Fallout

Sometimes Harry thought he wasn't alive. When sleep eluded him in the darkest part of night, he would stare at the dingy ceiling above his bed and worry over the legitimacy of his existence. arryharrhhhhhHe began to suspect that he died that night on the battlefield and Death had simply forgotten to collect him.

It was an honest mistake and Harry could see how Death might have made it, as there were dozens of others who also needed to be taken on that particular night. Missing one would only be too easy. But that was okay, Harry forgave death. He just wished the other side would realize their error and take him to where he should be. He hoped they came soon. Because what Harry had now couldn't possibly be called living.

Before it had been different. Before he could feel the warmth of the sun on his skin and taste afternoon tea, not like now. Overnight everything had changed. At nineteen he had been the hero of the wizarding world, but by the age of twenty-four his former glory had faded and he was little more than an embarrassment- weekly fodder for the gossip rags and pitied by the Molly Weasley's of the world.

Well, he didn't want their pity. The same way he didn't want the awe he saw in the eyes of schoolchildren or the very careful respect his friends afforded him. Harry didn't want any of it. He simply wanted to be left alone to live as he pleased.

Except, of course, that he wasn't really alive at all.

Harry had never wanted the spotlight the public had so eagerly provided and it wasn't long before staying indoors was more than just a habit bred of fragile insecurity. His friends didn't understand his preference for keeping inside and they were hurt when their invitations to dinner were refused. They were worried about him, Hermione said. It wasn't healthy to sulk all day long amidst the shadows and gloom of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. But Harry felt safest in Sirius' old home. The shadows that Hermione detested so heartily were comforting in their familiarity and he felt he could actually think there. The overwhelming quiet calmed his raging mind and sometimes, if it was still enough, he thought he could hear the faded laughter of teenagers in that house: Sirius and James, Ron and Hermione. But they were only the ghosts of a time near forgotten and sometimes Harry thought he was the only one who still remembered those days.

The end of the world had come and gone, leaving the wizarding community broken and deformed in its wake. New buildings stood on the foundations of old, gardens transformed themselves into memorials and the large plot of land just beyond the Hogwarts Quiddich field became a cemetery that held more gravestones than Harry ever wanted to count. Ugly memories of smoke and blood lingered there, like fog over the moors, and Harry was unwilling to revisit them. He had never gone back to that field, the last place where he had ever wielded a wand. Too many people lay beneath the grass and Harry simply couldn't bear the idea of seeing George Weasely alongside Bellatrix Lestrange or his darling Ginny beside Lucius Malfoy.

Diversification, the Ministry had called it. A badly instituted plan to end the blood segregation. This Ministry was a new breed of government, risen from the ashes of old when the public demanded change. The wizarding community was outraged after the final defeat of Voldemort and his legion of Death Eaters; and, like any other angry mob, they sought to blame anyone or anything. It didn't matter that the old Ministry had finally pulled together at the last moment and had played a crucial part in the final defeat, or that the new government was nothing more than a new set of robes. The masses needed a scapegoat and their ire was focused on the politicians.

The new Ministry dreamed of a world without blood hatred. They promoted peace and a common vision of community. They passed new laws and held parties, congratulating themselves on a job well done. They dreamed of a magical utopia where order reigned and terror was a memory of the past. But to Harry it was all the same. To him, nothing had changed.

Harry didn't share their dreams of impossible peace. Instead, he dreamed of a pale little girl, no older than a toddler, with eyes older than they should be. Eyes that held dark secrets no little girl should ever know. Those eyes terrified Harry. Every night he would wake with a start, the bed sheets clinging to his too thin frame and her words ringing in his ears.

"This is not the end."

The words alone were enough to give him nightmares. They were immortal, burned into his brain. Even after five years he could still recall with startling clarity the hatred in Voldemort's voice as he said those exact words. Hatred that refused to die even after Harry had thrust Godrick Gryffindor's sword through the dark wizard's chest.

Visions of the little girl haunted Harry and some days, when he had slept too little the night before, she hid in the half shadows of his home, tormenting him with giggling whispers that promised something dark and twisted.

Then, one day not long after his twenty-sixth birthday, he saw her.

She reminded Harry of the dawn on a winter morning with skin as fair as snow and hair the color of pale butter-cream. She stared at him silently with her too old gaze as she clutched the hand of the woman standing beside her. He felt the blood rush from his face as he stopped mid-step, shocked by her sudden appearance. She smiled at him and suddenly he was moving, automatically reaching for the wand that wasn't there and crossing the breadth of Diagon Alley, his eyes full of barely checked fury.

Her pale eyes widened at his approach and she tucked herself behind the woman's legs, her little hands fisted the other's long robes. The woman, presumably the monstrosities' mother, instinctively followed her daughter's gaze and blanched at the sight Harry nearing. She knows, he realized with a start as he pushed a teenage boy out of his way, no longer caring about the stares he was receiving from the morning shoppers. The mother stumbled backwards, her hand blindly reaching behind her to protect the child as her own eyes were wide with fear.

"I know what she is," he snarled, nearly within reaching distance.

The woman's face was white as chalk and she fumbled for her wand.

"Stupify!"

The curse hit Harry solidly in his back and the force of it sent him falling face first into the cobbled street. After that, the world was swallowed by dark nothingness.

When he awoke again, Harry was lying fully clothed in his bed at Grimmauld Place. Groggily, he blinked and tried to focus his gaze on his hazy surroundings.

"We had to sedate you."

Harry's head snapped in the direction of the man's voice and his hand automatically clutched the bed sheets where his wand should have been.

A strong hand was placed on his shoulder. "Easy, Harry," the voice said. "It's just me."

"R-ron?" Harry croaked. His mouth felt like it was filled with sand.

His friend's face came into view as Ron leant over Harry's prone form and smiled at him reassuringly. "'Bout time you woke up, mate," he said with false cheer.

"Hermione?"

"She had to leave," Ron explained, helping Harry into a sitting position.

The world swam dizzily before Harry's eyes and he shut them tightly. "What happened?"

When Ron didn't answer immediately, Harry opened his eyes and looked at the redhead. Ron's face was set in hard lines and Harry knew something was wrong when he wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Ron," he prodded, "what's wrong? What happened?"

"You almost hurt a little girl today, Harry." Ron's voice was so flat and emotionless, Harry almost didn't recognize it. It was the voice of stranger.

"Little girl," Harry repeated slowly as his memory righted itself. "Little girl! Ron! Quick!" Harry rolled out of bed, heroically trying to ignore the wave of nausea and dizziness that swept over him. "She's him! He's back!" he cried, staggering to the door. "We have to find her!" The world was rushing in Harry's ears and he swayed on his feet.

Ron's hands were on Harry's shoulders and he steered his friends back to the bed. "You're not going anywhere, Harry," he said gently. "You can barely stand."

"Ron, please," Harry said desperately.

"No, Harry," Ron said sternly, pushing Harry back onto the bed. "You need to rest."

Harry struggled. "I'm fine, Ron!"

"You're not fine."

Harry broke out into a cold sweat and his struggles weakened. His ears were ringing and his limbs trembled. "What's wrong with me?" he gasped, opening his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling above his bed. The shadows that clung to the ceiling seemed to swirl and writhe, like dark, ghostly snakes. Harry turned his head away.

Ron pushed him firmly onto his back and pulled the blankets over his body. "I told you we had to sedate you. You almost hurt a little girl, Harry." Around him, the world was growing dark and Harry felt detached from his body, like he was floating far above the sheets. Ron spoke again, but Harry couldn't make out the words. There was something in his chest. Something that did not belong. Something foreign. It scared Harry.

"He's out now," he heard Ron say after slipping into the hall outside Harry's door.

"He's quite mad, you know," a woman said.

"I know."

"The last battle did something to him, drained him like-"

"Tonks- I know."

A beat. "What are we going to do?"

"I'm not sending him off to St. Mungo's if that's what you're asking," Ron snapped. "He's Harry Potter. He saved us all. He deserves more than that."

The shadows in the corner of his room moved. Harry could see a flash of blonde hair, like pale butter-cream. The shadows giggled.

"Leave me alone," he croaked.

The shadows swirled. The little girl crept forward and, for the briefest moment, her eyes flared red in the gloom.

"Silly Harry," she said. "This is not the end."

finis