Master of Death, Lover Witches

Harry was elated to find not-quite-Kings-Cross exactly the same as it ever was.

It was rapidly becoming a home away from home for him— at least, it certainly felt that way. Three was an almost absurd number of visits when discussing the border between life and death. Probably a record.

The first visit was simultaneously among the best and the worst moments in his lives. He still remembered the way fear had twisted his stomach into knots. Resolving to die, it turned out, did not magically make the rest of your emotions take a convenient leave of absence.

Yet he hadn't died. He appeared here, in this sparkling and empty facsimile of the train station where his life had changed forever. He confronted what was inside of him. He talked with Dumbledore, learning the man's past and deciding his own future. And then he returned to the land of the living. 

The next visit was a long, long time later, and between the two quite a lot of things happened. The Dark Lord who couldn't die, died. At Harry's hands no less. And even though he discarded the Resurrection Stone and returned the Elder Wand to his mentor's grave, something important had occurred. He was the first to master all three items left behind by the Peverells. He had become Master of Death.

Not that Harry paid the title much mind. He lived to old age, his wife at his side and his children growing and maturing, as children tended to do. He lived a respectable life— happy at times, sad at others, like any man or woman. But there were days when he couldn't forget. Voldemort's many victims never completely left his mind. And always he wondered if maybe there was a way to have won the war quicker, if perhaps not all of them had needed to die.

Which brought him to his second visit to this place. That time it wasn't Dumbledore waiting for him. It was a pale figure, humanoid and androgynous, with hair darker than a dementor's heart.

For all Dumbledore's wisdom, there was one thing he got horribly wrong. The Peverell Brothers were not wizarding geniuses from an age past, and the story of their chance encounter couldn't have been less of an old wives tale. The items Harry claimed had come straight from Death itself, and now, it had appeared in front of him.

Harry had been ready to pass on then, even more than back in the forest during his Seventh Year. That was, until Death made an offer.

He accepted.

Harry Potter lived again. He awoke in his Aunt and Uncle's home the day his Hogwarts letter arrived. This time, it wasn't an unsuspecting muggle-raised Harry Potter that the Wizarding World got, but a former Head Auror with a lifetime's worth of magic crammed into a spry young body.

It was hardly fair to Voldemort, really. Not only did Harry now have abilities that rivaled the Dark Lord himself, he possessed a power far greater still: knowledge. Each of Voldemort's plans was disrupted the moment they took shape, as if history's greatest seer had made it their personal mission to screw the Dark Lord over as many times as possible. The experience must have been maddening.

Voldemort never even returned properly. His Horcruxes were hunted and destroyed with unerring accuracy. His followers turned up inexplicably dead. It was everything Harry wished he could do so many times throughout his life; the perfect solution that had been impossible the first time around. 

Harry lived a very different second life. Free of war, he went into professional Quidditch. He married Hermione, of all people, seeing his friend in a light he never had during his first life. At the ancient age of one-hundred-and-eighty, he had passed away in his sleep. Truly, this time, he moved on with no regrets.

So why was back here? And alone, no less?

"Hello?" Harry called out. His wrinkles were gone, his appearance returned to what it had been in his prime. "Is anybody there? I think I would like to die."

Nothing. No dead professors or physical embodiments of natural inevitability. Just empty chairs and blank, spotless walls.

Harry decided then that he would like to break something.

He just wanted to see if that would get some response. Long ago Dumbledore told him this place was based partially off of Harry's own mind, but no matter how much he wished for a chainsaw to materialize, it refused to. So instead he walked up to a chair and kicked it.

He connected with all his might. He'd forgotten how good it felt to possess a young body. But no matter how hard he struck the thing it never cracked or moved. Trying the same on a dozen other objects, Harry found no more luck with any of them.

He paced from one end of the dome to the other. The walls were firm and cold to the touch. He followed the train tracks next, but when they reached the space a train ought to pass through, it was dark and corporeal, just as unbreakable as every other aspect of the space.

"This isn't all that funny," Harry said aloud. "I want to move on! What am I supposed to do, stand in this prison for all of time?"

Just as his mood was reaching its worst, a paper drifted down from the ceiling.

Harry snatched it eagerly, twisting it around to read what it said.

Go Back.

He stared at the two words, a smile stuck half-formed on his face. Go back. Go back? Go… Back… Go back? 

"No," he said. "I refuse. Take me away. I desire the great beyond!"

The station was silent again. Not even another paper for his troubles.

Harry took a deep breath. He stood there, very still, before starting to laugh.

A chuckle grew into throaty laughter, which grew into an all-out cackle. Alone in the station, Harry listened to his own voice echo off the walls.

"I get it," he said, his voice no longer that of a quite sane man. "This is your doing, Death. You're scared of me. The only place you can be rid of me is the world of the living, so that's where you're desperate to send me. Was that the reason you gave me a second chance at all? I always wondered what you got out of our deal. Well, I won't do it. And if you won't move me on like you're supposed to…"

Harry called on his magic. Objects came to him, the only things death could never stop him from summoning, be it in this space or anywhere else. Harry grinned.

"I suppose I'll just have to make you."

O-O-O

Death hadn't felt this proud in a few centuries, at least. Not since it first played those three brothers like the fools they were.

The Peverells had used their magic to avert a destined death. Understandably, Death couldn't accept that. Death appeared in front of them, careful to hide its purpose. It allowed the brothers to pick prizes for their feat, and their own greed drove them straight into Death's clutches.

Two of the three, at least, but all three became Death's eventually. It was a wonderful plot with only one oversight.

Death had left three parts of itself in the mortal world. If they were gathered and mastered, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say the one who did it would transcend their mortality. They would hold true power over Death itself— not the natural force that claimed mortals, but the physical embodiment currently perched atop the steam engine. And someone had done just that. They united what it left behind.

Death was nothing if not clever, though. It paid close attention. It saw the way its new master labored under the weight of his guilt. So Death appeared before him personally, offering exactly what he wanted.

That fool lived out another entire lifetime, and Death went on just as it had before: still free, still subservient to nothing but its own role and whims.

Then he died again. Death always knew it was coming, but it did raise a problem. The guilt was gone now. Harry Potter was no longer attached to the world of the living. He wouldn't choose to go back a third time.

The solution was quite simple, then. 

Remove his choice.

Death wouldn't go to see him. He would be left alone, no way to escape limbo except to give in and leave Death's hair for another lifetime. Death could forcibly send him back, too, but that would be risky. It would require appearing in front of him— and if its master gave an order, Death would be forced to listen.

This way was much safer. If anything broke, it would be the man's sanity. In the end he would go back. Living again was better than eternity trapped in a barren station.

Just as it was congratulating itself, Death's nose twitched.

It sat up. An uncomfortable sensation nestled in its head, like it had left its keys at home. That was silly. Death didn't have keys, a home, or even sensations in the first place. So what—

Something blew a hole in the top of the station. Death flinched.

"I knooow you're out thereeeee!" echoed a voice from inside.

Something dragged at Death. It was being summoned. A spell had been cast to drag the very embodiment of Death to them, like a book someone was too lazy to walk across the room and snatch.

Death dug its fingers into the train, holding on and resisting. That wizard spell shouldn't even work on the living, yet somehow it worked on a conceptual incarnation? No, it shouldn't have been possible. Not for a normal wizard with a normal wand.

But this wasn't a normal wizard. And he shouldn't have had a wand at all.

"Found you!"

With growing fright, Death watched a shape fly through the fresh hole in the station's ceiling. 

Robes flapping, Harry Potter soared through the sky. Death watched helplessly as he approached. The summoning charm had never been intended to work, just to help him know his target was nearby.

He was supposed to be helpless! He was supposed to be trapped! But as he flew closer, Death spotted the problem. 

The broom between his legs was crudely transfigured and of little importance. The manic grin on the man's face was worrying, but otherwise worthless. Death's eyes instead picked out the wands in either of his hands. Twin rings decorated his fingers, tipped by glistening black stones. Two cloaks fluttered over his shoulders, blotting out his body as they fluttered in the wind.

The Hallows. The one thing Death could never bar his access to. Somehow, this man was the owner of not just one, but two full sets.

Death was suddenly thankful it lacked the biological capacity to excrete waste.

"You won't get away with this a second time!" Harry roared.

Spells snapped from his wands, blasting curses tearing the steam engine to shreds. Death leapt aside, landing on the blank, cloudy, only semi-corporeal ground.

It was going to have to time this perfectly. There was still a chance to be rid of the migraine. While his guard was down…

Harry dismounted the broom in midair with grace only a professional Quidditch player could achieve. His cloaks fluttered out behind him. Death physically felt his approach, as if an invisible chain were wrapping about its being like a leash.

"Caught you!" Harry beamed.

He was only a few steps away now. Death watched him, careful not to make any sudden movements.

The man hadn't realized his power. If he issued a direct command, Death would be forced to comply. But questions and threats? That it could work with.

"You're scared of me," Harry said.

"Yes," Death replied.

"So you tried to force me back to life!"

"Plenty of mortals would love to live again," Death pointed out.

"Been there, done that."

"You could be there again. Do it again."

"No, I want—" Harry's eyes narrowed. "You're stalling."

"Yes," said Death.

Scraps from the ruined train formed thick rope-like chains, wrapping themselves tightly around the wizard. Harry cursed. The restraints were more of a mild annoyance than a true threat, but they did trap his wands for a moment. Death leapt forward.

It planted two fingers between the wizard's eyes. Power built in an instant, the same sensation that it felt a lifetime ago, the first time it propelled Harry back to life.

The moment its work took hold, Harry snarled. "I won't let this end here! Whatever you do, bastard, I'll do to you too!"

Death's eyes widened. It tried to abort what it had done, racing to cancel its work, but forces were already in motion. That had been an order. Something suctioned against its body, dragging it very slowly toward a place it was never meant to be. Death could not panic… but it couldn't deny that a certain blanketing doom settled over its being.

Oblivious to all of this, Harry thrashed and fought his binds. They fell away, but by that point he was only half-there. His body was disappearing, one section of skin at a time.

He hurled his head toward the sky, raw magic tearing loose from his wands.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu—"

They disappeared.

Both of them.