"Huh?"

Harry sat up quickly, being surrounded by a pool of darkness that seemed to unceasingly fluctuate and move. He had a massive headache. He touched a hand to his face and felt something rough. His lower face was covered in scraggly hairs. Facial hair? What is this? He ran a hand through his hair, noticing it was longer, almost to his shoulders. He looked down at his body. His clothes looked a tiny bit too small for him, length-wise. "The Hell is all this?" Harry forced himself to his feet. Christ, his legs were wobbly. After spending a few minutes to get his bearings, he tried talking a few tentative steps. With his third step he fell on his face. "Dammit!" He forced himself back up, his arms just as weak as his legs. He took a few breaths and continued to walk, his legs slowly beginning to follow his commands. That's when he heard something shift in the darkness. A man dressed in a deep black traveler's cloak emerged from the shadows. The ends were frayed and torn, but the top seemed pristine and new. The old torn edges seemed to blend, becoming newer and more well-kept until they reached the top. Harry frowned. His entire face was hidden, cast behind a dark veil of shadows. Only twin deep purple eyes peered back at the young wizard.

"Ah. So my newest Son is awake. You've awoken much faster than most others do."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you were born under my Star. You are one of my many Children, though all but you have long since perished. But that is neither here nor there."

"You said I woke up faster than the others… How long did they sleep? And how long was I out?"

"Hmm… well, before you, the swiftest was Anais. It took her thirty years. As for you, it took just the one."

"I've been asleep… for one whole year?"

"Aye. Give or take a few days."

Harry began to panic, but then remembered what Dumbledore had said. Time doesn't pass here. He looked to the man. "So… I was born under your star, then? Who are you?" "That you must learn on your own. But before I can tell you, you must prove yourself worthy. Unarmed combat. Meaning no magic, wizard." Before Harry could protest, he disappeared. Three men appeared around him, dressed in loose-fitting clothes. They looked old… ancient, really. And they wore masks, painted black without eye slits. Harry rose his fists, standing in a stance that screamed a lack of training. Without warning two of the men rushed him, the third hanging back. Harry swung wildly, his strikes either being ducked under or blocked. A solid kick struck his stomach and he doubled over and wrapped his arms around his stomach in pain. As he did so, the third man drew a dagger from his clothes. He spun Harry around and buried the blade into Harry's stomach. Pain exploded in his body as he fell over. How? How could it be over? He survived the Killing Curse just to… to…

"You died."

Harry looked up to see the man in the cloak. "Come on then, get up. Again!" Before he could even take another breath, the pain was gone and the men were once again surrounding him. Harry blinked a few times and got up to his feet. He understood now. "So… It's fight or die. And then even after I die, fight some more. Well, Prof-… Albus never said this would be easy." Harry rose his fists. This time one man shot forward. He took a step back as the man approached and avoided his fists. He envisioned them as bludgers, and he had experience dodging those. It was hard at first, but soon Harry found himself on a roll. Duck. Dodge. Lean. Then he saw it. Opening. His fist rocketed out and caught the man in the face with a powerful jab. The man took the hit and rolled with it, using Harry's sudden surprise at landing a hit to catch him off his guard. A blade emerged from his sleeve and slit Harry's throat.

Once again he found himself dead.

"Again."

Harry rose again, the three men encircling him. He couldn't even take on the one, how was he supposed to beat all three? He clenched his fists tightly, ready as they approached once again.

"Rahh!"

Harry landed a fierce splits kick on a man's chest, sending him to the ground. He caught a clothesline in his hands and sent the owner of the arm skyward. He used the third man's head as a stepping stone, flying up to the man in the air and grabbing him by his face. He gave a powerful heave and sent him rocketing to the ground. Below him stood a large mass of enemies. Whenever he had defeated the group of men, his Star Father, as he had taken to calling the hooded figure, added another. He was now up to sixty-one. He had lost count of the years that had passed. He had stopped keeping track of time after he was killed for the fourth consecutive time. He was now taller, standing at six feet, three inches. His hair was long, down to his waist. His clothes, magically, had expanded as he grew, however they weren't washed or fixed. They were bloody, torn, they showed the years he had been fighting.

He landed in the midst of the enemy warriors, who all stopped attacking and stood, as still as statues. Harry stayed in his fighting stance. It was amateur, but skilled and deadly. Self-taught, but as lethal as any traditional fighting style, if not more so. He combine street fighting with his quick speed and reflexes from his Quidditch days, and evolved the style as needed to suit his needs. Now he was a finely-tuned powerhouse. His body was lean and fit, his muscles toned and well-defined. He lowered his fists as they refused to move anymore. They all disappeared in bursts of flames. The man reappeared. "How long did I fight them for?" His voice, while the same, was now more quiet and smooth. It had a dark, mature edge. "Another year." "Just one?" "Yes. Happy nineteenth birthday." Harry gave a slight smirk. "Thanks, I guess. So why did you have them stop?" "Beating up on them has gotten far too easy for you. It's time for the next part of training." Harry stood for a second and looked up at him. "No need for that. I figured it out a while ago. You, Star Father… are Death. I know your power, so how about we skip to the part where you teach me to use it." All was silent, but finally the cloaked man chuckled. "Quite right. I am Death. You wish to utilize my power as your own?" He rose his hand and a huge, demonic scythe appeared. It had an ebony shaft, which had slightly yellowed and cracked bones decorating it. The blade was three feet wide, and six feet long. The weapon itself seemed to be around nine to ten feet long. A deep purple aura radiated from the weapon. "Defeat me in combat. Feeling the terror and pain of Death is the only way to understand and wield it." Harry rose his fists. "Well. Come on, then."

Forgot to do an Author's Note last time. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Next we're going to visit the living in their struggle against Voldemort. All reviews are loved, thank you so much for reading.