Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warnings: General creepiness, character death, EWE.

A/N: Well this is strange and a little creepy. I'm not sure where it came from; I wrote most of it late at night months ago, and the rest of it the next day. I've revised it a little since then, though. Unlike my other fics, this isn't a one-shot. It's a…drum roll, please. Thanks. It's a three-shot. The first and third parts were written separately and not meant to be a series. (I may have actually written part three first? Hard to remember.) Part two was spur-of-the-moment, let's-add-more-angst later addition. I'm still editing the later sections, but they should be up fairly quickly.

Also, this story picks up before the epilogue in DH, directly after the last line of the last chapter, if you're confused.

Chapter One: The Unwitting Master

by hiddenheadspace

-The Past-

"That wand's more trouble than it's worth," said Harry. "And quite honestly," he turned away from the painted portraits, thinking now only of the four-poster bead lying waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower and wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a sandwich there, "I've had enough trouble for a lifetime."

-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, by J.K. Rowling, Chapter 36

Kreacher had, in fact, been able to bring Harry a sandwich. It had had a slightly slapdash appearance, and contained some fillings that Harry had eyed warily, suspecting that the kitchens had been at least partially destroyed in the battle. He'd fallen asleep still fully dressed and wearing the same filthy outfit he'd put on before Apparating to Hogsmeade, and once asleep (with his neck at a painful angle and the sandwich dripping mustard on the sheets), he dreamed strangely.

He was dreaming of the park near Privet Drive, he recognized. The dream had dressed him in Dudley's cast-offs, and he felt much smaller than usual. Harry looked at his hands. They were his child self's hands, smooth and unscarred and too thin.

Harry wandered over to the swings, remembering the empty weeks after Sirius's death. Another child with red hair was swinging there already. Harry chose the swing furthest away from the other boy and aimlessly perched there, rocking himself slightly with his toe (it was a stretch to reach the ground).

The other child whooped as he launched himself off the swing and flew high up into the air, much higher than any Muggle child could have managed. Bitter memories of Lily and Snape swam in Harry's memory, and he turned away from the sight to fight down sudden, delayed horror and panic. He breathed quickly, shuddering, trying to forget his mother's kind face as he walked to his death.

"Hello, Harry," the red-haired boy said brightly, catching on to the chain of Harry's swing. "Enjoying the end of the war?"

Harry whipped around and found himself practically nose-to-nose with the face of the boy, who gazed at Harry with intent blue eyes.

Harry recognized him even at that age. "P-professor?" he asked disbelievingly.

The child version of Albus Dumbledore laughed. "No, Harry."

"No?" Harry asked, trying to subtly reach for his wand and finding it missing. Well, of course. He was only dreaming.

"No," the boy confirmed. As if to add to this, he changed his appearance in a rapid, vertigo-inducing shift to a mischievous-faced blond boy. "Harry, Harry, Harry," the boy said, still leaning in too close for comfort. "You just won't die, will you?"

"What—Riddle?" Harry guessed.

"No," the boy said. "Do I look like Voldemort to you?" The boy changed forms so that he looked like the youngest version of Tom Riddle Harry had seen in the memory of Dumbledore's trip to Wool's Orphanage.

"Er, yes," Harry said.

"Oh?" The boy looked at himself. "Well, I suppose I do. But, truly, Harry. You have no idea how hard I've tried to keep you from reaching this moment."

"What moment?" Harry asked, curiosity winning out over his caution. It was only a dream, after all.

"The moment you became my master, of course," the boy said.

This sentence was so nonsensical to Harry that he nearly laughed.

"I'm no one's master," he protested.

"You're mine," the boy disagreed. "And I've been wasting a whole lot of time trying to stop you from making it. Nobody's meant to live indefinitely. Even the strongest of safeguards will fail you eventually. But this?" The Riddle doppelgänger moved closer again. Harry leaned back precariously, shifting his weight.

"So," the boy said, and his appearance shifted again, so now he looked like a child that Harry didn't recognize at all. "I suppose I will just have to make your immortality even more miserable than your various near-deaths."

"What?" Harry asked, completely nonplussed. "I'm not—"

"You are," the boy said, sounding deranged. "You are, and no one should be!"

"I—"

"Hush up, Potter. I'm talking." The boy adjusted his appearance to look like a young James Potter, sending another jolt of painful memories through Harry. "Nothing, not even my gift to dear Cadmus, can return your beloved dead to life. So enjoy what little your life gives you, Harry Potter, because I will not stand for you to be happy."

"You're mental," Harry said flatly. "I'm not immortal, and I'm certainly no one's…master…"

"Oh, do you understand now?" Death asked, twisting James's face into a bright child's smile. His features began to change rapidly, shifting between many faces, many years, many wielders of the different Deathly Hallows. "Do you know what's the funniest part, Harry?" he asked, appearance shifting so quickly that Harry began to feel sick. "And either must die by the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. If Tom Riddle was still living, you might yet be freed of this. Too bad for you."

The swing chain broke, sending Harry plunging to the ground. He shot up in bed with a startled gasp, knocking his half-eaten sandwich to the floor. Just a dream, he tried to tell himself, probably just a delayed reaction to using the elder wand. That was all it was, probably.

Harry stumbled out of bed, trying to stay quiet to not wake up Ron, asleep nearby. He quickly crossed to the washroom to try and wash away the sticky horror of his dream.

Once he was out of the shower, feeling much better and a little silly for conjuring up such a bizarre dream (like Hermione had said: death personified? Don't be silly) when he glanced at the fogged up mirror.

I'll begin soon, read the writing in the steam.

George Weasley was found dead that same morning.