A/N: Wow, didn't expect the success of this one. I'm glad you all enjoyed it. Thanks so much to those who reviewed! Reviews mean a lot to me, I don't know why... Just kind of takes me out of my shit-hole world and makes me feel good. So, here is chapter two. This is dedicated to a friend who I think needed it. Oh, and whoever tells me what song I altered the lyrics too for this chapter title wins a prize... OH!! One more thing, I swear! Certain things were brought up about the last chapter. The TV in the Cauldron was there because, as it comes into play later on in my story, American Wizard cultures, in my head, take a different aspect than the British ones. The new bartender was American so he had one there. Voldemort, as you'll see a little bit here, doesn't rule over all. He is still toying with people, so his DE's are on a bit of a covert leash.

You Pick the Place and Choose the Time

With a shot glass of whiskey and a cigarette in hand, Harry sat at his desk. The rain outside pattered down on the glass, persistent to break through the window. His good eye blankly stared through the panes and into his yard, slicing through the overcast light with ease. A flash of lightning lit the outside world in a violent array. Thunder rattled the lamp shade. It was nasty out in the world. It was even Nastier inside of his own head.

Plop.

He looked down into his glass and saw a ripple.

Plop.

Another ripple. Harry looked up to see if there was a hole in ceiling. There wasn't one. His face felt chilled though.

"Am I crying?" he asked himself. His voice stopped sounding odd to his own ears years ago. It was one of those simple comforts, talking to himself was.

His study was warm, the crackling fire roared on with brilliance. The red, Oriental rug looked no different than a large pool of blood. His couch was masked in flickering shadows, like a group of demon hoarders, waiting for him to do what he wanted to commit so much. They were all laughing at him, pointing and giggling maniacally at his sadness and insanity.

Over the years of mental and physical torture, Harry had developed a rather nasty habit of grinding his teeth when in straining situations. He did that as he practiced his other bad habit: smoking.

The demon laughter grew louder and louder. He bit through the filter and the tip of his tongue. The bitter taste of blood ran across his taste buds and down his throat. He choked and threw his shot glass through the window, screaming in anger. The rain danced with glee, finally gaining entrance into the home.

Harry got up without a word, shooting the chair backwards and toppling over. He stormed out of the room and into the gigantic hallway. The house, mansion actually, was one of his many estates. The goblins had alerted him of his true assets, the ones that Dumbledore had hidden from him.

He was the richest, poor man alive. None of it was worth it without Hermione.

He sauntered down the flight of stairs, glaring at the chandelier's blaze, and made his way into the living room. Another fire was burning in the larger hearth. A picture rested a top the shelf, one picture. It was him and Hermione, sitting together in the study at Grimmauld, laughing and cuddling. A large sob rolled up from his stomach and became stuck under his left breast. His heart, that's what it was. A broken Potter heart, sadly, could not be mended.

He fought the tears and silenced the howl of pain that threatened to break free from his heart. He looked at his gnarled and scarred hands. He was only twenty-one, but he looked like he was forty-eight. His face, still ruggedly handsome, drove most women crazy with desire. The muscles had built up over the years of living alone and training still paid off.

"Why'd you have to go, 'Mione?" He softly asked, rubbing a thumb across her face on the photo. Droplets exploded against the glass surface of the frame. A small whimper escaped, tearing down the rest of his walls. He clutched the picture against the pain in his chest, crumpling to the floor. He sobbed, crawled into a corner, and curled into a ball. The deadliest mage in existence was a shattered soul.

Dobby found him hours later, still in the corner. He was asleep, with tear marks down his face, shivering like a naked child would. The elf felt immense sorrow for his Master. He had been so lonely since Miss Hermione had been killed. No justice had been seen; Voldemort still wreaked havoc over the world. It wasn't the upfront slaughter that had been predicted though, he instead used little hit and run techniques to keep the wizarding population in suspense, just like he always had. Things were getting worse though. Dobby feared that his Master, no matter how powerful he was could not overcome the loss of his heart, and would not win against the Dark Lord.

Dobby levitated Harry up to his room and tucked him in.

"I's is sos sorry's Master Harry Potter. You's never gets any breaks anymore." The little elf whispered as he slipped out of the door.

***

He sat on top of a hill, watching a valley turn different shades of orange, red, brown, and green. Harry was intoxicated with the vision, resting his back against the only tree around. The sky was a standard blue, a few puffy clouds flew by, and he felt… good.

A mountain range sat off in the distance. Its snow covered tops were a different colour blue than the sky. They towered up and up and up, out of Harry's line of sight. It was gorgeous.

All of a sudden, a figure moved across the plain below. It limped slowly in a hunched position, taking a pause every now and then. Harry leaned forward and squinted, but still couldn't get a good view of what it was. However, it was making his way towards him. He'd wait and see what would happen.

A raven flew from the tree above him, squawking and soaring through the sky. It looped around in the breeze, so… freely. Harry watched with interest. It contrasted so nicely against the blue sky. It flew further away. When it reached about where the figure was, it dropped from the sky. Harry could hear it thump against the ground from his seat, it was like a gunshot rang out across the land.

That's when he noticed something else. The land in which the figure had treaded was now colourless, just black and dead. There was no more grass on the ground and even the sky above seemed to have died. Everything behind the strange figure was dead. It was making great speed.

Harry shrugged and turned around to the other side of the tree. The opposite direction was just as beautiful. He smiled for the first time in so very long, that his lips began to hurt. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the smooth bark.

"You must be Potter." A voice sounded from behind him. It was old and sickly.

Harry opened up his eyes and appraised the voice's owner with his good one. The man was short and wrinkly; a long grey beard symbolized his age. He wore a ragged cloak, riddled with holes and with mold. His eyes were black, pure ebony.

"Yeah, that's me." Harry responded. He settled back into the crook of the tree, ignoring the man and enjoying the wilderness. His head suddenly began to sink into the bark. He leaned forward and turned around. The tree was rotting. He could see the bark turn pulpy and grow a certain icky slime.

"Now that I have your attention," the man monotonously spoke, "you may want to actually listen, Potter."

Harry scowled up at the man. "What would I possibly want to hear? The only time I have felt happy since…" He trailed off as reality hit him. There was no peacefulness in the world. Even when it seemed that all was fine and that there was a certain tranquility to life, reality would set back in eventually. His soul was already gone. There was no happiness left in his life.

"Since your soul mate died? Yes, I know. That was a very hard thing to do." The man looked off into the distance, his black eyes glazed over, looking like two igneous rocks.

Harry slowly stood up, towering over the small man. "What do you mean by that?"

"I have had to do a lot of hard things in my time, break a lot of hearts. That one, however, I refused to comply with at first, couldn't watch you get broken again. I knew that you, boy, would never be the same. My advisors told me it had to be done. If I refused, I'd be tortured like Prometheus for the rest of existence." There was a sad expression that blanketed his face. "Each of us has a selfish side. I regretted my decision for years. That was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Not even taking your parents came close."

Harry stood and watched as the man spoke in riddles. His teeth were grinding again and his brow furrowed in annoyance. "What are you on about, old man?"

He turned and looked at Harry. "I. Am. Death." He poked Harry in the chest with a cane he had hidden under a haggard piece of cloak, as he spoke each word.

"You?" Harry asked, pointing a finger at him. The man nodded. Harry was silent for a good time before he spoke again. "Thought you'd be taller."

The man chuckled slightly, it was bone chillingly hollow. "Not surprised, are you lad?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't get surprised anymore. I don't really care about too much. This isn't the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me either."

"Aye," he replied, nodding. "I am sorry, Potter. Like I said, it was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I've watched you closely, kind of like a guardian angel."

Harry laughed darkly. "Death is my guardian angel? Figures."

"In a sense. But, who better to have watching your back than death?" Harry stopped laughing. It did make sense. "Anyway, I have a proposition for you, if you'll hear it."

Harry shrugged. "Shoot. I got nothing to lose." Death smiled at him, a toothy grin that could make even Ragnok, the Master Goblin of Gringotts, envious.

"No, but you have everything to gain." The clap of thunder was heard off in the distance as a black cloud rolled furiously over the blue sky like wallpaper. The cloud lit with wrathfully in bursts of lightning. "Hm. Looks like someone doesn't want me here," Death muttered to himself. "Anyway, I'd like to send you back in time, to a day of my choosing, and have you live your life all over again. Make the same choices, don't make them, I don't care. My advisors might, but I sure as hell don't. You have suffered through too much hell to not be allowed a fair second chance."

"And this is possible?" Harry skeptically asked, an eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other.

"Yes, but I need to act quickly. Your appearance would change, of course. You would look just like you did on that day to which I send you. However, your features will come back. For a short time you'll be able to see out of that eye," he pointed to the blind one, "until an accident that will happen, happens."

"Bummer."

"You'll have to work your physique back up, but that shouldn't be that much of an issue, you were well trained." Harry smirked at the thought of his masters. "You can keep your knowledge and memories. Have to train most of your power back though. Nothing's changed in your identity, you just haven't been told about who you truly are, so you are entitled to all that you have now."

"Why are you offering me this?" The thunder clouds grew closer, lighting up even more violently than before. The soft breeze turned malicious and cruel.

"Nice guys need to win sometimes. Do you want it or not, Potter?" Harry looked at the man and back to the clouds. He thought hard and fast. Good outcomes played against bad ones. He sighed and ran a hand through his raven black hair. "I need an answer, now!"

"Do it."

Death smiled and pulled a revolver from underneath his ragged cloak. He told Harry to sit back against the rotten tree. The barrel was placed against his temple and he was told "Good Luck, Potter." There was a loud bang as a thousand screaming souls rushed at Death from the sky, Harry Potter's body flew into the rotting tree and disappeared.

***

His eyelids were too heavy to open. He felt a furious blaze upon his face. A hard, disgustingly stiff and odorous mattress lay underneath his body. A child laughed from far away, jumping through a sprinkler. He swore roughly and dug his head into the pillow under his head. He knew exactly where he was. Number 4 Privet Drive: House of the Dursley's.

Harry waited another twenty minutes before rising. He looked around, blinded at first by the nasty change in light, the tiny room. He had never wanted to go back, but there he was, sitting in his Uncle's house in Little Whinging, Surrey.

"God damn it."

"Boy!" His uncle hollered up the steps. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? This isn't your fancy little freak school! We want our breakfast, NOW!" Harry shook his head. He hated that fat walrus with a passion.

His eyesight was perfect; he hadn't needed his glasses in years. It was strange being able to see from both of them though, for he had also been blind in one eye for just as long as he didn't require those atrocious specks.

He stared at the back of his hands, feeling that unnerving edge of motion-sickness. It took most of his resolve not to vomit on the ugly tan rug. He noticed that the large gash he suffered from a dragon pup bite was gone. The calluses did not grace his finger tips and palms neither. He had what Master Ku'utay would have called "Wussy Hands". He sighed.

Harry knew that it was going to suck to rebuild his strength again. "This should be fun." Good god, he sounded like an angsty little teenager. He was an angsty little teenager. Actually, he was in an angsty little teenager's body, not in actuality an angsty little teenager… It hurt his head to think about it. Time travel is a fickle thing.

"Boy! I'm not warning you again!" Harry remembered what Death had told him: "Make the same choices, don't make them, I don't care." He grinned. He was going to have a little fun with them.

First, he had to attempt something. With a wave of his hand he muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa." The chair he was pointing at didn't move. "Shit. Really didn't want to have to learn this again…" Wandless magic was one of those traits that were nasty to learn. It wasn't all in the technique; certain rituals had to be done. Painful, nasty, rituals. "Oh well."

"That's it you freak! I'm sick of you and your stubbornness!" Harry could hear his Uncle's footsteps heavily sounding up the stairs. His mind played back scenarios of when he could not defend himself. Times when he'd been thrown in the cupboard with broken bones or concussions. He snapped back to reality as the door flung open and his Uncle barged in.

A/N: Sorry, but you guys know I love cliffies! ;-) So... Love it, hate it, intrigued even more, turned off... turned on? leave me some love please!