The Clouds Over Diagon Alley

by Ulysses Ward

"The Ministry has the situation well in hand." Says your brother, "Minister Scrimgeour has been fighting dark wizards his whole career, and has been taking important steps to combat this threat. We are quite safe." You wish he had been right. You wish the attack, and the days that followed it, never happened. You never thought the war would reach you and your family.

You decided as a family to go shopping in Diagon Alley. This was the first Saturday your father had off work in several months. There was a new book out on Advanced Transfiguration that your mother wanted to take a look at, and you figured you might as well get your school supplies.

You're going into your second year. You love Hogwarts, and have been reciting everything you learned last year in school to your parents since the beginning of the summer. They don't mind. They love seeing your passion for magic.

Your family apparates near the Leaky Cauldron around noon. The sky is grey and bleak. It looks much later in the day than it actually is. Bad weather isn't uncommon this time of year, but the clouds have been dark for a while now.

You decide to have lunch as a family in the dingy pub. The food is hot, but not particularly healthy. It hits the spot though, and you enjoy being close to your family in the small, cozy booth.

Your brother is meeting you from work in an hour. You don't get to see him much. He has a fancy new job at the Ministry, and it's only made him slightly snobbish.

You finish your meal, and the three of you head straight for Flourish and Blott's. Your family is filled with avid readers, and you're no exception. You pick out the books necessary for a second year student, and browse over some more casual reading material. Your mother has found the Transfiguration book she was raving over earlier, and is flipping through it excitedly with your father. He smiles and laughs with her as she rapidly explains a particularly interesting spell.

You're happy they're happy. Your parent's marriage wasn't always this nice. Their conflicting work schedules pushed them apart when you were younger, but you being away at school freed up time for dates and the subtle romantic gestures that keep relationships alive.

You pay for your purchases, and continue browsing through several shops to pass some time. Your brother meets up with you outside Madam Malkin's.

"It's so good to see you!" Your mother exclaims. She hugs him tightly, and he returns her embrace.

"Hey Mum, it's good to see you too." He says.

He gives your father a similar greeting, and when he sees you he tussles your hair and asks if you're eleven yet. You're so happy to see him that you don't mind the joke. The last time you saw your brother was Christmas. The joy of your family sticks out in the sparsely populated alleyway. The atmosphere is so dreary thanks to the heavy overcast sky, and the few people out look to be in a hurry, and slightly panicked.

"Since we're here, let's take a look at some dress robes. You might need a set for your next year at school." Says your father.

You frown, knowing your brother will mock you endlessly as you try on an assortment of uncomfortable garments. You don't have a chance to protest though as your mother is already pulling you into the shop.

After an hour of browsing through a seemingly endless amount of clothing, and being stuck with pins by Madam Malkin herself, you walk out with a classy set of new dress robes. Your brother, to his credit, only teased you slightly throughout the whole ordeal.

You stop at Florean Fortescue's for ice cream. A friend of your father spots you outside the shop, and stops by to chat.

"Nice to see you lot out and about." He says, "Lots of folks afraid of coming out after the Ministry's announcement about You-Know-Who."

The mention of the Dark Lord sends shivers down your spine. You clearly remember Harry Potter's antics from the previous year, and the dramatic announcement of the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"The Ministry has the situation well in hand." Says your brother, "Minister Scrimgeour has been fighting dark wizards his whole career, and has been taking important steps to combat this threat. We are quite safe."

His answer was comforting, but it did sound rehearsed. The other adults do not press the issue, and instead move on to other topics of conversation. After finishing our ice cream, and biding my dad's friend goodbye, we continue to visit other shops in Diagon Alley.

Soon we're standing outside Olivander's. My father and brother are talking passionately about work, and my mother just looks happy to have the family together for a bit again.

You look up at the sky again and frown. It's still as grey as earlier, but there's something off about it now. You can't place the feeling, but something seems wrong. You look around, and the few people moving about don't seem to notice anything.

Suddenly there's a crack that sounds like lightning above you. The noise continues, and you realize it's too continuous to be lightning. There's a 'whooshing' noise that sounds like a strong gust of wind moving through the alley.

But it's not the wind.

Black, vaporous shadows descend from the sky. Their movements are too quick to track, and you can't make out what they are. You don't have too much time to think before the figures crash into Olivander's shop, and the windows burst in a fiery explosion.

You're thrown onto your back. The screams of people around you are deafened by the high pitch ringing in your ears. You cough as smoke from a burning fire fills your lungs, and wince as it stings your eyes. You sit up slowly, and see a monster carrying a man with a sack covering his head. You realize the captured man is Olivander. The man who patiently sorted through boxes of wands to find yours. The man who would greet you by name and wand detail perfectly every time he saw you. The man whose strange antics never failed to make you smile.

The monster carrying Olivander snarls and locks eyes with a poor man too close to the burning shop. In a swift and fluid motion, the monster rips the man's throat open with his bare hand. Blood bursts from his neck, and you hear a loud gurgle come the dying man. You've never seen this much blood before, and the sight of it spraying everywhere makes you empty your stomach of its contents.

Two more figures emerge from the shop. They're dressed in all black robes, and are wearing a matching set of horrifying masks. You've only seen a few pictures before, but you instantly recognize the servants of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Deatheaters.

The people around the shop back away in terror. No one moves to help the still bleeding man on the ground. At least his death is quick.

"Show the Ministry the price for imprisoning servants of the Dark Lord." Says the monster.

His voice is more of a growl, and it instantly roots you to your spot on the ground.

"Kill them all."

The three Deatheaters transform into shadowy phantoms and fly with their prize in hand.

You glance towards the end of Diagon Alley, and see a wall of Deatheaters blocking off any escape. They stand silently as people struggle to recover from the explosion.

You look for your family, and see your mother lying face down in the ground near you. She was closest to Olivander's when it exploded. Her entire backside is badly burned, and she's not moving. You crawl over to her, and shake her shoulder gently.

"Mum…" Your voice is hoarse from the smoke.

The smell of burning flesh fills your nostrils as you continue to try and rouse your mother.

"Mum!" You say louder.

With a bit of effort, you flip your mother over, and see that almost her entire face has been melted off by the blast. It suddenly hits you that she's dead. You feel tears filling your eyes, and you hear shouts of sorrow from your father and brother. You look up see they're both on their feet, and relatively unharmed. The grief you feel threatens to consume you, but there's no time.

The line of Deatheaters begins to advance. Two people in front of your family are brought down swiftly by the sickly green light of the Killing Curse.

"Run!" Your father commands. There's rage in his voice.

You can't move. You're in shock.

Your brother picks you up, and throws you over his shoulder. He moves as fast as he can away from the Deatheaters with your added weight.

You look up to see your father slaughtered by the demons in masks. He tries to fight at first, but there's just too many. His body is torn to pieces by a dozen or so bludgeoning and cutting curses. You want to look away, but you can't take your eyes off the crumpled form of your father. Still they advance.

Your brother runs past Knockturn Alley where another line of Deatheaters has formed. There's a cacophony of screams as people desperately try and escape the killing field that the alley has become. Spells of all different colors fly into crowds of people, some spellfire is returned at the Deatheaters, but those brave witches and wizards are cut down almost immediately.

"We just need to make it to the Leaky Caldron." Your brother says, "They've put up wards to prevent us from escaping." He sets you down, "Can you move on your own?"

You nod.

He takes you by the hand, and pushes past the other fleeing people.

You and your brother are getting closer and closer to the Leaky Caldron, but just as the pub comes into sight, you see people turning around and running back towards you.

"There's more Deatheaters on this side!"

"We're trapped here!"

"Where are the Aurors?"

Most people have massed together, and are being backed up slowly towards Gringotts. The Deatheaters fire into the crowd at will from three different directions. We can't organize effectively to combat them, the panic of being trapped is too great. We're like cattle being driven to our deaths.

You lose your grip on your brother's hand, and are immediately trampled by the crowd. You're kicked and stepped on in the ribs and face several times, so you bring your arms over your face and curl into a Fetal position. You're quickly running out of air, and realize that if you don't stand up you could suffocate.

You hear a loud whistling noise followed by the heat of an explosion. A dozen people around you drop to the ground with cries of agony. The continued ringing in your ears prevents you from hearing the moaning of the dying. You stand up, and observe the carnage around you.

Severed limbs and burning corpses litter the ground. The stench alone makes you dry heave, but your stomach's been empty for a while. It's impossible to tell how many people lay dead or dying, because of the heavy fog of smoke, ash, and dust.

The lines of the Deatheaters are pushing people tighter and tighter together, and you realize you're exposed in the temporary pocket of space. You push through the clump of remaining survivors, searching for your brother, but there's no sign of him. You move to the back of the crowd and up the steps of Gringotts. You try and open the door to the bank, but it's locked. You bang on the door as hard as you can, and scream 'Help!' as loud as your damaged lungs will allow.

But there's no answer.

You continue to bang on the door, all the while listening to the sounds of innocent people dying around you. Eventually you turn around and put your back to the door. There's more Deatheaters than witches and wizards left on their feet at this point. You begin to sob as you wrestle with the realization that you're about to die.

One of the great columns at the front of Gringotts explodes, and showers those people left standing with debris. You fall to your hands and knees, and struggle to stay focused as your vision swarms. There's too much dust in your eyes to see the Deatheaters, but their murderous voices sound like they're right on top of you.

You hear the distinct 'crack' of apparation all around you, and new voices begin screaming spells with hateful fury. You rub the dirt and smoke from your eyes, and see a woman standing next to you dressed in the distinctive robes of an Auror.

Relief floods through your body, and you slip into unconsciousness.

You've been in St. Mungo's for a week now. Your body is healed, but your mind is badly broken. Every time the lights are turned off you see figures in the shadows. Dark robed monsters, corpses, and masks. You find no relief in sleep. Every dream is a nightmare. You see your mother, father, and countless other faces. Sometimes they just scream, other times they cry, but they always end the same way. You wake from these night terrors covered in sweat with a hoarse throat. You've never thought about suicide before, but now you think about it daily. Your own mind has turned against you, and seeks to drive you insane by torturing you with what you've seen. The images are burned into your eyes, and no amount potion will make them go away.

The nurses say you can't have any more Dreamless Sleep. They're afraid you'll become addicted, so you've been awake the past three nights. You're exhausted. You desperately want to sleep, but the terrors come back as soon as you close your eyes. The lack of sleep makes you irritable, and you sometimes snap at people who try and talk to you. Most of the time you just lay there unresponsive though. There doesn't seem to be any point. You're convinced Deatheaters will come for you soon.

You start sobbing every time the sun is covered by clouds, and the nurses have to convince you that you're safe. A special doctor came to see you the other day. He brought a pensive, and pulled out your horrible memories with his wand. He said it would lessen their intensity. You're not sure if it worked.

Your brother is alive. He had to go back to the Ministry, but he visits often. He tells you about what's happening with the government. Anything to avoid talking about Mum and Dad.

"Diagon Alley is almost fully repaired. The Ministry is desperately trying to cover up how bad the attack was." He says.

At this point no one is sure of the official casualty count. Your brother estimates around one hundred dead and wounded, but thinks the number will rise.

The Prophet didn't publish a story about the attack at the Ministry's insistence. Instead they printed a piece about an attack on a Muggle bridge, and mentioned a "Rising Death Toll." It's oddly distracting to read about Deatheater activity in the paper. Your doctor believes it serves as a way of processing, and brings you several prints per day. The fearmongering used by louder writers doesn't affect you. You understand what real fear is.

Many columnists say the salvation of Wizarding Britain rests on the shoulders of Albus Dumbledore or Harry Potter. You reject these opinions. You feel that no one man could have stopped the force of destruction you faced. You remember how last year Harry Potter was constantly criticized for claiming the Dark Lord had returned. Dolores Umbridge, a representative of the Ministry, did everything in her power to silence him. You wish she would have died in the attack and not your mother. Cornelius Fudge turned a blind eye to the growing threat, and left his people vulnerable to this new war. You wish he would have died in the attack and not your father.

You leave St. Mungo's after another week of care. There's nothing more they can do for you. The doctors give a supply of Dreamless Sleep potion to your brother with strict scheduling instructions. You'll be living with him now. He's hired someone to look after you while he's at work, and the special doctor from the hospital comes to see you twice a week. They're both kind and sympathetic to your pain, but you're still afraid of the dark. You're still afraid of dark clouds. You're still afraid of closing your eyes. You're still afraid Deatheaters.

Your brother dropped a pan while he was cooking dinner last night. The loud crash sent you into a panic attack, and it took almost a half an hour to calm down. Your brother seems so put together despite experiencing the same horrors as you. You wish you could be strong like him.

Your parent's funeral is painful. There's a full contingent of Ministry security at the cemetery, you wish they had been at Diagon Alley. The funeral is the first time you've been outside since the attack. The sun is mercifully uncovered by clouds, so you manage to hold your nerve, and sit through the whole thing without dissolving into hysteria. It doesn't seem real. You don't know how you're supposed to continue living.

You haven't told anyone about your suicidal thoughts yet. You're afraid they might panic and lock you up. Everyone treats you like you're so fragile, but maybe that's because you are. You know where your brother keeps the Dreamless Sleep supply, and you know if you take enough of it you won't wake up. You feel guilty though. It seems wrong to kill yourself after surviving such a bloody experience. Your life is so broken though. It's filled with nothing but pain and fear. You know your presence is a burden to your brother. He's under enough stress at the Ministry without dealing with you. It feels hopeless, like there's no chance of you ever getting better.

Your brother's hired caretaker finds you unconscious on the bathroom floor. There's an empty potion vile in your hand. She rushes you to the hospital, and the emergency responders manage to clear the Dreamless Sleep out of your system. They save your life.

Your brother comes into your room at St. Mungo's. You know he's angry, but he's trying to hold it back. He keeps saying, 'I can't lose you too.' You feel wave after wave of guilt as you watch your brother cry. You've never seen him cry. It rips you to pieces, and you start crying too.

He's hugging you now, and you tell him everything you've been feeling. He listens patiently, and tells you he's sorry he didn't talk to you sooner. You say you're sorry too, and wonder how angry he still is.

"I'm not angry…well I am, but not at you." He says, "I let you down, I should have been there."

You get to go home the next day. You're now watched very carefully, and are rarely left alone. It's not vindictive though, you know they're attentive because they care. You're not allowed to take any more Dreamless Sleep potion. Even a small amount at this point has the potential to shut down your body permanently. This presents difficulty when it comes time to sleep. You get brief moments of rest, but the nightmares are never far behind.

The doctor who's been seeing you now checks in every day. You learn that he specializes in psychological trauma, and something Muggles call 'PTSD'. He brings his pensive over on one of his usual visits. You wonder if he wants more memories from you.

"I think it would be beneficial if we reexamined your memories of the attack together."

Your heartbeat accelerates. The mere thought of reliving that day terrifies you.

"I know you're scared, but this might be the only way to further process and get rid of your fear and night terrors." He says.

"Are you sure that's safe?" Your brother asks.

"Yes. I use this technique often with people I work with."

You're not happy about it, but decide you'll give it a try. Nothing else has worked, and school starts in the next few weeks.

It's surreal being moved back into your own memories. They have a foggy, ethereal feel to them, but they're real enough. You watch your family move through the shops in Diagon Alley. Seeing your parents again makes you cry, and your doctor allows time for you to grieve. You haven't had a chance to do this properly yet, you've been too consumed by fear.

When the killing starts to happen you immediately begin hyperventilating, and feel the world close in around you. With a wave of his wand, your doctor freezes the memory.

"Let's practice breathing, use the techniques we worked on for panic attacks."

You struggle to suck in air, and wonder what happens if you lose consciousness inside your own memory. You've lost track of time when you eventually get your breathing under control. Your doctor talks you through what you're feeling, and you practice some of the meditation exercises he taught you earlier. When you're ready, your doctor resumes the memory.

It takes a long time to work through all of it, but once you finish, the gripping fear that plagued you earlier is gone. That night you have a natural dreamless sleep for the first time in almost a month.

Every day for the next week you work through the memory with your doctor, and each time the anxiety and fear you feel dissipates. Your doctor pauses the memory often to ask you questions in an attempt to draw out additional feelings and fears. You work through the guilt you feel because of the death of your parents. You see that there was nothing you could do to prevent what happened, and slowly start to let go of the pain.

It's difficult to say if you're getting better because you've come to some understanding about what happened, or if you're just becoming desensitized to the memories. You suppose it doesn't matter. You're sleeping better, and less spooked by what happens around you.

You leave your brother's home a few times, and start to acclimate yourself to the outside world. Your doctor is pleased by this, and is encouraging about any steps you take towards returning to a normal life.

The increasing Deatheater activity does little to help the slow progress you're making with your doctor. Your brother looks increasingly more haggard each day he comes home from work, and you know he's being put under more and more pressure by the Ministry. The night before September 1st you get a chance to talk with him for a while.

"As long as Dumbledore is Headmaster at Hogwarts you will be safe." He says.

You nod. You still have a lot of fear, the world seems to be growing darker rather than peaceful. Your doctor has made arrangements to meet with you at Hogwarts. There's still a lot of work to do to find a new normal, but for the first time in over a month you feel hopeful.

There are still nights when you wake up in terror, and you suspect that you'll never fully move past that. A part of you is forever broken. Your doctor helps you come to terms with that.

As you ride the train back to Hogwarts, you're reminded of the fear that consumed so many people during the first war. You feel like you understand that now. You know what it feels like to have so much of what you love taken from you. You understand why some parents hugged their children a little tighter this time before they boarded the train. You even understand why the Ministry would fight so hard to deny the return of the Dark Lord. A second war, just a decade after the first, is too heartbreaking for those who have already lost so much.

You take a deep breath and glance out the window.

But a second war is upon us, whether we want it or not, and this one looks to be even bloodier than the first.

You look up at the sky.

It's a dark, bleak grey.