Just an experiment in 'story told through snapshots'. There's no big plot in mind because frankly I need a break from the dozens of monsters that I've got running in the background. If you've read my Dishonored stuff, you'll pretty much know what to expect.
Flipside Firefly
Turned out, Wizards weren't immune.
He didn't know why they'd thought they would be, except… you know. Magic.
It hadn't hit them as fast as it had the Muggles. The Daily Prophet's vague reports were almost positive about the curious 'Muggle disease' radically reducing an over-populated people. As if it was natural and right. No-one publicly said that it served them right, was punishment for their hubris, but it could be read in every arrogant strut of purebloods and elitists.
After it finally reached them, he - they, everyone - realised that the insular Wizarding World just hadn't had as many points of contact with the infected as the Muggle world did. Fewer 'caught' it. Fewer spread it. But spread, it did…
And the infected kept their magic.
The more they lost their minds, the their magic lashed out. A man with great waves of fungus growing out of his groin and armpits screamed and the girl fleeing him was tripped, dragged, reeled in by his magic. Finite didn't work against them, because finite only worked on spells.
They tried to subdue them. A full-powered stuptefy only staggered them. Their frenzied thrashing often broke a levitation spell. Ropes sometimes snapped, unless hardened or cast by multiple people.
Once safely restrained, they tried to cure them.
Potions didn't work. Spells didn't work. Amputation didn't work.
At a loss and with more and more purebloods catching the disease they doled out the phenomenally expensive draught of living death, to keep the victims harmless until a cure could eventually be found. Unfortunately too-few Wizards understood what spores even were, let alone what their presence - floating on the air and puffing out of bodies both moving and still - meant for them.
The infection spread.
Kill-on-sight orders were issued.
Some infected began to apparate.
It seemed to be reflexive rather than planned, jumping only a few feet when faced with a wall…
But sometimes… if they saw you in the distance…
Well.
People flocked to the warded places. Gringotts. Hogwarts. The Ministry. Some people, older families, stayed in their homes and sent out House Elves or owls for news and supplies.
There was no way of knowing how many were left. In the middle of London and with dozens of access points, the Ministry was compromised early on. Gringotts was ruthless but they went silent too. People whispered that they'd simply killed the wizardfolk within the bank but nobody could get in to check.
Hogwarts became the last sanctuary in Britain. Owls were sent all over the isles and to the continent, to other enclaves, to family, to strays, to leaders of the Muggle world. There was talk of mandatory breeding programs - that was how many wizards and witches had been lost - as well as mandatory extermination squads to clear out the entire island - through fire, if necessary.
The Muggles brought this upon us the consensus seemed to be. They have no say in how we put a stop to it.
Things are going to change around here.
That was when he'd left. It wasn't the fact that his bloodline - though tainted by his mother - was considered valuable enough for him to be required to impregnate almost every able female. That was something far more unpleasant for the women involved than himself and with the population as it was he would have done his duty with those who consented and pretend to with those who didn't. It wasn't even the talk of forcing people to put their lives at risk in order to go out and kill infected, no, he'd signed up for that! He was all for the Wizarding people finally getting off their behinds and protecting themselves.
No, it was the talk that chased him away. The resurgence, even now, of hatred and bigotry and blame. Of political manoeuvring, of greedy men looking to subjugate.
The end of their species was facing them, and their leaders were looking only to make themselves kings.
Portkeys out of Britain were expensive, and restricted, but he'd proven himself by that point. He was a known figure in their world, a defender, one who cut down the terror and rescued those that could be rescued. He wasn't a political figure but was a semi-celebrity, generous with both his time and his resources.
He was trusted.
Sometimes he still felt a twinge of guilt, for taking advantage of that trust. He wondered who, if anyone, took care of the orphans after he left. He wondered how many women had killed themselves rather than be reduced to breeding stock. He wondered if there were any wizards or witches left in the isles. Or if their ugly, ruthless, pitiless plan had worked and he'd given it all up in one moment of impulsive disgust.
He tried not to regret.
Most of the time, he succeeded.
fin