by Luckfire
He turned the corner, nearly plowing into a woman carrying bags of groceries, and careened down the alley as if the devil himself were chasing him. He did not stop. His lungs burned and his legs felt like jelly, but still he held out for his second wind. It came, only barely in time. The cops were in better shape than was good for his survival, and they were closing the gap.
"Stop! Give yourself up!" the one in front shouted, as if it would do any good. He kept running until he came to a wall blocking his way. His sharp Seeker eyes found shallow hand- and footholds and he began scrambling up the stucco. He dropped to the pavement on the other side without a glance back. The police were still on his tail, but they were hampered by guns and nightsticks and such. He was smaller, lighter, built for speed. Someone had once told him so, years and years ago, when he was young. He was taller now, but still short; his hair was longer, but still an impossible mess; his wand had been broken the first time the cops had gotten their hands on his fugitive skin. They would break his neck if they caught him again.
He dove into an open dumpster and lay flat, hardly daring to breathe. It seemed like hours before the cops had run past and split up at the next intersection, still searching for him. He waited for another ten minutes, counting his own heartbeats to keep track of the time, before he raised himself out of the slimy, foul-smelling garbage heap. He climbed carefully out of the dumpster, alert for any stragglers. Nothing moved; he continued on out of the city. It wasn't safe anymore.
The benevolent despot who had ruled for thirty-five years had fallen. He was mourned by everyone, with one insignificant exception. The exception, after all, had felled him. When he had been caught by the police and questioned, he had calmly told the officers in charge to go screw themselves. One of them had given him a large bruise for his trouble. The next day, after a narrow escape, he was on the run again. Things are different on the lam than they are for normal people. Nowhere is safe. People reading newspapers deserve to be avoided, lest one's photo be the focus of their gaze. Exuding confidence and a sense of purpose, yet keeping one's face obscure, becomes second nature. The phrase "Hey, you - c'mere!" is one to be feared. Old friends are potential enemies and traitors, constantly being blasted with one's new fugitive status and undoubtable guilt until they believe it themselves. "Look at this," she said blankly, setting the day's "Daily Prophet" in front of him at the breakfast table. He glanced at the headline over the rim of his coffee mug. "Potter Spotted In Liverpool", it read. "The old man sure gets around," he replied blandly. She sat down next to him, her eyes probing. "How? How could he have done anything like this? Harry's not a killer! It doesn't add up." "Darling," he said sadly, though not unkindly, putting his hand over hers, "we've been through this before. We always end up at the same place. 'He had his whole life in front of him, he was a wonderful kid, he wouldn't hurt a fly.' I know it, but we can't change the past. Harry chose his own path, and we can't change that." She crumpled in her chair, sobbing. "But it still hurts so much!" He reached over and pulled her into his lap, smoothing her hair and crooning: "I know, I know." His eyes were wet. He kept going, he didn't know where to. It didn't matter, as long as he was alive. He owed that much to his mother. He skirted bars, because there would always be some drunk who recognized him. It had happened before. There were other reasons, but he didn't like to think of them; they still burned. Church bells tolled and tear-choked hymns were sung for the fallen dictator. At one memorial service, the priest choked out, "He united two worlds that were adrift from each other for centuries. He made this earth a better place. Never again will magic only be good for children's stories, nor dragons, wizards, and unicorns!" In a public ceremony, a mayor shouted emotionally: "We will remember Voldemort, and all that he did for us!" In a pub, a known radical who had had a few drinks too many slurred, "But does anyone remember the Merry Blade? The heads rolling from the guillotine for days? No, they recall that nice, fuzzy blanket of peace Lord Voldemort" - he stumbled over the name - "pulled over our heads to make us forget!" His words, however, were lost on the mournful crowd surrounding him. One thing, however, was agreed on everywhere: there must have been a conspiracy, a plot, surrounding their beloved leader. No one man could destroy Voldemort, who had stood invincible against the harshest attacks of Muggles and wizards both. The lone assassin was a minor hero from past days, a figurehead at which the real conspirators must have rallied. Not one man, woman, or child doubted it, with one exception. The exception, as all this went on, was trying to sleep in a toolshed on the outskirts of the city, a trowel digging into the small of his back. He eased the tool out of his way and eventually fell into a fitful doze. Specters danced behind his closed eyelids, depicting scenes of the past he wished so dearly to forget. A sick, wet thunk - his father's head falling into a basket - the magically-impermeable blade rising, dripping innocent, traitorous blood - a sob from a red-haired woman, next in line… A long, inhuman howl, reverberating over the hills - three quick shots, echoing - a glint of silver - a howl of rage, then of unbearable pain - a final, death-inviting whimper… Smoking, smoldering, sunken ruins, the only remnants of a once-great castle - screams of people (no, children) trapped beneath - a mutilated corpse, barely recognizable - shattered half-moon spectacles twinkling in the starlight… Loud, insistent banging on the door - running through the house, searching - finding his godfather on the floor, cold and dead and bloody - blood, blood, blood! everywhere, over everything, blood! - a knife clutched in one dead hand - a word on the wall in that blood!: "RUN"… Stopping carefully - consulting his map - bloodlust and adrenaline pumping in his veins - the door - turning the knob - that repulsive, serpentine face, an abomination of nature, daring him to do it, do it - savagely, vengefully, righting their deaths: "Avada Kedavra!" He woke up in a cold sweat, the words pounding in his brain. He had avenged them, he had made it all right again - why didn't the dreams go away? Why could he never rest peacefully? Would he be haunted even in death? He almost howled with misery and despair. [excerpt from the "Daily Prophet", dated the 30th of July, 2016, written by Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent] Harry Potter, leader of the Voldemort conspiracy, was apprehended this morning forty kilometers north of Liverpool. He resisted arrest and was severely beaten as a result. An interview with the Muggle officers in charge revealed that he had laughed when the handcuffs were put on him, yelling, "I'm a wizard, you ignorant cur! Expelliarmus!" When nothing happened, he became very irate and struggled unsuccessfully to free himself. The crowd that was on hand at the time of his capture showed little restraint and no mercy toward the assassin. Cries of "Eye for an eye! Death for death!" resounded among the throng which fairly pulsated with deadly rage. In spite of this, Potter showed no signs of fear and few of sanity. He seemed to have forgotten that he lacked a wand and repeatedly shouted spells which, of course, had no effect on the mob but to vex them further. Lavender Brown, 39, a witness to this chaotic scene, described Potter as "deranged, mentally unhinged. His eyes were rolling around in his head and he didn't seem to care when none of his spells worked. It was really frightening." Nevertheless, Ministry agents, having taken custody of Potter from the Muggle police, successfully transported him to the nearest chimney and, with a pinch of Floo powder, brought the convict to Azkaban where the dementors can exert their charms on him. The Dementor's Kiss will be administered the day after tomorrow. Potter's trial will be held four days from now, on Tuesday, and is fully expected to return a verdict of "guilty."
Disclaimer: All characters copyright JK Rowling. Don't sue. Rock on.