Title: Plague and Pestilence
Author: Seventh Pathogen
Rating: M (Mature) / R.
Summary: A mysterious, incurable virus ravages Europe. Harry's fear begins when he wakes up alone, sure that he is the sole survivor. His terror begins when he realizes that he isn't.
Warnings: Graphic violence (I'm not just saying this for the sake of saying it!), detailed depictions of disease/resulting death. Abundance of character death! AU-ness, eventual spoilers through DH. SLASH! Eventual HP/LV (Harry/Voldemort). Violent!Harry.Notes/Disclaimwhore: I don't own anything except the clothes on my back. Not even the computer I'm writing on. Yes, I stole it.

“Gain and loss, birth and death are in the hands of God.”

Sri Sathya Sai Baba

Chapter 6

“Gain and Loss”

Before I had time to concentrate on how terribly uncomfortable it made me to be in such close proximity to the man who killed my parents, my thoughts were rudely interrupted by my body slamming into the wet ground. I rolled a few times down a small berm before skidding to a halt face-down in the tall grass.

Voldemort, who had a bit more luck with his landing and was actually still on his feet, rolled his eyes before stomping over and pulling me to my feet by my collar. He looked flustered, but I probably looked worse, and I dearly hoped he wasn’t about to laugh at me as I wiped the muck off my glasses and spat out a piece of sod.

“Alright, Potter?”

“Disoriented,” I shook the dirt out of my hair. “And dizzy. But alright, I guess.”

“Well hurry up and get your bearings,” He scolded as he helped gather the belongings that I had shaken loose in my nasty landing. “We need to get moving quickly. We must check for any survivors and find suitable shelter by nightfall.”

Inwardly I heaved a small sigh of relief that Voldemort had a plan, and seemed to be so accommodating. I had actually expected a great deal of grumbling and complaining when I had hinted that I would like to search for the Weasleys, but so far Voldemort seemed rejuvenating by the simple act of being out on his feet and looking for other survivors. His strong sense of purpose impressed me, although I quickly had to remind myself not to confuse his enthusiasm for our mission with actual feelings of care and concern.

We tromped through the tall grass in silence, rays of orange light cutting through the thin leaves as the sun sank lower in the sky. As we rounded the top of the hill, a tall, dark cylindrical structure rose from the ground like a castle turret. It looked like a giant, gray sandcastle bucket, or some sort of grain silo.

I jogged to catch up to him and pointed towards the dark tower at the top of the hill.

“What is that place?”

“Our destination.”

“But the Weasleys live in the other direction!” I exclaimed. “We don’t have time to explore, we have to get to them!”

“Calm yourself, Potter,” Voldemort snapped. “That is the Lovegood residence. We will check their house as well while we are in the area.”

I wanted to say something else in protest, or to urge him to hurry, but all I managed was a simple “oh”. I suddenly felt guilty upon discovering the location of the Lovegood house, that I hadn’t thought to go look for Luna as well. It was in that moment that I realized I was more worried about Ron than anyone else, and that he truly was my best friend. But did that mean he deserved favoritism in our search? Was finding him alive more important than finding Luna and her father alive? I felt a deep and sickening guilt when I realized that, to me, it was. I hardened my expression and tried to push the matter out of my mind, knowing that these were not musings that a Dark Lord would consider worth listening to.

Voldemort stopped at the small wooden gate in front of the Lovegood house and set down the large pack of supplies, crouching to retrieve and assemble a few simple weapons and other previsions. Close up, the house looked like a single castle tower or a giant black chess piece. There were windows on several stories, but all of them were darkened, and there were no obvious outward signs that the house was still occupied.

“I didn’t know the Lovegoods lived in the area,” I commented. “How did you know about them?”

“I’m a Dark Lord,” Voldemort said haughtily. “It’s my business to know such things. Besides, Xenophilius may be an old crackpot, but it’s of little consequence if it means one more wizard alive.”

“Crackpot?”

“Well, yes, the old man authors the Quibbler. Didn’t you know?”

“Err, yeah…I forgot about that,” I nodded. “I remember Luna reading it all the time, but I was never much of a fan myself.”

“You wouldn’t be, would you, Potter?” He sneered. “I see you would much prefer the rosy scenarios the Prophet weaves, wouldn’t you?”

“Hardly,” I snapped. “Until recently they advocated that I was the crackpot…and that you didn’t even exist!”

“Precisely why I prefer The Quibbler myself.”

I sighed. Of course, I thought, why wouldn’t he want some credit for his horrendous doings? It also struck me that he was probably just trying to start an argument because he was irritated and edgy, so I kept my mouth shut. He was already doing me a tremendous favor by coming all the way out to St. Catchpole, and I did not want to push my luck.

The Lovegood house had the odd appearance of being both rundown and well taken-care of. We passed through a broken gate. It looked like someone had recently ripped it off one of its hinges in a mad rush to leave, and the fence wasn’t in much better shape. It had bent nails and various signs posted all around, which had probably been taken down, moved and re-written various times. The current one, hanging by a rusted nail on the gate, read: “ZOMBIES UNWELCOME”.

“We aren’t zombies yet,” I said, “so I suppose that means we’re allowed in?”

Voldemort ignored me and strolled through the gate like he owned the place. “If we go by what the sign says, then I suppose anyone who fancied would be allowed,” he said pretentiously, “since they’re not undead at all. The proper term would actually be Inferi…but they’re certainly not Inferi either, are they? They’re much too fast...”

I wasn’t quite as well-versed on the various types of undead as Voldemort was, so I simple replied with a “whatever”.

“Whatever yourself, Potter!” Voldemort retorted. We were now standing in front of a tall door with an Eagle-shaped knocker, and if we hadn’t already alerted the occupants of our arrival, Voldemort’s yelling most certainly would. “This certainly isn’t the time to be blissfully ignorant, so excuse me for attempting to cure you of your idiocy.”

“Well excuse me for being uninformed,” I huffed. “I’ve been a bit too busy worrying about psychotic mass murders trying to kill me for the past 15 years of my life. Learning about the Undead must have fallen by the wayside.”

“Then let’s think of this as a learning opportunity, shall we?”

Voldemort rapped on the door with his bony fist and stepped back, waiting patiently. I was momentarily concerned about what would happen if Xenophilis, or God forbid Luna, should answer the door to find Voldemort and myself standing there, but oh, fuck it all, things were strange enough as it was. Finding The Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived at your doorstep couldn’t be that much of a shocker considering the circumstances.

I sighed. “Perhaps they’re not in.”

“Perhaps they’re both dead,” Voldemort said.

“Are you going to be this negative for the whole rest of the day?”

“Are you going to keep being disgustingly cheerful while the Infected nip at our heels?” Voldemort growled.

“Yes, just to annoy you, as a matter of fact,” I said. I stepped in front of him and pushed the heavy wooden door open; the door creaked on its hinges like it hadn’t been opened for quite awhile. It wasn’t even locked. “Coming in?”

Voldemort harrumphed and pushed past me, wand poised to attack. Voldemort snapped his neck around in all directions, scanning the silent room for god-knows-what, while I had the insight to shut the door behind us. It made a loud bang as it shut and it made Voldemort jump.

I stifled a snort as he fumbled with his wand, but then he glared at me and I shut up. “Sorry,” I said. “Just thought it would be better to shut the door, in case we were followed.”

“Yes, well,” he huffed, regaining his composure without missing a beat, “good idea… I suppose. If any Infected followed us, they’ll have a difficult time getting in.”

The room was dark, and although it was difficult to see, the one thing that stood out was the paint. The room, which appeared to be a kitchen, looked as though it had been attacked by school children with giant buckets of poster-paint. Bright blues, reds and yellows stained the walls and cabinets. Everything was also sparely decorated with miniature paintings of plants, insects and other creatures that I couldn’t even recognize. It was a zoological mural gone horribly wrong, and I wondered for a moment if the decorating were the doing of Luna or her father. Possibly both.

“Very, err…artistic, aren’t they?” I commented.

“My thoughts precisely.” Voldemort strolled around the kitchen, peering inside a few of the cabinets while I paced around the room.

The floor, covered with dust, paper and other small bits of debris, was also piled with small, black twisted pieces of metal, singed and melted. Curiously, I looked up and saw why: Above me were the remains of a spiral staircase, which probably once led to the upper floors of the house. About two floors up I could see that the stair case ascended normally, but all that remained on the first two levels were scraps of metal and a gaping, round hole in the ceiling.

“Err, V-voldemort,” I called awkwardly. I had no idea what else to call him, and I was sure he’d hex me to oblivion for calling him “Tom”.

He stopped poking through the Lovegoods’ cabinets and craned his neck around to stare at me. “What is it, Potter?”

“Did you see the staircase?”

“Staircase?” He looked at me as though I were crazy. I pointed up through the hole in the ceiling. He sighed, brushing his bony hands off on his robe and sauntered over gracefully. Staring up through the hole, he suddenly giggled maniacally, clapping me on the back. “Would you just look at that, Harry! Look at it!” He barked. “The clever old bat, he blew up the staircase!”

He bent over and picked up one of the scorched bits of metal in his hands, running his fingers over it in examination. “Look at all the melted bits! He probably melted the entire bottom half right off…clever, clever idea!”

I sighed. “Look, I figured that much,” I said. “That wasn’t really the point. D’you think anyone might still be up there?”

He dropped the melted iron and it clattered to the floor noisily. “Hah!” He barked. “Heavens, no. Xenophilius obviously took the precautions necessary to protect his belongings and then fled. Besides, someone would have heard us by now and come looking….oh, and all of their things are missing as well.”

“Err, missing?” I blinked at him, confused. “What d’you mean, missing? They just up and left and took everything with them?”

“It would appear that they had the foresight to do so,” Voldemort said proudly. “Either that or their kitchen has been looted.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “At least they’re safe, I hope.” I was a bit sad, though I tried not to show it. For a few moments I had gotten my hopes up that I might see Luna again, but I tried to be glad for her and her father; perhaps they had a fighting chance if they had been able to get away from this place.

“This is an excellent find, however, isn’t it?” Voldemort looked almost giddy. “Survivors or no, this means that tonight we’ll have a safe place to stay.”

Comprehending the thought of spending the night in the Lovegoods’ abandoned house with the former Dark Lord—and possibly some of the Weasleys—was not entirely impossible to do, but did require some rather complicated mental and moral acrobatics that I probably would not have been capable of several weeks prior to that point.

So without exploring further, we left the Lovegood residence with our provisions in tow. Voldemort was still smug and disgruntled as ever, but thankfully refrained from making any more comments about the ambiguous life-or-death state of the Weasleys, preferring instead to grumble to himself while shaking his head…or shuddering, I couldn’t really tell. In hindsight, it’s possible that my presence along the mission was making him as nervous as his made me.

Although I would later feel rather thankful I did so, I felt guilty as Voldemort and I trudged through the tall grass and the marsh because I couldn’t stop thinking about how quiet and peaceful the absolute stillness of the outdoors was. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the ground wherever the gules cut through the tall weeds. The sky was milky orange color, and the only clouds in sight were small pink-and-purple wisps. It had been a long time since I had seen a sunset like that, out in the open of the wilderness; I was usually too consumed with worrying about my Potion’s grade (and megalomaniac Dark Lords) to pay much attention to nature. It brightened my spirits a little to witness to something so beautiful. But also uncomfortable; shouldn’t it bother me a lot more to be enjoying it in the company of the man who murdered my family? I shrugged it off. Again.

The potential for emotional upheaval was not something I needed right then, so I buried by thoughts and trudged along silently behind the balding figure, occasionally fighting urges to make rude faces at the back of his head.

As if he sensed the mental Bronx Cheer I was giving him right then, he snapped at me, “You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet, Potter,” he chortled mirthfully. “Haven’t gone and gotten yourself infected already, have you?”

“No,” I bit out, rolling my eyes so far back into my head I thought I’d have a stroke. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m still alive and well.”

I expected him to snap back at me with some snarky come-back or perhaps threaten to hex me and throw me to the Infected himself. Instead, he turned on his heel and squared me with the most peculiar expression I had ever seen in my life.

His shoulders seemed to slump while his red eyes bugged out of his head, and he frowned. He looked like a dog that had just been hit in the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

“Why on earth would you ever say something like that?” He demanded, his voice raising in pitch a half-octave. His arms were twitching all about and I couldn’t tell if he was trying to draw his wand on me or was just having some sort of spasm. “Wish you were infected? Me! WISH you were infected! Christ, Potter, after all the time I’ve spent preventing you from being so, WISH that YOU were INFECTED!”

“Err, I…uh,” I blinked at him stupidly, completely unable to comprehend why he was acting so terribly offended. “Y-you did want me dead, I mean, until recently?” I didn’t intend for the statement to come out so weak.

Now he was sputtering and twitching and looking like he was going to have a seizure. Or at the very least was wildly conflicted about whether or not he needed to Crucio some sense into me, for whatever reason.

Finally he shouted at me, “That is absolutely the most moronic thing that has ever come out of your mouth, Potter! Ever!” I had now unconsciously taken several steps backwards because he was acting like a crazy person. “Take a look around, Potter! Just look! Open your eyes and turn your stupid little head around and bloody LOOK!”

I nervously did as he said. I really didn’t want to tempt him in his current state of mental health.

“Do you see any other bloody wizards anywhere, Potter?”

“No,” I answered honestly.

“And do you know why?” He pressed, his voice growing drastically higher as he advanced on me now, holding not his wand—but instead the rusted, bloodied pick-ax he had offered me yesterday—pointed straight at my head.

“Be-because they’re infected?” I offered, stumbling back nervously through the mud and weeds. “Or dead?”

“Precisely!” He shrieked, shaking the ax at me. “Every—last—one that I’ve seen, Potter. Except for us. Us, Potter! If these blood traitors of yours are dead, do you have any idea what that means, Potter?! ANY idea at all?”

“No,” I squeaked.

“We’re the last ones! The end of the magical bloodline! No more magic, Potter, that’s what it damned well means!” There was a large blue vein in his forehead that looked like it was about to burst, though he hadn’t pulled out his wand and AK’ed me. Yet.

In fact, instead, Voldemort flipped the pick-ax around in his hand, and with the same hurt, infuriated look on his pallid face, offered me the handle. I took it with two trembling hands and made a conscious effort to not look like I was close to pissing myself. Although I was. Thankfully, he seemed to calm down a bit after I took the pick-ax from him, even though he did keep staring at me irritably, which began to get very uncomfortable after a moment since I wasn’t sure whether or not I was supposed to acknowledge his tantrum or pretend it hadn’t happened. I opted or the former.

“Uh…sorry,” I apologized awkwardly.

This seemed to diffuse the tense atmosphere. The irate expression almost immediately disappeared from his face and was replaced with the usual smirk. “I’m glad you see things my way,” he said haughtily. “Apology accepted. Now let’s get a move on.” And with that, he turned away as if nothing had happened and continued to lead our trek through the hills.

I staggered forward, unable to believe the spectacle that I had just witnessed: the Dark Lord getting upset with me—even offended—that I had insinuated that he wish me harm. Not that it wasn’t disturbing enough to watch him have a temper tantrum, but now I had to get used to the fact that the Dark Lord was not only not trying to kill me, but was actually planning on attempting to keep me alive.

I trudged behind him in a haze, blinking stupidly. This was too much to handle. “I-I just don’t understand this,” I blurted before I even know what I was saying. He turned and blinked at me quizzically and gave me a ‘I-think-you’re-a-bloody-idiot-for-not-understanding-why-I’m-yelling-at-you’ look.

“What’s not to understand?”

“I’m just…confused, I suppose,” I said finally. “Sorry that I’m not used to this yet, it’s just…well, d’you mean to say that you really aren’t going to try to kill me anymore? Is that what this is all about?”

He opened his mouth to say something but then seemed to be gripped by another spasm-fit that ended in him spinning around and storming away while muttering curses under his breath. So I never really got an answer.

---

The Otter River narrowed out as we approached the Burrow, and I started feeling a little happier. I recognized the scenery now and a sense of desperation gripped me the closer we got. I wanted to run ahead, leave Voldemort behind and go somewhere safe, just Ron and me. I could picture it in my head, so clear and resolved that it could have been real. I was going to see Ron again, we were going to be safe, and everything was going to be alright in the end, just like it always was.

But the elation was short-lived. I was so wrapped up in fantasy that it was easy to forget one key factor: Voldemort. My stomach knotted and rose in my throat, and it took me a moment to identify the foreign emotion as guilt. Guilt for thinking of leaving him all on his own. Guilt for abandoning him to be torn apart by the Infected while Ron and I ran for our lives. Guilt for never truly paying him back for saving my life…repeatedly.

I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if I left him behind because he had wronged me; he killed my parents. He killed countless other witches and wizards who were friends, family, and family of my friends. Moreover, he had repeatedly tried to kill me and nearly succeeded on several occasions. So it didn’t matter if I left him behind, I told myself, because he deserved it.

But I still felt guilty, and I didn’t know why.

Meanwhile Voldemort, who was completely oblivious to my thoughts of impending ill-will, had already gotten over his previous paroxysm and was in much better spirits. He finally stopped at the top of a steep, grassy hill. After hesitating for a moment, I came to stand next to him. I swallowed thickly.

We had arrived at the Burrow.

“Is that it?” Voldemort asked me, trying to hide a snigger.

I nodded. “Yeah, that’s it,” I echoed. The Burrow, which already looked ramshackle at the best of times, looked like a hurricane had hit it. I slowly made my way down the hill, Voldemort close behind. My knees locked up and I held my breath; my legs had to be moving on their own, as I’m sure I couldn’t have been walking on my own.

The front yard had been torn to shreds. Normally their yard would have been littered with trash, rusty cauldrons and boots. Shards of broken glass and splintered wood now also joined the fray. The front door that normally led to the kitchen was nowhere to be seen, and every single window had been smashed. The garden plants were shriveled and void of the usual berries, and I suspect that even the garden gnomes had vacated the area. There was a dead bird splayed out in front of the garage, but I didn’t want to get any closer to see if it was an owl or a chicken.

My feet were rooted to the ground and I could not move. I had once associated the house with happiness and family; it now sagged under its own weight, looking as though it were about to collapse. Voldemort stood at my shoulder, thankfully silent.

“It’s never this quiet,” I said. “Something bad happened.”

Voldemort seemed to mull this over for a moment. “It’s entirely possible,” he said. “But that’s a risk you took in deciding to look for your friend. However, perhaps we should explore the property before making any hasty conclusions.”

I nodded, but I didn’t want to follow him. He went to garage and tried to pry open the heavy door, probably to pick through its contents, and I tried to swallow the feeling that we were looting someone’s grave.

I turned my back upon the scene of Voldemort robbing my best friend’s garage and, more carefully than I ever had in my life, padded towards the Weasley’s front door. I held my breath as I stepped into the kitchen, trying to fill my head with memories of warm hugs from Mrs. Weasley and fond greetings from the rest of the family instead of visions of blood-red eyes and sallow faces which flitted through my mind.

The house was silent as death. The long kitchen table was overturned, broken chairs strewn about. Everything around the room smashed, broken, covered in blood. All nine hands of the Weasley family clock were pointed straight up, towards “Mortal Peril”…I wondered if Moral Peril constituted sickness. Except the twins’ hands; Fred and George, the clock told me, were simple “Lost”. I swallowed thickly; perhaps that meant death instead?

The haphazard wooden staircase that lead to the upper levels of the Burrow were, strangely, clear. There was no indication that a struggle occurred on the upper levels. My heart jumped. Maybe they had hidden themselves in the attic, or barricaded a room!

Without a second thought, a flew up the first half-flight of stairs, peered out into the darkness and called out, “HELLO! Is anybody up there? It’s me, Harry!”

I waited, the silence ringing in my ears. Then, the thunderous sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs.