Harry Potter walks into the Forbidden Forest with the Resurrection Stone in his hand and tears falling down his cheeks. He's going to die. Something in him is rotten and for the good of the people, it has to be destroyed.

It is not his fault, he knows, and his dead relatives, summoned by the Resurrection Stone, assure him of this, too. But he wishes it was his fault, the necessity of his death. If it is in his control, he can change it.

But it is not, so he walks into the Forbidden Forest, certain of but not okay with the fact he will die.

The clearing is filled with Death Eaters. These people are his enemies. His eyes latch onto Narcissa and he thinks that whether or not his enemies are completely evil, they will be treated like it. What will happen to this fallen army in Harry's absence? Will they find a leader forgiving, or will there be no leader at all? It would be an awful shame for Harry to go through all this trouble only for the wizarding world to fall to anarchy.

But he supposes that whatever happens after his death is of no concern to him. That's what dying's all about. And he came here to die. Not to think.

So when Voldemort mutters that he guesses the Golden Boy was a coward after all, Harry removes the Invisibility Cloak off of himself and says, "No. I am here. And I'm no Golden Boy."

Voldemort looks positively delighted. He laughs and it is the cackle of a madman. Some of the Death Eaters give a subtle wince. Why do you follow him still? thinks Harry. He is insane. He has been insane for a long time. Is your following fear or dedication? Can you even tell the difference now?

He hates and pities them. He pities Voldemort the most. He sacrificed so much of his mind and time -- years spent in exile, purgatory -- for what will be nothing in the end because even though he's killing Harry, he's killing a part of himself, too.

"Not the Golden Boy?" mocks Voldemort. "What are you, then?"

I'm you. "I'm a Golden Man," says Harry. It sounds stupid to his own ears. If those are his last words, he doesn't know how he's going to live with himself... then he remembers that that is a given with last words. That's what they're all about.

He is no longer a child. He still feels like it. But he does not want to be remembered as one. So 'Golden Man' it is.

Voldemort might not get it or not might care -- or he might comprehend completely the meaning behind Harry's words. Whatever the case, he seems reminded about why he invited Harry to the clearing in the first place.

In place of a response, Voldemort raises his wand and says, "Avada Kedavra."

Harry does not jump out of the way.

When he opens his eyes he is at the train station.

There is no one else there. He's never seen King's Cross so... (dead, cold, wilted) ...empty before. He is still wearing the clothes he died in but his body is different. No longer is he the starving, skinny boy on the run. He looks fresh. Well-fed and built out, like how he looked during his prime years of Hogwarts.

He knows this is his body -- his body from another time, but his body nonetheless -- but it feels wrong. Like an ill-fitted glove.

Furthermore, there are flowers in his hair but when Harry touches them to take them out and look at them, they turn to ash. He frowns.

This is not the afterlife he expected. James and Lily had said nothing about a train station. New flowers, new body, all prettied up. What for?

It is answered in the form of a child (adult, maybe, because they seem the same age as Harry and Harry's a Golden Man now, isn't he?) with galaxies in their eyes. He pops into existence right beside Harry and Harry flinches back before blinking rapidly.

They have a head of thick, curly hair that first appears red and then blue and then Harry realizes it's constantly changing.

"I'm Death," says the child.

"Oh," Harry says. He looks the child up and down -- and he really does look young, really is a child (like him) -- and his frown deepens. "You don't look like Death."

Death laughs and blushes -- blushes! Harry didn't know Death could blush. He expected more of a 'skeleton-in-cloak' type deal. That seems rude now, though. Stereotyping a child. "Thank you," Death gushes earnestly. Harry didn't realize he'd said anything worth thanking, but he nods anyway. Who is he to question Death?

"So... is everything okay, down there?" he asks, then rephrases, thinking that nothing will ever be okay 'down there' again, "I mean, did it work?"

Death hums. Then their eyes roll into the back of their head and Harry pales. They roll back into place and Death says, "Yup."

"Oh." Harry's still in shock with the whole eye thing, or maybe just with this entire situation, dying and all. "That's -- good. Voldemort's...?" Words evade him.

"Dead, yes, very much so." Harry nods, relaxing a bit. At least that's alright. Death sticks out their tongue, touching their nose, another pretty fucking weird thing to do, before saying, "We've got someplace to be, so if you have any more questions, now's the time!"

Is that their way to check the time? What the fuck. "Uh..." Place to be? What the hell do they mean by that? Where would they be going? "The, ah, afterlife -- not to complain, or anything, but is it just... this?" He gestures to the empty station around him. "For everybody? Does everybody just get their own train station?"

Death smiles endearingly like he's said something stupid. He cups Harry's cheeks with his hands. "No," says Death. "But you're a special case."

Harry sets his hand on Death's. "You're visiting me. Am I a special case in that way, too?"

"Yes," says Death. He inches closer to Harry's face. "It's also why you get to keep this body." He trails his finger down Harry's arm. For some reason, Harry shudders. "Most people get the body they died in."

"But not me?"

"But not you." He backs up from Harry and removes his hand from his face. He holds out his hand. "Come on. We've got a party to get to."

Harry takes the hand without question, interlacing their fingers. "A... a party? What party?"

"Your party." The world shifts around them.

"What are we celebrating?" Harry asks, looking around as colors fade in and out of existence.

"A birthday! Of sorts."

"It's not my birthday." The world settles in around them and Harry can tell immediately they are in the Great Hall. All the tables are empty and everyone sitting at them is a corpse. He grips Death's hands harder. "What -- uh... This isn't a party."

"It is." They tug Harry along, creeping toward the Gryffindor table. Harry stumbles and is forced to follow. Death is so much more physically powerful than him for a child. It is disturbing. "It's your re-birthday party."

They stop. In front of them is the Gryffindor table. Harry recognizes some of the corpses -- Remus, James, Lily, Sirius, rotting, looking so much worse than last he saw them -- but more startling than that is that the Gryffindor table is not empty of food, like he first assumed.

His body lies across the table.

Harry tries to free his hand from Death's. "I -- I can't do this! What is this? Let me go!"

Death's face tightens and he grips Harry's hand so hard that his nails dig into Harry's skin. Blood drips on the floor. "Why don't you trust me?"

Harry doesn't get why he would. Nor does he get where that kind hearted, smiling fellow he held hands with a moment ago went. "I, just -- that's me. That's me, on the table. I... Why is my dead body on the table?"

"For your party," Death answers, like it's obvious. "As I've already said."

"No. I want to go home."

Death's free hand slaps him. "That's what I'm trying to do, you idiot!"

Harry stumbles back, but Death's death grip (ha) on his hand stops him from going far. "You... what?"

"I'm trying to send you back." All fight goes out of Death now and Harry suddenly feels bad. Why does he feel bad? "You can live again. If you eat of your flesh, you can live again."

"Does..." Harry doesn't understand, still feels the sting of his cheek and guilt eating at him at the same time, conflicting and confusing him. "Does it work like that?"

"Not usually," says Death. "But you're special."

Harry puts everything together in his head. "So -- I -- you were just... trying to help me?" That must be true. But is it? Why would Death slap him? His blood is on the floor. Is this part of helping? It might be. It must be. People have hurt him to help him before. (Something he will never get used to.)

"Yup. Now you've gotta eat yourself."

He stares at the naked form of him spread out. He counts his scars and his ribs -- because this version is not weight restored like he is now -- and he shakes his head. "I can't. I know that body too well."

"You can. You have to. Don't you want to live?"

"Isn't there some other way? Can't you make anything happen?" He points to the walls of Hogwarts, frustrated. "You made this world appear. You can do anything. For me, do this."

"For you," Death repeats. Harry does not like his tone. "For you? Harry, the very offer of sending you back is an immeasurable favor. To ask for more is to reject gratitude."

Harry looks at the body, his body, again. He can do it. He can't. Can. Can't, can't--

"I will hold your hand," says Death.

Harry swallows because he does not know if that will be enough but he knows it will have to be. He grabs one of Death's hands in his injured one. Death holds out a fork and knife. Harry notices he is shaking when he reaches out to take it.

"Go on, love," whispers Death, draping himself over Harry, sounding so unlike the man (the man, child, god) who is making Harry eat his own body. "Happy birthday."

Harry takes a deep breath. Harry digs in.

--!..!--

"Congratulations, Mione!" shouts Harry as he bursts into her and Ron's room. She is standing in front of a full length mirror, trying desperately to tame her hair. Ron sits on the bed, watching her amusement.

"For the marriage or for the election results?" asks Hermione.

Harry rolls his eyes. "For both, dummy."

"Eh, watch who you're talking to!" says Ron. "That's the Minister of Magic you're insulting! And," he adds, grinning, "my wife."

Hermione bites back a smile. She sets the brush down on the dresser and embraces Harry. "You're going to kick this speech's ass," he says, muffled, into her hair. "I'm, uh... really proud of you."

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "I couldn't have hooked all the voters I did without the support of the Golden Man himself."

Harry groans and buries his head further in her hair. His 'last words' had become embarrassingly popular among the press. Even more so because they weren't his last words at all.

People are infinitely interested in how he managed to survive the Killing Curse twice now -- and not just survive, but die and come back. Self cannibalization didn't seem an appropriate answer.

Though some are trying to paint him as some sort of monster, unable to die, the next Dark Lord in the making, he's still liked enough that a few statements supporting Hermione made the other electoral candidate all but irrelevant.

"Don't sell yourself short, Mione," says Harry. "They love you for you."

"Not if my hair's like this," she says, huffing, pulling back from harry and turning back to the mirror.

"Least it's not as crazy as Harry's," comments Ron.

Hermione laughs and Harry shouts, "He--" before he is caught off by someone appariting beside him.

Hermione stops laughing.

Ron's eyes seem to bulge out of his head. "Uh," he sputters. "The wards--"

"Are still up, Ron," says Hermione faintly.

"Oh."

Harry sighs, ruffling his hair. "Sol," Harry says through gritted teeth. "I thought we agreed to meet up at the assembly. We did agree on that, didn't we?"

And Solstice shrugs. "We did."

Ron pales further but says nothing. Because Harry died and did not return alone. Harry insists to the press that his new lover is not Death -- now that's just ridiculous -- and instead is Solstice. He admits to his friends that he's lying, but calls him Sol regardless of the company.

"Sol just fits better," Harry had said. "He doesn't even look like Death."

But he did. Standing in the middle of Ron and Hermione's room, every part of him gives it away. Harry is blind not to see it. It is in the eyes, the ever changing hair color, the skin that is far too smooth. The whole room seems to quiet in his presence.

"So.. just... why are you here?" asks Harry, trying not to sound too angry. Ron takes a sharp inhale and is convinced that if Ron had talked that way to Death, he'd be killed before the words could even leave his mouth. And Harry just says them, no second guessing. It is insane. He has a privilege he isn't even aware of and it is saving his life. "You said I could visit Hermione before her speech. Those are your words."

"I missed you," complains Death, grabbing both of Harry's hands. "Didn't you miss me?"

Harry feels the urge to give in and ignores it. "That's -- that's not the point, Sol. I want you to listen to me."

"Ugh, fine!" says Death, letting go of Harry's hands. "I was listening to you, but you just throw it in my face--"

What? No. That's not -- "But you weren't listening," Harry argues, but the doubt is evident to even him.

"But I am," hisses Death. "You literally told me not to come here unless something--"

"--Important happened, I know, but -- but missing me isn't--"

"Communication is important! That's what you said, isn't it? So let me talk. Will you let me talk?"

Harry stares at the floor, flooded with familiar guilt. Had he done something wrong? Worth scolding? If it was important, Death should've said it before all the sappy stuff. Shouldn't he have? Death didn't act like anything urgent was happening. Is it his fault to assume that wasn't a front?

He deserves this guilt. He doesn't, he does, he doesn't. He's not in the wrong here and he's never been more in the wrong in his life.

"Uh -- yeah. Yeah. Please talk," Harry says. When did his voice get to sounding so small?

"Thank you," says Death. "The assembly must be rescheduled."

Hermione sucks in a breath through her teeth. "I'm sorry, Dea--"

"It's Solstice," corrects Death, patient smile on his face.

"Yes, Solstice, right. Yeah, I haven't heard anything about the assembly's time moving, so I--"

"Oh, right! That's because you're still alive to move it yourself."

"Excuse me?" Hermione snaps.

"The death trap," states Death. He blinks all innocently at her. "What? You mean you haven't heard? Oh, well, there's this bomb hidden on the stage, would've killed you before your speech's end, I'm sure."

Hermione's face crumbles. Ron takes to her side. She sighs deeply,running her hands down her face. "I'm sure. Thank you for telling me," she says, voice tight. She squeezes Harry's shoulder. "It's been great seeing you, Harry. But it's time to head out--"

"Mione," says Ron softy.

"--as I've got some owls to send," continues Hermione, unbothered.

"Oh. Um, alright." Harry clears his throat. "I, uh, love you, you know?"

Her face softens. "I know. I'm just..."

"Upset," says Harry. "That your big day is ruined. I get it. But once it's rescheduled, you're going to blow them out of the water."

"Pun not intended, right?" says Ron and Harry pauses before bursting into laughter. Hermione and Ron are laughing too and Death.

Death looks livid.

"Ah -- anyway," Harry says, oblivious to his friend's gazes locked onto Death being the reason they stopped laughing. He pulls both of them into a hug and squeezes hard. "They'll find out who planted the bomb, you'll get a new date to give your speech, and everything will be hunky-dorey."

Ignoring Ron's 'what's hunky-dorey,' Hermione squeezes him back. "Mhm. I love you. Take care." She pats him on the shoulder and pulls back.

Ron gives him finger guns, but it basically means the same thing.

On the walk back, Harry tells Death thank you and, "I'm sorry I snapped. You were being helpful. And I -- I was impatient. So. Yeah."

"Oh, love," says Death, smiling. "All is forgiven."

--!..!--

They never figured out who planted the bomb.

--!..!--

Ginny had not taken Harry's rejection well. Five months after the end of the war, she approached him, thinking that maybe they could rekindle their relationship lost to war. They could heal together, she said.

Harry tells her that he's sorry, but he's started dating the lovely bloke who popped up right around the same time he died. "Maybe you could meet him sometime," he babbles on, but her face is stone.

"Ron's told me about them," she says.

"Oh! Oh, well, uh, that mens you wouldn't be total strangers, that's great--"

"And you've been spotted in the press with them."

"Darn paparazzi," he tries to joke. It doesn't land.

Ginny presses her hands to her temples and asks bluntly, "Are you stupid?"

"Uh," answers Harry.

"What am I saying? Of course you are, if you're willing to date them to begin with!"

"Gin--"

"I didn't know you were stupid enough to continue to after they treated you like garbage!"

Harry stops. That just confuses him. "Sol," Harry says slowly, "hasn't treated me like garbage?"

Ginny laughs. It is not a pretty laugh. "Holy shit, our savior is an idiot. He hasn't treated you like trash? Really? Then take off your watch."

Harry tenses up, huddling his wrist closer to himself on instinct. "No. Sol got it for me."

"I bet that mother fucker did. To cover a bruise, am I right?"

A cut. Close but no. "Listen. He was just angry because I had--"

"Because you," she says. "It's always something you've done, right? That's what he tells you, everytime? You set the date for the meeting wrong, so I hit you. You burned dinner, so I slapped you. You, you, you. Wanna know the other constant in those sentences? Fucking him. Does Hermione leave bruises every time you screw something up? Hm? Does she?"

Doubt. Security. Doubt, certianity, his mind is going a million miles an hour but he is sure of one thing; no matter whether or not Death is bad -- and he is, isn't, is, sin't -- Harry Potter is not fucking stupid. "That's different." It's not. Is it? Why would it be different? Because he and Death started their relationship with violence? But it was necessary. His fault. "And, anyway, most -- most of the time, he's lovely. He's a lovely person, Gin." And he is, Harry's sure. He bought Harry this watch and saved Hermioe's life and gives Harry advice and calls him 'love.'

"Except when he's angry. Except when you don't do exactly as he wants."

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, curling into himself. No. No. Yes? "That doesn't make him bad." Doesn't it? Does it? He doesn't know. He knows he loves Death and hates bruises but he also knows you can't have one without the other. That's it, right? Right? Isn't that it?

"You ever heard of the phrase, 'if you judge a man by how he treats his equals, everyone's a saint'? It's because the dictator of someone's character is determined by their treatment of those below him," says Ginny. "This is kind of like that. If we judge our partners by how they treat us when we make them happy, do what they want, do what they say... then everyone's a fucking saint, aren't they?" She laughs and Harry wants to leave. He doesn't like this conversation. Why doesn't he like this conversation? "But when you disobey -- when you're your own person, Harry, that's the kicker. If you talk back and their response is to push and shove you and not talk things through, or storm out, or anything a normal person fucking does? Then what should you do, Harry?"

"Be understanding," Harry says. He knows it is the wrong answer. Leave them, he should say. If your partner reaches violently to non violent matters, leave them. Before Death, he would've said that. Now he's a man and not a boy and now, things are different.

Ginny shakes her head. She is no longer angry, she is sad, and Harry oddly finds it worse. "You're deluded." Has she abandoned calling him a moron? Deluded feels yet more insulting. "You don't care for yourself. Who would've guessed! The Golden Man, a martyr!"

"I'm not--"

"You are. But if you can't care about yourself, care about your friends."

Harry winces. "Ron and Hermione don't want to see me--"

"No. They don't want to see Death. And Death knows it. Why do you think he keeps showing up uninvited?"

Stop. Stop! "I'm not going to stand here and listen to this--"

"He's isolating you," Harry can make out as he apparites away, "Don't let him."

--!..!--

Ginny isn't speaking to him anymore. Harry can't tell whether or not it's because of him or Death, but either way he knows it is his fault.

--!..!--

"Erm, hey Mione."

Hermione does a double take, like her eyes were fooling her the first time. "Harry!" she breathes. If that is concern in her eyes he doesn't want it.

Harry rubs his arm awkwardly. "It's been a while," he says. His eyes skirt across the room, filled with Ministry officials. A while is an understatement. It has been three months since they talked.

"You look..." she says, then bites her lip. Harry knows how he looks. The filled out form he was given upon resurrection has wilted away again. But he looks fine. He is fine.

"Listen, uh, I'm sorry we don't have time to catch up -- but, I just..." Harry squeezes his eyes shut. Focus. He doesn't have long until Death will show up and he always shows up, no matter where he goes. Harry walks and he follows. "You guys are going to start sorting through the Death Eater cases. Next week. Right?"

"Right," says Hermione gently.

"And I just..." He has to say this. Why is everything so difficult? He has to say this because he knows the wizarding world will fall to anarchy without him and he has been nearing absent these past months. This wizarding world accepted him when the other one wouldn't so he is here now to return the favor. "Lately, I've been hearing a lot of talk about pushing this law that would remove your magic if you stole from someone."

"I'm not going to let that pass."

"Of course. But there's a -- a reason it's being pushed, and it's not because people are overprotective of their stuff."

Hermione's focus is solely on him now. "What do you mean?" she says, hesitant.

"I mean, the facts -- the statistics, you've seen them, right? The percentage of Death Eaters in poverty, the percentage of Death Eaters unemployed, the percentage of accounts of thievery committed by Death Eaters. You've seen them, haven't you? Because if you haven't, then -- then someone's keeping them from you, Mione. If you haven't seen them, you need to."

Shock and realization flitter across her face and she says, "Harry--"

He puts up a hand -- a frail, bruised hand with a gold ring on his finger -- to stop her. "I -- I don't... know what you should do with the Death Eaters. I don't know if they were all willing or were all forced but -- but I bet, for the most part, it's a mix of both. Punish them as you will. But be aware everyone else has beaten you to it."

He throws his arms around her and is overcome by the sudden desire to ask her for sanctuary. Take me somewhere I cannot be found. You're the Minister. You can find someone. Hide me away.

Save me.

But he reminds himself he does not need saving (or does he, doesn't he, he's going fucking insane). Every problem he has is his own fault. He is fine.

"Love you, Mione." He does not say 'talk later' before he goes because, really, will they?

--!..!--

"I think we should break up," Harry says.

Death stops chewing. "What?"

Ginny's words ring throughout his head. "I want to break up." Because! Because people have hurt him while showing him love -- while doing what's best, the good of the people -- and he has never gotten used to it! Because when Death messes up it is a mistake and when Harry messes up it is a new cut along someplace where it can be hidden! Because he misses his friends. Because he lived while so many others -- while a sea of seated corpses -- didn't and that means something. It has to.

Death sets the fork down and swallows loudly. He sighs. "Oh, love. I knew this day would come."

They knew that Harry would want to break up with them? What? No. That isn't right. He can hear Ginny now. He's trying to get you to stay. Do not let him.

"Actually, I need to pack my things--"

"I told you you were special," says Death. Harry pauses. "A special case, that's what I said. Did I ever tell you why?"

It doesn't matter why. Your curiosity is leeway, it is a sinkhole you will not be able to climb out of. "No. You didn't."

"I guess it is because I lied." And Harry perks up despite himself because Death never admits he lies -- this is a step in the right direction, right? He can change. Harry can incite change and if Harry can control it he can fix it.

But he knows that is not true. He knows that if Harry could fix Death just by being around him, it would've happened already.

Death is saying something about the Deathly Hallows and his love for him and they are not at all related and how Harry should appreciate him more because he chose for Harry to live when he should've died, but all Harry can think is that Death made him eat his own corpse and that was a choice, too. One that he can't appreciate.

He says something about his temper and controlling it and trying to change. Harry just sits there and stares and says nothing and Death finally says, "Alright. You don't want to hear it. You want to break up."

"Yes," Harry says curtly.

"Why?"

The answer is surprisingly simple: "Because for all the 'Sol's in the world, you can't fight your better nature. You're Death. There is nothing you or I can do about that."

"Since when has that mattered?" begs Death. He looks almost human but Harry doesn't buy it. All the emotion in the world doesn't change the fact that if everyone died today, it would be their corpses lining the tables of the Great Hall and Death browsing them for which to eat. Maybe Harry is special but Death is, too. In all the wrong ways. "You've always defended me, saying that being Death doesn't make me not Solstice."

Harry stands. "I'm going to pack my things."

Death stands, too, much more harshly. "Listen!"

"No. I am done listening."

"Okay," says Death. "Then eat."

Harry is taken back. "What?"

"One last meal with me. Okay? Some dessert. Then you can leave. And we won't ever have to see each other again if you don't want to. Okay?"

And Harry says, "Okay," because what is the harm in some cake? But by doing so he ignores three basic rules.

One: When you leave an abuser you do so silently. You do not tell them. You go to a friend's house, you go somewhere safe, you call the police. Distance is key. Because when you are about to leave is when they will try and get you to stay the most and if you don't comply you will die. They will try to kill you. They might succeed.

This is stuff Ginny would've known, would've told him, but he hasn't spoken to Ginny for a while now, has he? She was right about a lot of things. Like "Harry Potter is a moron."

Two: Death loves him and only him. Harry's heart, on the other hand, has never belonged to only one person and death, Death doesn't like that. He never has.

And three: What Death gives, he can take away. Hasn't he demonstrated that by now?

So Harry fumbles when it matters most. Death sets a slice of vanilla cake, smelling strongly of almonds, in front of him with a sickly sweet smile. "Go, on, love."

Harry digs in.