[1 month later]
The Dark Lord's stronghold buzzed with an unsettling tension. The losses were staggering: Mulciber, Goyales, the Malfoys—each of them had been pillars of his dark campaign, and now they were all gone. Even the Ministry spies, his secret weapons within the enemy's ranks, had been methodically hunted down and eliminated. And Bellatrix—his most loyal, dangerous lieutenant—had turned traitor, defecting to Ryan's side.
The blow was almost too much to bear.
Voldemort's face, usually an impenetrable mask of cold resolve, now twisted with fury. The very idea of losing to Ryan, a mere upstart in the dark arts, gnawed at his pride. He couldn't afford any more losses; his carefully constructed empire was on the brink of collapse. Years of hard work had brought him close to achieving his goal: complete domination over the wizarding world. But now, it seemed like everything was slipping through his grasp.
"My Lord," whispered Yaxley, his voice trembling, "what is our next move? Our forces dwindle by the day, and morale is... low."
"Morale?" Voldemort turned around in rage. "Morale is for the weak. We are not here to boost their spirits but to conquer and destroy. Ryan will pay for what he has done, for every one of our losses, with his blood."
Yaxley gulped, his eyes shifting nervously. "Of course, my Lord, but our forces—"
"Our forces will prevail!" Voldemort snapped. "We will not allow this... child to make a mockery of everything we've built!"
But even as he spoke, something gnawed at the edge of his awareness, an uneasy feeling he couldn't shake. He had planned to launch a full-scale attack by the end of the month, to bring the full weight of his remaining forces and his inferius army down upon Hogwarts and the Ministry. It was supposed to be the final, crushing blow. Yet, there was a growing, gnawing sense of unease—a feeling that something was terribly wrong.
As the days passed, the whispers began...
It started with small, strange occurrences: a few Death Eaters and Dark Wizards falling ill, their skin paling, their eyes dulling with unnatural fatigue. At first, no one paid much attention. In a world filled with dark magic, such things were not uncommon. But soon, the symptoms grew worse, spreading like wildfire through the ranks.
Nott was one of the first to succumb. He had been a picture of health, until one morning, he awoke with blackened veins snaking up his arms, his breath wheezing from lungs that seemed to have rotted overnight. His cries of agony echoed through the halls of the stronghold, his skin blistering and cracking as pustules erupted across his body.
"What is this?" Voldemort demanded as he stood over the writhing body of Nott, the man's eyes rolling back into his head as he convulsed on the cold stone floor. "What sickness is this?!"
But no one had answers. The healers, skilled in dark arts and counter-curses, were baffled. No spell seemed to touch this affliction; no potion could soothe the agony. And it wasn't just Nott. One by one, others began to fall. Jugson, Rosier, and even some of the inferi kept in the underground dungeon, immune to pain and decay, began to rot from the inside out.
It was chaos.
Voldemort's command center became a place of fear and whispers, as the disease spread faster than anyone could contain it. The once mighty and feared Death Eaters were reduced to a panicked, desperate horde, too afraid to even sleep for fear of waking up with the telltale signs of the plague.
"My Lord, we must do something!" Dolohov pleaded, his own face pale with the fear of infection. "This disease... it's unnatural. It's like nothing we've seen before. No spell or potion is working against this... This... Plague!"
Voldemort knew this. He could feel it in the air—a dark, corrupting energy around the place as if the very air they breathed had been tainted. He knew what this was, or rather, who was behind it.
'Ryan. It must be him. After a month of silence, he decides to act.' Voldemort realized, his eyes narrowing with rage.
The name was like bile in his throat. That boy had somehow weaponized a curse so foul, so insidious, that it could decimate an army without a single spell being cast. It was a plague in the truest sense of the word, a living curse that spread and fed off the dark magic within his forces. Ryan had taken their greatest strength, their mastery of dark magic, and turned it against them. Voldemort's anger boiled over, and he slammed his fist down on the table before him. The wood cracked beneath his knuckles.
The plague spread with terrifying speed, and no one was safe. Every day, more and more Death Eaters fell, their bodies wracked with the same horrific symptoms: blackened veins, rotting flesh, and the sickening stench of decay. It wasn't long before the stronghold itself became a place of dread, the air thick with the scent of death.
Voldemort's fury grew with each new casualty. He had spent years crafting his army, building it into an unstoppable force of darkness. And now, it was being torn apart from the inside out by an enemy who wielded a power he could not counter.
"We must isolate the infected," Voldemort commanded. If it were any other time, he would have killed them all, but he needs them for his plan to be a success. "They will be quarantined until we can find a cure. No one is to leave their quarters without my express permission. Anyone showing symptoms is to be reported immediately."
The command was easier given than enforced. Panic had already taken root among the ranks, and trust was quickly eroding. The disease spread in secret, with many Death Eaters hiding their symptoms out of fear of being quarantined—or worse, being executed for weakness. Some even ran away, only to die painfully, as swarms of insects appeared out of thin air, devouring them without leaving a trace.
Within a week, the quarantine itself became a death sentence. Those who were isolated never came out. The once-powerful Death Eaters, now riddled with plague, could only rot away in the darkened corners of the fortress, their screams echoing through the night.
In the end, it wasn't the disease itself that was the most terrifying, but the uncertainty. No one knew who would be next, who might be infected but asymptomatic, spreading the plague unknowingly.
The fear became a living entity, feeding on the despair and paranoia that had taken hold of the Dark Lord's forces. It was as if Ryan had unleashed not just a curse, but a psychological weapon, one that sowed distrust and discord in the ranks. Even the most loyal Death Eaters began to eye each other with suspicion, fearing that the person next to them could be the source of their death.
[Voldemort's room]
Voldemort could feel it—an insidious, gnawing sensation that burrowed deep within his veins. The blackened tendrils of the curse slithered beneath his pale skin, their twisted patterns reminiscent of the dark magic he had wielded for so long. But this was different. This was not something he could control or command; a new unknown energy, far stronger than his dark magic.
His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as he stood before the mirror in his private chambers. The reflection that stared back at him was almost unrecognizable. The blackened veins spread across his face like cracks in porcelain. He reached up with a trembling hand, his long, skeletal fingers tracing the lines of corruption that had taken hold of him. The dark magic that had once been his greatest weapon was now his greatest enemy.
"ARGGG!!" He smashed his fist into the mirror, shattering the glass and sending shards flying in all directions.
For days, Voldemort had fought against the plague, using every ounce of his power to keep the symptoms at bay. But it was a losing battle. The curse was not just a disease; it was a parasite, feeding on his very essence, draining him of the power he had spent a lifetime accumulating. He could feel it in his bones, in the very core of his being. His magic was waning, slipping away with each passing hour.
And then, there was the matter of the Horcruxes.
Voldemort had been in the process of creating his third Horcrux when the symptoms had first begun to manifest. The ritual had been interrupted, the necessary spell left incomplete. The rage he had felt in that moment had been all-consuming, but now, in the cold light of his reflection, that anger was tinged with something else—something he had not felt in a long time. Fear.
The Slytherin's Locket, his second Horcrux, had begun to grow cold to the touch. The locket's power continued to diminish. He could feel the connection to his soul fragment weakening with each passing day.
'It's consuming my life essence! Even though I've split my soul into pieces, the curse is devouring both the Horcrux and my very soul!' Voldemort realized. 'What kind of magic is this?!'
The final blow came when he found Nagini writhing in pain, her once majestic form now contorted and twisted by the plague. The snake's skin had turned grey, her eyes dull and lifeless as she struggled for breath.
"Nagini!" Voldemort's bent down to touch the snake's head.
In response, Nagini hissed weakly...
"No..."
"You..."
"This isn't..."
"Nagini!"
For a moment, Voldemort's mind went blank. He couldn't comprehend what was happening. His greatest, most powerful ally, the one being he could always depend on, was dying before his eyes. Fear gripped his heart like a vice. Once a master of death, now he faced the reality of mortality.
For the first time in years, he felt truly powerless. And as the darkness closed in around him, he knew that the end was nearer than he had ever imagined.