Flipside Firefly
He liked to think that Hermione was still alive. She'd been in Australia, visiting her parents, and the Muggle newspapers he'd filched as he travelled north from Florida had spoken of the place as some sort of untouched paradise, protected by its natural ocean borders.
From the pictures Hermione had sent back however, over two years ago now, it had mostly looked like a red wasteland. That was part of the reason he never bothered trying to make his way there. The other reason was that his only option was Muggle transport - portkeys not being able to make that sheer distance - and even if he could afford it, transport was rigidly controlled now and he had no Muggle identification whatsoever. He could disillusion himself for a while, but transports were always packed and as a stowaway (who couldn't maintain any spell for the 20-odd hours of a plane ride let alone the weeks of a ship) he'd be caught and either shot or arrested as standard. There was always imperio, except for how he didn't dare cross that line. Confundus was only temporary and obliviate… no. Not unless he had no other choice.
Besides. Hedwig was dead and Hermione knew that. And she hadn't sent him an owl.
The Wizards he'd left behind had, but he never accepted them and they'd never dare to send a portkey by owl just in case he'd been infected. They'd probably already turned him into a martyr for the very cause he'd left in disgust over, but that wasn't as bad as actively being a part of it.
If this was the end of the world, he'd at least spend his remaining time not loathing himself. Too much.
There were no wizard colonies in America, not since their rebellion against the crown which was a much more serious affair for people whose oaths actually bound them. That meant Harry had a fair degree of freedom in the use of his magic. He had to be careful not to be too flashy, obvious or even visible at times, at risk of collecting (another) group of desperate people looking for protection. That or volunteering himself as a labrat for a foreign government under martial law. But… he helped when he could. A reparo here, a patch-work spell on a broken limb there…
And unquiet ghosts everywhere, the streets flooded with memories of terror and trauma, death and despair.
At least his ring - which he woke with on his finger no matter what he did to it - was good for something. The wandering, the lost, the echoes and the re-living - all startled under his hand before passing peacefully on. Some pleaded with him, snatches of words he couldn't - didn't want to - make out. Some thanked him. Most were just confused and afraid, until the lethargy of the other side folded them under.
When he couldn't take the misery any longer, or the infected grew too many and too near, he took to the skies and escaped again.
fin