More. :)

...

Characters belong to the Harry Potter universe, care of J.K. Rowling. Plot and writing belongs to me, from my own person brain.

This is AU. It beings somewhere through the seventh book and deviates from there. Everything leading up to the final battle is basically canon.

Rated T for angst, bodily functions, and extremely bad jokes.

...

The Other Afterlife
A Harry Potter FanFiction by Cordria

There is no rest for the wicked… or the prophesied.

-.-.-

Chapter 1: The Dead Rise

-.-.-

The morning broke clear and beautiful. It pulled Harry out of his sleep, making the aches and pains of his brutalized body slam themselves into his awareness. He half-opened his eyes, not really surprised to feel one refuse to open. If memory served, one of the Death Eaters had gotten in a right hook before Harry could stop him.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Harry pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around, cradling his half-there hand to his chest. It was surprising how different the little clearing looked in the light of day. The trees weren't nearly so looming and dark, the grasses rustling lightly and filled with blooming flowers. A bee buzzed gently here and there.

"Not much of an afterlife." Harry surprised himself by talking, actually flinching just a bit. The tiniest of grins flicked onto his face. It vanished quickly, replaced by a grimace of pain. His eyes drifted down to the robes his was wearing – crispy with dried blood – and surveyed his abused body. "Bloody hell," he sighed.

It took awhile and a lot of dark mutters at flares of pain – Sirius had taught him something after all – but Harry managed to get himself to his feet. He swayed back and forth, his body feeling light. His head really hurt. It felt like someone had blown up a balloon between his ears. He took a few stumbling steps, decided that walking was for people with a working body, and pulled at his magic.

There wasn't much left, tiny trickles here and there. He'd wasted a lot of it on Death Eaters that hadn't really deserved his attention.

It was too bad, really. If he'd've saved more of it, perhaps he wouldn't be dead now. Or, maybe he'd still be dead, but he'd at least be able to do something about all the pain.

After a few seconds of consideration, Harry closed his eyes and focused. It wasn't so easy through the pounding headache. But a picture did pop into his head and grew brighter and bolder with every thought. Finally, it reached a point of clarity Harry knew would work and he twisted a little piece of his mind as he spun on his heel.

His magic didn't appreciate it. But it worked. There was a horrible pulling, a strange unbalance, and then everything settled back down. Harry stumbled a step and opened his eyes.

Hogsmeade.

He stared at the not-ruined town. Buildings were glowing in the sunlight, people were bustling around. It wasn't the domain of destruction and death and ruins that it had been the last time Harry had walked its streets. There was nothing wrong here.

"That's better," Harry whispered. At least there was something in this damned afterlife to be happy about. If nothing else, he could get seriously dead drunk for awhile.

And yes, he caught the pun in his mind. He personally thought it was hilarious. If only there'd been someone around to tell it to.

Limping more than anything, Harry wound his way through the streets of Hogsmeade towards the Three Broomsticks. If he noticed the way people glanced at him and then did a double-take, he didn't let anyone know it. Maybe they were looking at his burned and twisted hand. Perhaps it was the bloody, ripped robes. It could have been just his general appearance. Whatever it was they saw, nobody seemed ready to be on the same side of the street as him.

The inside of the Three Broomsticks was just as Harry remembered, warm and welcoming and filled with people. Students, some of them dressed in Hogwarts robes. Harry paused, recognizing a face here and there.

It made sense, in a horrible sort of way. This was the afterlife. Therefore he'd find people he knew. People had died in the war. Many, many people.

Harry thought about going over, saying hello, but he'd had a plan in mind by coming here and it wasn't going to be derailed. His head hurt too much to think of changing plans. He passed the students, who gave him a glance but didn't say anything, and sank into a chair at the bar. His legs – particularly his right leg – thanked him for sitting down.

"Hey," Harry said, smiling at the dead Madame Rosmerta. She'd died almost three months ago, during the destruction of Hogsmeade. Rumors said she was trying to smuggle students through the secret passageway rather than leave when she should.

The woman smiled. "Can I help…" Her eyes flicked to his body and she trailed off. There was a second of dead silence.

Harry like that pun too. He was going to have fun with this.

"Are you okay?" Rosmerta finally managed to string some words together.

"I've been better," Harry admitted, trying to calm the pounding of his brain. "I'd love something to soothe the pain a bit, if you've got something strong enough."

Rosmerta blinked a few times. "Do you want me to call someone? Get you to St. Mungos?"

Harry shook his head. He hated hospitals and, really, was there really a point to going if he was already dead? He'd either heal on his own – if the dead did that – of he'd live with these injuries for however long he existed. "Nah. Just a drink, that'd be fine." He pulled a few knuts out of his pocket and set them on counter.

"Um…" The woman seemed to be a little lost for words. But she was the owner of the bar – had been for years – and her body moved pretty much on its own. It grabbed a glass and started to fill it with a dark liquid from under the counter. The glass slid across the counter to Harry's hands. Well, Harry's hand. The other wasn't working so well.

The drink burned. And it tasted horrible, but Harry didn't know that until his tongue started to work again. He moved his mouth around, making sure that everything still worked, and smiled, setting the cup back down. "Another?"

Madame Rosmerta was still staring at him like he had three heads. Harry was used to staring – he was, after all, the Boy-Who-Lived – but it was getting old. Rosmerta had gotten over the staring years ago.

But the glass refilled, which was what Harry'd been aiming for, and he swallowed this one down too. It sizzled in his stomach and gave him an odd, floating feeling. Several of the aches and pains dimmed into the background.

Harry's smile was more than a little bit drunk this time. It'd only been two drinks, but they weren't normal drinks. They were the special stuff normally reserved for the likes of Severus and Minerva after an especially trying episode with the Weasley twins. Harry nodded to Rosmerta and stumbled to his feet, only a little less stable than before. "Thanks."

"Uh…" was the response.

Thoughts seemed to flow smoother in his brain as he headed for the door back out into the sunshine. The alcohol was doing wonders for his headache. He was dead, which was something of a change for him, but so were lots of others. Perhaps he could find Ron. Or maybe even Hermoine, although they hadn't parted on the best of terms. Sirius was probably hanging around, if he'd clawed his way out of the Veil.

Someone Harry sort of recognized stepped in front of him. "You need some help, mate?"

Harry blinked at the man, tried to place him, and failed. "I'm dead," he told the man, noticing the slight slur to his voice. Harry paused, a little surprised, then shrugged. "It's gotta go up from there."

The look he got… Harry smirked at the almost dumbfounded expression on the man's face.

"If you'll excuse me, I've got people to find." Harry took a step to the side and walked past the man, out into the street.

It was bright. He had to squint, looking around. The door to the Three Broomsticks opened again, the man and a few others peeking their heads out. People were pointing at him. Someone started to walk to him, a purposeful set to her steps.

Harry's brain decided that now was the perfect time to be going, and so he did. A swirl of color and a nauseating sensation in his stomach later, Harry was staring at the gate of The Burrow.

-.-.-

.

-.-.-

Mr. Weasley answered the door, which made sense. The man had been dead for two years, following a nasty encounter with a snake. Mr. Weasley didn't seem the worse for wear, though. In fact, he'd put on a few pounds since Harry'd last seen him. Arthur froze, his eyes wide and scanning Harry from head to foot.

"Mr. Weasly," Harry greeted, doing his best to not sound drunk. "I'm looking for Ron, is he around?"

For a long second, there wasn't an answer. Then there was a short, hesitant, shake of his head. "Ron's at school…"

Harry frowned. "Oh, yeah." He was surprised he hadn't thought of that, actually. It wasn't the end of the year yet, and no doubt Ron had been shuffled off to finish his seventh year N.E.W.T.s almost as soon as he'd arrived. "Thanks." He turned to leave.

"Do you need some help, young man?"

It was starting to get annoying, everybody asking that question. The fact that Mr. Weasley hadn't called Harry by name completely passed Harry by. Pausing and looking down at his mangled hand, Harry thought about how to answer that. Whatever had been in that drink had burned through the rest of the pain, making his hand feel curiously detached from his body. He'd have to get some more of that.

Then he shook his head. "I'm dead, what's the point?"

"You're what?"

Harry didn't bother to answer, he was already moving towards the street. He stumbled near the end, catching himself with his good hand and holding perfectly still for a moment. The ache in the back of his mind spasmed.

"Now you just sit down," came the voice of Mr. Weasley. A hand grabbed his shoulder, pushing. "I'm going to call someone. You're in no condition-"

Harry was drunk, hurt, one-handed, and dead, but he wasn't about to be pushed around. He squirmed out from under the grasp of the older man and turned around, Arthur's wand somehow in Harry's hand. It felt wrong, holding the wand by his left hand. But Harry was lacking in choices.

Arthur stopped, his hands freezing in place. Harry glared at him, stared for a long moment, then let his hand fall to his side. Breath was loud in his ears, his heart pounding in his chest. His head burned.

"You need help," Arthur said softly. "Let me help you."

Harry shook his head, took a few steps out into the street, and pictured the one place in his mind he knew he'd be accepted with open arms. Magic screamed. The Burrow vanished.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Only it looked nothing like any Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place Harry had ever seen. It was painted white and blue for crying out loud, and had happy flowers smiling from the window boxes and growing up the trellises. Little kids were playing in the garden. There was no sign of a Fidelius charm.

Sirius' family must be rolling over in their graves. It made the strangest smile dance across Harry's face as he checked, then rechecked, the street and the house number. "No blood way in Hell," he said. A few of the kids looked up at him, then ran off into the house. Harry watched, almost beyond words. "What in the…"

People came out of the house – adults. They stared at him from the safety of the front porch, holding their kids close. Harry stared back. They weren't people he knew. Dressed in muggle clothes, Harry wasn't even sure if they were magical.

"Sirius?" he whispered.

Other people were starting to stare at him. Harry glanced to the left and the right and shuddered. This place – this Gimmauld Place – felt less like the happy afterlife Harry'd been hoping for. Everybody staring at him. Prying eyes, unfamiliar people… it was just a bit too much.

Harry turned and limped down the road, people moving out of the way for him. They watched him go silently.

Harry made it to the park, had just settled onto the bench to try to wait out a little of the confusion, when people appeared around him. Their wands were out, pointed towards his heart, forming a rough circle. "Tonks! Kingsley!" Harry greeted.

The two glanced at each other. "You need to give up your wand," Kingsley commanded. "We're taking you to St. Mungos."

"I hate hospitals, you know that, and it's not my wand. It's Arthur Weasley's." Harry smiled at Tonks. "When did you die, Kingsley? I thought you were Minister of Magic now."

That got a few more blinks, a couple random smiles. Wands came down a bit, the stiff backs of the aurors relaxing into something less formal. "Well, this dead Minister of Magic is wanting to take you to St. Mungos." The words that came out of Kingsley's mouth were gentle and a shadow of a grin was forming on his face. "Feel like coming with?"

Harry stared at him, then glanced at Tonks and the others around him. "I'm already dead; I don't really see the point."

"Even dead people," Tonks said brightly, if not a little brokenly from holding back a laugh, "need to see doctors now and then."

Harry's head hurt. The drink was wearing off. He let his thoughts meander around in his brain for a few, long seconds, before he nodded. "Makes as much sense as anything." He got to his feet.

Kingsley stepped forwards and took the wand from Harry's hand. When Harry opened his mouth to protest, Kingsley just smiled and patted his shoulder. "I'm just returning it for you, kid. What's your name, anyways?"

Harry snorted. "You know very well what my name is."

"Amuse me," Kingsley said softly.

"I'm Harry." Harry arched an eyebrow at him. Wow, the sun really hurt when it shone in his eyes. "And you're Kingsley Shacklebolt, in case you forgot that too."

The man nodded and wrapped an arm lightly around Harry's shoulders. Harry winced, Kingsley's arm digging into a tender spot on his back. Malfoy the Younger had given him that – a kick when he was already down. Harry had returned the gesture with something a bit more painful. Come to think of it, Malfoy should be around somewhere; perhaps the two of them could finish their hurriedly-ended argument about the morality of the Cruciartis curse.

"Shall we get going, Harry?" Kingsley asked, slightly loosening his grip. But not all the way, Harry wasn't going to be allowed to get away.

…at least, Kingsley didn't think a thin, sick-looking, half-dead, scrawny little teenager could get away from him. It might have been different had Harry wanted to get away.

But Harry's head hurt. It was really starting to throb again. Perhaps he should have purchased an extra shot of that liquor to take with him. Maybe going to St. Mungos wouldn't kill him.

Ha. Another pun. Harry let a half-grin slip onto his face. Unfortunately it came across as a little drunk and more than a tiny bit crazy.

One of the aurors stepped forwards and held what looked like a red Frisbee out. "Harry? Would you touch the portkey?" Kingsley asked.

Harry, somehow unable to think of a good reason why he shouldn't, reached out and touched the Frisbee. "You really suck at being Minister of Magic, by the way," Harry muttered. "I've wanted to tell you that for awhile."

Kinglsey grabbed another section as he snorted. "Good thing I died then, right Harry?"

"Definitely," Harry agreed. Something grabbed onto the back of his navel and lurched him backwards. Harry seemed to fall through a hole in space and land in a big room filled with people dressed in white. He was about to comment about the fact that they seemed to have left everybody else behind when the jumping-around-England caught up with him.

Too many apparitions. One portkey while far too drunk – which, for Harry, wasn't too much. He hadn't ever had a chance to learn how to hold alcohol down before he was mercilessly slaughtered by a snake in human form. Sirius would kill him, if he weren't already dead.

As the contents of Harry's stomach made it to the white floor, the walls started to close in on them. They were turning black too, which Harry thought a bit weird. He was going to say something, but he collapsed to the floor before the words could make it to his mouth.

-.-.-

.

-.-.-

Somewhere rather distant, perhaps it was Africa, although nobody was quite sure, a young man stumbled upon a horrifying sight. He wasn't a wizard, but the people he found were. Had been.

Thirteen people, their throats ripped open, their guts strewn on the ground. If the young man had bothered to look closely enough, he'd have seen that pieces were missing from each one. An ear here, a heart over there, a pair of eyes from that one.

But he wasn't going to look that close. No way in Hell.

Most of them weren't murdered. No, they'd chosen this fate. They'd formed a circle on purpose, gathered their magic for the ultimate dark sacrifice. At midnight, exactly, they'd slit their own throats and felt their blood drip onto the ground, for a very specific purpose.

At midnight, exactly, in another world, someone had hissed out a horrible Avada Kedavra.

Only one of the thirteen wizards had been murdered. The murdered man had been a powerful enemy, a crucial link in the chain. Blood from the enemy, forcibly taken.

Forcibly taken. That was important. Too bad the man knew that. Giving in at the last minute hadn't broken the spell, but it was weakened. A crack in a stone wall.

And what blood it was. Imbued with immortality from a Philosopher's Stone. It had taken a powerful spell to kill old Flamel, but now that he was dead, what blood it was.

The young man that found the grisly scene screamed and ran, shouting words in a language few people understood. Even thought it wasn't magic, he knew something dark had gone down here. He'd go back to his village and they would come out and have a ceremony to release the darkness. Then it would be okay again.

…he didn't make it very far.

From out of the shadows, a strange-looking man stepped. His nose was too big for his face. And a slightly different shade of tan. Come to think of it, his whole face looked like something of a patchwork quilt. His eyes matched, however, and they glittered with maniacal delight.

The young man died before he could really understand what hit him. Blood from his severed head sprayed the naked patchwork man. The evil man didn't seem to care, happily licking the blood from his fingers.

This man, risen from his un-death at the exact same moment as a certain Harry Potter appeared in a clearing half a world away, laughed. And laughed.

And laughed.

And then turned north. Towards England. Towards the center of the wizarding world.

Towards fate.

-.-.-

.

-.-.-

To be continued...