[ EU ] Harry Potter is sitting at home sixty years after the battle of Hogwarts , an old man now , when suddenly his scar hurts .

Harry was having, by all accounts, a wonderfully pleasant day. 
 
 In fact, this day was Christmas Day, a day he had always loved since his first loving encounter with it his 11th year on this Earth. The first year he went off to Hogwart's, the first year he felt like he had belonged. 
 
 It was snowing that day, the good snow, not the small, sharp snow that plummets through the sky, whipping at your face as you turn your head to the ground and lean into the wind and wonder why it has to be like this. No, this snow was the good snow, the big, lazy snow, falling through the air like leaves, tumbling and turning, landing with a heavy wetness, sticking to its kin. 
 
 The kind of snow you can *do* things with. 
 
 The sorts of things his grandchildren were doing, now. They were 3 and 5 years old, both girls, named Lucile and Grace, the daughters of Harry's only son, Severus, off to visit Grandpa for Christmas. They were screaming and giggling childish nonsense and ever so happy, throwing themselves on the snow. Lucile taught little Grace how to make an angel, before they teamed up to try and make a snowman. 
 
 Ginny was smiling. Ginny! Oh, how could I forget Ginny. Lovely as always, still sharp even in old age, as Harry was too. They had pushed each other, molded each other, sculpted one another into what they thought they should be. 
 
 Ginny walked, arm and arm with Harry, down the quiet and empty street, with the good snow and the happy young children, the presents already open, toys now displayed under the tree awaiting the return of this happy little family. 
 
 And it was this wonderfully pleasant day that was suddenly interrupted. 
 
 The fact that it was this pleasant day, and not some ordinary day that began with the stubbing of toes, was the reason why it was so alarmingly dreadful. 
 
 In fact, Harry was just thinking about how this might have been his best day in a long while. 
 
 In the span of a few moments, just long enough to realize you're in horrible pain, Harry suddenly realized that *he was in horrible pain*. And this really alarmed him, mostly due to the wonderfully pleasant nature of the day. Perhaps even, the *best* day. 
 
 But it was the fact of the origin of the pain that was the catalyst for the alarm. Had it been a wracking pain in, say, his liver or his heart, Harry might have been willing to be completely ok with that, on this day, perhaps the *best* day. Falling down in the snow and dying, for a second time, with his wonderful wife Ginny and the little children, might not have been that bad of a way to go. 
 
 But lo! It was not a pain in his liver or his heart, a mortal bodily pain. 
 
 It was a pain in his *scar*. 
 
 He had not felt this in years. And he knew there was a reason why he had n't felt it in years. 
 
 He had killed the man that did it to him. 
 
 And as the pain surged through his entire skull, as if his brains were about to leap out of a pinprick in his forehead, as he fell to the ground in agony, he realized that there was such a thing worse than dying, on this day. 
 
 For on this day, he realized, his enemy had returned. 
 
 The children, suddenly realizing that something was wrong, stopped playing in the snow, and simply stood and watched as old Grandpa Harry fell to his knees, his back arching, holding his head in his hands as he howled in pain. 
 
 Ginny, ever so sharp, only took a few seconds to realize what was happening. Reaching into her fanny pack, she clutched at her wand, with full intent to draw and use it, to defend herself and her love and the children. 
 
 Her intentions still existed as abstractions of molecular patterns, even as her head leaped from her shoulders and fell to the snow. She was more surprised, than anything else. 
 
 For behind her had materialized a foreboding man, a powerful man, with snakelike features and black robes, a magical blade emanating from the tip of his wand, the blood turning to energy as it boiled away, vaporized, disentangled. 
 
 Voldemort. 
 
 Harry, fully aware of the horror of this reality, quickly glanced back and forth between the young children, awestruck, twenty feet away, and his wife's head, with determined features, slowly spilling blood into the street, the steam rising from the melting snow. 
 
 Voldemort turned to face him in a flourish. Always the one to put on a show. 
 
 `` Oh... Harry,'' he said, his ageless face grimacing down at him like prey, almost depressed to see his old foe in such a state. `` It's been so long.'' 
 
 Harry, struggling to maintain consciousness, can only grunt in fury. 
 
 `` You know this is n't going to end well, do n't you? I'm here for my revenge,'' he hisses out, dripping with poisonous malice. `` I will take everything from you, like you did to me,'' as he turns toward the little children. Lucile reaches for Grace's hand. 
 
 Harry knew that he had to act quickly. Adrenaline surged through his body, and it was as if time slowed down, like he was wading through molasses. Voldemort's flourishing robes, slowly rippling in the falling snow, as he raised his wand to strike, his mouth forming the dreaded words: `` Aaaaaaavvvvvvaaaaaaddddaaaaaa-!'' his face twisting into pure hatred, his eyes burning red, his conscience set to kill, nostrils split and eyebrows parallel. 
 
 Harry managed to leap, by all accounts a good leap, soaring through the air, his hand digging into his pocket for his wand, his training still works in his old age, albeit slower, more clumsy. 
 
 Too slow, too clumsy; he loses his grasp on his wand and it falls from his pocket, towards the fresh snow and the street. 
 
 Voldemort, perfectly content with murdering Harry instead of the children, almost becomes delighted, his eyes lighting up: finally, his nemesis will taste defeat, true defeat! 
 
 `` Kkkeeeeeedddaaaaaavvvrrrrrraaaaaaaa! ``, his wand lighting up from back to front, channeling his hatred and his malice into this single diabolical strike, deadly green energy shoots through the air, and strikes true! 
 
 Harry's face goes blank, his limps fall, he loosely collides with the street, his skull bouncing off of it like a bowling ball. 
 
 Voldemort stands, euphoric in his triumphant success. The aeons he's spent planning in death, finally worth it! He revels in it, rolls it around in his mind, becomes almost aroused from it. Breathing in the air heavily, he suddenly remembers: he has to finish his job. 
 
 He looks down at the young children, his wand raised, and without a second thought, strikes them down. 
 
 `` Avada Kedavra'' he says, almost as a second thought, his wand whipping carelessly. 
 
 It only takes the smallest of moments for him to realize: he's done this before. Dead parents protecting their children, that damned lightning scar! 
 
 And in the following smallest of moments, he is dead. Whisked back into the nether he had crawled from, and two young girls lay in the snow, with bolts of lightning across their heads.
