Quondam

Summary: Sometimes happily ever after is only in books

Status: WIP


It was that time of night again, like every night before. He'd sleep a few hours and be awake and unable to fall back asleep. He'd lay there thinking of his life and how he'd once wondered if he'd make it to age 17, now he was creeping up on 35.

He painfully pulled himself out of bed and began the slow journey around his home, the only good thing his fame had given him. He touched the last photo of Ron and Hermione that he had, after the last battle they'd turned their back on him. He was a pariah in the wizarding world, even his own friends had turned him out.

They hadn't wanted to sully their own lives or deal with his recovery. What a joke, how do you recover from killing thousands of people who may or may not have been guilty? They'd died at his hands, at his whim they said. A whim he'd been dealing with since his birth.

He'd created a magical vortex which had sucked an entire village into it and obliterated them and the surrounding land. There was nothing left but a crater and long memories.

He'd been shunned for it despite it being THEM he'd saved. Neither Tom Marvolo Riddle nor Lord Voldemort had survived, neither had his followers.

He'd given them security and peace and they'd given him a house with land. They'd wanted to send him to prison but the initial public outcry had persuaded them otherwise. Instead, they'd made him outcast. That's where the house and land came in, a place for him to be sentenced, a place they could keep an eye on him.

He'd been gravely injured and it had been a long road back to his current shuffling state. It had taken repeated treatments to regrow his muscles, ligaments, tendons, and bones. His left arm, both knees and ankles has been shattered in the blast. He was covered in newly grown skin which would never grow hair again, that they couldn't attain despite many attempts. Many months in a magical healing crisis had atrophied the newly grown body parts and that meant many more months of physical therapy to get him back on his feet.

The biggest loss to him, the one that pleased them the most was the loss of his voice. There were magical resources for those who were mute but they had refused to share them with him because he was safer without a voice. Through diligent work of his own he'd taught himself to speak again, but it had taken years. Even now it was harsh and gravely to his own ears and surely to anyone who heard him speak, though he never let on that he could speak.

He'd lived on his own since they'd released him from St. Mungo's and he relished the silence and solitude. A Medi-Nurse had cared for him after he'd been released from the hospital until he could easily move on his own.

They'd all left him alone, fearing he'd take them down next. It would have been lonely if he hadn't spent so much of his childhood alone.

Truth told he didn't mind it. He spent his time reading and learning anything he could get his hands on. He started with children's books and games because he'd been denied them as a child, then he worked up to reading everything he could about the magical world and the muggle world.

He lived in his solitude and the last psychiatrist they'd made him see had pronounced him 'cured but mildly agoraphobic'. The thought of flying made him physically ill, it'd once been his salvation now it was his jailor.

He'd never told them of his being raised in a cupboard as a child. They hadn't needed more fodder for their fight. It would have been the Dursleys that would have also paid his price and he held no grudge against them. They may not have been the loving parents he'd dreamed of but they'd provided him a much needed refuge and normalcy through his years at Hogwarts.

He kept in contact with Remus and no others. Remus had also been injured but his ability to transform had saved him many years of painful treatment. He too lived in seclusion, deep in the woods, and Harry didn't know where and that was fine with him.

Dawn was approaching and he stood to go outside. Outside, he stretched up toward it, seeking the beginnings of warmth. He despised the winters here but would not leave.

Closing his eyes, he sighed. He'd never be able to leave, the Ministry made certain of that. Even if he could, it was unlikely he'd do so, he feared the change. With a sigh of resignation he began the task of his thrice daily walk around the perimeter of his land.

His muscles would seize up if he didn't and it also gave him a chance to collect the herbs, plants, and vegetables for his daily needs. He made many of his own potions, tinctures, and tonics but ordered the more complex from a reputable source. He was grateful that he could owl order everything since the visits to the local villages and larger ones, like Diagon Alley took time to get over. He hated being in public, the stares and whispers haunted him for days afterwards.

He was still in Scotland, that much he knew. They'd asked him where he wanted to live and he'd been compelled to stay in Scotland, land of the only true home he'd known. Sometimes he regretted it but mostly not.

The air was misty gray but the rust colors of the sun were trying to dig through the grayness. The air was thick and filled his lungs and covered his skin. He could imagine being the fog and drifting over the land, nothing escaping his touch then moving away when the sun came to claim him, only to return when it went away.

He'd researched particulate matter and apparation for a while, wanting to know if he could find a way to stay in that form instead of becoming whole again. He was bound by his cellular structure, but would be free like the fog. That wasn't to say he wanted to die or kill himself, but he was tired of the limits his body placed on him.

His limbs that seized up on him, the voice that could barely speak out against the injustices against him, and the nightmares that lived to kill him.

He wanted out of it all.

Standing on the edge of his property, he looked down at the sea. He'd never touched it even though it beckoned him. In the distance he could see other islands like his and he wondered who lived there, if they were outcasts like him or just normal people. Though, some would argue that normal people wouldn't live on an island in the sea, certainly an area as harsh as Scotland could be.

Feeling the chill penetrate his heavy cloak he turned and began the trek home. A flash of black at the corner of his eye and he turned. His reflexes, slowed from lack of use didn't allow him to move quick enough to get out of the way of the large black form that was gaining speed and heading straight at him.