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King's Cross was quiet, the silence an echoing, hollow sound that seeped through his very bones. This wasn't the last thing he had expected when he died at Voldemort's hands, but it wasn't the first thing he had expected either.

He mainly expected to finally be at peace—here in spades, in every nook and cranny he decided to explore, in the silence that held no expectations.

"Harry Potter," a voice called out, and it was a voice that Harry would recognise anywhere. He turned sharply around to its source and was surprised to find Tom Riddle in front of him, next to a woman that seemed vaguely familiar, as if he had met her a lifetime ago but couldn't place who—or what— she was.    

But Harry wasn't concentrating on her at the moment, gazing at Tom with an intensity that was only rivalled by Tom's gaze at him like Harry was a mouse stuck under a trap of Tom's own making. And it was Tom, not Voldemort—carrying the same intelligent gaze Harry had seen back in his second year, that hadn't been marked by the madness that had consumed him after making multiple Horcruxes. This Tom looked whole.

"Tom…" Harry said reverently, shocked when Voldemort only smiled at his usage of his birth name, his eyes gleaming like stars. At that moment, Harry realised there was something endless about him as if he had become something else.

Sensing Harry's thoughts, Tom's smile only grew wider—a toothy, dangerous smile that Harry, for once, couldn't find within himself to recoil at.

The woman standing next to Tom, who had been watching the scene unfold with a sense of detached amusement, finally decided to speak up. "Little brother, I know you have a lot to catch up on, but I also have a job to do," she said, her smile evident despite the harshness of her tone. Little brother? Harry wondered, resisting the urge to let a slightly hysterical laugh escape. "Death doesn't wait for anyone, you know."

Tom rolled his eyes, though Harry didn't fail to notice the twitch of annoyance at being referred to as such. Judging from the woman's amused look, she had said it exactly to elicit that kind of reaction.

"Say your piece and leave, then."

The woman— no , Harry realised, thinking he had known it all along in the back of his mind, Death —rolled her eyes. "I didn't think anyone could have worse bedside manners than Morpheus, and yet…" she muttered. Then, she looked at Harry, and there was a warmth in her eyes that reminded him of times long gone, of aeons that flashed by within the blink of an eye, an expression that made Harry ache. "You have two choices, Harry—"

"Three," Tom interrupted, his voice brokering no argument.

"Three, then," Death said, her eyes never leaving Harry's. Harry would have found it intimidating at one point, but all he could feel was a sense of kinship with this being, who had witnessed the coming and going of life, of life times, and had still endured. "Long ago, I gave three creations of my own making to three brothers. I assume you know the rest."

"Wait—I'm actually Master of Death? I thought—"

"No one was ever supposed to be Master of Death," Death replied with a wry smile. "The wand inspired greed and destruction within everyone who owned it, who got too cocky with their newfound powers. As a result, it wasn't in anyone's hands for too long. The stone caused madness—a madness of their own making, knowing that they could only get a mere reflection of their loved ones, never the real thing. The cloak was the only creation that didn't cause any harm—mostly because I liked the youngest brother better than any of the others. No one could have wielded all my creations at once. But…"

"You're special, my Harry," Tom said, something resembling greed in his eyes.

"So what does this mean for me, exactly?" Harry asked, choosing to ignore Tom for the moment.

"You're immortal, Harry," Death said bluntly. Before Harry could react, she continued, "At least until you decide you have had enough time living and call out for me. You could decide to go on today, you know."

"I could go back, or I could… die," Harry said, the words feeling as if they were coming from someone else.

"Exactly."

"Or you could stay with me," Tom said, the greed in his eyes still present. "I'm the new Dream-King, my Harry, and I would not hesitate to have you by my side."

Harry bit back the reflexive no that wanted to come out of his mouth. "But why ?" he said, the frustration and confusion he’d been holding back finally coming out. "You literally killed me five minutes ago, and now you want me to, what? Become your husband—"

"I told you he wouldn't agree," Death said.

"Oh, but my dear Harry," Tom said, possessiveness curling through his every word. "Without you, I wouldn't have become sane, wouldn't have become this, at all ."

"I didn't fucking ask, did I?" Harry snapped. "I didn't ask for any of this, especially not to be another plaything of yours after you finally saw someone who was interesting—"

"But I've always found you interesting , Harry. I just never realised how much. So much power you have, so much untapped potential," Tom Riddle responded, his eyes gleaming with a fervour that didn't do anything to disguise the desperation that was present beneath. Harry stopped in his tirade for a moment, surprised that Tom could feel anything other than obsession, anything at all.

It’s like looking at a distorted version of yourself, isn't it? A traitorous part of his mind whispered. And Harry couldn't do anything to disagree with that, with the ache he had felt every time Dumbledore had summoned him to relieve memories of Tom to show him what the man had been before he had become inhuman. In him, he could see another who was desperate to escape a world where he had been abused, to stay in a place that meant warmth and comfort but only on the surface.

No wonder Voldemort had become the monster he once was.

No wonder Harry could only feel resignation every time he confronted Voldemort, the anger softening into a weariness that leaked understanding and sorrow.

"This conversation isn't going anywhere," Death spoke up, her voice mild. She glanced at Tom for a moment, her expression unreadable for once. "Harry—I wish I could stay longer, I really do. But duty calls! The choice is in your hands, remember that." With that, she vanished, leaving Tom and Harry alone, for the first time since Harry had seen him in a distorted memory of Tom Riddle back in his second year.

The choice is in your hands. He had never expected that, with the careful machinations that Dumbledore had placed, so confident that Harry would follow his path to the end. It seemed fitting, somehow, that he would only get the choice, the choice to choose, with his death itself.

"You know what my choice is, don't you?" Harry said, more than asked, his anger had cooled down for the moment.

"I hoped you wouldn't, but… I was never able to control you," Tom said, his expression resigned. "Or kill you, for that matter."

Harry was startled into a laugh.

Tom smiled with a warmth that Harry never saw in the Voldemort he knew. "I'm never going to give up on you, my Harry. One day, you will be mine."

"I'd like to see you try," Harry shot back, ever the Gryffindor. Though a part of him knew that this was inevitable, though it would take years, decades, and more than a lifetime.

Ever since that fateful night on Godric's Hollow, he had always been Tom's, a baby with a piece of his enemy's soul stuck to his own. Tom seemed to sense his thoughts but never said anything as he kept smiling that hopeless, desperate smile that had Harry fighting for words.

"I will see you later then, my Harry," Tom said, the illusion of King's Cross fading behind him, recognising Harry's choice for what it was.

Harry could only nod as he felt himself being tugged backwards towards life.

It was only later, much later, when Harry was finally lying in his bed, surrounded by his friends and their comfort, that he realised he had never objected to Tom calling him my Harry.

That night, Harry dreamed. He dreamed, first, of the Hogwarts' defenders while the Death Eaters carried Voldemort's body between them, out for blood. He dreamed of being carried in Hagrid's arms, only emerging from his invisibility cloak to aim a well-placed curse on Rudolphus Lestrange, the voices of Ron and Hermione crying out still ringing in his ears.

He dreamt, afterwards, of the people he had fought with.

Ron dreamt he was at the Burrow, his mother happily serving up food for everyone that asked for seconds. She was beaming, and so was everyone—even Harry and Hermione, who seemed to be part of the gathering. But the smiles turned more fixed, more practised, as Ron gazed at Fred and George, knowing something was wrong and not knowing what it was.

Hermione dreamt she was back with her parents in Australia, their memory restored. She was smiling, her face set in contentment, knowing everything was finally okay. All was well.

Luna dreamt she was back at Malfoy Manor, her captors not giving her a second glance. She supposed she should feel grateful that she wasn't tortured, unlike Ollivander, who was taken every day and returned shaking and looking worse for the wear. She thought she should be grateful, or at least angry, but all she could feel was a numbness that she couldn't shake off.

Ginny dreamed she was wrapped up in comforting arms, knowing she was safe at last. The real world could wait, as long as she was in this embrace, away from everything, away from all she had fought and all she had lost.

Harry dreamt he was back in a corridor that looked the same ever since he had first seen it in his dreams back in his fifth year. Except for this time, there was a figure in front of him, lurking, almost expecting him to catch up with it. A figure that he recognised.

He ran, hoping to catch up, the corridor almost consuming him as he did. "Tom—" he cried out, but there was no answer.

Harry didn't see Tom—or Dream— much, after that unsettling dream he had spent too much time trying to solve.   He saw Death, though—at most funerals they held for the defenders of Hogwarts, he saw her embrace their spirit, always with an encouraging word, always with open arms.

He should have been angry that he knew she did the same for everyone— even those who had done their level best to kill every muggle-born and blood traitor they could get their hands on. But all he could feel was a sense of resignation—they had died all the same. They were the ones who feared death more than anyone else.

Their penance came later.

It was after one of the funerals, after one that had hit him hardest—of Colin Creevey, who Harry still remembered had followed him around in his second year. He had been loyal to the end, fighting a battle that he would have known he wasn't going to emerge living. He closed his eyes as the scene replayed in his head, Colin's parents clutching their remaining son close to their chest, exhaling wracking sobs that were heart-breaking.

That funeral had been the last one, and afterwards, Harry had sat down beneath the trees near the Black Lake and allowed himself to think. Though brood would have been a more accurate description. He had waved Hermione and Ron away when they had hesitated and made to sit down beside him.  

Harry knew he shouldn't blame himself for his—for their— deaths. He knew that he couldn't have stopped the people from fighting, couldn't have stopped them from fighting for what they believed in, for a society that wasn't driven by anger against the unknown.

It didn't lessen the guilt, all the same.

"You look like you're deep in thought," a voice said, beside him. He jumped, opening his eyes to look at the all too familiar figure beside him.

"The expression is a penny for your thought, actually," Harry said, smiling despite himself.     

"Or a sickle," Death said, taking no offence at the correction. "Though I never understood how the Wizarding currency worked, anyway."

"Me neither," Harry admitted. "But aren't you supposed to know everything?"

Death laughed. "That's a common misconception about The Endless, actually. I do know everything—but only everything about people, about what they hold dear. There are fewer people who value their money even at their death than you would think. Even those with uncountable riches only have time to mourn about how they don't have anything significant, in the end."

"Sounds lonely."

"Most humans are, you know," Death said, her eyes gazing into the Black Lake, the experience of a million souls distilled in her gaze. "They know their death is coming, but most of them want one more chance, even one more hour, to tell their loved ones goodbye, or talk to someone they haven't talked to in years, only to realise they were the only ones they had left."

"Some people shouldn't have died at all," Harry whispered, thinking of all those who had lost their lives during the Battle at Hogwarts, all the bodies he had seen laid out in the Great Hall. He thought of all the Muggle-borns who went into hiding, getting captured and killed by the Death Eaters because of just one slip-up. "Especially for something they couldn't control."

"Something I couldn't realise for aeons," Death said suddenly, almost as if she hadn't listened to Harry's words. "Were how humans were afraid of death, even though death was as inevitable as life. They never hesitate to go to Dream's realm every day, and we all know how dreams are sometimes more terrible than death. And yet…

"That's when I realised," she said, her eyes brilliant, lit up with an understanding that Harry couldn't place. "The fear of death is what keeps them going. Every hope, every disappointment lies in that fear—they refuse to believe that there's never anything after death, the only unexplainable thing that's wracked their minds for generations. Even the Master of Death can't raise the dead. Even he couldn't stop those around him from that inevitability even if he wanted to."

Harry stared at her, feeling that he had been granted a reprieve for the first time after a long time. Something that had lodged in his chest had disappeared, replaced with a peacefulness at the reassurance he had been given. If anyone could understand how he was feeling, it would be Death herself.

She gave him a wink and disappeared.

Harry laughed, and he heard, for what felt like the first time, the sound of the din of people doing their level best to rebuild Hogwarts, who wanted to restore their home to what it used to be.

Death came, but life always went on.

It was on one of those days, when Harry didn't feel at peace, not exactly—more like a quiet sense of contentment that everything was going according to plan. There was no Voldemort to intrude on their lives after years of fighting. That even though they had lost many people, there were still those who were determined to regain what they’d lost in their own way.

They had done all they could to help at Hogwarts, and with both McGonagall's nudges and Mrs Weasley's insistence that Harry should spend the few days leading up to his birthday in the Burrow— honestly, Harry, we don't mind you staying over for longer at all, she had said in her letter. Harry had caved to the pressure and decided to leave for the Burrow with Ron and Hermione in the next few weeks. Considering that he was leaving tomorrow, today was the only day that he could feasibly ask them about what he’d seen at King’s Cross… well, most of what he’d seen without too many prying eyes. 

He refused to think about how he avoided Ginny most of the time he’d been at Hogwarts, having internally breathed a sigh of relief when she’d left for the Burrow directly after the funerals. He knew, with his luck and with Ginny's persistence, that it would all blow up in his face eventually when he was at the Weasley’s, but he could live in blissful ignorance for the moment. 

Harry cleared his throat, breaking the peaceful silence that had fallen over them in the Gryffindor common room. Most of the students have already left for their families, making it look starkly empty except for a few students who had decided to stay. Hermione and Ron shared a couch beside the fire; Ron was close to dozing off on Hermione's shoulder as she read a book. They both looked up, curious. 

"This might sound like a weird question," Harry started, not knowing how else to start the conversation. "But—have you guys ever heard of… beings? I guess? Who governs over their realms? Like Death… or Dreams?" Hermione shook her head with a frown on her face. 

Surprisingly, it was Ron who answered. “Are you talking about The Endless?” he asked, suddenly wide awake.   "How did you even hear about them, Harry?" 

Harry realised, slowly, that this was about to become a more complicated conversation than he’d expected. "When I—when I died," he said, haltingly, desperately looking anywhere but at them, ignoring the way they both flinched. "I met Death and… Dream."

Ron paled. Hermione, uncharacteristically , appeared more than a bit confused. 

“What are they?” Hermione asked, sounding like  she had a thousand questions at once. "I've never even seen a mention of The Endless in any of the books I've read—" 

"You wouldn't have." Ron shook his head groggily,  as if he was coming out of a dream. “The Ministry, as usual, wanted people to be as unaware of them as possible, especially since they could never control them. The Endless have been a part of the world ever since the universe was born,” he continued, almost as if he was reciting something he had heard as a  child . “Everyone who grew up in the Wizarding World hears about The Endless when they’re children—Dream, Death, Destiny, Delirium, Desire, Destruction and Despair—how your every emotion is guided by them.”

“Don’t tell me they’re like gods to you,” Hermione said sceptically.

Harry opened his mouth to refute that, knowing that from what he’d seen of at least two of The Endless, they were not gods in any sense of the word, but Ron beat him to it. “Gods would be stretching it,” he said, shaking his head. “Gods would mean they govern our every thought – but they don’t really do that. It’s more that they’re like…”

“An anthropomorphic personification?” Harry offered. 

“Yes!” Ron cried. “That.”

"But do they… control everything we do? What kind of dreams we have, what our destiny is?" Hermione asked, always curious, always wanting an answer. Harry could relate to her desperately at the moment. This whole conversation felt like his head was being shoved under water, and it barely started.  

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Ron said. "None of them can decide what happens to us—that's Fate's business. They merely just watch over us—like, for example, with Dream, he controls the dreams and nightmares we have, not ourselves. They are there to make sure that the world is in the proper order, that nothing runs wild that shouldn't be. The closest I can compare them to are Aurors, though they aren't anything like them." 

Hermione nodded slowly, still looking confused but more accepting, for the moment. "It's surprising that they met you, though Harry. Death, isn't that surprising, since… well," Ron didn't have to elaborate what he meant. "But Dream… no one has ever seen who replaced Morpheus on the throne."     

"Morpheus?" Harry said, the name sounding familiar, though he couldn't place from where. 

"That's the name of Dream, or was, rather," he said, his voice grim. “Wizards, especially those who know of The Endless, have kind of a… feeling when one of them dies or goes missing. Most people think it’s because we know of their existence, or have magic, or a combination of the two, but when the last Dream died, we knew it. And knew there would be someone to replace him, eventually.” 

"The last Dream… died? Or got killed?" Harry said, horrified. 

“Dream can’t be killed, Harry. He had to let go. It wasn’t really obvious to you guys, with everything that was going on, but most of us felt this shift, after the Battle of Hogwarts, like something big had happened,” Ron laughed, suddenly. "Trust Harry to be in the middle of it again." 

Harry rolled his eyes. "Very funny, Ron," he said sarcastically. 

"I'm curious though," Hermione leaned forward, her book long since forgotten on her lap. "What exactly happened that night?" 

Harry sighed, knowing that this conversation was going to come up eventually. He opened his mouth and began to talk. 

“Voldemort — fucking Voldemort propositioned you?” Ron spluttered. Hermione looked too shocked to even scold him for his language. Harry felt the same way. Even though it had been days since he had died and come back, it still felt surreal, especially to explain in broad daylight.

“Bit hard to believe, isn’t it?” Harry said, choking back on the hysterical laughter that wanted to escape.

“Well,” Hermione said, choosing her words carefully. “He always was obsessed with you.”

This time, it wasn’t only Harry who devolved into hysterical laughter.

That night, Harry dreamed. This time, he almost expected it.

He dreamed he was in a castle, with long halls and corridors that blended together. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that this was Dream’s domain.

“So we meet again, Harry,” he heard a soft voice behind him say, making him jump. He turned around, unsurprised to find Tom behind him. He would recognize that voice anywhere, even in his dreams.

“So we do,” Harry agreed, his voice coming out soft, unbidden. The last time he’d seen Tom, he was muted, somehow, as if he wasn’t really there. This time, he felt that he was the king of his domain, with how the constellations danced on his robes, with how imposing he looked , filled with an authority that the Voldemort he knew had never been able to emulate. When it felt like Tom wasn’t going to elaborate, he said, “You’re looking well, Tom.”

Tom smiled. “It’s Marvolo now, actually.”

“Too bigoted to use your muggle name?” Harry asked pointedly, never one to not poke the sleeping dragon with a stick. To his relief, Tom didn’t react except to smile. He had been smiling a lot, and Harry didn’t know what to make of this new version of Tom.

“On the contrary,” Tom replied. “I wanted a fresh start. My predecessor’s name was Morpheus, and it seems a bit appropriate to adopt a name that sounded as regal.”

Harry could give him that, at least. “The Voldemort I knew wouldn’t do that,” Harry said. “I would have expected him to choose something completely different, or at least call himself Voldemort.”

“But I’m not him anymore, Harry,” Tom — no, Marvolo, said. “Now that I’ve become the Dream king, I’ve become something else, something that’s given a purpose that he doesn’t know what to do with yet. I’m neither the Tom you knew when you saw my diary, nor am I the Voldemort you knew just weeks ago.”

That was more honesty from Marvolo than Harry had been expecting. “How did you become one of The Endless?” Harry asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Marvolo was more approachable, more charismatic than he had expected him to be, and Harry wanted to drink him in, to want to know his secrets like an addict wanting their next dose of a drug that they particularly craved.

“I did say it began with you, my dear Harry,” Marvolo replied, his smile never leaving his face. With one sweep of his hand, they were out of the Dream domain, in another person’s dream. They were in a candlelit restaurant, the only occupants were two women who were holding hands, gazing at each other as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. Harry blushed as they both sat down at a table, looking at Marvolo, whose eyes were twinkling in the candlelight.

“Or to be more accurate,” Marvolo said, unaffected by the atmosphere, though Harry was sure it was a purposeful facade.  “It began on a cold night in December 1925, when Tom Riddle Sr killed himself after realising he’d been overwhelmed by a love potion.”

Harry jerked up. “But — ”

Marvolo held up his hand. “Questions later, my dear Harry,” he said. Harry nodded, trying valiantly to control his blush that threatened to flame up. Something about this atmosphere made everything sound more intense, made every decision weigh more than he initially thought. “Merope Gaunt loved him, you see. She didn’t want to dose him with a love potion; she wanted him to love her out of his own volition, to see her as someone who wasn’t just his poor next-door neighbour. So, against her every rational thought, she decided to stop dosing him.

Tom Riddle, when he realised he had fallen prey to something supernatural, decided the only option he had was to kill himself. And he did. Merope, realising that she had lost the love of her life, succumbed to a form of depression, one that we would have called these days as the sleepy sickness. In her dreams, she dreamt that Tom had come back to her, renewed with his love for her and wanting to live with her in any way that was possible. In her dreams, she got pregnant. But she got pregnant in real life, too.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Harry whispered, trying to wrap his mind around the information that he had been given.

“In dreams, anything is possible,” Marvolo said, something final in his tone of voice, not even reprimanding him for interrupting his tale. “Tom came back to her as a ghost, with no idea how it had happened. He figured the best way to remain in dreamland instead of waiting for someone to eject him to where he really belonged, was to remain with Merope in her dreams. When Merope died, he kept wandering the dream world, going from place to place until Morpheus finally discovered him in his kingdom, when he came back.”

“What… happened to the Dream?” Harry asked, almost afraid of the answer he was going to get. Marvolo only shook his head, looking like he was done with this line of questioning, even though there was more that Harry was itching to know.

“Question time is over, my dear Harry,” Marvolo said, standing up. Harry was suddenly seized by an anger that he couldn’t explain.

“Is this all a game to you?” he snapped. Marvolo halted from where he was about to leave, surprised. “All I’ve felt these past few days is this—this weird sort of confusion because I can’t even figure out what you want from me.”

For the first time since Harry had seen him in King’s Cross, Marvolo’s calm visage shattered, replaced with something dangerous, his eyes glinting with a form of possessiveness and malice that every instinct in Harry screamed for him to flee . Harry stared back, unflinching. A reckless sense of bravado filled him, knowing that however powerful Marvolo was, he was just as powerful, just as immortal.

“But my dear Harry,” This time, the words were hissed, not spoken with the affection that was there before. Harry was almost glad to see the change in him, to see something in this version of Tom Riddle that he recognised. “Haven’t you realised? I have all the time in the world. Everything is a game to me.

“And one day, you will be mine.”

He succumbed back into darkness before he could retort.

“Harry? Are you alright?” He heard a voice call. He jerked awake, resisting the urge to reach out for his wand after he recognised the owner of the voice. He was shivering, even though the sun was shining brightly against the bedsheets, his skin soaking wet from sweat.

“I’m fine,” he said, avoiding Ginny’s eyes. Harry cursed the fact that Ron had persuaded him to come to the Burrow for at least a few days, saying that Mrs Weasley missed him and that staying somewhere other than Hogwarts for a few days would do him some good. Harry couldn’t really argue with that. Ron, who was noticeably absent from the bed next to him, left him and Ginny alone for the first time in weeks.

“Sure, you are,” Ginny said, her arms crossed. “Especially with your nightmares and avoiding me and all.”

Harry felt a pang in his chest; ever since he had come back from the dead, he’d been avoiding her, trying to make sense of his feelings for her, and his feelings for Marvolo. He figured he only needed a few days to think, but his emotions were still jumbled, unable to untangle themselves enough from the weariness and rage he was still feeling toward Marvolo to make any kind of sense. Harry had always been impulsive with his feelings, but he didn’t want to make that mistake withMarvolo; he knew that even though Harry couldn’t die, there were still things that were worse than death.

“I just—needed some time,” Harry said weakly. “And I haven’t even gotten out of bed, do you really want to—"  

“Do this now? Yes, I do,” Ginny said, sounding even angrier if it were possible. “I don’t want to leave you with the chance to escape a conversation that’s been long overdue. And I definitely don’t want you to keep stringing me along like there’s still some hope left for us even though there clearly isn’t.”

“I never said that!” Harry said back, uncomfortably aware of the sheet barely covering his chest. “It hasn’t really been easy for me, after everything that’s happened—" 

“Do you think it’s been easy for me? I lost a brother, Harry, and I would have appreciated some friendly words instead of you spending all your time brooding and barely talking to anyone except Ron and Hermione.” She sounded more sad than angry now, furiously wiping away at the tears that were making its way into her eyes. “I thought you of all people would understand, but you… weren’t there.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, feeling the guilt hit him in waves. “You’re right.”

“Of course, I am,” she rolled her eyes, a sad smile on her face. “Hermione told me not to pressure you too much, that you were going through things too, but you weren’t there for anything, Harry. Not even to tell me that everything would be okay, even though it won’t.”

“I…”

“I shouldn’t have expected anything from you,” Ginny smiled sadly. “I realise that now.”

Harry was left staring into the empty doorway for a long time after she left.

Harry knew from the awkward looks that Ron and Hermione gave him, and even with the way that Mrs Weasley set down a plate of food on his table without a word, that they had heard most—or all—of the conversation that had taken place. The silence was stifling.

Harry quickly scarfed down his plate of food, and left outside without a word, wanting to escape but not knowing where he should go. Now that there wasn’t any imminent threat surrounding him, he realised that he didn’t know the surrounding area of the Burrow at all. He kept walking through fields upon fields, not knowing where he was going until he plopped down on the ground next to a familiar, black-haired figure.

“I could sense your emotions, you know,” Death said conversationally, and Harry choked down on the laughter that wanted to escape. He’d been doing that a lot, lately.

“Is every one of the Endless this cryptic?” he asked, laying down on the ground and shielding his eyes from the sunlight. The whole weather seemed to be mocking him, a sunny day when he was filled with this much conflict that he didn’t know how to articulate.

Death hummed, seemingly amused. “You have to realise, Harry, that even I didn’t know this was a thing that could happen with you being the Master of Death. It’s very… interesting, to say the least.”

Harry scowled. Death raised her hands in a placating gesture, still looking amused. “None of this is my fault, you know that right? Even we don’t know how the Fates work, and we definitely don’t know how everything unfolds, not even Destiny.”

“So, everything is a game to you,” Harry said sourly, still unable to get his conversation with Marvolo out of his mind. It had been weeks since Harry had seen him in his dreams, and he couldn’t help but miss the banter, couldn’t help but want the answers that he was desperately seeking.

“To me? No.” She said, and Harry couldn’t find it in himself to not believe her. “To Marvolo? Most definitely. He reminds me of his predecessor more and more each day.”

“That’s what I don’t get,” Harry said. “Morpheus… gave up, didn’t he? If Marvolo’s so like him, why wouldn’t he give up too?”

“That’s up for him to decide,” Death said, flashing him a quick smile. “Time moves differently for us immortals.” Harry didn’t fail to notice that she had included him when she said “us.”

“About time I accepted it, isn’t it?” Harry sighed. “Not like I have any other choice.”

“You could always pretend you’re not,” Death said gently, seeing the conflicted expression on his face. “You could live a normal life, get a partner, have a few kids, and die when you feel like your business is done. Ignore the power that’s left to be explored.” Somehow, that didn’t sound like a choice at all.

“And not explain to them how I never age? Watch while my partner dies and feel helpless because I can’t do anything about it? I’ve only ever wanted to be normal,” he replied, choosing to ignore the part about his undiscovered power for the moment. He had gotten very good at ignoring things, lately, like how the Elder Wand had reappeared at his bedside the day after he buried it with Dumbledore, how it reappeared in his pocket every time he chose to leave it behind, like a taunt. Somehow, he already knew that no wand—not even his holly wand, was going to obey him like the Elder Wand was bound to do.

“Normal’s really not a choice anymore, is it?” Death asked, and Harry knew she didn’t expect an answer. He shook his head and watched as Death stood up and disappeared without a word. It was about time that he accepted his fate, no matter how difficult it was to do so.

The Burrow was back to normal when Harry returned, filled with Mrs Weasley’s cheerful words and Ron’s loud laughter. Harry still felt a pang when he entered the dining room and saw that most of the seats on the table were empty; Bill, Charlie and Mr Weasley’s weren’t much of a surprise, but Fred and George’s seats were the ones that he still couldn’t get used to. George had resisted most of their attempts for him to come to the Burrow, preferring to be in silence in his flat and mourn the loss of his brother. They had done what they could, and it still didn’t feel like it was enough.

Mrs Weasley glanced up from her knitting as she saw him, gracing him with a quick smile. “Ginny will come around in a bit, don’t worry, Harry,” she said, her gaze understanding. “I have some leftovers in the kitchen if you’re feeling hungry, dear, I noticed you skipped breakfast.”

He smiled at her, relieved to know that Mrs Weasley, at least held no grudges. “Thanks, Mrs Weasley,” he said. “Actually—do you mind if I talk to Ginny? I owe her an apology.”

“Of course—she’s in her room with Luna,” Mrs Weasley replied instantly. “Are you sure you don’t want some breakfast though? I find tough conversations are a bit easier to handle on a full stomach.”

Harry shook his head, knowing that he couldn’t eat anything out of nervousness, in any case. “It won’t take long,” he promised, making his way to the door at her nod of acknowledgement, sensing a losing battle when she saw one.

Ginny’s room, with the number of times he had been in there, was easy to find. It was harder, he realised, after staring at her door for five minutes and trying to muster up the willpower to knock, to actually approach her. You aren’t the Master of Death for nothing, Harry, he thought, slightly hysterically, before he steeled himself and knocked.

“Go away,” Ginny called out, and Harry couldn’t say he had expected anything other than that.

“It’s me,” Harry said. “I want to apologise. And explain.”

He heard hushed conversation from inside, Ginny’s angry hisses mixed with Luna’s calm whispers. Finally, the door opened to reveal a Ginny with red-rimmed eyes, Luna standing next to her with Ginny’s arm clutched to hers like a vice. Harry winced. “This better be good, Potter,” she said. Harry winced again.  

“Can I come in?” he asked, watching as she and Luna exchanged a glance and silently let him in. Harry couldn't help feeling a bit of sorrow as he sat down on her chair; it used to be him that Ginny exchanged those glances with, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be betrayed, after the conversations he had had with Marvolo.

“So? Talk.” Ginny crossed her arms in front of her, every movement aggressive. Beside her, Luna looked calmer and sent a reassuring smile at Harry, who was certain he looked like a deer in headlights at the moment.

“It’s a long story…” Harry hesitated, suddenly not knowing where to start.

“We’re here to listen, Harry,” Luna said, her clear voice the reassurance Harry needed. Ginny, beside her, nodded, though she didn’t look all too happy about it. Somehow, that was all Harry needed to start talking.

“It started,” he said, echoing Marvolo’s words from what felt like a lifetime ago. “When Tom Riddle Sr killed himself when he realised he had succumbed to a love potion.”

And as he relayed his story, with Ginny and Luna’s questions and input, he realised what he needed to do about Marvolo after all.

This time, he dreamed with a purpose, ripping through people’s dreams in his quest to find Marvolo. Harry didn’t know how far his power extended, but he wasn’t willing to let his hold slip until he found Marvolo, until— 

He was ripped back from the dreams, landing with a thud on the marble floor of Dream’s castle. As he stood up, he wasn’t surprised to find Marvolo’s red eyes boring into him, fury and interest waging a war in his eyes.

“I take it my plan worked?” Harry said, as flippantly as he could manage, reigning in all his instincts that screamed run. Marvolo’s eyes narrowed, looking every inch the dream king he appeared to be.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t eviscerate you right this moment,” he snarled, all good humour from their previous interactions gone from his voice. Somehow, Harry preferred this to the calm and collected being he’d seen before. He didn’t think his good humour before had been fake, exactly, but this was the real Tom Marvolo Riddle; powerful, competent. Intoxicating.

Harry always did have a death wish.

“I need answers,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height, staring at Marvolo straight in the eyes. “You were the one who told me I was the reason you’re the dream king. I want to know why.”

“And why would I tell you that, my dear Harry?” Marvolo murmured, his rage seeming to have subsided, now looking at Harry as if he was an interesting specimen he had seen underneath a microscope.

“You still want me by your side, don’t you?” Harry grinned, something savage entering his tone.

Marvolo abruptly laughed, as if he had not expected that answer. Harry counted that as a win.

“So I do,” he said, matching Harry’s manic grin with one of his own. “But would you forsake your own friends so easily, my dear Harry? Just for the sake of… answers?”

Harry’s smile widened, remembering his conversation with Ginny and Luna. You have the upper hand, Harry, Luna had said. “Of course not. I’m merely giving you the opportunity to… work for it, you might say.

“Show me around the dream domain. Show me that you’re willing to do whatever it takes to have me with you. Wait for me, until I decide to come to you.”

Marvolo smiled, slowly. “For you, anything, my dear Harry.”