Disclaimer: Don't own 'em - they're all JKR's babies. If they were mine, college tuition would be the least of my worries ...

Note: Underlined parts are all taken directly from Chapter 35 of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Also it may be of note to some that this story will have both heterosexual and homosexual relationships. Happy reading!

Chapter 1

He spun around. Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him, sprightly and upright, wearing sweeping robes of midnight.

"Harry." He spread his arms wide, and his hands were both whole and white and undamaged. "You wonderful boy. You brave, brave man. Let us walk."

"P-Professor?" Harry blurted out. Although he had been rather overwhelmed at the presence of his parents accompanying him through the forest to his death, he was certain they hadn't mentioned hallucinating dead headmasters being a side effect of the killing curse. "Aren't you dead?"

Dumbledore's eyes flashed with something – malice? No, he must have imagined it.

"Oh, yes," said Dumbledore matter-of-factly.

"You're here to take me … on, then?" There was something nagging at the back of his mind.

"You have a choice, my boy," Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling.

Wait – what?

"I – I don't understand, sir." He had thought the whole thing was quite straight forward, really. Give himself up to Voldemort, get hit by the Avada Kedavra, and die. Nowhere was there a mention of a choice.

Something suddenly occurred to him. "Professor? Why are you here? Where are – where're mum and dad? And Sirius? And Remus?" He shook his head in bemusement as he took in his surroundings. "And why are we at King's Cross?"

He definitely didn't imagine the spark of irritation in the headmaster's eyes then.

What was going on?

I told her you were intelligent, a smug voice sounded in his head. I knew I had not chosen wrong.

Oh great, now he was hearing voices as well. Being dead really was not all it was cracked up to be.

Keep up, Harry. Your 'headmaster', the voice sneered, has plainly stated that you are not, in fact, dead.

Clearly, his mental voice did not think highly of Dumbledore.

"Harry?"

You will see why soon enough, Harry. Pay attention now; he wishes to impart his 'genius' to a captive audience. I will speak with you later, when you are alone.

"Sorry sir, this is all a bit overwhelming," said Harry sheepishly, hiding his grimace. Who the bloody hell was that voice and why was Dumbledore being so … shifty? There was definitely something suspicious about the way he was acting.

Couldn't he even have a normal death?

"Not to worry," Dumbledore waved off. "After all, it must come as quite a surprise to realize that you survived the killing curse once again. As I was saying, Harry, you have a choice. You may go … on, as it were, or you can choose to go back. We are in King's Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to … let's say … board a train."

Thoughts and emotions whirled through Harry's head. He could continue on – truly dead – and see his parents again. A deep yearning filled his heart. Had it been only moments earlier in the forest that he had seen Lily's – his – eyes and James' quiet pride? Sirius' carefree smile and Remus' reassuring calm?

And yet – and yet, there was Hermione and Ron to think of, and Ginny. The rest of the Weasleys. Neville. Luna. Hagrid. His breath caught. Teddy, his godson. He couldn't run away from his responsibilities, not when doing so would leave behind an orphaned baby that he had sworn to look after. His own godfather had borne twelve years with dementors and another two years on the run for him, and Remus had been a perpetual source of strength. He would honour their memory by looking after Teddy – he could do no less.

"Voldemort does, of course, wield the Elder Wand," Dumbledore interjected hastily. "Defeating him would likely be a rather daunting task for anyone not of your calibre."

Harry frowned contemplatively. It seemed that Dumbledore wanted him to go back, if he interpreted his carefully worded suggestion correctly. Was he looking too deeply and blowing this out of proportion? Maybe his old headmaster just wanted him to live a long and fulfilling life.

But it just didn't ring true to him. What did Albus Dumbledore stand to gain when he was already dead anyway? Shoving his thoughts to the side for a later time, he forced a smile. "Do you think I should return, sir?"

"I think," said Dumbledore, "that if you choose to return, there is a chance that he may be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that your fortitude has very few limitations, and if you put your mind to it, you can achieve anything you choose."

"Thank you, sir." Harry glanced again at the raw-looking thing that trembled and choked in the shadow beneath the distant chair, wishing there was something he could do to help it. Hopefully, once Voldemort was truly killed, his soul would become whole again and he could finally have some peace. "I will see to it that he is defeated beyond question."

Dumbledore beamed at him with obvious delight and, in Harry's eyes, relief. "Of course, my boy, I have no doubt that you will do your parents proud."

An unexpected wave of anger rose up in him at that (because watching their child endanger his life over and over again was obviously what every parent truly wished for), but he wrestled it back down before giving another strained smile. "How do I get back, professor?"

Dumbledore smiled enigmatically. "You only have to close your eyes, Harry, and let go."

With a darting glance at Hermione and the Weasleys huddled together, Harry slipped silently out of the Great Hall, exhaustion seeping out of every pore of his body.

He had finally done it. Voldemort was gone for good, and he had – somehow – walked out of it alive, though he didn't feel like it at the moment. The adrenaline that had kept him going through the battle was utterly drained, and every muscle throbbed with a bone-deep ache. What felt like weeks of dirt and grime weighed him down, and every step was an effort.

It was the thought of the wailing yet jubilant mob he had left behind that gave him the strength to shuffle slowly up the stairs, occasionally tripping over bits of stone and blackened portraits. He couldn't help the pang in his chest as his hand trailed along the fractured wall, chips and cracks marring the previously smooth surface. Hogwarts had never felt more desolate than at that moment, and he could almost feel the weariness emanating from the ancient castle.

Finally, he came to a stop in front of the wall opposite the crumbling portrait of Barnabas the Barmy, where one troll was still feebly twirling in its singed tutu. He walked back and forth, wishing fervently that the Fiendfyre hadn't destroyed the Room of Requirements. All he needed was a pillow and some quiet, and he could sleep for days.

"Come on," he muttered desperately, "just let me in."

Gradually, almost reluctantly, a door emerged, as grungy and splintered as the rest of the school, and Harry grasped the doorknob and pushed it open. His legs moved without conscious thought to the spartan bed crowning the centre of the equally austere room, the door creaking shut behind him. Sending a last thought to the room to keep anyone from entering, he surrendered gratefully into blissful unconsciousness.

A/N: This will be a much longer story than my other one (not that that's a difficult thing to do). At the moment, my plan is to update once in two weeks. That being said, it's definitely not a guarantee since classes start tomorrow (and most of the story is only a rough outline floating in my head).

As always, reviews are welcome! :)