A.N. Hey guys! Yeah, I had fragments of a dream last night (I couldn't remember the whole thing), and it evolved into this story. So read and review. Also, there's a few text notes:

Death talking: BLAH.

Old man (I don't give away his name until the end, but everyone will probably figure it out) talking: "Blah."

So, read and review. I own nothing except my interpretation of Death.

The old man sat on his deck, staring out across his yard. His weak eyes could no longer see anything more than impressions, even with his glasses on. He couldn't see the tree house that he had built with his sons in the upper branches of an oak tree, doing it manually because both boys insisted that it was the right way to do it. He couldn't see the park where his daughter had met a young boy when he stopped another boy from pulling on her braids. The pair had later married, and had children. The old man couldn't even see the fruit trees that he had planted on a whim, but had grown fruits of all kinds; enough for all of the children in the neighborhood. But the old man could still remember the wonderful life he had led. He remembered the sound of children fighting with those Muggle water guns, spraying everything in sight. He could remember the taste of buttermilk cookies, and the hopeful look on his daughter's face as she waited to hear if they tasted okay. And he could always remember the scent of his wife's perfume, which she had worn every day until she died.

The old man noticed someone sitting next to him silently. It literally could have been dozens of people, but he knew exactly which one it was. He didn't turn to look at him yet. He just stared out into the garden. Finally, the old man spoke.

"So it's time now, right?"

CORRECT.

The voice was filled with power, power that only one of the forces of nature could command.

"I thought you would have come for me two years ago, when you took my wife."

NO. THAT WAS HER TIME, NOT YOURS.

The old man nodded, conceding the point. "When I go with you," he began, "will I go to the Middle Ground again?"

NO. THIS TIME YOU WILL JUST GO… ON.

The old man nodded. He had expected nothing less.

The old man turned to look at his companion. His eyes were old, but even he could not mistake the sight of the figure. He seemed to be made from shadows, swirling and looming and spinning into ever-changing patterns. The only constant was two orbs of red that served as eyes. The old man turned back to his garden. "Why are you here personally? I thought you would just… take me."

I CONSIDERED IT.

"Is it because of the D—?"

YES. YOU HELD THEM FOR A POINT OF TIME. I CAN NOT JUST TAKE YOU.

The old man reached under his chair, and pulled out a bundle. "That reminds me. While I could have bequeath them to one of my children, I figured they should belong to you." A shadowed hand reached for the package, and the package disappeared into the swirling mass.

THANK YOU. NOW, MR POTTER, IT'S TIME TO GO.

Harry nodded. Taking the hand that Death offered to him, he turned from his house that he had lived in for so many years. Instead, he faced—as Dumbledore put it—the next great adventure.