Yes, I'm back, taking on the world one fic at a time.

This story started off as being one of those annoying plot bunnies which wouldn't story bouncing up and down infront of my eyes until I grabbed it, killed it and cooked it for dinner. It started off being a one shot, much like this chapter, but it grew into something far more substantial (though looking at it now it seems very slightly reminiscent of 28 days later, a movie I saw once and hated). Trust me, its NOTHING like that, lol. It starts off slow, but I though you needed to feel the gravity of the situation before I delve past the muggle realm. Trust me, this IS about the magical world, even though it may not seem like it.

Remember, all authors love reviews. I am no different...ENJOY!

(A/N: This chapter is far shorter than normal, I just couldnt advance the storyline in this chapter.)

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The Virus

Chapter 1

He was dead. She knew as soon as her warm slender fingers clasped around his cold, calloused ones. The pulse she had felt dimming slowly for days now was non existent, and his rasping breath, once lively and full of laugher, was now silenced in the still air. Everything was still; too still. Her tears seemed to freeze on her face, now as cool and pale as his own as she tried to come to terms with his death. This was soo much, too much after all she had been through, and now her only remaining ally was gone. Loneliness never looked so dark, and life never so closely resembled death.

She rose and left the room, running upstairs and throwing herself onto the roof, collapsing against the parapet. Her sobs echoed all around her, across the roof and down to the empty streets where the leaves and plastic bags flew unhindered against the empty cars, the empty shops, the empty homes. Guilt ravaged through her body, caressing her insides and licking her spine. Many times had she used this roof for parties with her friends and families; why, right where she lay broken against the parapet was her favourite catapulting spot with her four closest friends. Hours were wasted as children, and embarrassingly enough as older teenagers, ditching rocks, leftover food, paper, toys, anything they could find onto unsuspecting people on the sidewalks below. The looks of shock and surprise, followed by anger and annoyance would always amuse them to no end. The looks their neighbouring building would shoot at them was by far their favourite; their rage looked certain enough to send them into fits of apoplexy, and the four of them would burst into a fit of giggles, earning them disapproving looks from their oblivious parents.

It had always been the four of them, for as long as she could remember; The Awesome-Foursome: Fi, Lyn, Rob and Michael. They would do and share everything together, from toys to food to clothes to stories, right up to their first crushes. Now it was just herself, just Fi, and the loss of her favourite people in the world reminded her only of the stretch of wasteland left ahead of her. The country was quarantined, and her holidaying parents were still trapped in Australia. Their survival was the only thing that kept her moving forward right until Rob’s last shuddering breath. Now even they didn’t seem worth it.

A plastic bag got caught in the updraft, flying gracefully up the six stories to where she lay. She watched it as it flew above the parapet and into the blinding light of the bedding sun contrasting so vividly against the blackened silhouette of London’s skyline. It was so elegant, so needless and she longed to fly along with it. She longed for life to be simple, where your journey and destination would depend solely upon a simple updraft; where every whisper of the wind would tell a story of yesterday’s rolling hills and last week’s crashing waves; where she would be forgotten as simply as a simple breeze cupping the warmth from one’s cheek.

Because who remembers the touch of a simple breeze? Who remembers the willy willy blowing your skirt back and forth? Who remembers the leaf which blew against your leg as you walked down the crowded London street? Who remembers the death of Rob, Lyn, Michael, of her cousins Jess, Elizabeth and Tony, of her grandparents Mary and Alan? Or for that matter, of every Rob, Lyn, Michael, Jess, Elizabeth, Tony, Mary and Alan who were once living and breathing as everyone should. No, they became a statistic, their graves were unmarked but for a simple wooden cross and a freshly dug piece of earth.

Why is it that people only remember the hurricanes? The tornadoes? The death of Franz Ferdinand and John F. Kennedy? She did not know them. Six billion people did not know them, yet their deaths caused such a disturbance that the effects are still evident today. The death of the former sparked the catalyst for World War I, which in turn caused the Great Depression and the construction of Communist International, not to mention the Nazis and the Spanish Civil War. The latter of which sparked an investigation which is still unresolved today. No one would remember her friends, her family, the people who had touched her life in a way no famous historical figure ever could. There would be no conspiracy, no march, no war fought in their honour. Why?

Because no one remembers the wind.

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-thesolitaryone-