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Chapter Text

Skull didn't exactly fit in (or even get along) with the rest of the Arcobaleno. This wasn't his fault and it wasn't quite theirs either. Honestly, they weren't the easiest group to get along with in the first place, as if their strongest flames demanded the strongest personalities to match.

In this way, at least, Skull fit in rather well. Skull de Mort was loud and brash and boastful and always got right back up no matter how hard he was pushed down (Reborn's sneered "Cockroach lackey" did nothing but amuse him). Sure, a lot of the personality of 'the Great Immortal Skull-sama' was a front, a farce, a well-loved suit he put on but it still was a very strong personality.

But even that which makes them alike sets him apart from the other pacifier holders. He was like a puzzle piece that seems like it should fit, so you force it in only to realize that where you were trying to put together a puzzle of a robot invasion, he was most definitely a piece of a puppy's ear.

To put it simply, they just didn't mesh well.

The others put it down to Harmonization, or the lack thereof, which isn't exactly wrong. While Luce had had her own loving set of Guardians before they all came together, she had the title of the Strongest Sky for a reason. The bonds between her and the others would never be as strong as her true Guardians, but they were stable enough that they could say they were all under the same Sky. All but Skull, of course.

It wasn't for lack of trying on Luce's part. She had had her flames 'casually' brush up against his every day. She had tried to tease or coax his own flames to mingle with hers. She had even once went as far as to try to suffocate him in a hug of Sky flames to get any reaction from his Cloud flames, but it just wasn't happening. And it wasn't any fault of hers either, really. For all her backstabbing and lying by omission of the cursed trap she knew she was leading them all into, Skull actually liked Luce. She was kind and warm and always had a smile ready to give him. The only problem is that she was too, well-- mortal.

So, it was definitely not her fault. She was very much mortal and Skull was very much not and that's all there was to it. Of course, Luce never understood that and if the 'unconditionally accepting and understanding Sky' doesn't understand, there was really no hope for the rest of their eclectic group to. That doesn't mean he likes it, however. The jeers, the name-calling, the physical abuse. If he were human, Skull had no doubt that he would hate every single one of them.

But he wasn't. Human, that is.

Skull's name hadn't always been Skull, nor had he always even had a name. He was there before the world's creation and he would be there still at its end. It had been only coincidence and happenstance that the last remaining purebred of the First Race had stumbled across Skull when he was parading around as a mortal and enjoying the world his companion, soulmate, and other half had created. Skull knew who Kawahira was, of course. The last member of a race that had brought themselves to ruin (as higher thinking mortals are wont to do) with a guilt complex and a god complex big enough to match the world's endless oceans.

Skull knew exactly what he was getting into when he accepted to join the I Prescelti Sette. He knew the curse and its terms and conditions and all the fine print that the rest of the group had no foreknowledge of (if you discount the seer, of course). Really, he joined on a whim. It was something to do, something new and exciting and as much as he loved being a stuntman and all it entailed, it gave him an excuse to quit for awhile. (He loved the adrenaline and risks and jumps and falls. Those were his favorite. The fans, the mortals, the humans that he performed for, to bring joy and laughter and smiles and amazement, they were only second and he was at heart a selfish person.)

The curse was to uphold the Balance of the world that the First Race had selfishly broken (his other half's world that they made from their very own essence and Skull loved it for it was all he had of them until they would wake). While Skull would still exist if the world ended, that didn't mean he wanted it to end. He wanted his Other to see the world they created, the life and joy and happiness of its inhabitants (he wanted them to see the sadness, bitterness, and cruelty less so).

Skull could technically uphold the Balance by himself, but it would weaken him significantly. (The Stones of Balance drew upon the power of flames to power themselves and the only flame that came to Skull easily were Cloud. He could force his Ether to change form into the other flames but it took much more energy than it was worth.) But by taking the spot of one center point, he was freeing one mortal from a life-ending curse that his Other would never approve of. And he got front row seats to watch over the others who are cursed. He had saved their unthankful necks more times than you can count on two hands, not that he really minded.

So yeah, Skull, the former Immortal Stuntman, and actual God of Death, didn't exactly get along with the rest of the Arcobaleno. But there was no need to point fingers or play the blame game because to Skull, it doesn't matter. He still likes them, as far as mortals go, and spending time under a curse was a rather good way to bond with creatures that are so fundamentally different than him.

Because they were his soulmate's creations and he cared for them all if only because of that. Yes, he understands them all in death, but what he wants and always fails at is to understand them in life.

So spending decades in the form of an infant human isn't a bad deal for Skull. It's not like he has anything better to do.

That is, until one night at the end of July he feels all the energies in the Earth rush up as if to greet and welcome someone home and he feels a stirring consciousness from the bond at the back of his mind that had always been asleep. Something that he had been impatiently waiting to happen since literally the beginning of time and he was trapped in the physical form of an infant.

Oh, shit.

It had never been this quiet in the Tower.

Over the past four months Harry had gotten used to the constant noise of his House. At it's quietest times of the day there was the loud crackle of fire and low chatter reverberating off the stone walls while usually there were joyful shouts and explosions and general loudness. Even at night you could hear sounds from the Common Room and the quiet (and not-so-quiet) sounds coming from your dormmates.

But tonight it was eerily silent in the Tower. With all but him and the Weasley children at home for the winter break, the general chaos of Gryffindor was toned down, and even Ron's usual loud snores were conspicuously absent, probably from wearing himself out during the excitement of the Christmas feast.

The only sounds he could hear from his spot on the opened window's ledge was the whistle of the December wind and Ron's quiet breathing.

The sky was clear and the mostly full moon shone brightly on the Hogwarts grounds. From this high up he could see the entirety of the Black Lake and over the Forbidden Forest that went on for miles. It probably wasn't safe to sit here, back leaning on one side of the window and knees tucked to his chest (the first time Neville found him here he fainted), but Harry had always had a certain affinity with heights. When he was way up here, it was as if he was untouchable, unreachable, and nothing could hurt him.

Today he got his first Christmas presents ever (No, a broken coat hanger does not count and he can't remember his first Christmas so that doesn't count either). The assortment of sweets he received is more than he even expected. The fact that Hagrid carved the owl flute for Harry himself blew him away. He only visited him for maybe an hour or two every couple weeks and yet the man had spent hours making a present for Harry by hand. It was humbling. The boy vowed to visit the half-giant more in the coming year.

That Ron's mother, who he had barely spoken a word to, had also made him a sweater she makes for her family as a yearly tradition was even more astonishing as he was sure he hadn't done anything special to get one other than be Ron's friend (he hadn't heard the twins saying anything about Lee getting one, the boy who was their best friend). Either way, Harry promised to himself to remember to thank the woman in person the next time he saw her, the short and messy thank you note he sent with Hedwig not being enough to portray his gratitude.

His favorite present by far was the one he was currently wearing, however. Glowing in the moonlight and flowing like slow running water in the breeze, the Invisibility Cloak was simply beautiful. Harry had come to accept that magic (magic, real actual magic) exists when he first stepped into Diagon Alley during the summer, so the fact that it can turn the wearer invisible is completely wicked but not the part that makes it his favorite present. The sender was cryptic and mysterious with their spindly writing and their 'Use it well' so it definitely wasn't his favorite due to his fondness of the sender.

No the reason for its significance to the boy was because that it belonged to his father. This is the first thing he had ever owned that had been something his parents had owned before him. Years ago his father had worn this shimmering cloak with the large billowing sleeves and hood. Did he ever feel the same comfort he got from it? Like there was some invisible entity wrapping its arms around him in a cool and comforting embrace. He hoped he did because right now, in this moment, staring at the night sky and wrapped in his Cloak in the silent Tower, he was the most happy and content Harry could ever recall himself being.

In a few months when he is staring at a burning corpse in horror and dread that had died in front of him, trying to kill him, by no power of Harry's own, he will think back and yearn and wish for this calm serenity that he had only managed to get a taste of before it was gone for good.

Chapter Text

In the beginning, there was nothing. It was not black and it was not white, for even something as simple as color did not exist. Only an infinite nothing that was neither large nor small because there was no such thing as physicalities. All that existed within it were him and the Other.

He couldn't tell you how long they were in the nothing for time had no meaning back then. In fact, nothing had meaning for there was only nothing. Only him and the Other and the Other wasn't even awake. It was just there and all he knew with certainty was that it existed and he existed.

He's not sure when the Other became his Other, but it was both a natural progression and something that felt undeniably right. After all, his Other was a completely separate entity and yet seemingly a part of him. He could feel both of their Ether, that which is all that they were made of, connected by an unbreakable bond. Through it, he could feel his Other's emotions, even sleeping as they were.

It was because of his intense focus on his Other back then that he even noticed that they were, to put it simply, storing energy. As beings of Ether, the longer they existed the more they produced. But instead of just letting the excess go and release into the nothingness around them, his sleeping Other was hoarding Ether, even going so far as to leech some of his own through their bond.

It was only out of curiosity that he first sent some of his Ether through their bond purposefully. The reaction from his Other was immediate and excited, filled with joyous warmth and happiness and taking as much as he was willing to give. In the end he was drained but it was worth it to feel the usually muffled emotions from his bonded be so lively.

This cycle of making and giving Ether to his Other continued on, whether it was minutes or millions of millennia, he doesn't know. What he does know is that one moment it felt as if his Other was fit to burst with Ether and then the next, there was light.

In seconds what was once an endless nothing was suddenly filled. Countless stars filled with his Other's Ether burning bright and hot, great mounds of rock and ice and metal and so many other things that had never existed before. And color! Oh, color was such a sight to see (for now there was things that could actually be seen!).

But out of everything there was, that which held the most of his other half's Ether, even more that the burning stars, was one particular planet orbiting a star. It was overcome with lush greenness and plentiful water. Everything on it was alive with his Other's Ether overflowing. Out of all that his other half created at that first time, their world was the most beautiful, a veritable paradise.

But his Other wasn't able to see what they had made, for they were in deeper a sleep than they ever had been before. Even that constant pulling of Ether from him to them had lowered to more of a trickle. That was the first time he had ever experienced true loneliness. When there was nothing but nothingness, he hadn't felt this longing to enjoy his existence with the Other. But seeing all that they made, the beauty, the vividness, the life-- well, it was an experience that was best not to be made alone.

Though there was still nothing physical about him, when he first touched one of his Other's creations and it withered, he was sure he cried. His Other had put such effort and all that he was into this world and he can only ruin it. But it is when he feels the now freed Ether return to him, along with all the sensations and feelings and memories it had that he realizes what he is. His Other is Creation, Life, and he, he is Destruction, Death. The Ether that his Other put into the world is returned to him when it is through and he funnels it back to them to create again.

He knows it was his loneliness that influenced his Other's next creation. Even asleep his feelings must have been strong to reach them. And thus when his Other let out their next pulse of power, what was created was the First Race, powerful and intelligent thinking beings with their own Will.

He is entertained by them at first. Watching them learn and grow and come into themselves. At times he went down to the Earth, as they have named his Other's world, to take on a physical form and mingle with them.

They were an interesting people, for sure, with personalities and thought and civilization. His Other made them powerful with the ability to manipulate the Ether that made up their soul and the Ether in the world around them as well. The Ether that made up their soul, their Flames of Will, were powerful in and of themselves, but added with the ability to take the great supply of his Other's very essence around them and command it and suddenly they had the power of gods. They could do great and wondrous feats, horrible and potentially world ending feats, and everything in between. This wouldn't have been bad had corruption never entered their hearts.

Because they were only mortals, no matter how incredible long lived, as all mortals must, they eventually died. The first death of the First Race hit them hard. It had been a few centuries since they were first created but it seemed they had never entertained the idea of a time limit of their stay on his Other's paradise of a world. To make it worse, the first soul of the First Race he welcomed back into the Ether died by murder.

That really set the tone for the next era. What had once been a new species looking at wonder at the world and learning and growing and evolving turned into a race that tried to force each other into submission under the euphoric high of power that should have never been theirs to command.

It was a bloody and vile time of history and the emotions of the souls he welcomed back to the Ether influenced his own. It was both heartbreaking and frustrating to watch his other half's creations destroy themselves for glory and dominance. It was even worse to watch them destroy his Other's world in their quest for power, using the very gifts his Other gave them. They managed to tie the world's Ether to stones and those who had control of the stones lived like bloody Kings, lording themselves over their own kind.

In the end, the First Race brought themselves to ruin. The race that had once been plentiful was now only a fraction of their number and the very balance of the world was disturbed by their actions. With all the Ether of the deceased souls returning to him and then transferring to his counterpart, his Other was able to send out another pulse of their power and make a new creation, this time much less powerful. The Second Race, humans, were similar in appearance to the First Race and they also had the same ability to access the Ether of their soul, though it was locked much tighter inside themselves than in the First Race. They did not possess the ability to use his Other's essence that had so thoroughly corrupted their First Race.

What was left of the First Race assimilated into the humans culture, and their offspring would have a much more tempered version of the First Gift, which would be called Magic. Those who wanted to atone for their race's previous sins against the world went out to change the same stones that stole the world's Ether with to give it back. The Balance of the world was still broken, but at least it was now stable.

Humans were an interesting race. With their ephemeral lifespans, they evolved much faster and were more prone to living in the moment, something he greatly admired. They enjoyed the life they were given much more than their predeccessors. Of course evil and cruelty and despair still existed, but the resilient humans were able to move forward afterwards much easier.

This time he kept his distance from his Other's creations. They died so quickly and he wasn't sure he could take it if he was emotionally close to them and they tore themselves apart while he had to watch. He went from one identity to the next, appearing to some as a God and others as a beggar, but never staying long enough to care for them more than he already did for being his Other's creation. It wasn't a worthwhile existence but it was something to do. And all the while his Other slept on.

His period of isolation didn't last long. Oh it did by mortal standards, make no mistake, but for him it took a depressingly short amount of time before he was pulled back into his other half's creation's society, with all their bright and fluctuating emotions and moods and trends and Will. It began first when he gave those witty yet foolish wizards three gifts he had made for his Other and began peripherally watching over them as they passed from one mortal's possession to another, and then it was exacerbated by one mortal he had been particularly fond of during the time of the Black Plague. Either way, he was dragged back into his Other's world, whether he liked it or not.

And he did like it. Yes, the Second Race could be just as cruel and bloodthirsty as the First, but they did not command unstoppable powers and were much more prolific. He didn't really see the end of their race coming anytime too soon. That reassurance made him complacent, let him enjoy his Other's world and all it had to offer. It made the aching loneliness in the back of his mind ebb and made him take dire and unnecessary risks for kicks because there would be no consequences to an immortal like him.

Except there was a consequence apparently, because his physical form is stuck in the shape of a human infant and he can feel his other half going through the Veil and into the niche between Life and Death.

If his Other was mortal, they would be dead.

It's a chilling thought that he's not sure exactly how he feels about. So he chooses to feel nothing, for now, and go greet them for the first time. He had been waiting a long time for this moment, after all.

The In-Between was a vast expanse of white that every soul passes through upon reaching Death's embrace before they return to Ether. Time is meaningless in this space as it does not exist in any physical way so a soul may dither here for a small or large eternity before they finally push On, though most pass through so quickly that they never even see the In-Between at all.

The form the space takes is also very individual to each soul. A personal Limbo will often take the shape of someplace that soothes a weary soul or a place that has impacted the soul enough to leave an imprint on it.

Death wasn't sure what he expected to see when entering his counterpart's Limbo, but the train station he was in was most certainly not it. It wasn't that the scene was something unusual for a Limbo, as train stations symbolized new beginnings and hope and moving forward. But his Other's station was cold and impersonal, the very air in the In-Between frozen, as if holding its breath. Nothing of the warmth and vibrance and Life that he has gotten to know from an eternity of being Bonded to his other half.

It wasn't the first time since he felt his counterpart's Awakening that he wondered how they lived and worried that happy and well wasn't the answer. The unnatural stillness of the atmosphere in the In-Between just compounded the thought.

The only spot of color in the array of white was his Other. Bare as the day he was born bar the shimmering Cloak he made for him hanging loosely and open and a plain ring on his finger, the Stone which was once a mere river pebble gleaming like obsidian. He was a pitiful thing at first glance, all sharp edged and hollow cheeked added onto an already thin and small figure, but one look in his eyes and all previous thoughts are out the window. Green, green, green, the color of Life and Nature and blazing like an unending, raging inferno. There was more Will in those eyes than Death had ever seen in any other being. They were defiantly, hauntingly, brilliantly beautiful and rather than unnerve him, as they would no doubt do to all others, they put the ancient being at ease. Yes, they seemed to say, I am Alive.

Death took an unconscious step towards the one he had been waiting for for so long before he notices that he is physically taking a step, meaning he is in the form of a body instead of merely being an invisible, intangible everywhere that he truly is. Death could take the form of loved ones and hated ones and anyones that has passed On to help a newly departed soul settle itself before it will return to Ether.

A glance down at long spindly, wrinkled hands and Death reaches into his vast volume of Ether to find who he is currently masquerading as for his Other. A few seconds and he has what was once the soul of the man whose form he was wearing and the entirety of his life's memories and emotions in his mind. And oh, how Death burns as he learns of what this man did to his other half, by action and inaction. Though he now has a name to put to his companion's human face.

His next step forward echoes through the station and the boy's hunched form whips towards him, hand tightening around the Elder Wand in his hand and eyes blazing in warning like a feral animal. It is heartening to see he received his gifts at least. Less so to be threatened with them.

The words that Death is ready to spew taste sour as he begins his newest charade and opens his mouth--

"You're not Dumbledore."

The words ring out through the empty station and Death feels a warmth unfurl within him. A few mere seconds in his presence and he sees past the mask that no mortal ever does. If nothing else, then this would prove that he was the one he had been waiting for.

The words were a mere statement, with no accusation, and certainly not a question, but he answered anyways, voice smooth and raspy and high and deep all at once.

"No," he said, the sky blue eyes of Dumbledore looking oddly heavy without the distinctive twinkle, "Does it matter?"

The boy seems momentarily surprised at the question, before a visible bone-deep weariness and acceptance took hold of him.

"No," he replied dully, voice a mocking echo of his former words, yet sounding so so tired. Green eyes assessed him before looking away, drawing the Cloak tighter around him.

"So, I'm dead then?"

This one is a question, but there is no urgency or horror in it. No, begging or crying or despair or anger or any of the other countless negative emotions Death has seen other's devolve to when they realize that. It makes him feel like something in him had been carved out with a particularly cold and jagged knife and his replied "No," is far harsher than he had originally meant it to be in turn.

The boy was once more completely focused on him, eyes sharp and narrowed in confusion and suspicion. His mouth begins to open, to say what, Death doesn't know, only to be interrupted by a terrible cry breaking the stillness in the air. The source is a what looks like a deformed toddler in fetal position under the station bench the boy is standing beside. One small, wrinkly hand clutches on the Cloak's edge as the sound tapers off.

The boy looks morbidly curious as he crouches down, right hand twitching as if it to touch the mangled soul. He refrains, but does not look away as he asks, "What is it?"

Death could answer that question in many ways. He knows from the previous life-memory rush that the man whose form he was using would have given the most cryptic and frankly useless of answers to the boy, so he decides to do the opposite and offer him blunt honesty. Hopefully his Other would appreciate the sentiment.

"That is a piece of a soul that followed you through the Veil of Life and Death and into Limbo."

The boy mouths the word 'veil' in pain before grimacing with a muttered, "Tom Riddle."

Death looked at the fractured piece of a mortal soul that was so desperately trying to cling to its Creator's warmth and energy. The pitiful thing truly was like an errant child, crying for Life and his full attention and acceptance, even though it had committed countless atrocities towards the Being throughout its life.

But the boy merely stared with his too green eyes before asking what would happen to it. Despite all the pain the owner of the soul had reaped upon him, he still cared for it, still visibly longed to reach for it and cradle the mangled mess of a soul to his chest. It was something Death could not understand but found himself in awe of nonetheless.

"It will pass On as all souls do, nothing more or less," he finally said, hoping it would comfort his other half. It would appear so, at least, according to the loosening of his tensed shoulders and the fact that he stood from his crouch long enough to actually sit on the bench, still in reach for the whimpering thing's greedy hands.

With a hand restlessly twirling the Elder Wand, the boy gazed thoughtfully out at the white empty tracks before finally asking, "And what will happen to me now?"

Death's unnecessary breaths stop as he contemplates his answer. This could be the moment to tell him, he realizes. The moment he can finally have his counterpart by his side, eternal and unending, just like him. But no, because the boy is just a boy right now, with a harsh life that he is only peripherally aware of. He isn't ready, not yet. But he will be, soon, and Death vows to find him on the physical plane once he is. The steady hum of their intertwining Ether plays in the back of his mind, a promise of their long separation ending soon.

The Being of Destruction looks at his better half and smiles wryly as he replies, "You live."

His Other looks at him now, green green eyes staring into his very soul as he begins to fade away and return to his physical body.

"You live," he repeats to the boy, the teen, the soldier, the Creater, as his form becomes more and more transparent, "And I shall find you, Harry Potter."

And then they both would never be alone again.

Chapter Text

There is a puttering in his kitchen, the clanging of pots and pans that he knows will only serve to piss off his near senile house elf and disgruntle his more eccentric one. He tries to keep his annoyance at the continuous chatter to himself.

It's July 31st.

It's his eighteenth birthday, among other things. Born as the seventh month dies, and all.

July 31st, two days away from three months since the end of the war. Exactly ninety days since the Final Battle.

July 31st, the day he damned his family by being born. The day he's never celebrated before he turned eleven. The day he doesn't particularly feel like celebrating at all, in fact.

The day he's probably going to strangle the closest thing he has to a mother figure if she doesn't shut up.

"And it really can't be good for you to stay in this gloomy home all by yourself, dear. You know you are welcome to stay at the Burrow whenever you want, right? We have the room especially since..."

Mrs. Weasley's voice trailed off and Harry could see the bags under her eyes and the stressed wrinkles on her face clearly from his armchair in the private sitting room off the kitchen. He felt bad for her, really, he did, but after listening to her nattering (about the state of the house, about the state of the ministry, about the state of himself) for going on an hour now, his well of patience has ran dry.

"Well, enough of that, just know you can stay with us. Of course you'll be back to school in only one more month so..."

And that, right there, is where his capacity to hold his tongue breaks.

"I'm not going back to school."

His words are calm and final. He wants in no way to be harsh to the woman who has welcomed him with open arms since he met her, but there are limits, lines he will not cross to please others. Not anymore.

Molly Weasley, as a woman who raised seven children, one of which regularly wrestles with dragons, is not deterred. The other people inside the old Black Townhouse (namely Ron, Kingsley, and Tonks) all grimace at the fight they can see brewing from the second the kindly old witch's back straightens.

"Now, Harry dear," cue another wince from the peanut gallery, "You need to finish your education. And Hogwarts is being very accommodating to those whose education was interrupted because of... And after all that unpleasantness it will be good for you children to relax."

Harry's jaw clenched as he tried to keep a level tone. "That 'unpleasantness' as you put it was a war, Mrs. Weasley. A war in which I was a major part of, as were countless other 'children.' A war which ended on said school's grounds."

A deep breath and bright green eyes stared her down as he finished his piece with, "I will not be returning to Hogwarts."

The woman was obviously shaken, hands that were just beginning to wrinkle twisting uncomfortably in her apron. But she had been a Gryffindor with nerves of steel for a reason and she proves it when she takes a shuddering breath and tries again.

"But Harry-"

A loud slam interrupts her attempt. All turn towards the jarring sound to see a red faced Ron, hands splayed across the oak tea table. He's visibly vibrating, his long muscled and scarred arms leaning on the table seeming to be the only things keeping him from self-combusting. When looking at him now, a large hardened warrior with choppy orange hair and cold, furious, blue eyes, it is hard to recall the eleven year old boy with limbs too long for his body, floppy hair and freckles with a fiery temper that he had first met what seems so long ago.

"Stop. Just stop, Mum," his words are as cold as his eyes, "Harry's a bloody adult and can make his own fucking choices."

His face is still flaming but his grin is all ice and viciousness as he continues, "This is probably a good time to mention I won't be going for my 'Eighth Year' either."

Mrs. Weasley had been shocked into silence by her son's rage at first, but in light of his last proclamation her fire returns. Her face begins to match his as she starts with a loud, "Ronald!"

But Ron is apparently done, with this conversation, with this farce, with his life, as he stops her.

"No. We aren't kids, Mum. It's time you realize that."

And the fight leaves the woman in the view of her youngest son's frozen ire. The man she sees before her is no boy, but the brilliant strategist that helped their side win a bloody civil war without mercy for the casualties he caused.

No, perhaps the thought that her little boy would return to her if he was was among the general ambience of a Hogwarts school year was a pipe dream. Her little boy was gone. Harry could see her breaking inside as she gave a wobbly smile.

"All right," she said, breath hitching as she smoothed out her apron, "All right."

Kingsley looked as if he would rather be anywhere else as he studiously focused on the tome in his hand. Harry sympathized.

Mrs. Weasley was once more moving around his kitchen, clutching onto pans as if they were her last line of defense.

"Well, it's still Harry dear's birthday so we should be," a hiccup or an aborted sob, "celebrating. Now what's your favorite meal and which kind of cake do you prefer?"

Harry's limit to deal with other human beings has officially been reached and all he wants is to sleep for an entire week. He doesn't want a feast or sweets, and he says as much when he replies, in the kindest way he can manage when he is at the proverbial end of his rope.

"I think I would like to just be alone for the night, Mrs. Weasley. It's been great to see you all though."

His words may have been a little strained, but can you blame him? Mrs. Weasley, of course, gave him a look like he just drowned her favorite kneazle in front of her, but what can you do. With obvious reluctance she relinquishes his pans and moved in to the sitting room with the rest of them and, most importantly, a useable floo.

Her farewells are downtrodden and hurt but Harry can't bring himself to feel overly bad. Kingsley, likewise, excuses himself quickly with a relieved countenance and promises to see him later.

Tonks looks awkward as she moves from her position on the couch, and smiles at his crooked apologetic grin. "I've got to get back home, anyways. Mum shouldn't be left with Teddy this long in her condition."

A flash of emerald flame and the only ones left were Harry and Ron, just how it started out at the beginning. Looking up at his tall friend, Harry can't help but regret that he was a large part of the evolution of his best friend from a dorky slacker to his merciless right hand.

Cold, cold blue eyes soften ever so slightly as he looks back at Harry.

"Happy Birthday, Harry."

He feels every inch of the tired grin as it snakes across his face.

"Thanks, Ron."

Harry would recognize those dull pink paisley wallpapered walls anywhere after so many hours of his life went into scrubbing them clean. Every dot and swirl and minor stain is permanently etched into his memory. The living room of Number Four, Privet Drive looked picture perfect, a stilled moment captured in time. The only thing incongruous with the sight was the view outside the window and the inhabitant of the plum armchair his uncle had always favored.

The girl in the chair was beautiful, because of course she was. She was Hermione, after all. Beautiful, tenacious, and bright Hermione with the flyaway hair and a dangerous glint of intelligence in her eyes. Hermione who made magic into a science without taking the wonder out of it. Hermione with the dirt streaked face and gaping wound in her side, clothes shred open and stained with dried and congealed blood, torn muscle and flesh on view for all to see. Hermione who was dead.

He tore his eyes from her and stared out the window. It showed a forest, never-ending towering trees and the sort of encroaching darkness that only seems to appear in a person's most feared nightmares, when all that is good and light is but a fleeting memory. Harry would bet half of his inheritance that it was the Forbidden Forest, the forest where he died.

Where he came back to life.

"You know this isn't healthy, Harry."

Her voice is crisp and clear with that concerned and yet 'I know better than you' that she had used oh so many times in their years of friendship. It hurts so much to hear it when the last he heard of her were gasps and gurgles and half-uttered words that--

He resolutely focuses on the pictures of a supposedly perfect and normal family instead. Combed blonde hair on a face that looked more swine than boy was preferable to what he knew he would see if he turned his head a few mere degrees.

"You can't run away forever."

Harry's mouth feels dry. His eyes trace his aunt's sharp cheekbones and astonishingly long neck as he asks, "How am I running if I haven't moved?"

He can imagine her disapproving stare and the frown on her lips (coated in dried blood and cracked, a disfigurement on her old radiant smiles and sweet loving chaste kisses to Ron) and it makes his stomach flip. His uncle's stomach is particularly distended in the photo from Christmas of '86. That year was the one where Dudley ate the stringed popcorn off the tree and Harry got blamed for it. An empty stomach on Christmas.

"He's dead, Harry. The war is over. And here you are wallowing in your guilt and self-pity while the rest of the survivors are trying to pick up the pieces of their lives and put them back together again."

It was said with the vehement disgust and condescension that he had first heard from her in First Year in regards to rule breaking, when life was simple and not turning your homework in or sneaking out past curfew was the biggest sin they could commit. And just like back then it lights an indignant fire in his belly and he turns to her, green eyes blazing.

"Guilt and self-pity?! Is that what you call it? They looked to me to save them, Hermione, to lead them. Well, lead them I did. Right into a slaughter! How can I continue on when they can't? When you-"

(didn't make it.)

His words and fire died out as quickly as they came, his whole being feeling like frayed edges and broken glass. He's tired.

Hermione's face has softened, warm brown eyes looking into his. Even the harsh scratch marks on her cheeks from stray branches and the unforgiving and merciless ground seemed to lessen in severity.

"Harry you couldn't save everyone. You know that."

The soft and careful tone breaks him further and he feels acutely like he's been gutted and hollowed out, like there is an immense nothingness where there is supposed to be blood and tissue and a steady beating heart.

Of course he knows he couldn't save them all. He tried, Merlin knows how hard he tried. But they still fell. One after another. His comrades, his friends, his family. And he felt all the worse because he knows, he knows, that he yearned, wished, prayed that it had been someone else, some other no named face who looked up at him as a leader and savior. Someone with a life and family and friends of their own that he would callously throw away if it meant she had lived. He's a horrible, selfish person.

"Harry," she breathes, voice as soft a caress as her hand on his cheek, "Look."

His head moves with the push of her hand so he is once more looking out the window. The scene hasn't changed, the same foreboding trees and darkness and he turns to look at her in confusion only to see that they are both no longer inside the quaint and unsavory living room of his childhood. Behind them stood the edge of the forest, and beyond that was a scene he had tried his hardest to forget.

Hogwarts' grounds, teeming with still and bloody bodies of friend and foe alike. The sight of the aftermath of the Final Battle, the Battle of Hogwarts he had heard some call it afterwards. But there were no survivors in sight, no one crying over a prone and cold loved one, no one tending to those who were hurt, no one screaming at the heavens, whether in relief or agony or victory or sheer unbridled emotion, Harry never knew.

Only dead bodies and an unnatural silence.

And there, right in the center was the body that housed his nemesis, his enemy, his murderer, the body he had seen out of at night when he dreamt visions of horror and torture and death. He who had died by his own curse being thrown back at him after a battle of wills between enemy warlords.

"They're dead, Harry. Every single one of them. No phoenix fire or miracle resurrection. We're gone and we're never coming back."

The words are stated matter-of-factedly and not unkindly but they still feel like a knife to the gut.

Hermione turns towards him, eyes beseechingly searching his. Her next words are said with a gravity and certainty, chosen especially to impart and sear the words into his brain.

"But you're not. You're alive, Harry. And it's time for you to live."

Green eyes snap open as a wand snaps into a ready hand, heart pumping fast with adrenaline and the taste of blood, sweat, dirt, tears heavy in his mouth.

Harry wakes up.

The air in the Leaky Cauldron is damp and filled with dust. There is more than one questionable stain littering the walls and what is clearly Dark spell residue in more than one area of the pub. Despite it not having changed much visually since the first time Harry stepped in seven years ago, the atmosphere of the place certainly had.

War affects everything, after all.

He was hid under the long cloak Dobby had laid out for him along with his outfit for the day. Thankfully his house elf's eccentric taste in clothes only applied to what the elf himself preferred to wear. When he mentioned he planned to go out the elf had immediately knew to choose an outfit to give him the most inconspicuous voyage into the outside world he could manage, being Harry Potter, most famous man in all of Wizarding Britain.

As the smell of one of the patron's breakfast hit his nose, he was incredibly glad he had folded to Kreacher's ranting and raving and ate the breakfast the worried and irate elf prepared for him. Because there was no way in Hell that Harry would touch whatever was on the man's plate.

Rationing was terrible. Luckily Harry's troops had had the upper hand by being able to blend in in the Muggle world enough to get supplies from their non-magical brethren.

With a swish of his robes and a purposeful stride, Harry swiftly moved towards the alley, giving a brief nod to Tom who gave a respectful bow back. The man recognized his walk and height but had the discretion to keep his mouth shut, which had made him an invaluable ally.

The alley was dull in comparison to his first glimpse of it. The overflowing magic and people and laughter and color was gone. In its place was dark colors and few suspicious witches and wizards, keeping to themselves and hiding under dark robes. It was a shame what had happened to the whole society, no matter how backwards and prejudiced it originally was.

He walked straight passed Flourish & Blotts and down a side road. He was looking for a book but it wouldn't be one that would be sold at such a regulated and well-known store like that. He had heard from one of his contacts that the book in question had been spotted in an old shady used book store down one of the side alleys that were only marginally safer than Knockturn.

The old brass bell above the door rings out and Harry steps into Bibble's Books, which sounded a lot cuter than than it really was. The shop was dark and cramped, with countless dusty and dirty shelves teeming with battered and old books and the air tasted like stale magic. The old wizard behind the till looked as if he was born in the previous century, which wouldn't be overly surprising in the Wizarding world. Harry assumed he was Bibble.

"I have been told you have a few certain books on fire magic," Harry stated, getting straight to the point. Bibble smirked, his many many wrinkles making the vicious smile grotesque.

"Aye, I have a few. Though a wee lad like yerself ought to know that most Elemental Magicks are banned by the Ministry," was the old man's croaked reply, sounding utterly smug and condescending for being a mere bookshop owner.

Harry didn't repress his snort as he snapped back, "Not much of a Ministry right now to do anything about it and even if there was, that wouldn't matter. I'm looking for a book not legal advice."

Bibble seemed pleased by his snide tongue rather than offended and Harry wasn't sure if that should piss him off or not.

It did anyways.

"Well, then, what are ye lookin' for boyo? A little candlelighter, a camp fire, or someth'n to bring the ol' fire of London back ta mind?"

Harry kept his jaw set as he did his best to ignore the prodding and the teasing tone of the old man's cracking voice.

"I told you I'm looking for a book. A specific one that I've been told you have in stock. One whose title is simply Fyre, with a 'Y', no written author, and a picture of a phoenix on the inside title page."

The old man's deranged humor abruptly leaves and Harry is facing a dark and emotionless face. Harry would be scared if he hadn't spent the last near three years in a war.

"And what would a boy like you be lookin' for a book like that?"

Harry doesn't feel intimidated in the slightest and he proves it by pinning the man with his burning green gaze that had been hiding under his cloak the entire conversation.

"Because I need it. Now are you a bookseller or not?"

Bibble doesn't look happy with his response and proves it with a decidedly hideous sneer, but he still nods his head and hobbles to the back of the shop where Harry can hear the rustling of old parchment and leather.

Five minutes later and the old man reappears, an extremely old book in his grasp. Harry steps closer to the counter as the man holds it out, only to stop right before he lets it reach the teen's hands.

"That'll be five galleons, boy."

Harry only just stops himself from outright gaping. A galleon could feed his main troops for a fortnight. And that included Ron!

Bibble still seems to see his astonishment as he grins nastily back at him.

"Times are tough nowadays, lad. Now do ye want the book or not?" he asks, purposefully throwing his words back in his face.

The teen sneers back before sticking his hand in his expandable pocket in his robe that he keeps for emergency money. Luckily he always carries upwards of thirty galleons on him, no matter how much Hermione would always complain about it being a waste when they could lose their clothes so easily from a wayward spell. And giving that much money to the enemy was never a good idea. But well, it was useful in times like these or when they had needed to bribe people to keep their bloody mouths shut.

Five galleons are then slammed on the dirty counter and Harry roughly grabs the book from the old man's hands. He stomps out of the store, determinately ignoring the old croaky hysteric laughter over the brass bell's tinkle.

Harry carefully stuffs the old tome into a large side pocket of his cloak, trying to calm his anger. Harry had been getting incessantly more angry as time went on. All his energy during the war had an outlet and now it was like he was an old pop bottle that had been shaken and was now ready to burst with all his unused energy. He wasn't coping well. He knows this, just like he knows his dream was his mind's attempt to force him to try to cope, using the one person who would make him do so if she was still here.

But she wasn't. It was just Harry, who grew up locked inside a cupboard with no one to teach him something as simple as how to deal with as emotions, and Ron, who Hermione had rightfully said had the emotional capacity of a teaspoon. No help there. Harry's anger issues would have to be dealt with as he deals with anything (as in, if it affects others, deal with it head on, and if it only affects him, (which so far, it does) don't deal with it at all).

His musing are cut short as a middle aged witch stumbles into him as he steps out of the side alley and into Diagon proper. He mentally curses when he realizes how much taller she is than him, when she's clearly only of average height.

The motion knocked his hood down and now his face is available for all to see, including the witch who he had rudely ran into. But instead of being indignant, when she sees his face she kneels as if to pray, immediately clutching onto his right hand and face looking up at him in awe and adoration.

"Lord Potter, it is such an honor to see you."

The words are loud in the barely populated alley, the words echoing off the old stone buildings. Like blood in water, the call brings all the inhabitants of the alley to swarm him. Suddenly he is having his hand shook by everyone, more people coming out of shops just to get a glimpse of him. So much reverence and wonder and gratitude upon all their faces that it makes him sick to the stomach.

It's like his introduction to the Wizarding world all over again, except worse. Because he knows the faces of all those who he has failed, who looked at him just like this and now they are dead, dead, dead, and it's all too much and he needs to get out.

With a loud crack he disappears from the alley, leaving behind a throng of people in a loose circle.