Harry dreams of drums for years to come.

It is his pulse,

it is his heartbeat,

it is Ginny's breathing -

excuses, excuses hastily clung to when he wakes in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, his scar tingling, his hand already on his wand.

It's over, Ginny says to him, stroking his hair in the middle of the night. He's gone.

He nods in agreement, but still - the drums beat in the background, pound in the distance.

A howl of the wind sounds like a distant scream, and as he lays back down, he vaguely wonders how many have died.

The war is over, mate, Ron says to him.

Harry nods.

Again and again and again and again, there are drums, screaming -

Not him, not Harry, no!

mixing with the screams of Hermione from two separate occasions, and what he imagines Lupin's death must have sounded like.

It all ends with the quiet of Sirius falling through the veil.

The war is over the war is over.

Harry vaguely wonders if he's going mad, if he's gone mad.

His children become war monuments, war memorials, yes, Albus Severus James and Lily, yes, yes, yes.

They have gone but they haven't gone.

The war has left, but it hasn't left. And inside of him, he feels a gaping canyon, an open mouth, waiting for the day when it will start again, waiting for the day when he will be called upon.

He is tired, he is sore, but the war -

War waits for nothing, wants for nothing, desires nothing but bodies.

Warm, bloody bodies to fill the spaces, to fill the gaps, to enter into registries of the dead.

Under the bed is a shoebox full of obituaries, charmed to keep Ginny from finding them.

And the fake locket.

You never know, you never know. Lazy Sundays, he drags the box with him outdoors, hiding to pore over the faces of the dead.

You never know, you never know.

the war is over, harry.

The war is over. It must be, but the screams, he still remembers, he still hears, and every time he has a headache - the drums the drums the drums.

He kills every rat he sees. In case.

Just in case.

the war is over.

Eventually, it becomes a mantra. It follows him to the Auror office, to the Ministry, to Germany, to Italy, to courtrooms, down to placing Dark wizards in Azkaban.

the war is over
the war is over

Except it isn't in his head.

Everything is fresh and new. He still remembers the taste of the air at the Quidditch World Cup, the Dark Mark hanging heavily overhead - everything tasting sooty and thick.

He still remembers the warmth of Cedric's body.

He still remembers the knife cutting across his forearm,

remembers the shriek of the basilisk,

remembers the locket pulling him down beneath the water.

He remembers Sirius dying.

the war is over

is over

over

the war

over the war

He will never be over it.


One night, he dreams of someone screaming, and wakes to Ginny shaking him.

You're screaming, Harry.

His scar aches.


Forty years later, when their children are grown and raised and peace settles down comfortably,

a war breaks out.

Harry keeps his wand in his front pocket, like old times.

He knew it never left;

everything feels the same.

The air is still.

"Harry?" Ginny asks.

The world returns to focus.