(A/N: In this chapter, I did borrow somewhat from another writer - much better than I - but I gave due credit at the appropriate place. Credit is also due MirielleGrey, the lovely Beta-reader standing beside Door No.3.)
(Disclaimer: "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money," said Samuel Johnson. I make no money from this work, the characters not being my property, so I must be a blockhead - albeit a satisfied, well-rewarded (non-monetarily) blockhead.)
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"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
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XXVII: In the Land of the Next Great Adventure
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Not a photon of light, nor an erg of warmth. Harry could feel his body's energy being steadily leeched, even as he made his way through absolute darkness. The very air was deadly still: no drafts, no scents, no sounds but his own footsteps… in what felt like fine sand.
He thought he was walking forward in a straight line, but there were no sensory cues to confirm it. All he had was the Stone, telling him that a soul had passed this way, moments before.
If the concept of "moments" had any meaning here…
I wish I could make some light, Harry started to think, before he caught himself. He'd become so used to trying to avoid Death's notice… now he realized that, for once, he wanted Death to notice him. And if the Stone was still working, here in the heart of Death's realm, then the other Hallows should work as well. "Lumos," he murmured, and the Elder Wand responded with a bubble of radiance - which revealed absolutely nothing. Nothing but infinite blackness above, and a flat featureless plain that vanished into darkness.
Teeth chattering, Harry decided to try a Warming Charm on himself… maybe it would counteract the numbing cold. He opened his Cloak - yeah, Death's gotta see me, or how else can I negotiate? - and was about to cast the Warming Charm when he realized that he had something gritty in his hand. He held the Wand, still glowing, closer to his hand for a better look.
It was a handful of crumbling fabric.
Beneath the Cloak, his clothes were disintegrating on his body, literally rotting away by the second. By the light of his wand, Harry saw his wristwatch corroding into decay - his shoes were falling apart at the seams - his glasses were disintegrating off his face. He brushed the fragments away from his eyes with the back of his hand - then looked at his hand in horror, at the swollen joints and liver spots that had sprung up there.
My own body's decaying, along with everything else! This - this must be how Sirius died! The life sucked out of him…
Harry started to run, still following the Stone's guidance. At the rate his body was deteriorating, he knew he hadn't very long at all, minutes at best. He had to reach his destination, whatever it was, before then - had to survive long enough to talk to Death, and rescue Hermione…
He stumbled, fell upon arthritic knees, and forced his aching body to rise and resume running.
The second time he fell, it was to his hands as well as knees, and he hadn't the strength to rise again.
Weakness was spreading through his body like basilisk venom. He collapsed flat onto what he'd thought was sand, and which now turned out to be powdery ash. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down, he thought dizzily.
Numbness was rapidly replacing the weakness. Harry felt like his body was emptying, growing lighter… his spirit felt airy, ready to fly free. It was, he dimly realized, an oddly familiar feeling, but the exact memory eluded him…
Of course!
He managed to clasp his hands together and get his fingers around the Stone. He turned the ring three times and mumbled, "Harry Potter." Just as he had in the clearing in the Forbidden Forest, fifteen years earlier, he pictured his own spirit captured by the ring, given form, wearing the very Stone that kept it anchored… in this case, to his body.
Never before had Harry attempted to use the Hallows to actively interfere with Death - but he couldn't help Hermione if he were dead. And you did want to get Death's attention, old son. Well, if this doesn't get it, nothing will…
After a moment, he took stock. He was still freezing, but he was getting no weaker… his condition appeared to have stabilized. Carefully, he got to his feet, eased the Cloak off his body, and examined himself. His clothes were gone, rotted away, and he looked like a refugee from a geriatric nudist camp - but he was still alive, alert and functioning. With a shrug, he tied the pearly-grey Cloak around his waist, more for his dignity's sake than his modesty's, and began to walk again, as brisk a pace as his aged body could take.
I could have seen it then, when I "called" myself back to the clearing, if only I'd thought about it, he reflected as he trudged. If I can summon my own soul with the Stone, then I can keep it in my body. Only my own, I think… when I summoned other souls, I couldn't move them around like I can my own… but face it, Xenophilius Lovegood was right after all. The Master of the Deathly Hallows can make himself immortal. Wonder why Voldemort never tried that tactic.
Doesn't mean beans if I can't get Hermione back, though. He forced himself into a faster pace.
Really, though, I should have realized it all those years ago. Back in the Forbidden Forest, when I had just come back from…
With no transition, the surface beneath his feet changed from soft ash to hard pavement. The air grew warmer, and the ambient light began to grow, as Harry stopped in place and swung his head around. Aw, no… NO. Merlin, it's official. Death has the lamest, tritest, unimaginativest imagination in the freakin' universe.
Harry gave a deep, dismayed sigh as he stood at the center of Platform Nine and Three Quarters.
Exactly like last time… or no, he corrected himself, looking more closely, not quite. It was as if the Platform had been sliced out of King's Cross, lifted up, and planted in the center of an expanse of grasslands. Except for Harry, the platform seemed to be empty… almost empty. Harry could sense the presence of others, but couldn't quite see them: it was as if they were visible out of the corner of his eye, but vanished when he tried to look directly at them.
He stepped to the edge of the platform, where the Hogwarts Express stood ready. Except there were two Hogwarts Expresses, side by side on parallel tracks. Curious, Harry walked to the very end of the platform, his eyes following the tracks as they left the station. Some distance away, the parallel tracks diverged: one set of tracks led to a distant horizon, with sunlit meadows and inviting forests. The other tracks led directly into a dark tunnel in the side of a hill, with no visible exit.
"Good Lord," he said aloud, "could we get any more clichéd?"
"Hey, don't blame me," came a voice from just behind him. "This is all out of your head, not mine."
Harry's head swiveled to see who had spoken. He saw a young woman, early twenties at most, who might easily have been taken for Harry's younger sister. The mop of unruly, jet-black hair was the same, as was the slender frame and pale complexion; the eyes, however, weren't green, but a deep, deep black. Indeed, she favored black, to judge by her Goth-style clothing: skin-tight black trousers, a black tank-top and short-sleeved jacket that left her midriff uncovered. Her only bit of color, in fact, was a gold ankh necklace.
She looked down and examined herself, and giggled. "And I must say, I had no idea you were a Neil Gaiman fan."
"Well, yeah," Harry said dryly. "I was always fond of Timothy Hunter, the character really resonated with me…"
"I daresay," she replied, equally dry. Her face relaxed into a gentle smile. "I'm sorry, Harry, I thought you'd appreciate a different setting. I wanted you to feel comfortable when we talked."
"Thanks." Harry fell silent, watching her. She stood, watching him in return, that gentle smile on her lips. Harry initially felt the urge to outwait her, not to speak until she spoke first - but he rejected the notion almost as soon as it occurred to him. Death had infinite patience, after all - quite literally.
"So," he said after a few moments, "you know why I'm here."
She shrugged one shoulder and waggled a hand. "I've a good idea. Supposing you were to come out and say it."
"All right. You've got something I want: Hermione Granger. I've got something you want: three of the Deathly Hallows. I propose an even swap."
"Three of the…? Oh." She tutted in amusement. "That silly old Arch. Has it been acting contrary again? I keep telling it and telling it…"
"Wait, wait… the Arch is alive?"
"Well, aware, anyway - as aware as the Elder Wand is, I suppose. And I'm guessing the Arch has been talking lately? Glowing red runes, yes?" She chuckled at Harry's look of confusion. "Harry, there are countless artifacts throughout the world that tap into my power, or interact with my realm. A Shinto shrine in Japan… a holy relic in Rheims… and yes, I suppose you could call them Deathly Hallows. But no mortal could ever master them - they're mine."
"Then, the runes? The barrier? Those aren't your doing - that's the Arch?"
"Yeah," she shrugged. "It's just jealous, that's all. It's never liked the Hallows, doesn't want them around - it thinks they're wastrels or something. And it has a point. The Arch, all my other artifacts - they're mostly there to make my job easier. But the three Hallows? They make my job harder."
"So you should be glad of the chance to be rid of them," Harry quickly said, getting back to his point. "You get what you want, I get what I want. It's a win-win situation."
She tilted her head to one side, looking like a dark version of Luna. "Except, didn't you intend to dispose of the Hallows anyway? Hadn't you exiled yourself from your world, planned to keep them until your death, to put an end to their power? If you were going to get rid of them in any case, you're not giving up much in trade."
He was tempted to tell her that he would be giving up a lot, since the Hallows, the Stone in particular, were keeping him alive in her realm. He saw no point in admitting that weakness, however. Ironic, actually, now I think of it. If I'd only let myself die after coming through the Arch, I'd have died undefeated, and the Hallows would've lost their power, just as I'd always intended. 'Course, then I'd have nothing to offer Death - well, that and I'd already be dead. Details, details…
"If I'd got rid of them in any case," he responded instead, matching her words and tone, "wouldn't I have been doing you a favor? All I want is a favor in return."
"You know I don't work that way, Harry," Death sighed ruefully.
"You can. You have." Harry raised his hand to show her the Stone. "If the tale is true, you made a deal with the Peverell brothers - that's why the Deathly Hallows exist in the first place."
She scowled at that. "That 'tale', as you so quaintly call it, hardly cast me in the best light!" Harry didn't speak or move, but continued to hold the Stone where she could see it, and after a moment she sighed again and relaxed. "But yes, I did give them the Hallows. Different times, though, Harry… different circumstances."
"But… but there's no reason you couldn't do it again. Please. It's not as though you won't have her again eventually. I'm asking for a… a reprieve, that's all. So that we… we can be together in life." He emphasized the last word, making it clear that being together in death would be a pale substitute. "And I'll hand over the Hallows, so you'll never have to worry about interference again."
"Hm. Are you saying I should be worried about interference now?"
Her attitude of non-confrontational non-cooperation was getting on Harry's nerves. He spoke more sharply than he knew was wise. "You know as well as I do that I could make your, um, work a lot harder. I've already fixed things," Harry gestured one last time with the Stone before letting his hand fall to his side, "so that you can't take me until I'm ready. I could block souls from coming here… I could probably send back all the souls already here. I could…"
"Disrupt the natural order of things in the worst possible way," she broke in mildly. "Not really a good way to enjoy life with your beloved, is it?"
"I could," he pressed, heedless of her interruption, "even become, well, a competitor. The Hallows have been good training for your job… and it's like they're preparing me for it…"
Death rolled her eyes. "Yeeesh, somebody thinks well of himself." At his blank look, she shook her head in mock sorrow. "Harry, you can't carry around powerful tokens like the Hallows and not feel some affects. Yes, you took on some of my attributes - so? You got Parseltongue from Riddle - you took on some of his attributes - did that make you a Dark Lord?" She put her hands on her hips and gave him an exasperated snort. "And once again, you're not giving up much in trade. You were worried you'd have to become me. Giving up something you didn't want in the first place? Harry, Harry, Harry…"
By reflex, Harry began to run his fingers through his hair. He hastily dropped his hands when he realized how little hair he now had left. "I'd say it's more important whether you want it."
"Point, that." She gazed at him, the gentle smile returned to her lips but her eyes somber, and said nothing more.
He was moved to make one last appeal. "But I don't want any of that. I don't want to disrupt the natural order, like you said. I don't want to fight you for your job… or for anything else. That way, neither of us wins. My way, we both win. It's better to cooperate than fight, right?"
Her smile turned wistful. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said after another pause. "I can't make deals."
Well, there it is. Some Master of Death I turned out to be.
Feeling hopeless, Harry looked around the platform. If he squinted, he could now see a multitude of faint shapes, barely visible - human shapes, but barely present, far less substantial even than ghosts. He couldn't make out any details beyond the fact they were there - he certainly couldn't identify any individual. Each of them seemed to each be carrying a tiny candle, a flickering flame held close to their breasts. They were queued up on the platform, waiting to board one of the two trains.
He turned back to Death. She was still standing there, still with that wistful smile on her face. She gave no sign that she was expecting him to do anything - indeed, her casual attitude suggested there was nothing he could do - but on the other hand, she wasn't rejecting him, either. She hadn't dispelled Platform Nine and Three Quarters, for instance.
Master of Death. The words insisted on repeating themselves in his head. Master. Of. Death. It's such a ridiculous concept, when you think about it - how can anyone "master" a universal presence? And it is universal: even worlds, even stars, eventually die. Death has eternity. It literally can't lose.
But… the idea percolated into his mind, but that doesn't necessarily mean it has to win.
You can't have a winner, after all, if there's no contest.
To defeat Death, all you have to do is die.
With a deep breath, Harry drew himself up. He looked her in the eye as, with a businesslike air, he untied the Cloak and let it fall to the ground. He dropped the Elder Wand onto the folds of cloth. Still holding her gaze - if only to keep it from wandering - he pulled the ring off his finger and displayed it before her. Then wordlessly he opened his fingers and let the Stone fall to join the other two Hallows.
Her gaze did wander downwards for a second, but her only reaction was a slightly raised eyebrow and a slightly wider smile. Then she was opening her arms to him, and without hesitation he walked into Death's embrace.
It was actually quite nice: her chosen avatar had snuggly curves in all the right places, and the body felt warm and yielding in his arms. He felt his consciousness, his being, begin to blur, but strangely felt no fear. After all, there was nothing to be afraid of… it wasn't as though he hadn't done this before…
And at least I'll be with Hermione again…
Abruptly, he felt his mind grow sharper, and his body more… more solid, for want of a better term. Death had taken a step back from him, and now there was mirth in her eyes to match the grin on her lips. "An unconditional act," she said, with a note of approval. "You yielded the Hallows without surrendering them. You were giving in without in the least giving up - and with love still foremost in your heart. Love." She gave a low, musical laugh. "You'd think I'd have learned by now."
Harry was almost afraid of the hope that was starting to blossom inside him. "Does this mean…?"
She nodded, then turned serious. "But Harry - I have to make this clear. The next time we meet, it'll be for keeps. The final curtain. Department of Doornails. No more special consideration for former masters of Deathly Hallows. Got it?"
"Got it." He glanced down at his wizened body and grimaced. "Not that you'll have to wait very long, with my new age. But as long as I can spend the rest of my life with her…"
"Let me worry about that."
He nodded thanks, and started to turn to the throngs of nearly invisible presences queued on the platform - though, he suddenly realized, without the Stone he shouldn't be able to see them - unless Death was taking care of that detail for him. He stopped as Death cleared her throat meaningfully. He turned back to her, only to see her looking small and forlorn, with big hopeful eyes fixed on him.
"Harry?" she asked in a little-girl voice. "Don't I get a thank-you kiss?"
It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Now who's being cliché?"
She tried to pout at him, which was difficult to do given the mischievous grin that kept breaking out on her face. Really, for an anthropomorphic manifestation of a metaphysical abstraction, she was actually pretty cute.
After a moment, they both burst out laughing, and she took his arm. "Come on, hero. Let's collect Hermione, and the two of you can go back together. You should probably think about what you're going to say when you arrive."