Does it hurt?

Dying? No, Harry. It doesn't hurt. Quicker and easier than falling asleep.

What's... after, Sirius? What's on the other side?

Oh... Harry, there is no other side. This is it.

..XoX..

And then Harry died and it is revealed he comes from a long line of liars.

(If the people the Stone summoned were his family at all.)

Because it did hurt. It was not supposed to. Avada Kedavra does not induce a heart attack, a seizure, a stroke. That's what makes it so horrifying. It just kills you. You're just dead. Instantly and painlessly and just like that -- it kills. It's the wizard equivalent of a brain aneurysm, just that that has an explanation and this... does not.

At least, that's what he's heard. No one who's actually survived the Killing Curse has ever been able to give a firsthand account -- no one except Harry Potter, and it was far too long ago to remember by the time he was asked.

It was not supposed to hurt. Sirius had said it wasn't supposed to hurt.

But it did, so everyone's a liar. Maybe everyone lied to him because they didn't know better. Maybe Sirius lied to make him feel better. It doesn't matter. It's done. He lied and it hurt, like nothing else he'd ever known.

He expected, afterwards, the sweet release of nothing. There is no other side. This is it.

Instead, Harry opens his eyes to the train station.

And the train station... oh, what happened there was not nothing.

And when that is over, he opens his eyes again, a ghost. Trapped in the Forbidden Forest, unable to step over the Forest line.

It's that Potter luck that he is never able to escape. Not even after death.

..XoX..

Harry meets vampires. As it turns out, most are fine if they are civilized. It helps that Harry has no blood to drink, but Harry's fine with ignoring that. He is lonely. "We're heading to... ah, ta, ta, what's the word?" the youngest tries to explain, sitting on a log, watching Harry flow across the meadow.

"New Zealand," says another, exasperated. He drinks something from a flash and Harry just hopes it is vodka.

"Why?" asks Harry, slow dancing with the head vampire, a quiet and large man who Harry avoids looking at directly. He is kind enough. It is not his fault. His face is just too familiar.

Harry is dipped in the man's arms. "The mainlands are icky," says the youngin.

"Icky?" Harry laughs. It feels good to have fun, to laugh at stupid wording again. He can almost forget Death's hands flitting across his--

"Corrupt," corrects the hopefully drunk.

"You... mean the Ministry? Cause, if so, I really don't know what else you could've expected."

"No," says the drunk. "I mean the everywhere."

Harry frowns, letting his head fall against the leader's chest. 'The everywhere.' "If Europe's a bust," says Harry slowly, "then why would New Zealand be different? What are you hoping to find?"

"The Syndicate of Life," rumbles the leader.

He may look like someone he knows but he does not sound like it. The information is a relief, if not a comfort. He has a nice voice. Harry likes it. "So you do talk," Harry teases. "What's all this about Life?"

"We... at, ta, ta, don't... know, exactly?" says the youngin.

"You don't know anything about these guys, but you're traveling halfway across the world in order to be where they are?"

"There are powerful people at play here," says the drunk, defensive. "You haven't even a clue."

"I was under the impression that most powerful people were dead," and have been, for five years now, isn't that right?

The leader looks at the scar on his forehead. Harry ignores his initial response to smooth his fringe over to cover it. Look, he thinks. Look, and tell me I'm wrong. "I can see why you'd think that," he whispers. "But, mon amour, the most powerful people were never people. They are not dead. They do not die."

That... that sounds familiar to Harry, too. Harry swallows thickly. "Sounds pretty terrifying," he tries to joke.

"It is." The leader tilts his head and Harry finds that his eyes are not the same as Death's. If he looks just at his eyes, Harry can lose himself. He can pretend. "So we are leaving."

"Now?"

He pauses a moment, his eyes sweeping Harry's ghostly form before answering, "No. Not right now. May we stay in your meadow until morning, ami temporaire?"

Harry swallows thickly for a different kind of reason. "It's hardly my meadow. But sure. Make yourself at home."

The drunk rolls his eyes and drinks more and the youngest whoops loudly.

Those two retire to their beds early but Harry and the vampire, whose name he discovers is Andre, spend all night dancing in the meadow, until their dancing turns to kissing and kissing turns to almost love making.

Harry put his hand on Andre's shoulder, pushing him back a leader. "Stop," he says, quietly, red in the face. "I don't want to go further." He laughs awkwardly and jokes, "Besides, I don't even know if ghosts can have sex."

"You are not a ghost," says Andre, backing up and lying beside Harry instead of on top of him.

Harry lets out a breath of relief. He is glad that Andre stopped but upset Harry had to. Because he wants this. Andre is attractive and kind and gentle and it's not like Harry's even had sex in over five years. But when he closes his eyes, Andre's hands turn rotted and black and they do not stop when Harry asks them to.

Harry clears his throat. He reminds himself he is in the woods, alone. He is safe. "I, uh," he clears his throat again. "I certainly feel like a ghost."

Andre locks his fingers in Harry's. "Non, Harry. You feel human. You look like a ghost."

"Then what am I?"

"I don't know, mon ange. But you are in danger. Or you will be, if you stay here." Harry says nothing. What is it that gives me away? he thinks. The scar, the inconsistent form that switches from almost human to massless in a matter of moments?

Or is it Death?

Can you smell him on me? Did he ever really leave?

"Come with us."

Harry's eyes snap open. "...What?"

"To New Zealand. You will be safe there. Come with us."

Harry shakes his head. Not safe here? Oh, Andre. If he's not safe here, he's not safe anywhere. Not that it matters. "N... No, I can't. I can't leave. Why would you...?"

"You dance well, ma belle chérie. It would be a shame for such talent to die."

"I already am dead."

"I am not sure what you are. But it is not dead. It is not alive, either."

"And is it killable?" Harry laughs humorlessly.

"It is stoppable. And capable of pain as much as pleasure." Harry shivers, closing his eyes again. "Will you consider it, at least? Coming with us?"

"No," says Harry, tired. "I meant it when I said 'can't'. I'm... stuck. He made me stuck, I think."

"He?" Harry shrugs. "Did he hurt you, mon cher?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You stopped," Andre says, gentle, never accusing. "You stopped, but not because you wanted to. Harry, you looked forced."

"Will you mind your god damn business?" Harry snaps, pushing away, gritting his teeth. Shut up. Shut up. You have no idea--

"Did he hurt you? The one that trapped you here. Did he?"

Harry wraps his arms around himself. Hands trailing his thighs, Harry's mouth spitting futile protests, stop, please, what did I do to deserve this? Strong hands wipe tears from his cheeks and Harry hadn't even realized he had started crying.

His sorrow is as good as a confession. They both know it. Harry wraps his arms around Andre's neck and sobs. When his arms at one point go right past Andre, it sends him into a second round of hurt and this time, he doesn't even have a hug to comfort him.

..XoX..

In the morning, Harry is encouraged to figure a way out of his predicament. "When you are freed, come see me," says Andre.

"Ask around and you will find him," says the drunk, whose name is Sherman. "He goes by 'The Blood Knight'--"

"He does not!" Harry says, giggling. Sherman glares at him.

"Do not laugh at our Lord's title--"

Harry flinches at the addressing of Lord -- even though he knows that more people the Voldemort are called Lords, it's not an exclusive Dark Lord thing, he's being stupid-- but Andre says, "Let him laugh."

Sherman blinks before his face goes smooth, expressionless. "Of course," he says, voice flat. "Well. Remember, special boy; New Zealand. The Blood Knight. The Syndicate of Life. Alright?"

"Alright," Harry says. He turns to Andre. "I'll see you. One day. Maybe. Hopefully?"

"Hopefully."

He does not see Andre alive again, but he never forgets him. For the next two years, he meets over forty vampires, spending nights in the meadow dancing with some and watching them drink around bonfires and listening to their stories with others. They all have the same destination in mind, the same warnings to tell.

Europe's a bust. New Zealand is not.

He does not understand all the fuss. But he will. Soon. For now, he is glad for the constant stream of company.

That is, until it stops. There are no more migrating vampires in the Forbidden Forest. Harry is happy they made it to their location, but he is sad to be left all alone again.

And to think the savior of the wizarding world could be so easily forgotten.

..XoX..

The centaurs are as cryptic as ever. They speak of two growing forces, of disguised evils and open ones. And they speak about Harry. They speak about Harry a lot.

"You, boy, have broken this world. You've released a great evil upon this world. The great evil."

"It was not he who trapped you here. It was their opposer. What did you think this was? Your capture alone? To keep you in one place and one place only? No. It is your punishment. And you deserve it."

"I wouldn't want to be in your position right now, Golden Boy. Europe's falling apart and you're forced to fall with it."

Then the prophecies dwindled, as did the presence of centaurs themselves. Harry was confused and thankful because, honestly, they were much worse friends than the vampires.

The last centaur he ever meets in the Forbidden Forest tells him, "The Ministry is making some decisions. It's not safe to be a magical creature anymore. Be glad to see us gone, sure. But do not be glad the reasons."

For the next eight years, he hears the exact same story dozens of times over. The names are different, the organization making decisions is different, the magical groups of people vary, every time. But the story, the story is the same.

Harry sees a lot of them. Then Harry sees none of them. Harry never sees any of them again.

New Zealand is mentioned a lot. Harry asks one or two travelers to tell Andre, if they see him, that Harry misses him greatly. He is not sure Andre ever gets the message but he sure hopes so.

When people speak of the wizarding world and the "two forces" rising up, they are vague. For reasons of fear or ignorance, Harry has next to no idea about the wizarding world's comings and goings.

He tries not to let it bother him. He's dead, after all. What's it to him?

..XoX..

On the twelfth year of being dead, he wanders upon Hagrid, out in the woods with some students. Harry assumes it is one of his detentions. Harry lets out a hysterical laugh. Hagrid never changes, does he?

Hagrid whirled toward him, waving his pink umbrella threateningly, which only made Harry laugh harder. "Hagrid! Oh -- oh my god, let me catch my breath--"

"Um?" asks one of the students. She's a shortie. Harry can't tell what House she's in. They must've changed the robes. "Hagrid -- do you know this... guy?"

Hagrid blinks at him... before promptly breaking into tears.

Harry throws his arms around him, shushing him. "I'm alright, Hagrid. Or, well, I'm something. I'm here. It's okay."

"But ye -- ye died!" he hiccups.

"I did," says Harry. He doesn't elaborate on his confusion with that statement because, at the moment, it's not all that helpful. "But I'm still here."

When Hagrid calms down, he forces each of his students to swear a vow of secrecy and orders Fangs to take them back to the castle. "Congrats," he grumbles. "Yer detention is over early. Celebrate."

Two of the students are too busy fangirling to celebrate -- "So you're the Harry Potter?!" -- but Hagrid shuffles them off, unbothered.

"Come back to my Shack," offers Hagrid. "We can have some tea, some toffee--"

"Oh. Sorry. I'm... sort of trapped in the Forbidden Forest. Can't cross the line. So."

Hagrid hums before exclaiming, "Ah, well, no matter! I'll just bring the toffee to you."

"I can't eat or drink, either, Hagrid."

"Oh. Well. Would you at least like a blanket?"

And Hagrid looks so happy when Harry says yes that he can't bring himself to tell him that he only feels cold when he has mass, and that's not all the time.

They spend the night, huddled in blankets talking. Harry learns a lot. Hogwarts is "under new management" and whatever management it is, Hagrid doesn't like it. "I got fired from Care of Magical Creatures!" he exclaims. "I'm only the Groundskeeper again."

"Is it the Ministry interfering again?"

Hagrid's eyes go dark and he takes a swig of whiskey. "I don't know, Harry. I just don't know." He tells Harry that Hermione and Ron are married but there's been some 'issues.'

"What kind of issues?"

"Oh, erm... some of the, er, things Hermione has gone through have made her infertile."

"Oh." It is hard to think about. "But is she okay?"

"Yea, Harry. She's alright." Harry thinks he is lying because how could anyone be alright, after the war and how it's left them? When your body is so broken you can no longer produce children with the man you love? But it is a nice lie. Harry lets it slide. "Hermione's working at the Prophet now."

"Oh, shit. Really?" He'd never pegged Hermione as a journalist. "I thought she was gonna end up as Minister, truthfully."

"She tried. But the public... does not like Muggleborns."

And to that, Harry is confused. "What? I'd think with Voldemort being defeated, wizards would take more kindly to Muggles, not the other way around."

"Voldemort's not the only evil wizard, Harry."

"So everyone keeps saying. What the fuck is up with that, huh? Who's this new Dark Lord and why doesn't anyone tell me anything about him?"

"It's a difficult situation, Harry--"

"Oh, fuck me! It's always difficult. That's a bullshit excuse. Can you just tell me what's going on?"

"So what, Harry? So you can do what? Float around and mope? Yer dead. Ye died and I carried you out of this Forest in my arms and ye show up, a decade later, saying 'lol just kidding' and expect for everyone to tell you everything right away? Ye know what that is, Harry? That's bullshit."

"No. It's what happened."

"Yea?"

"Yeah. I'm dead. So can you just let me have this? Or do we wanna curse each other out in the woods some more?"

Hagrid a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"Me, too." Harry sighs. He clears his throat. He can drop the topic of dictators for the moment. He's in no rush, is he? "Why'd Hermione become a journalist once the Ministry thing failed?"

Hagrid glances at him. He understands what Harry's doing and he will let it happen. "She's had some bad experiences with sketchy journalistic in the past--"

"Oh, yeah," laughs Harry. "Man, I totally forgot about that. So she's trying to be 'one of the good ones' or something?"

"Trying to change the corrupt journalist industry from the inside out, apparently."

Harry smiles so wide it hurts. "Classic Hermione." His smile falters. "She... thinks I'm gone still. I guess everyone does. Can you tell her that I'm here, Hagrid? And Ron? Cause... I've really missed you guys. The Forest creatures were nice... but they don't compare."

"I'll write a letter," he says. A look sweeps his face. "You said were."

"What?"

"That the Forest creatures were nice. What happened?"

"Oh. That. It's not like they got meaner or we've had some big fight or anything." Harry shrugs. "There's just less of them. That's all."

"Yeah. I'd have guessed so. I'd have thought that the Forest would be a second haven, though. 'Cause of the unregulated territory and such..."

"On the contrary, some think this place is the most dangerous place to be. Always wonder what they mean by that." Harry hugs the blanket closer to his chest. "You said 'second haven.' There's a first?"

"Mhm. Good old New of Zealand."

"Ah. Of course."

Harry asks about Ginny and Hagrid refuses to answer; "It's time I head home. We'll talk tomorrow, eh? And I'll send that letter."

..XoX..

Hermione's response is underwhelming. She speaks in vague terms about vague concepts that no one has explained to Harry even the littlest bit. She and Ron can't come visit him, nor send him owl post, because for the public to become aware of his presence would be the very worst thing right now. She will give letters to Hagrid to give to him. She misses him and is glad he is not gone. She loves him very much.

Harry reads over the letter several times over and thinks, yeah. Hagrid hasn't changed and he hasn't changed and Hermione and the amount of information he's privy to, well, that never changes, either. None of them have ever grown up. Haven't they learned your 'I love you's are worthless if you don't back them up?

Three years pass and Harry still knows nothing. It's not fair.

It is an eleven year old girl who does not know better than to keep her mouth shut.

She has striking red hair and a constant smile on her face. Harry would've thought she was a child of Rona and Hermione if he did not know better. She sneaks out one evening into the Forest, looking at roots and scraping moss off trees.

Harry remembers Hermione's letters, her warnings. He should not let anyone know of his existence. It would be the very worst thing.

Then Harry remembers he doesn't give a shit about what Hermione thinks right now and asks the little girl if she's a Weasley.

She turns toward him, blinking. "Yeah," she says. "Sort of. How'd you...?"

Harry sticks out his hand. "Ron's a friend. Which one's your parent?"

She takes his hand, shaking it. "Ginny." Harry bites back a grin at that. No wonder no one wanted to talk to him about Ginny. "I'm a Dursely now, though."

His grin quickly turns to a frown. Oh. That's why no one wanted to talk to him about Ginny. He clears his throat. "As in...?"

"Dudley," she says.

Dudley. Ginny. Married, having a child, after he died. He is... okay with that. He found some form of love after he left Ginny, didn't he? And to Ginny, Harry's dead. She can find love wherever she damn well pleases for all he cares.

Dudley and Ginny and their eleven year old child. He can live with that. Or. Well. Sort of.

She looks at his forehead. "Nice scar," she says.

"Thanks. It's got a real cool story behind it."

"I think I've heard it," she says, smiling. "Ron's a close friend, huh?"

Harry hums. "Less close now, I'd say."

"Why's that?"

"Well, he won't tell me anything."

She puffs out her cheeks, thinking. "What is it you want to know?" she says at last.

And like that, he gets answers. So many answers. Who knew all it took was talking to a child?

Her name is Chalice Dursley. Ginny's now a professional Quidditch player -- Harry notes the pride in her voice when she says this -- and Dudley is a boxer. He loves magic. From simple household charms to grand gestures, every display of power is a gift.

Part of Harry is bitter. Where was this Dudley when he was growing up? But it is a very small part.

"Is Ginny alright?" he asks.

"I think so," says Chalice. "She smiles a lot. Laughs. And she's in love."

"And that always helps," says Harry. Chalice nods seriously.

Not everyone is fucked beyond repair from the war. People can be happy. It seems so obvious but didn't feel it -- the idea that you do not have to be broken is foreign. People move on sometimes. They get their dream jobs and fall in love and have a child -- or children, apparently.

Chalice is the oldest of five. "I'm the only girl," she says, "so I'm already the best. The boys will just be competing for second place." She speaks with arrogance but behind that is fondness for her brothers. Harry wonders if Ginny taught her this by example but thinks, no. This self-esteem is not generational.

It is learned. "Ginny's a great mom," Harry says, smiling.

"Of course she is," says Chalice flippantly.

She also speaks on the Hogwarts reforms, which Hagrid had so kindly just neglected to mention in any of their years of visits. She points to her uniform. It is a different color with a different crest than anything Harry recognizes. "The new Headmaster made it so we weren't sorted into the old Houses," she explains.

"What are the new ones?"

"Well, they're just called numbers now. They say it's random, but if you stand back and look at it..."

"Then what?"

"Then you'll see it's not random. Because random would mean it's about equal House sizes, right? But House 4 has sixty four in my year -- and my House, 2, has twelve. Twelve!"

"So what's it sorted by, then?"

"I think blood," says Chalice. "Purebloods, muggleborns, half and halfs, and Other. Like that would technically fall into the half blood category, but not really? So like if your mom is a Pureblood and your father is a half blood. A seventy five blood would go to 4."

"Huh," says Harry, mind swimming.

"And they've banned all talk of you."

Harry's head snaps up. "What?"

"But not Voldemort. Funny, huh?" Harry does not think so. This isn't a laughing manner -- this is an attempt of conversion, of segregation.

This is the raising of an army.

She also puts a name to a face. And it is a name that makes Harry crawl into his skin. "Death's ruling," she tells him. "It's not like it's official-official, duh, but he's got his thumbs into all sorts of pies, all poisoned, so to speak..."

She speaks on as if she did not just drop life shattering information. Death is behind every power in the Ministry, is in control of Hogwarts. He has kicked all magical creatures out of Europe by legalizing poaching and funding markets that profit off of it -- and his ideals beyond that are old-fashioned, more so than Voldemort.

But that is not what's life shattering.

It's life-shattering because it's Death and Death -- one hand around his throat, another gripping his arm -- and Death... hurt him. He listens to Chalice speak and doesn't say anything in response. It is hard to think and move.

Perhaps it is a good thing that no one told him Death's name.

... "Why didn't they tell me?"

Chalice blinks, not upset at being cut off, she really is too kind. "Why didn't who not tell you what?"

"Ron. Hermione, Hagrid. Why didn't they tell me Death has taken over?" Unless... Unless they knew that Harry would freeze up and act out if he did? But that'd... What would that mean?

Chalice shrugs. "Dunno. I could ask them, if you'd like?"

What would that mean? It'd mean they'd have to know -- everything. "No. I have a better idea."

..XoX..

Hermione storms into the Forbidden Forest. "Harry!" she shouts, face red. "Harry, get out here! Harry, you cowa--"

"Calm down," says Harry, approaching her. "I'm right here." He spots her clenched fist and narrowed eyes and says, pleasantly, "I see you got my letter."

"Howler," she corrects. "Right in the middle of a press release, actually."

"Oh, wow," Harry says. "I have no idea how such terrible timing happened."

"Har-har," she scoffs. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

"I dunno. If I had to guess, I'd say 'announced my existence to the bulk of the wizarding world'? But, you know. I'm just guessing. Because I have no idea why that'd be such a bad idea."

"Answer, then. You want answers?" she asks. "Okay, then. I'll give you answers."

"Question one: why can't the wizarding world know I'm alive? Why'd that be so fucking terrible, huh?"

"Because," she explains, "you're the face of the Life side right now--"

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm the face of what?"

She growls, throwing her hands into the air. "Life! Did you ever wonder what happened when you, the Master of Death, died? Did you ever think of that?"

"So I'm the Master of Death now?" He has never had any power over Death. If he did he wouldn't be in this situation.

"The Cloak, the Wand, the Stone. The Cloak, the Wand, the Stone, dude!"

"Right," Harry says, like that makes sense. "And because I died...?"

"Because you died, Death had no Master. It's not the same as if the Hallows had been spread out, or lost, unowned -- you died, ownership of all three with you. Death's chain was broken and it was released into our world. The mortal one."

"And started doing evil shit?" Harry can imagine that.

"So Life rose up, too. To Balance it out and try to save us mortals. He's got a safe haven, the only place truly untouched by Death's influence, in--"

"New Zealand," Harry finishes.

"Yes. New Zealand. But, other than trying to stuff as many witches, wizards, and magical creatures in there as possible, there's also a growing offense."

"Which I am the face of."

Hermione sighs. "Yeah. Which you are the face of."

Harry runs his hands through his hair before exclaiming, loudly, "Why?"

Hermione blinks. "Because--"

"I died fighting and you assholes want to make me do that after death, too? You want to make me an instigator for your wars without my permission? Did Life ask me? As far as I'm concerned, my image is copyrighted."

"Harry. Try and understand. This happened because things are difficult, Harry--" Harry barks out a laugh "-- and you're a martyr. You died fighting the then ultimate evil so, yeah, Harry, you're the symbol of Life. I'm sorry that is so hard for you, even though you've never had to deal with any consequences of it at all--"

"No consequences? Are you kidding? What do you think this is, Mione? I haven't seen you in fifteen years because you 'can't make my existence known' -- that, that right there, Mione? What the fuck is that, if not a consequence of the actions you guys made?"

Hermione's face hardens. "It's for you, too."

Harry laughs, almost crying. "Now that's a surprise to me."

"It is," she insists. "Because if Death knows you're still alive, he'll..."

"He'll what? Tell me, Mione. I have a right to know. What will he do?"

"He'll tell everyone about..." she takes a deep breath. "About what happened on the train station, Harry."

Harry stiffens. "So you guys do know," he says, blankly.

"When you died, Life told us -- I'm one of his main generals in Britain and Scotland, and Hagrid's trying to make change happen at Hogwarts -- he mentioned that--"

"After I died," Harry repeats. "After I died -- you've known I was a ghost, all alone, for fifteen years? You've known? And you didn't think to contact me until I contacted you first? What are you, insane?"

"I was careful, Harry," snaps Hermione. "Because if word got out about your sexual relations with Death--"

"Rape, Mione. It wasn't... why would you call it that?"

"I know what it was," she says. Her tone is softer now. "But the wizarding world will not. So that's why we had to keep you a secret. Like Life said, Death would make this claim -- and because you died but somehow lived, people wouldn't think it baseless. And Death... might not leave you alone this time, if he knew you were still out there. That's why he trapped you here and didn't let you stay in Death's domain. It was to keep you safe, too. All of this was for your sake."

"And yet," says Harry. "That's no reason not to owl me, is it? That's no reason not to keep me in the dark. I grow restless without information. You know that. You know me. So why did you do it, Hermione?"

"Life..." she says, then sighs. "He knew you'd do something you shouldn't, stick your nose where it didn't belong, make yourself the head of an army rather than its dead symbol--"

"Yeah, well, Life's an idiot. I don't want to fight. You could tuck me away in New Zealand with my vampire lover and keep me a complete and total secret otherwise and I would be fine with that. But, no. No, you didn't ask me. You took Life's word for it. Fifteen years running."

Something like shame sets in her face. "Harry, I had to be cautious, I'm--"

"Cautious?" Harry laughs. He points at the Hogwarts castle. "A hundred feet from where I sleep, there's a Headmaster who had direct contact with Death. That's not cautious; that's stupid."

"Hagrid was supposed to--"

"Hagrid's as he always was, Mione," says Harry. "He's a shite soldier. Always is and always was. His presence has not stopped a damn thing from happening over there -- you heard of their new House system? Oh, god, it's wonderful. They can't say my name over there. Hagrid being here doesn't make my presence any less safe. You can't believe that just because Life said it."

"Harry, I'm s--"

"Why did you do this, Mione? I thought we were done listening to war leaders who 'knew what was best'. I thought we were over that."

"This isn't--"

"It's not? Because, Hermione, being stored away without my knowledge nor permission so I would be less of a problem sounds awfully fucking familiar."

She buries her head in her hands and cries. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. I tried to do things right -- to make it so Death wouldn't win and you wouldn't suffer, but I failed. Alright? Alright, I failed, and I'm sorry, and it's not even worth it."

"No?"

"No," she says, wiping her nose. "Cause now Death knows. For everything I did, I couldn't stop Death from knowing."

"No," Harry says. "Because of everything you did."

"Yeah. Because. I've got to talk to Life -- see if he can make it so you can leave the Forbidden Forest before everything goes down."

"Before what?"

"Before Death finds you, of course."

..XoX..

The moment Harry is able to step out of the Forbidden Forest is the moment Death appears. Or, rather, Death's head.

No.

No, after a second look, that's not Death's head at all. It's just someone who looks very much like it.

"...Andre?" Harry breathes, stepping closer to the severed head. It is fresh. It's still bleeding. "Andre."

Someone kicks the head and it rolls, stopping at Harry's feet.

Harry bends and picks it up with shaking hands. He lifts one eyelid and yes, there. There are those defining eyes, those things that make this as his lover and not the man he looks so much like. "You killed him," Harry says, not even looking up.

Death stands across from him. Blood stains his boot from where he kicked and blood stains his hands from...

From where he decapitated Andre.

"I did," says Death, tone casual.

"Why?"

"I suppose I was jealous."

"You have no right," snarls Harry, "to be jealous."

Death tilts his head. He has such ugly eyes. He is nothing like Andre. "Don't I? That's not what the entirety of the wizarding world is going to think."

"Stop."

"We're going to be the new Dumbledore and Gellert, love. New and improved, mind you."

"Why are you doing this? Because I've been made the face of their movement? Because that's something I can undo. Because fuck those guys."

"Well, I think that reputation is coming undone," Death grins, "with or without your consent."

Harry drops the head and hugs himself, he didn't even wash off the blood, he realizes, holy shit, he didn't-- "Why," chokes Harry, "can't you just leave me the fuck alone?  Why can't you do me this one favor, this one thing?  You're not all bad, right? There's got to be some good in you. There's got to be more sides than this."

"Oh... Harry," he moves closer to Harry, cupping his face in his hands. "Harry, there is no other side. This is it."