but it has spread to every wizarding enclave across the world."

Lucius paled. "I had anticipated half, but that many? Then there is a real need."

Severus sighed heavily. "Indeed. We may not like it, but we do not have much choice. If the numbers at Hogwarts while I was teaching were anything to go by, there were fewer witches than wizards even before this pandemic."

"Either we comply with this law, or we marry Muggles." Lucius looked sickened at the thought. "Beyond the dangers of watering down magical blood with Muggle marriages, there are also … implications for the Statute of Secrecy."

"Are you aware that Muggle-born witches are more resilient against this disease than pure-bloods?" Severus asked, before draining his glass and handing it to the house-elf.

"Frankly, I would marry a Muggle-born before I married a Muggle." Lucius stared moodily into the fire. "Ordinarily I would persuade the Wizengamot to exempt me from this law. But with the outcome of the war … I no longer have enough influence."

He abruptly looked over at Severus. "Do you realise that this law does not just dictate marriage, but also enforces polyandry?"

"Too many witches have died, and too few wizards are willing to marry Muggles," Severus said, repeating what he knew of the Wizengamot's justification for this unseemly legislation.

For a moment, Lucius watched Severus with a calculating glint in his eye. "And what of you, Severus? Would you marry a Muggle rather than share a witch?"

"I do not share," Severus stated, crossing his arms. "Yet the only women to hold my interest in the past have been witches," he admitted reluctantly, frowning.

His host smiled. "I thought as much. You see, I have no wish to be remarried. What I propose is that we marry the same witch. In my case it would be a marriage in name only."

"Marriages must be consummated," Severus pointed out.

"One night, then. After that, you would have the witch in question to yourself, and I would be free to do as I please."

Severus's frown deepened. It did sound better than the alternative, but something seemed wrong with Lucius's plan ...

"Not even a night, if you're that bothered by the idea. Just as long as it takes to do my duty, and our bride would be back in your bed," Lucius wheedled, misinterpreting Severus's obvious reluctance.

"If that is what the woman in question wants," Severus said stiffly. Lucius did not seem to allow for the fact that three people would be affected by this.

Throwing back his head, Lucius laughed. "What does that matter? If it isn't what she wants, it is a simple matter to persuade her that it is." He shook his head, still laughing. "Oh, Severus, you have the honour of a Hufflepuff."

Affronted, Severus was about to stand and take his leave when Lucius stifled his laughter.

"Now, don't take offence. Your noble qualities will be to your advantage with regards to attracting a suitable bride. We will need to decide whom to pursue. My only requirements are that she has sufficient power and influence so that marriage to her—" He paused briefly, "—will better my current standing in the wizarding world."

'Not that it would take much,' Severus thought, resisting the temptation to voice the disparaging comment. "I need time to think about this plan of yours before I agree. It is, after all, a life-changing decision. Besides, it's still too soon to tell exactly which witches will survive. The cure works, but it doesn't work miracles. Some witches still die before the cure has a chance to take effect."

"Is that so? Very well. Do let me know what you decide. I should let you resume your work. We can't have any more witches dying for want of the cure."

When she drifted awake, she needed a moment to remember a few vital details: who she was (Hermione Jean Granger) and what she was (a witch). She realised that she needed further input before she could figure out where and when she was.

She cracked open her eyes, only to screw them shut against the painfully bright light. Rolling over, she winced at the complaining muscles and buried her head into the pillow, using it to shield herself from the light. Gradually, her vision adjusted to the illumination.

'Cold institutional feel, stark décor (complete with vomit green painted walls), privacy curtains pushed back, rows of beds …'

Or rather, row upon row of sleeping patients. At least, Hermione assumed that they were sleeping, but on closer observation the breathing wasn't right. It couldn't be natural for people to all be breathing at the same time and at a mechanical rate. Could it be enspelled sleep? Had she been in the same condition as these people? A shiver ran down her spine.

Right, so she was in a hospital. Not at Hogwarts, as it wasn't this large. St. Mungo's? Were there any other wizarding hospitals? Hermione had never heard of any, so for now she'd assume that she was in St. Mungo's.

But why was she in hospital? She racked her muzzy memory, shaking her head with a grimace at the warning throb of pain. Perhaps it would be best to put that question aside until she could ask someone. It seemed that the same went for the date. There were no calendars or newspapers around to indicate it. Besides the … sleeping patients, there was no one else in sight.

When she pushed back the covers, Hermione was not surprised to see that she was dressed in a hospital robe, designed to offer easy access for the professionals. Slipping out of bed, she was grateful that it didn't have a gap at the back like Muggle equivalents.

The floor was cold under her bare feet, but there were no slippers or even her wand around for her to conjure some with. Her muscles might be protesting at her movements, but they didn't seem to be about to collapse under her.

Slipping out of the room, she turned back to check if there was a sign indicating what it was. Sure enough, there was: 'BASEMENT: SECURE WARD'. Looking closely, Hermione was alarmed to see that there was an additional notice pinned beneath the first.

"Quarantine…" she rasped, her breathing unsteady, heart thumping. Surely if she was under a restriction like that, she wouldn't have been able to leave the room? Hermione was distracted from her rising panic by a pinging noise from around the corner of the corridor she stood in.

Footsteps echoed around the corner, together with the indistinct rumble of lowered voices. There were people headed towards her. Instinctively, Hermione looked for somewhere to hide, but there was only the room she had come from. Perhaps she could get back into bed and pretend to be asleep still? Before she could, the approaching people rounded the corner and spotted her.

There were two men, one a Healer judging by his lime-green robes, the other—

Hermione felt faint. That was impossible. She'd watched him die. The earlier headache returned. Her head felt as if it was cracking open. A rushing sound filled her ears, dark spots danced in front of her eyes. She was a puppet with its strings cut.

A steadying arm stopped her from falling to the floor, another wrapped around her back. She was lifted into someone's arms, then carried away and laid down on a soft, firm surface.

A cool, damp cloth mopped at her sweating forehead and soothed away the deadening weight that pressed down on her.

Slowly, she grew aware of her ragged breathing slowing down. Her hearing returned to normal, and the lights seemed to brighten.

Snape stood next to her bed, dampening a handkerchief with a carefully controlled cast of Aguamenti. He gently wiped it across her face before registering that she was watching him.

"I am well aware that I am a nightmarish sight to most former students, but I was under the impression that I was a welcome sight to you, Hermione," Snape teased, his dark eyes glittering.

Her eyes wide open in her shock, Hermione was speechless. He'd called her by her first name. The last time she could remember him addressing her, he'd definitely called her 'Miss Granger', ordering her and Luna to look after Flitwick. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been bleeding to death from Nagini's bite. What was she missing?

"You're alive," she blurted.

The teasing glint in Snape's eyes deadened. "I had hoped …" He sighed. "Hermione – Miss Granger – what is the last thing you can remember?"

She hesitated, reluctant to think back for fear of sparking another attack of whatever had struck her at the sight of Snape. But if it did, help was at hand. There was something about Snape's presence that made her feel safe, illogical although it was. The man was a murderer, a traitor—

Her breath caught as a memory of Harry's voice rang in her ears, proclaiming Snape's true loyalties. With that memory came a trickle of others. The pieces of her missing memories were slowly falling into place, though there were still some obvious gaps and jumbled parts that didn't seem to fit.

"How did you survive, Prof…." Hermione trailed off when she realised that she had no idea what to call him. He was no longer her professor, while 'sir' was probably too formal and was also how she'd addressed him when he still taught her. Just 'Snape' didn't seem very respectful, and 'Mister Snape' sounded strange.

"Severus," Snape said. Startled, Hermione looked up. "Although you do not remember it, I did grant you permission to call me 'Severus'."

"Um, thanks. Could you tell me how you survived, Severus?" she asked. While his name sounded strange to her ears, her lips and tongue didn't stumble when it came to forming the syllables. Muscle memory, perhaps?

Snape looked across the room, catching the eye of the Healer quietly roaming around checking on the other patients. As the Healer walked over, Hermione tried to decide whether it was a man or a woman. With the concealing baggy robes, there was no way to be certain. There was a faint moustache on the upper lip, but no hint of any other stubble in the wrinkled face. When it was close enough to read the nametag was of no assistance, merely stating 'Healer Gould'.

"… so it will not interfere with the recovery of her memory?" Snape was saying.

Healer Gould's voice was deep, but within the possible range of a woman, so there was no hint there. "Master Snape, were you not informed? One of the side effects of the cure is memory loss."

"No, I was not." Snape sounded calm, but from a single look at his white face, compressed lips and burning eyes, Hermione knew he was furious.

"Well, I'm sorry to say that in every other case so far, it's been permanent. It seems to be related to the duration of the plague."

"Plague?" Hermione asked, her voice faint.

Her voice was drowned out by Snape's roar. "Permanent?"

"Master Snape, all of those cured so far are lucky to be alive. The cost of a few months' memory is a small price to pay," Healer Gould said, its tone reproachful.

"Months?" Hermione's voice was even fainter, but this time she was heard. "What happened to me?"

"You've been very ill for quite a long time, Miss Granger," Healer Gould said, only to be distracted from the explanation by his/her wand beeping and flashing. "My attention is needed elsewhere. Master Snape, could I defer the full answer to that question to you? Much obliged."

Before Snape could say anything, the Healer raced out of the ward. A sound not unlike a growl escaped Snape. Scowling, he pulled a miniature chair out from under the bed, enlarged it with his wand and sat down.

"I'm sor—"

Snape cut her off. "You did not cause this ailment, Hermione. Nor did you fail to inform me of the problem with a potion I helped devise." He glared in the direction of the door the Healer had exited through.

Turning back to Hermione, he paused – presumably to collect his thoughts – before launching into his explanation. "The Dark Lord had been dead for almost six months when a magical ailment began to infect witches."

Looking around the ward, Hermione noted that all of the patients were women. She hadn't thought anything of it, assuming that it was a ward for women. Hermione returned her attention to Snape when he cleared his throat impatiently.

"It is very contagious, and attempts to contain it with quarantine failed. Within six weeks of the first case, it had spread to every country with a wizarding population. The sole blessing was that wizards and Muggles proved to be immune."

It was on the tip of Hermione's tongue to ask why that was, but interrupting Snape had never been a good idea at Hogwarts, and now was not the time to find out if that was still the case.

"The first symptom was shortness of breath, followed by the onset of an elevated temperature within a day. What happened next seemed to depend on the lineage of each witch. Pure-bloods succumbed within 48 hours, Muggle-borns lasted up to a fortnight.

"Regardless of how long it took, the end result was the same. The victims were wracked with pain, perhaps equal to that induced by the Cruciatus Curse, I would not know. Death was a merciful release when the vital organs could take no more. Until recently, there was no cure."

Snape gestured at the rows of peaceful, mechanically sleeping patients. "Before the cure was developed, this was the only way to control the disease: a magically induced coma. It bought some time, but it did not prevent death."

Hermione swallowed hard. She found the idea of being forced into a comatose state repellent. But what she found worse was the damage to her memory. The last thing she could remember was Voldemort's death— No. There was a foggy memory of being in Dumbledore's office with Harry and Ron. Regardless, Snape had said that the sickness had only appeared about six months after her last memory. The Healer had mentioned that the length of memory loss was related to the duration of the sickness in each patient. That must mean that she'd been ill for six months. She was missing almost a year of her life …

"In the time it took for the cure to be developed, half of the witches who survived the war died. The death toll was approaching two thirds by the time the cure was being produced in sufficient quantities." Although he was looking in her direction, Snape appeared to be staring into space, his attention fixed on something that wasn't there. "And because so many witches have died, the Wizengamot have found it necessary to take steps to ensure that the wizarding population of Britain recovers."

Alarm bells seemed to ring in Hermione's head at Snape's words. "What steps?"

His eyes suddenly refocused on her and widened. It seemed that he had been so caught up in his explanation that he had told her more than he'd been intending to.

"Do not concern yourself with that. You are still recovering—"

Too agitated to care about the possible consequences, she interrupted him. "I feel fine. What steps?"

AN: Polyandry is when a woman is married to more than one man, as opposed to polygyny, when a man is married to more than one woman.