The end of the world had come very quietly. It hadn’t been big and bright, with screaming and fire and then darkness. There had been no final battle, no final judgment---no sign of reconciliation, no symbol of doom.

Instead, the end of the world had simply come and gone, like a neighbor stopping by for tea at three o’clock in the afternoon and then continuing on with everyday activities.

The end of his world came and went and everything was the same---except that everyone was gone. They were all gone, all his friends, all his enemies, gone. He was alone.

His life before the end of the world was a movie that he had been watching over and over for twenty years. He would watch it alone, forever, as everything continued on like it always did. People went to work, and ate dinner, and chatted with their neighbors.

And nobody noticed that he was alone.

Keith was like any other average twenty-three year old film student, except that he was very small, with huge blue eyes, and a voice that sounded alarmingly like Mickey Mouse. Now he was quite aware of these three factors, but for the most part was fairly comfortable with himself. He didn’t normally let any of his quirks get him down, but tonight he felt 1) very small, 2) very silly, and 3) very much like Mickey Mouse.

This was absolutely ridiculous and he couldn’t believe he was doing this---but he stood on his tiptoes and peered up the ladder, a heavy hardcover book in his hand. “Paul?” he quavered. A dim red glow emanated back at him. Keith clutched the book tighter and used his other hand to climb the ladder, pulling himself up rung by rung and making a heck of a lot of noise.

This was so dumb, but he couldn’t stop now. He’d had a weird feeling about Paul for ages. He had to know.

And besides, he was pretty sure there was a Dementor on the sidewalk just outside the front door. And that Dementor didn’t look very friendly, not that he had expected it to. Not that he had ever expected to see a Dementor at all, if that was indeed what it was.

Keith was feeling pretty demented himself as he peaked over the floor, getting his first look in to the projection booth. Through the red glow, he could see Paul’s thin frame awkwardly slumped in an old rolling office chair---the one with two wobbly wheels and a tendency to squeak during the most dramatic scene of whatever film happened to be showing.

Keith almost tumbled off the ladder. “Oh gosh golly gee with a little shit to boot,” he thought.

Paul was dead, wasn’t he?

Either the Dementors had either slipped in and got him while Keith was serving popcorn and soda, or the film Nowhere in Africa had indeed been so boring that Paul had simply died in his sleep. Either way, Keith was in some deep you-know-what, especially with those who-knows-whats standing outside the front door. At that moment, Keith realized that he had two options: 1) he could pee his pants, or 2) he could make sure Paul was really dead, and then upon verifying that Paul was really dead---pee his pants.

Keith really liked the pants he was wearing at the moment, which were Salvation Army originals, so he decided to opt for option number 2.

If in doubt, put off the inevitable. After all, if it is inevitable, then it’s bound to happen anyway, ain’t it?

“Hey Paul, are you okay?” He was painfully aware that his voice was even higher than usual, and usually it was about two octaves higher than the average female’s. Keith cleared his throat and pulled himself up over the ledge. “Paul, wake up.”

Paul wasn’t moving. The old movie-watching weirdo was dead, God rest his soul. Keith sighed, clutched his book to his chest, and prepared to pee his pants.

Paul’s quite possibly dead body was tall and thin, with wild black hair that concealed a strange scar on his forehead. He always wore black-rimmed glasses and a red and yellow scarf around his neck. Paul, or what was perhaps his remains, was an eccentric fellow who ran a small independent movie house. He watched movies all day long, and when he wasn’t watching movies, he still seemed to be watching them in his mind.

Paul was surrounded by people, and movies, and popcorn, and more people---all day, everyday.

And nobody had ever noticed that he was alone.

Until now.

Paul jolted in to consciousness. He gasped for breath, and felt sweat pouring down his face. He had the worst headache he’d had in twenty years. His forehead burned so bad that he took the glass of beer that he hadn’t finished drinking and sloshed it onto his face.

“Paul!” Keith shrieked, “Paul! You’re wasting beer!”

Paul’s bleary bloodshot eyes strained into the reddish glow. It was obvious that he couldn’t see a thing and that he was about to do something drastic, perhaps waste more alcohol.

“Paul!” Keith shrieked again, “It’s just me! Here! Your glasses!” Keith snatched the glasses from the shelf, and shoved them on to Paul’s face. Paul’s hand covered his forehead, which felt radioactive it hurt so bad, and his wild black hair sprung out in every direction. He peered through his glasses at Keith, his eyes watering and blinking rapidly.

“Keith?” Paul rasped, “What are you doing?”

Keith just stood there, staring at Paul’s booze-soaked face. Keith had almost lost control of his bladder in this fiasco, and Paul wasn’t even dead. “Paul,” Keith squeaked back, sounding pretty darn annoyed, “You’re not dead.”

The muscles in Paul’s face relaxed just a tiny bit---even his hair seemed to calm down a little, though the scar on his forehead still felt like a nuclear reactor. “No,” his voice wasn’t quite as groggy, “Not dead yet, am I? Should have been dead ages ago, but since I’ve come this far, why start dying now…” Paul wiped at the beer and the river of drool that had run down his chin in his sleep with his sleeve and staggered to his feet.

Paul was pretty tall, but Keith looked up at him right in the eyes. This was the moment of truth. Keith had to ask.

Paul looked back down at Keith, a puzzled expression on his face and beer dripping from his hair

Paul suddenly seemed just like his normal old abnormal self. This was dumb. Keith had been dumb to think of asking. Keith looked down at his black Converse sneakers. “Paul, um… are you okay?”

. “Yeah Keith, I’m fine. Sorry, guess I fell asleep during the film. Must have had a bad dream, and now it’s given me a nasty headache.” Paul pulled a family sized bottle of Ibuprofen out of a small drawer and uncapped it. He shook the final remaining capsule into his hand and popped it into his mouth. He swallowed it without any water. “Might as well go home, Keith,” he said, with the pill half-way down his throat. “I’ll close up.” He swallowed hard and attempted a reassuring smile.

“Um, Paul…” Keith mumbled, “There was something I was going to ask you, but I’ve decided that it was dumb so I’m not going to ask you anymore. However, I’m pretty damn sure there’s something outside the front door, and, dumb or not, I was just wondering…” Keith trailed off. Paul wasn’t even listening. He was already climbing down the ladder---business as usual.

“Better be off, Keith,” he was saying, “You’ll need your rest. Spun opens tomorrow. I previewed it, and it’s a doozie, as you can imagine. Those drug movies are all the same. The cinematography is so shaky that we’re going to have to serve Dramamine instead of popcorn.”

Keith stood at the top of the ladder in a daze.

“There’s nothing more unfortunate than movie theatre vomit” Paul was saying as he stepped off the ladder. “All carbonated and chocolaty---and all those popcorn kernels that never seem to digest---disgusting really.”

Keith looked like he was going to vomit. He was going to tell Paul after all. “Paul…” Keith’s voice fluttered down from the projection booth. He sounded like Tinkerbell on acid. “Paul, I know what’s going on. You’re him, aren’t you?”

“You’re Harry Potter.”

Paul’s slender fingers clenched around the yellow and red striped scarf. He was aware that he was pulling on the scarf, so that it pressed down on his windpipe, causing his voice to sound a little bit like Keith’s. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Keith gripped the book in his hand for reassurance. The book was Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. He was no Harry Potter expert, as he had never read past the third book, so there was plenty of room for error, but he was pretty sure that he was right.

“Yes you do. Don’t act like I’m dumb. Or crazy. I admit that I’m sometimes both, but I know I’m right this time. You’ve got the scar.”

Paul unwound the scarf from his neck and began twisting up his hands in it. He chuckled. “Keith, I’ve told you how I got that scar. I fell down the steps of the Eiffel Tower---the only souvenir I took home from France---less tacky than an “I Love Paris” T-shirt, and a whole lot cheaper. Free, in fact…”

“You’re such a liar.” Keith’s voice was closer to the ladder. He was feeling much braver now that he was pretty sure he had pinned the Potter. “I don’t see why you lie about it. That’s why you talk funny. You’re British.”

Paul let the scarf drop and dangle from his limp hand. “I’m from Indiana. I grew up in Italy---spent a year in Great Britain as a student. While I was there, I suppose I acquired a tinge of an accent, as well as a taste for K Cider and Shepherd’s pie.”

Paul began picking little yarn fuzzies off of his scarf. The scarf was so old---over twenty years---that it was mostly fuzzies. He swallowed hard and watched the little fuzzies float to the floor.

“C’mon Paul. Just admit it. You’re a wizard. You can fly on a broomstick---I’ve seen you do it. Why else do you always stay late and clean up---you don’t just sweep the floors---you fly. You’re Harry Potter.”

A sob caught in Paul’s throat. Bloody hell.

In twenty years, nobody had ever noticed.

Paul carefully wrapped the scarf back around his aching neck, while Keith clambered down the ladder. Paul tossed the end of the scarf over his left shoulder and took a deep breath just as Keith entered the theatre.

“Paul, it’s okay. We all thought you were gay. Really, you’re just British…and a wizard. This explains so much.”

Paul turned and faced the blank white projection screen on the far wall. Tears were trickling down his cheeks. “I am gay. Now go home, Keith.”

“No you’re not. You’re Harry Potter.”

Paul sunk down onto the old ratty couch that served as most of the front row in the little theatre. He kept his stinging eyes on the blank screen. He couldn’t talk. His neck itched. His throat hurt. He leaned his burning forehead down on his hand.

“Hey Paul---um, Harry, um, cheer up. I think it’s cool. And Gabe is Sirius Black, isn’t he?”

Paul let out a sudden laugh, and then he sounded angry. “Sirius Black is dead.”

He put his feet up on the couch, pulling his knees to his chest, and looked at Keith over his shoulder. His voice softened. “Gabe isn’t Sirius. Can you imagine Gabe on a motorcycle? He can’t even ride a bike. Gabe is just really, really weird.”

“Oh, okay,” Keith nodded, “I believe you. I was just making…a guess, because that would have explained a lot too.” Keith cleared his throat. “Guess there’s no explaining Gabe.”

“But you really are Harry Potter.” Keith slipped around to the front of the theatre and sat down at the bottom of the screen, right in front of Paul. “Might as well admit it. I won’t tell all that many people. I’m sorry about um…Sirius by the way. Didn’t realize you guys actually existed…let alone actually died.”

Paul looked over Keith’s head, at the blank screen. His voice was distant. “They’re all dead. All the wizards are dead. And I killed them.”

So Paul told Keith the whole story. He just pretended he was talking about his favorite movie, and it helped a lot. He had never told anyone the whole story before.

“But how does it end?” Keith was saying. “You-Know-Who was really dead this time, right? And you killed him. So I don’t get it. You saved the world---what happened next? And why is it your fault?”

“Keith, you’re a nosy little bastard.” Paul folded his hands together and placed them carefully in his lap. His clothing, which was always a few sizes too big, felt way too small all of a sudden.

He didn’t want to tell about the ending.

“I’ll tell you in a moment. Just need to go outside for a bit of fresh air…”

Keith squeaked and sprung to his feet, “Um! I almost forgot to tell you! There’s something outside!”

“What?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure, but I was looking through the book, um… Dementors maybe?”

“Oh…” said Paul, “Never mind then…” He curled up on the couch like he was going to fall asleep. “I’ve been telling them not to come… but they’re stubborn you know…”

“What?” said Keith. “So what are they doing here?”

Paul sighed and closed his eyes.

“Wait a minute! So what happened? You can’t not finish a story, and since we’re stuck anyway, you might as well tell me. Want a cream soda?”

“No thank you.” Paul rolled over onto his back, so that he was lying on the couch and looking up at the ceiling. It felt like Keith was his blasted psychiatrist, which was really annoying.

“Alright,” Paul spoke very quickly, “I defeated Voldemort alone. I wanted to do it by myself---I knew that I could and I…didn’t want anyone else to get hurt…anyone else to die. They all told me not to go alone, but I didn’t listen. I knew I could defeat him without risking anyone else. I knew it.”

“When I killed Voldemort---all of his power---his soul---his immortal portion, if you will, was transfused into me.” Paul shuddered and Keith noticed that the purple circles that were always under Paul’s eyes were really dark.

“I was alone. If I would have listened to the others, and we had all defeated Voldemort together, pieces of his soul would have entered into all of us. His power would have been diluted. All of us would have had little pieces of him, and he would have been essentially powerless. As it was, his entire soul entered my body alone, and combined with the power I already had---I couldn’t handle it. It combusted. Which was exactly what he wanted.”

“But you’re still in one piece,” Keith stared up at Paul, envisioning a high-school chemistry experiment gone awry.

“Yes, and that’s the damnable misery of it. I’m the only one still in one piece. There’s no one left, not even Voldemort himself, but this bloody scar still burns every time I think about it. Every time I dream about it.”

Paul wiped tears from under his glasses, and closed his eyes. “Everything went crazy---I didn’t even know what was happening. I eventually defeated Voldemort’s soul…but not before he had used my power to murder everyone else. Voldemort must have had it all planned from the very start…from the very moment he killed my parents…from the very moment I lived. It was the only reason I lived…”

Paul took off his glasses and let them drop to the floor. He rubbed his eyes with both his hands.

“But it’s not so bad…” Keith whispered, examining the ragged carpet, “You couldn’t help what happened. You meant well. And now you have your own movie theatre.”

“Yes…movies are the only thing…that get my mind off of it… Now go home, Keith. Get some sleep.”

“But…” Keith had resorted to picking little specks of dirt up off the carpet, “What about those things outside?”

“Oh yes…I had almost forgotten. The Dementors…” Paul opened his swollen eyes a crack, and felt around under the couch for his glasses, “They’ve always been the type to take orders from someone. Since I’m the only one left, by default, they take orders from me. I always tell them to go away, but I’m afraid they’re obsessed. As you go, just tell them that I told you to tell them that they can’t hurt you. And give them some popcorn and some Fitz’s root beer. They’ll like that.”

Keith crawled across the few feet of dirty carpet and handed Paul his glasses, which, of course, Paul’s hand had been missing by mere millimeters. Paul put on his glasses and forced a little smile. “Thank you. Now goodnight.”

“Hey Paul,” Keith stood up, scratching his head. “Ordinary people can learn how to do magic too, right”

“Maybe.”

“Will you teach me how to play Quidditch?”

“No.”

“Then…can I touch it?”

“Touch what?”

“Your scar.”

“Why?”

“I want to see if it’s really hot. You know…if it feels weird.”

“You do realize, Keith, that we all think you’re gay. And this is a prime example as to why.”

“What?” Keith squeaked.

“Never mind. Yes, you can touch it.” Paul rolled his eyes and pulled his black hair off of his forehead. Keith reached out his hand and nervously tapped the scar a few times with his middle finger.

“It’s not going to hurt you”

Keith quickly ran his fingers down the scar, tracing the searing lightning bolt. He took a few steps backwards, bumping into the blank white screen. His huge blue eyes were really really huge. “Wow…” He swallowed hard. He was looking over Paul’s head, up at the window of the projection booth. “Wow, Paul. I never knew.”

Oh man, this was awkward, and Keith felt dumbly like crying. He didn’t laugh all that much, and he never cried, at least not in front of people. He thought he sounded really dumb when he laughed, and especially when he cried, because his voice was so damn high. He was pretty sure he had the highest damn voice in the world.

It got pretty lonely sometimes, having the highest damn voice in the world.

And nobody had noticed that he was alone.

“Shit. I’d better go.” Keith turned and headed quickly for the exit. “Just give the Dementors some popcorn, right?”

“Right.”

Keith looked back at Paul, who was still lying on the couch. His striped scarf was dragging the floor.

“Paul,” Keith’s voice was shaking, “Where do we go… from here? What are we going to do now?”

There. Keith hardly knew what he had been wanting to say, but he had said it, even though he was pretty sure he was going to cry. Maybe Paul would understand.

Paul stared up at the ceiling. “I’m going to watch another movie. And you’re going to go home.”

Keith was very tired. He sighed and pushed past the black curtains, out into the lobby.

“Goodnight, Paul.”

“Goodnight.”

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