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Summary
Harry's brains dried in the hot Kentucky sun. A fly landed on an exposed piece of his skull for a few seconds and then buzzed off. His blood seeped into the dust. In the distance sirens began to wail, and the crisp, elegant click of patent leather oxfords on concrete drew to a halt beside his ruined corpse.
“Oh dear,” someone said sadly, although Harry wasn't alive to hear it. He heard, saw, felt, and was, nothing.
Death is not another country. Death is the deep blue sea.
Or, the one in which Harry is officially dead, actually a wizard, occasionally a small dog, and utterly unable to keep his distance from his young successor.