Nope, nope…this isn't mine. I've based this off a movie. See if you can guess which one…

Chapter One

Merlin, he was tired. Incredibly tired. It was as if he hadn't slept at all in the last three years. Three years. It's funny how things can change in such a short span of time. It hadn't felt short, that three years. In fact, it felt as though those three years were thirty. Thirty years, thirty lifetimes.

It's been six months since that last battle. The Last Battle. The one that ended the war. The one where the Light prevailed. Many people had lost their lives, both good and bad. He was lucky. He had survived. He might not have deserved to survive, but he had survived. He would not have been missed; not like some of the others. Others that had died fighting the good fight. They were missed. He doubted whether anyone knew or cared that he was still breathing air. He had no friends. No family. He had turned his back on them a long time ago. They weren't the ideal friends and family, but they were his and yet he turned his back on them all to do what he felt was right. He had not liked the future that had lain before him. So he had found another path. He was never liked, but he had been respected. And that was enough. Enough to do what needed to be done. And everything was done. Now there was nothing. Nothing to be done, but sleep.

His current trouble was that he had no where to sleep. It was all gone. He was master of nothing. This sad fact is why he was currently looking for a flat in the Daily Prophet. Preferably furnished. Preferably cheap. He had saved a meager amount of coin in the last three years. It was definitely not enough to have him living in luxury as he had before. No, it was doubtful he would ever see that again.

He circled a few prospects, put on his well-worn shoes, grabbed his threadbare cloak, and walked out in search of lodging. Short-term, long-term. It didn't matter. His only requirement was a soft bed. A soft bed where he could sleep away the last three years. He had no tears. They had run dry long ago. He was left now only with the scars of battle. Both physical and emotional. Haggard appearance, fatigued body, drawn face, night sweats…loneliness. But it was better to be alone. No one would understand. No one would want him as he was now: a shell of his former self. He could barely muster a smirk. And even then it resembled more a grimace. He was pathetic. Even to himself.

His first stop was a waste. It was obvious the owner of the flat was an elderly woman. An elderly woman who liked floral prints. And pink. And cats. It was definitely not conducive to a restful sleep. Who knew if she had even remembered to take all of her cats on her mini break. With his luck, there was still one hiding underneath that plastic-wrapped, monstrosity of a couch or one behind the violently pink, rose-covered drapes. They would probably maul him in his sleep. His eyes bulged at the sheer horror of being eaten by ravenous house cats. He tried to remain dignified as he fled from the building.

His second stop was fruitless, too. The owner of this particular flat enjoyed Asian influences. In the middle of the floor, where one would normally place a couch or table or some other piece of furniture, was a Zen rock garden. He had never seen the like. There were overstuffed throw pillows and oriental tapestries and bonsai trees and intricately woven rugs…but there wasn't a bed. Not a single bed-like form in the entire place. Nothing that he would call a bed, anyway. What he was shown was a floor mat. That was to be his bed? Some narrow, thin floor mat that he wouldn't consider even using as a welcome mat, let alone a bed? He less than politely declined and left the building.

At this rate, he would be living at the inn for the rest of his days…or until he was kicked out for lack of funds. He couldn't afford to pay daily. He needed a flat and fast. He had one more flat to see. If the others were anything to judge by, it wasn't promising.

He stopped walking when the steady crunch of his shoes on cobblestone was broken by a foreign sound. He looked down to see a piece of parchment stuck to the sole of his shoe. He bent forward to retrieve the offending object, but it refused to budge. In fact, it was damn well stuck on. So well that when he finally was able to straighten with the parchment in hand, his shoe came with it. Holding the paper between thumb and forefinger, he looked thoughtfully at his dangling shoe. And then at his shoeless foot sporting a holey sock. One pale little piggy was peaking through, very much on display for any passerby to see. His pale face reddened as he hobbled to the nearest bench. So much for dignity, he thought.

He placed the objects in his lap to examine while tucking his unshod foot behind his opposite leg to hide it from view. It seemed as though there was a sticking charm on the slip of paper. Touching it with the tip of his wand, he muttered a spell. Finally able to remove the two items, he tossed the scrap away and bent to put on his shoe. He looked at his surrounding making sure that he wasn't providing entertainment to the general populace of Diagon Alley. No one was looking or pointing or laughing. In fact, everyone hustled and bustled about their business completely oblivious to his presence. He sighed and made to stand. However, this motion was interrupted when a strong burst of wind blew something into his face. He was so surprised that he lost his balance and fell back against the bench with a loud grunt. Snatching the object from his face, he realized it was the very same one he just unstuck from his shoe. He was about to rend the thing to shreds when he noticed the writing. The parchment seemed to be advertising for a furnished flat. A flat that was a mere block from his current location. He looked suspiciously at the ad as though it had purposely attached itself to his shoe. He shrugged and took off in search of this new find.

It was perfect. He knew the instant he walked through the door. The warm colors, the inviting fireplace, the large windows, the breathtaking view…the giant bed. He tentatively asked the flat manager the price. Surely it would be too much for him. Let me be able to afford it, let it be in my price range, he repeated in his head. Fate decided to smile on him. He could afford it. And he immediately decided to take it. He was warned though that it was only on a month-to-month basis. He could deal with that.

He returned as quickly as he could from retrieving his things from the inn. He just stood in the doorway trying to decide where he wanted to sleep first. The bed was giant and inviting, yes, but the couch was beckoning to him. It was seducing him with its soft cushions and velvety throw pillows. It had the added benefit of facing the fireplace. He started a fire and then sank into the welcoming comfort of the couch. It was bliss.

He pulled a bottle of Ogden's Best from his bag and took a healthy swig. Nothing like a good bit of firewhiskey to lull one to sleep. Lying still against the cushions, he waited for sleep to claim him. He concentrated on the soothing sound of the fire crackling and the faint sound of a ticking clock. The room grew darker as the late afternoon turned into evening. His eyelids fluttered heavily as his breathing deepened and his taut muscles relaxed.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY FLAT?" a high-pitched screech pierced the silence.

He jumped what felt like a foot in the air. Springing forward, he lost his footing and landed on the floor. Hard. Rubbing his tail bone, he looked up to see a very enraged Hermione Granger. He could do nothing for a second but gape in shock.

"Well, don't sit there gawking like an idiot! Leave my flat!"

He snapped his jaw closed. "Your flat? I just rented this flat today."

He watched as she tried to calm herself. She spoke slowly. "You can't have rented this flat today because this flat belongs to me. I own it and this is all my stuff. That is my couch and that is my lamp and these are my books." She gestured toward the objects as she spoke. "Therefore, you can't have rented this flat today. It must have been another flat. So, please, leave now and I won't call the manager to have you removed?" He grew more confused with each passing sentence from her mouth. It wasn't just the fact that she claimed to own the flat. It was also that she looked as if she had never seen him before in her life. Her eyes held no recognition. Something was very wrong.

He rose gingerly. He looked around him. It was the same flat from the ad. It was the same flat he saw earlier with the manager. This was the flat he rented. And yet she claimed it was hers.

"I don't know what you're playing at, but I rented this flat today. It came furnished. This was all here when I moved in. What is this? Some kind of punishment for past mistakes? It's definitely not funny." He sighed warily. "I'm so tired. Just leave so I can sleep in peace."

She snorted loudly. "Sleep, you say? With that bottle of Ogden's, I'd say you were about to fall into a coma." Then she crossed her arms firmly on her chest. "And this is not some joke! This is my flat and you are intruding. I don't know you. I haven't invited you here." She sniffed haughtily. "And I doubt I would have invited you here had I known you. You are quite rude."

He pushed against his eyes tightly. "And if I refuse to leave?" he asked stubbornly.

When he opened his eyes, he could see anger light her eyes. "You stay right there! I'm getting the manager! He'll fix this—" The rest of her sentence was cut off as she stalked from the room.

He sat heavily. He leaned against the back cushions. Waiting. And waiting. Ten minutes ticked by. Surely it doesn't take that long, he thought. He stood and walked cautiously to the entry way. He saw nothing and he heard nothing. Just the faint sounds of the clock and the crackling of the fire. He looked up and down the hall. Nothing. No one. He examined the front door. Locked. Double bolted from the inside.

"What the f—" This was a head scratcher. No one was here. And there weren't any signs indicating there had been.

His body tense, eyes darting around the room, he walked slowly back to his couch. My couch, he assured himself. He resumed his position, but not before downing the rest of his Ogden's. This was just a dream. I am not crazy….His eyes flew open. Or am I? But his thoughts grew quiet as the firewhiskey took effect. His mind blurred. Images swirled together. And sleep finally claimed him.

When he woke, he didn't know how much time had passed. He was vaguely aware that his stomach had woken him. It gurgled as it burned painfully inside him. He shielded his eyes against the light of day. His head throbbed and pounded a steady cadence. And he felt like he had swallowed cotton. He stumbled to the kitchen and to the sink. He turned on the cold tap and stuck his head under the faucet to drink greedily. When sated, he walked unsteadily back to the couch to retrieve his bag. He pulled out a scone he had packed from the inn and stuffed it in his mouth. Satisfying his immediate needs tired him. The fire looked to have died hours ago and the couch was no longer welcoming. He went in search of his bed dragging his bag behind him the entire way. He leaned heavily against the doorjamb of the bedroom. Hangovers are a bitch, he thought. Launching himself off the wall with as much strength as he could gather, he dropped the strap of his bag and crossed the room to the bed. He sat atop the covers ready to return to his peaceful slumber. He flopped back and rolled himself away from the light shining through the windows. He rolled and encountered a feminine form glaring sternly at him.

"Oh, no…not again," he croaked.

Her brows drew down further in an uncanny impression of McGonagall. "Why is it that you are still here? In my bed, no less! Soiling my bed linens! Do you know how much those cost?!" She took a deep breath. "Look, it's obvious you're confused. Maybe I can help you. Is this first time you've woken up in a strange place?" She looked at him expectantly but he could do nothing but stare incredulously. "Have you ever heard voices? Seen things that weren't there?"

He arched a brow. "As a matter of fact…"

She looked at him pityingly. "Had excessive bouts of drowsiness?" She asked sarcastically knowing the answer to the question.

He propped himself on elbows to glance uncertainly around the room. Suddenly, he felt unsure. The past week had been a blur. There were jumbled thoughts floating in his mind. Maybe it was just the hangover. Or maybe he really was crazy as she was suggesting.

"I—I don't know…" he whispered.

"Don't worry. I'll try to help you." She moved to place a hand on his shoulder but he felt nothing. He turned his head to find her looking in horror at her hand. He looked at her hand, too. And gulped. Her hand had passed right through his shoulder—right through flesh and bone—to float in his chest. She snatched her hand back hastily and backed away.

She pointed a shaky finger at him, wild eyed. "What have you done to me… who are you…what are you?!" She clasped both hands to her chest. "I need my wand!" She turned and strode from the room. But, when she reached the threshold, her body slowly evaporated into air and faded away to nothing.

There was one thing he was certain of at that moment: Hermione Granger was dead.