Harry's scar hadn't bothered him in nineteen years. But every once in awhile, he would feel a burn coming from it. He knew it wasn't a real burn, that it was just a memory replaying itself over and over, like the phantom tinglings that someone would get after they have a limb amputated. It no longer hurt, but he could feel it.

He often wondered if it was because in his heart he truly doubted whether or not he had killed Voldemort.

There had been no sign of the man for nineteen years. After his body was removed from the Great Hall, Harry didn't know what had happened to it. He knew that the body was probably buried somewhere in an unmarked grave. But the thing was, he didn't know.

His scar hadn't bothered him in nineteen years. He still woke up screaming sometimes though. Maybe it was due to traumatic events still haunting him. Maybe he was just prone to night terrors. Or, maybe, like that small voice in the back of his head would sometimes whisper, it was because Voldemort wasn't truly dead.

And in a way, that voice was right. Voldemort would never truly die because he would live on in infamy.

Harry knew that Voldemort wasn't coming back, that it was over. He could live his life. Nineteen years had gone by after all. He had married, had children.

He still worried though. He worried that one day, somewhere, somehow, a wizard child would read about Voldemort and his horrific acts and say to himself "I want to be like him, only I won't make the same mistakes." That this wizard child in question would rise up and commit the same acts as Voldemort. That another generation would also have to fight against Dark Magic.

Harry's scar never did burn after Voldemort died. But Harry still felt it because he knew that one day, history just might repeat itself.