Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Round 1 (Never Have I Ever) as Beater 2 of Falmouth Falcons.

PROMPT: The Fudges

Optional Prompts:

# (dialogue) "Your silence scares me."
# (word) homemade
# (dialogue) "It's like the blind leading the blind."
# (word) corporation
#(object) knife

WORD COUNT: 2507

NOTE: This is an AU. I request you to not assume that this runs parallel to canon, because there are a lot of changes and deviations from JKR's plot in the AU. For example, there is no prophecy in effect here.

The Infection and the Cure

Vernon Dursley is boasting, for the twelfth time, about how he's been prompted to the post of senior janitor for the Corporation Residential Area, and how important the post is, when the doorbell rings. Harry gets to his feet before his Uncle can yell at him, wondering who would visit the senior janitor's house on a Sunday.

He opens the door to a huge man who has a Corporation Member star on his pocket. "You must be Harry Potter," he says, his voice friendly and a sharp contrast to his bulk.

Harry gives him a tentative smile. "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"I'm Rubeus Hagrid," the man says, "Security Head at the Corporation Headquarters. Let's go inside and then we can have a chat."

Fifteen minutes later, Harry's head is still reeling. Hagrid—he's asked Harry to call him that—has told Dr. Dumbledore, the Head of Science and Research of the Corporation has invited Harry to the Corporation Training Facility for Young Scientists.

Hagrid had threatened to arrest his Uncle when the latter had insisted there was a fault and it must have been an invitation for Dudley Dursley, Harry's cousin, as there's know way the freak could be brilliant enough to get a spot there. Harry also learned that his Uncle and Aunt had been lying about his parents—Lily and James Potter had been brilliant scientists who had graduated from the Corporation Training Facility and had been murdered by Voldemort—the rogue scientist who had started the infection.

Hagrid had bellowed in rage when Harry said he was told that his parents had been sent to the Outside.

And now how, on a Sunday morning, Harry finds himself going towards the Headquarters of the Corporation to officially sign up for the Facility.

Harry lays on the top bunk, staring at the moon that peeps through the skylight. He isn't sleepy in the slightest, even though the day—the week, in fact—has been tiring. He thinks of his new (and first) friends—bushy-haired Hermione who spouts facts faster than he can process, and freckled Ron who has been the Corporation's chess champion for seven years running.

Harry doesn't feel like he fits in—the Chemistry Professor's behaviour does nothing to quell this worry—but everyone else is so sure that Harry belongs.

Apart from a few kids whose parents work for the Corporation, of course, who remind him of Dudley. Ron says their parents had been Death Eaters. Harry doesn't know what that means, so he stays quiet.

Harry thinks of the stern Physics Professor, of the diminutive man who teaches Life Sciences, of the weird, stuttering Biology Professor, and of all what he has learned in this one week. Knowledge swivels in his head, clashing, combining, taking on new forms, but Harry wouldn't remember half of it in the morning. As the moon dips past the skylight, he lets Ron's snores lull him into sleep.

.oOo.

The school-year passes relatively quietly. He makes it to the baseball team—eleven-year-olds aren't usually allowed, Ron tells him, but the Physics professor saw him catch a stray ball that would have hit Hermione otherwise, and she told him it was a nearly impossible move, and that his talent deserves to be honed.

He loves to play. Being out there in the field—it gives him a form of freedom nothing else ever has. There're no facts at play; it's spontaneous: just his brain perceiving the best action and guiding his body along. He treasures it.

He also loves biology—the chemicals and the machines just don't hold the same attraction as studying life does.

As Harry continues to daydream during his History paper—the one subject he doesn't like—he just wishes the professor could string two words without stuttering.

It is as he leaves the exam that something that has been puzzling him all year makes sense, and he starts to run to the Biology laboratory. He hears Ron and Hermione call after him, but he doesn't stop, even as they follow him.

He stops only when he's reached the Biology lab. As he tries to catch his breath and thinks on how stupid it was to run all the way for this small a thing, he heard the click of the door being locked.

Harry turns.

"Hello, Mr. Potter." It's Dr. Quirrell, and the first thing Harry notices is that he isn't stuttering. There's knocking on the door, and he hears his friends' voices. Dr. Quirrell smiles. "I don't require them here."

Harry feels a spike of fear in his chest that he can't explain, and he steps back when Quirrell moves towards him. "S-Sir?"

"Yes, the Golden Boy—the boy-who-lived. But not for long now, I believe." Harry stares at the man. "You see, Mr. Potter, I've been studying for years now, right in the heart of the Corporation, why my Master failed to kill you the day your parents died. What exactly is so different about you?" The man walks to the main table and picks up a vial. "I still don't understand, exactly, but I think I finally have a way to infect you."

The terror inside of Harry increases. No, no, no, this is just a nightmare.

But even as he tells himself that, Harry knows that isn't true.

Quirrell picks up a pocket knife. "I would have bothered with a needle, but dead don't require sterilization now, do they?" He walks towards Harry, who is rooted to his spot in fear, and grabs at his chin. "Yes, when I finally present to my Master your corpse, I shall be highly rewarded."

Harry stares at the man, the vial and the knife in one hand as the other grips Harry. He knows he has one shot at this. He lunges forward, freeing himself, and kicks at the man's hand. The vial and the knife both are thrown up, and with his fast reflexes, Harry catches the blade.

Quirrell chuckles, the vial back in his hands. "You intend to fight me with a pocket knife, Mr. Potter?"

Harry closes his eyes. Quirrell intended to mix the contents of the vial with his blood. There's a huge probability what he's about to do will kill him, but he hopes whatever is in there has the ability to affect Quirrell, too. He opens his eyes and darts forward for a second time, the knife hitting at the hand which holds the vial.

The metal hits against the glass, the shrads piercing Harry's hand in a number of places. Wherever the liquid from the vial touches his blood, it sizzles. There's pain, but Harry focuses long enough to see that the shrads and the knife got Quirrell, too, before the pain becomes too much and he blanks out.

Harry wakes up groggy and confused. He looks around and recognises the place—he has been here enough times to get his injuries from baseball looked at. The Nurse is nowhere in sight.

It is as he turns to the window that he notices Dr. Dumbledore, Head of Science and Research in the Corporation, looking at him, a smile on his face. Harry can't fathom a reason as to why the Head is here, in the Medical room of the school, especially when no one else is around.

He is glad, though, because he has a fair few questions that he wants answer for.

"I see that you are awake, my boy." Dr. Dumbledore's voice is conversational, and Harry takes it as a green-signal to get his questions answered.

"Dr. Quirrell attacked me, Sir, why?" His voice is raspy and it hurts to speak, but Harry doesn't care. It finally breaks as he croaks out, "Why am I special?"

"Ah, you are indeed special, yes, Harry," Mr. Dumbledore says, walking towards the bed. "Do you understand the scar on your forehead?"

Harry shakes his head. He doesn't really know. "I got it when Voldemort killed my Mum and Dad."

"Yes," the older man says. "This mark came from where Voldemort took his time clawing at you. The Corporation was very close to catching them when your family was attacked. They died, yet you survived. Do you know why, Harry?"

"Anyone who gets scratched by the claw gets infected, Sir? I do not understand."

"Ah, my boy, you see, your mother was very close to coming up with a cure. I believe she had a prototype with her,

"Your body rejected the serum once again, but as it came in contact with Dr. Quirrel's skin, it burned. There's an assumption it had a toxic reaction with Dr. Quirrel's blood that contained a mutant form of serum designed to spread the infection while not affecting the carrier. The reaction was quick, and he disintegrated in minutes. We have been studying it, but we haven't had any breakthrough yet."

Harry mulled over the idea that had entered his mind. Deciding to speak up, he said, "Sir, can I study it?"

Dr. Dumbledore looked at Harry from over his spectacles. "Alas, my boy, I cannot allow you that. You are still very young, and the substances are heavily toxic. You had a close call already."

"I will be careful, Sir."

The man shook his head. "Take some rest, Harry. Perhaps one day, you will be ready to work on this, but now is not the time." Smiling benignly, he added, "In the meantime, I am told that young Mr. Weasley's mother has sent you some homemade treacle tart. She's the head chef at the Corporation, if you don't already know, and her cooking skills are exceptional. Enjoy!"

Harry knows he and his Ron are not supposed to be here, but the message told him to be here if he wanted Hermione alive, and the two boys couldn't not come. They are armed just with a taser each—new designs that Ron got from Fred and George, his brothers who work for the Innovation department—and Harry doesn't feel very safe as they inch towards the Department of Mysteries.

"There's something fishy here," Ron says as the he pushes open the unlocked door that separates the department from rest of the Corporation headquarters. The lights are all on, but there is no one around, and their footsteps echo in the deafening silence that prevails over the department.

Harry agrees. Something is very, very wrong. He turns to Ron who is looking around, and Harry can almost see the wheels turning in his best friend's head.

"This way," Ron says, pointing to the fifth door on the right. Harry hadn't even notice it—the door kind of blends in with the windows because of its shape and size.

"How do you know?"

"There was an attack here, two months back, remember? It was all hushed up, but we heard Dumbledore telling someone there was a weapon hidden here. Now, if it were me who had something to hide, I'll pick the room which most people will tend to look over. Besides, it's the only door with a fingerprint sensor."

Harry nods and moves towards the door, not feeling very surprised when it swings inside at his push. "C'mon."

Inside, there are rows upon rows of vials inside separate glass cases, each with a fingerprint sensor, all containing something red. Harry's sure it's blood.

"There was a number on the note, yeah?" Ron says. Harry nods.

"87."

The two boys move, as silent as they can be, following the numbers. They reach the row with 8's, and Ron moves to number 87. "It says your name here, mate. And there're two of these."

Harry stares at the small vials—he's very sure they contain his blood samples, before and after the attack.

As he presses his thumb on the fingerprint sensor, he feels a gun on his neck.

"Move, and I will shoot." Harry turns around regardless to face his attacker. He's sure the man he's staring at is Lucius Malfoy, a Death Eater and not a citizen of the Corporation. It is then that Ron shoots Lucius with his taser and the hell breaks loose.

Backup, if it can be called that, arrives fast, and Ron and Harry are herded away. They later get to know that Hermione had been working in the Chemistry lab, that the vials are safe, and that five out of the seven who broke in have been captured.

The boys go to an uneasy sleep that night.

They attack in the night. The lights are all on and the Corporation compounds are as shiny as they are during the day, but it is difficult to see the fumes, and by the time they're spotted, the damage is done.

Voldemort and his team of rogue scientists who have broken into the Corporation are fighting the police in front of the Research wing when Harry arrives there. It is clear that the Corporation has the situation in control, until the police officers start falling one-by-one. Voldemort, one of the few still uncaptured, grins.

"I see, Harry Potter, you have come to face your death." Harry stays silent and looks at the situation, trying to judge the best way to save people. "You stand there, tall and mighty now, still unaffected by my poison. It doesn't matter, though," Voldemort says, "the rest will fall down one by one."

Voldemort points across the compound where a man is trying to soothe a little girl's cries, but the agony is clear in his face, too. "It's like the blind leading the blind," says Voldemort as he laughs.

Harry prays Ron and Hermione find a way to get what he thinks could help to the people.

"Your silence scares me, Harry Potter", Voldemort mocks. "Why, scared something you might say will bring your death nearer? Worry not, you will stand until the last man in here has fallen."

Harry feels something burst inside of him at that. "Shut up!" he shouts, then stops as red fumes explode from somewhere behind Voldemort. He recovers fast and jams his taser in the side of Voldemort's neck, moving away already as the mad scientist falls.

"Dungbombs," he heard Hermione say, her tone containing a little exasperation. "Fred and George's idea. We filled all you gave us into dungbombs."

Harry wants to smile, but he can't. Not until he's sure the cure he came up with actually works. He was working on a prototype of a cure—he doesn't still know why he had ended up making it in bulk, though he—and he had to give it a try when it was their only hope, and now he can only wait.

"What's with the long face, mate?" Ron says as he slaps him on the arm. He grins. "The infection had got me—I gave my mask to this little kid who looked like he could faint any minute." Hermione give a little sob at that, and Harry stares at Ron, looking for any signs of the infection. "Don't stare," Ron says, grinning. "I'm fine and dandy. Also, Fred and George want a party."

Harry feels his lips tug into a smile. Now he's not the only boy-who-lived.