Behind him was only darkness. Yet he swore the footsteps were becoming louder.

Quickening their pace, Harry expected the follower to be on him any second.

The footsteps were demanding. Blood rushed into his ears, he hastened to put as much distance between himself and his pursuer as possible.

London's back alleys hid many shadows, and this particular one began following the Chosen One around three blocks back.

Harry suspected the shadow was only 30, maybe 40 meters away now. He carried on.

The humid night, and the inherent fear of the shadow, wet his brow and stumbled his step.

Harry was old, rivaling Dumbledore's superb age, and his arthritis was killing him in this late August night.

The years as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement gave Harry a similar susceptibility to suspicion as one crazy Auror he once knew.

But to his family and vast amount of friends, Harry was still Harry. So it was to no one's surprise that Harry still felt comfortable walking London alone. Harry thought he was too old to feel scared...until the shadow began its pursuit.

He continued to hobble down the winding street.

He had tried to apparate a couple blocks ago, but the shadow prevented him from leaving the area.

Harry's legs were beginning to cramp; they didn't cramp like this unless he was chasing a great-grandchild at a family reunion. But this time it was not for the last treacle tart at the dessert table, or tickle revenge.

He was tough, but the shadow emanated all that he feared.

He smelt carrion behind him, his mouth tasted of blood and bile.

Before him Harry's eyes played tricks on him, seem to crowd the street in the bodies of his loved ones.

Ginny, Ron. Hermione, his children, his parents, Snape, Sirius, Remus, and all those who had died at the Battle of Hogwarts and in his career littered the ground: it made Harry gag and gasp in horror.

Was a dementor following him, making him relive his worst nightmares? No, he would have sensed its presence sooner.

The shadow reeked of a dark magic, of such ancient sorcery it masked its true form from his spells.

It gave him only one choice; run.

Harry could hear the footsteps closing in.

Hot, sticky breath could be prickling his neck at any moment. He stumbled along as fast as he could, wand at the ready.

What horrible monster could be torturing him so?

What to gain, from a haggard soul with such a long life?

Then it clicked.

Harry stopped, wheezing to a halt in the deserted dead end.

The footsteps drew near and also stopped.

Seconds went by before Harry turned to face his pursuer.

The shadow vagly held the form of a man, but that was the only resemblance. The figure was cloaked, well over 6 feet and extremely imposing.

But Harry understood who the shadow was.

It beckoned to him, called him forward with skeletal white fingers.

Harry stepped forward, and removed his oldest magical artifact from his shoulders.

Somewhere in London his youngest son received the Invisibility Cloak on his doorstep, neat and bearing a silent goodbye.

Death took him by the arm, and the pair departed this world as equals.