She's back, bitches! This bubbled up out of nowhere. I hope you enjoy. Inspiration would be amazing, please give me any ideas you can; anything you really want to see. Who knows if canon Harry is clumsy - but canon Harry also wouldn't go near the Veil if his life depended on it, so. I'm on the hunt to read this sort of thing too, so I thought I would put this out for good karma. Again - enjoy!

He couldn't quite believe it. Of all the stupid, misinformed things he had been privy to in his life, this really did top it all. Even Ron, purveyor of flying Ford Anglia's and harvesting venomous teeth from mythic dungeons, would be astounded.

I've finally done it, Harry thought mournfully as he drifted. I've finally done it this time.

Harry would be the first to admit that he was really rather clumsy. Of course, he could hold onto broomsticks well enough, and he could walk in more or less of a straight line – but his arms were always in varying degrees of healing bruise. After jeopardising a stake-out by nearly falling out of the window he was watching from (sleep-addled and starving hungry because no, he would not eat porridge that many times a day, Kingsley) he began to seriously consider his spatial awareness issues.

He decided on the vast amount of time in his childhood spent either without glasses or with unsuitably prescribed ones. When you couldn't see what was around you in the first place it became rather difficult to develop a sense of spatial awareness in the first place, he reasoned. Not that he would verify his theory with Hermione – she would get that glint in her eye that said I am going to give you a cup of tea and talk to you about the benefits of counselling.

No matter the reason, he baffled those around him with his inability to remain uninjured, whether it be from his regular scuffles with Voldemort or missing his seat on a bleary Tuesday morning. It was probably the bane of Mrs Weasley's life. She had charmed the porch step to turn into a ramp whenever he came near.

A lifetime of clumsiness had brought Harry to the unfortunate situation he was now in. He was on an administrative (boring) trip to the Department of Mysteries. He was being harassed by Kingsley to deliver paperwork to him on a new scheme taking place, to encourage more interaction between departments. Harry immediately knew sending him would be a bad idea. He was the very man who had taken a sledgehammer to the delicate code of secrecy upheld by the grumpy Unspeakables who now drifted in and out of the Ministerial lifts sending glares at Harry's head. Kingsley saw this as Harry seizing the opportunity to avoid 'doing his job' as a 'representative of the Magical Law Enforcement Department' and as a 'cultural figurehead'.

The unnamed Unspeakable who was leading Harry through the Department ushered him at quite the alarming rate, sulkily making small talk on the way to whatever sacrificial chamber they had undoubtedly set up for Harry's arrival. That had, apparently, meant going through the Death Chamber, to which all the rest of the Department was centred around.

The melancholy of the room seized Harry the minute he crossed the threshold. He felt where he was before he saw it all again – the stone, the arch, the scorch marks that hadn't been there before he merrily came along to make them years before. It was a bone deep cool that scurried through his hair and wriggled its way under his fingernails until he saw them go blue, even in the dim light of the Chamber flooded everything with a tinge of grey.

'Must get along,' Mr Mysterious muttered, gesturing limply – much like his handshake – across the room. Harry followed him slowly, deliberately, eyeing the archway and giving it and it's whispers a wide berth. He wouldn't toy with that thing again, oh no. Not after Sirius had fallen through and successfully finished off quite possibly The-Worst-Year-Of-Harry's-Life. Harry would be edging around that platform it stood on like nobody's business –

The combination of old, loose, decayed flooring, clumsy idiots, and preoccupied minds, does not a happy outcome make. Harry found this out the hard way.

He grunted as he fell to the floor with the grace of a garden gnome. His hand flew out to steady himself, which, it turned out, was his fatal error. His wand clattered out of his hand, and as circular things are wont to do, began rolling with the force of the fall – Harry clambered towards it on elbows, registering the wand's movements in the split second he glanced up after he crumpled to the floor. He grabbed it.

'Oh, fiddlesticks!' Mr Mysterious gasped somewhere behind him. Harry looked glumly at his forearm, his wrist, his hand – and saw they had been enveloped by a nothing that was slowly dragging him into itself.

Fiddlesticks, indeed.