Anomie

Chapter Twelve: Poisoned

Monday Afternoon:

Ajit regarded Voldemort with a curious look. Rue knew what he was thinking: something's wrong with him today. She wondered if it had something to do with the Doctor's visit the previous week; Fairfax had warned that he wouldn't be back to normal right away.

But he'd seemed fine that morning. Now his eyes were reddened and unfocused, and Rue could swear that he was even paler than usual. And he was awfully quiet.

The final piece of evidence was that he hadn't turned a page in his book for ten minutes. That wasn't strange by itself - Voldemort often ended up gazing out into space when he got bored of reading (she was sure that he'd read all his books several times and reminded herself to get him a new one as a present). But he didn't seem to be thinking; he was frowning and shifting restlessly in his chair as if he couldn't get comfortable.

'Are you all right?' Ajit asked concernedly.

Voldemort turned his head and glared more angrily than usual. 'I'm fi -'

He huffed and sneezed several times.

Ajit immediately strode over and produced a box of tissues (as if he just happened to carry them around), pulled one out, and held it out for Voldemort. He took it with a mutinous glare.

Rue almost smiled; so that was the problem. He was just sick. Even he had to get sick once in a while.

'There,' Ajit stated definitively. 'I knew you weren't feeling well. You should have said something sooner.'

Voldemort's lip twitched in annoyance, but he didn't say anything.

Ajit, acting like an overly large mediwizard, leaned over and attended to him. He looked intensely into his pupils, but he held himself back from feeling his forehead when the look on Voldemort's face stated plainly that Ajit wouldn't be seeing his hand again if he tried it.

He managed to snatch one of Voldemort's hands, and he exclaimed, 'You're frigid!' Voldemort took his hand back and grumbled something Rue couldn't discern.

'Would you like a blanket?' asked Ajit gently, moving fluidly out of Voldemort's personal space. Voldemort sneezed again. 'Some soup, maybe? I could make you more comfortable in the bedroom, if you like.'

Voldemort rolled his eyes, disgusted by the attention. 'Sod off.'

But the menacing effect was ruined when he blew his nose loudly. Ajit shook his head in a motherly way. 'I'm going to bring out a spare blanket - you can stay where you are, but you need to keep warm. We don't want you getting sicker. Rest and concentrate on getting better. No exercise tomorrow.'

Ajit's final statement had the intended effect of perking Voldemort up. 'It's just a cold,' he protested in a nasally voice.

Ajit was already heading for the door. 'I'll get Aeron in here,' he told Rue as he left. 'Make sure he doesn't try anything with the tissues.'

When Rue turned back to Voldemort again, he was already ripping the tissues from the box, tearing them to messy shreds, and throwing them as best they could - though they mostly landed on him and the chair. Rue was glad to see it; at least he was still well enough to be recalcitrant.

***

Tuesday:

At two in the morning, stiff, tired, and uncomfortable, Voldemort left his plain, sad little bedroom for the relative snugness of his favourite chair. He looked up at the ceiling and traced patterns in the stucco with his eyes - but after a few minutes he wasn't sure if the dots were part of the ceiling or due to tiredness.

The night shift squirmed at the abrupt change in his schedule. Voldemort was irritated by them. I'm only sitting in a chair instead of lying in bed like a corpse; what does it matter to them?

Wolcott tried to prod him back to bed, but Voldemort stubbornly clung to his chair and told him to go away.

'He's just sick,' Wolcott concluded as if it were some grand revelation.

At least his nose wasn't running anymore. Voldemort thought that must mean he was getting better. He had an excellent constitution. It had better be a magical disease, he grumbled inwardly. Technically there was no such thing, but certain illnesses like dragon pox and spattergroit were more common among wizards than Muggles. That would be less embarrassing.

It isn't spattergroit, he decided. He'd seen spattergroit before, and his chest hadn't turned green. He'd contracted dragon pox during his first year at Hogwarts, so that was out too. He chuckled at the thought of the guards' panic if he had vanishing sickness.

Voldemort's brow furrowed. There's a broomstick on the ceiling. Why is that? Maybe the roof came off. That's why it's so cold.

'Put the roof back on,' he demanded - or he thought he demanded. His voice didn't sound right. Someone touched his forehead, and he batted the hand away. 'It's up there,' he told the hand, pointing to the sky.

'Shit,' said Wolcott. He backed away, and Voldemort settled deeper into his chair.

Someone raised his voice as if panicked. Voldemort shushed him - there was no reason to be so loud. Spells to fix roofs could be cast nonverbally. He hated how people shouted when they were trying to cast a spell forcefully - it didn't do anything to make a spell more powerful. Cruciatus could be cast just as well in a whisper.

He bolted upright. They were going to cast Cruciatus?

Oh, not at me, at the roof, he reminded himself. He leaned back again in relief.

***

Fifteen Minutes to Eight in the Morning:

Rue walked toward the building with a new book under her arm. She'd spent an hour picking it out - it was an advanced text on runes, and it had only been published a few years before, so Rue was certain he hadn't read it. Voldemort delighted in picking apart advanced magical theories, ones that Rue couldn't even vaguely comprehend, and declaring them garbage. She was sure that it would cheer him up as he fought off his cold.

Rue hoped to slip the book in with his collection without Fairfax knowing, so she arrived alone and early that day. She was certain that Fairfax wouldn't approve of her giving gifts to the "inmate", and arguing was the last thing she wanted to do.

As soon as Rue reached the door she realized that there was a flaw in her plan: she couldn't get in without Fairfax or Ajit. They were the only ones on their shift who knew how to disarm the wards on the door.

I'll just have to hope that Ajit gets here first, thought Rue, looking apprehensively down the alley.

Then, to her astonishment, the door opened. One of the night guards, Evander Edgecomb, bent his finger to indicate that Rue should come in. She did so unsurely, wondering what the stricken look on his face was about.

'Thank Merlin you're early,' he told her quickly. 'Look, he's sick, really sick, and we don't know what to do. He's been muttering nonsense for hours - you need to go to the apothecary and get a Fever-Reducing Potion. None of us can leave; we need two with him and one to guard the rest of the building.'

Rue's mouth hung open dumbly as she tried to take in all the man said. 'What about your fourth?' she asked after a moment.

'What?' asked Edgecomb impatiently, looking at her as if she was an idiot.

'The forth person on your shift.'

His jaw was set in annoyance. 'There is no fourth person on the night shifts. Get going already.'

Meekly, Rue started, 'I...all right, but -'

He slapped a Galleon and a few Sickles into her hand. 'Get going!'

With that, Rue found herself shoved out the door. 'Wait a minute,' she said to herself slowly, a frown forming, 'the apothecary isn't open yet.'

She swivelled back to the door, but it was closed - and Fairfax had warned her about touching it. Rue stood in place for several moments, wondering what to do.

The answer came to her. Rue shoved the money into her pocket and dug out her wand. She Apparated to the kitchen of her house.

Her mother was startled and let out a brief shriek. 'Rue! What -'

'I need Fever-Reducing Potion,' she interrupted. Her mum used to be a nurse; since marrying into the wizarding world, she always kept basic medical potions on hand in case they were needed.

'Fine, but don't ever do that again! Scared me half to death,' she muttered. Rue's mother opened the pantry door and poked through her supply of potions until she found the right one.

'Here you are,' she said, handing Rue the vial. 'You aren't sick, are -'

'Thanks Mum, sorry, can't explain right now!' Rue said frantically, waving her wand and Apparating away.

Rue arrived back at the apartment building just as Ajit was rounding the corner. She cringed as she realized that he'd caught her Apparating instead of taking the Underground.

Sternly disapproving, he said, 'I hope you haven't been doing that regularly.'

'No!' Rue protested. She dropped her wand back into her pocket and took out the vial. 'The people inside said they needed a Fever-Reducing Potion, so I left and came back with it. I'm really sorry, but it sounded important!'

Ajit took the vial from her. 'Good work,' he stated with a dour expression. Rue brightened, glad not to be in trouble. The book was starting to feel heavy in her arm, so she switched it to the other one - Ajit looked at it, but didn't ask.

'If he needs this, he's definitely worse off than we left him.' Ajit looked up at the building. 'I hope they've been looking after him properly.'

They went inside. 'Ajit!' Edgecomb cried, running his hand through his thinning hair in relief. 'And you, you brought the potion?'

Rue bristled at being referred to as you. 'She did,' replied Ajit. The three ascended the stairs together. 'How bad is he?'

'Delirious. He got up at two, and Wolcott just got him back to bed an hour ago,' nattered Edgecomb.

He looked up at Ajit desperately, expecting guidance, but Ajit only shook his head in worry. As they approached the seventh floor, Ajit turned to Rue and said, 'We'll try the Fever-Reducing Potion to start.'

Rue nodded unthinkingly in agreement, biting down hard on her lip. It seemed that whatever Voldemort had was worse than a cold - but surely he'd still get over it.

***

Wednesday:

Voldemort woke very slowly, drenched in sweat and with eyelids too heavy to lift. His throat was dry, and a cough forced its way out of his lungs; his parched lips peeled harshly apart to let it pass.

'Voldemort,' said a voice. A hand settled against his chest. He tried to move his arms, but they were pinned down by the blankets.

He managed to open his eyes to slits. Ajit. His ill mind managed to pick out the oddity of the scene: it was dark in the room, with no light slipping through the curtains. Ajit shouldn't have been there.

'You...' Voldemort began, but he entered into another coughing fit. His whole body ached from it.

'It's okay,' Ajit assured him in a kind whisper, rubbing his shoulder as the fit passed. 'You need to drink something. I know you're tired, but it's very important.'

Voldemort's head was ripped apart by pain as Ajit propped him up, and he cringed. 'I know, I know,' soothed Ajit. 'You can go back to sleep soon.'

Once his eyes had stopped flashing, Voldemort's eyes were drawn to another difference in the room. 'Not my book,' he said, pointing weakly at his meagrely stocked bookshelf.

Ajit smiled. 'Rue got it for you. Wasn't that nice of her? You can read it when you're better - it's something to look forward to.'

A vial was pressed to his lips, and Voldemort drank a few sips before turning his head away. 'You need to finish it,' insisted Ajit. His hand moved Voldemort's head back into place, and he reluctantly drank the rest.

'I don't feel well,' Voldemort said without meaning to.

'That's fine; just rest and get better.'

Ajit moved Voldemort so that he was lying down again; every bone in his body protested the movement, and he didn't feel much better once his head was against the pillows again. But before he could complain, Voldemort had fallen back into a fitful sleep.

***

Thursday:

Caesar prowled around Voldemort's empty chair and scratched insistently at the door to his room, yowling loudly whenever he sensed anyone giving his pleas the slightest attention. But when Rue had allowed the cat inside the day before, Voldemort had shown the first sign of life since Monday. He had jumped onto Voldemort's chest, and Voldemort had raised his arm and smacked it away.

'Get out!' he'd said as loudly as he could - which wasn't very loud with his dry, scratchy throat, but Rue could hear him faintly from the doorway. 'You can't have me yet!'

Rue had managed to carry the protesting feline out after that, though she'd been badly scratched. Ever since then she had seen Caesar in a different light; less a comforting cat, more a vulture. Even Ajit, usually fond of Caesar, shooed him away whenever he opened the door.

Aeron was watching Voldemort, and Rue was standing nervously outside the room. She was supposed to be inside as well, but she wanted to listen to the strenuous argument between Fairfax and Ajit taking place in the hallway.

'He needs a Healer!' Ajit roared. The force of his usually gentle voice made the situation seem all the more dire.

'We can't bloody get him one!' Fairfax shouted back. 'Don't you get it?! We're not management! Only management and the Minister can approve visitors!'

'Then I'll go to the Ministry!'

'And tell them what? He's only been sick for a few days! He'll get over it!'

'He's not getting better! He's having trouble breathing!'

'You're overreacting!'

Ajit's voice was menacing. 'Fairfax, you are the head Auror on this watch! Asking the Ministry to allow a Healer in will sound better coming from you!'

'Then you'll have to find another head Auror on another watch to support you, because I won't.'

Rue's blood ran cold. Was Voldemort really that sick? She glanced at the door to his room with a worried expression. What would happen if he died? Would he return with his magical abilities intact? To Rue's surprise, that didn't seem like such a bad prospect...but last time he hadn't returned for ages...

In a lower voice that Rue struggled to hear, Ajit replied, 'You don't like him, but this is a man's life we're discussing! If it's not as bad as I think it is, what harm could it do to bring in a Healer?'

'It would cause panic, that's what!' said Fairfax. 'The Prophet would get the story! You know what that means - fire and brimstone talk! And furthermore -'

Rue squealed as she was shocked by a tap on the shoulder. She spun round and glared at Aeron. 'What are you doing? Who's watching him?'

'I don't like you, and you don't like me,' declared Aeron in an insistent whisper, 'but we both want him to get better. Something has to be done, and those two -' he indicated the door disdainfully '- aren't going to get it done with their bickering. Someone needs to go behind Ramsden's back.'

'And let me guess, that someone is me, is it?' Rue crossed her arms. 'Well, that's just great.'

'Ajit can't; he's been staying here all day and all night,' argued Aeron, 'and Fairfax is having me watched!'

'Humph. Watched? Please, Fairfax wouldn't -'

Aeron grabbed Rue's shoulders forcefully, and her mouth fell open in surprise. His gaze was intense and deadly serious. 'There are things about him you don't know! Just trust me, damn it - for his sake!'

'What am I supposed to do?' she demanded. Feeling helpless, Rue declared, 'I want to do something, but I don't have the sway to get the Ministry involved, and I don't have the slightest idea how to contact management - and neither do you!'

'There's someone else,' Aeron stated curtly. He glanced toward the door to Voldemort's bedroom nervously as if he expected to hear a protest.

In a whisper, he added, 'You know, him.'

Rue shook her head. 'Who?'

Whispering even lower, he leaned toward her ear and said, 'Harry Potter.'

***

Fairfax wasn't concerned about Ajit's scheme to get a Healer in. Management wouldn't get the memo in time, and the Minister would want to wait before risking a public relations disaster. With luck, Voldemort would be dead - as dead as he could possibly be - by next Monday.

Fairfax stood over Voldemort's prone form in bed. His breathing was laboured, but for once his eyes were open. He put his hand on his forehead - 'Your fever's gone down,' he said blandly. That was fine; he knew it would return worse than ever. He'd memorized the symptoms all weekend before he'd acted.

'You think you've done this,' rasped Voldemort. His eyes hooked Fairfax's and dragged them in - he couldn't look away.

'You haven't. You're just a pawn.' With a weak smile, he added, 'And now you're a murderer.'

'If you hadn't stuck your nose into the Organization's business, it wouldn't have come to this,' scolded Fairfax, backing away. He hadn't expected a confrontation. What if Voldemort said something to Ajit? He wouldn't be believed...he'd think it was the fever... Ajit wasn't the suspicious sort.

But the accusation - murderer - still gnawed at him.

'Terrible name, "the Organization",' muttered Voldemort. '"Death Eaters" is more menacing.'

'We're not like the Death Eaters. We're running a business,' Fairfax retorted. He wished his legs would carry him out of the room, but they were shocked into place by Voldemort's unexpected lucidity.

Voldemort sneered; it was more disturbing on his white, ravaged face than ever before. Bluntly yet forcefully, he said, 'You're a fool. You'll die with nothing in the end.'

Then his energy gave out completely. He sagged onto the bed and closed his eyes.

Fairfax stared at him for a while longer before backing out of the bedroom. It would be so much easier if he'd just die already.

***

Voldemort was afraid. He didn't want to be forced from his body again. He wouldn't really die unless Potter...does he have the courage? Voldemort wondered. His heart was suddenly gripped with a far greater terror.

He couldn't leave his fate to him.

But he had no choice...his options were exhausted. He was a weakened, dying Muggle faced with being incorporeal for years or being erased from existence completely - and even that meagre selection was not his to make.

Potter...the name of his old foe was the last thought to pass through Voldemort's mind before he sank again into a disturbed unconsciousness, haunted by the unpleasant death that gnawed at his heels.