A/N: This is crossposted on AO3, however, this has been REVISED. This is an updated version with a bit of rewording and a tiny bit more descriptors. This is also in first-person and after the fact. Harry Potter isn't simply the Master of Death in this work - but he is Death. He's telling a story that's already happened. This is not beta'd. I feel like I don't need to add the disclaimer that I don't own Harry Potter as that seems evident enough. I may add a sequel, I'm thinking a bit of time-travel (yeah, yeah - it's been done! Cliche!) But I'll have you know, I LOVE cliches. This fic doesn't have Ron Weasley bashing BUT it does have a bit of Hermione and Ginny bashing (I do NOT ship Ginny/Harry. I feel like it's a bit to Oedipus for me tbh). If I do add time-travel as a sequel, it'd probably be inspired by Tiro's "The Nightmare Man" (I've always loved that fic) and maybe a bit of Hyliian's "On a Pale Horse". Some Hellraiser too as I'd enjoy the idea of a Dementor's robes being made from Death's skin. Feedback is welcome! If you have any ideas in how the plot should go for the sequel or potential fanfic unconnected, hit me with a DM or comment.

And just like Atlas, I found myself holding the entirety of civilization upon my slim and starving shoulders. I, however, did nothing to deserve punishment as unjust as this.

For the sake of survival, I embedded a knife into my very soul and twisted it until I could twist it no longer - until my soul shattered under the pressure of the sharp instrument and it fell away at the seams with agony at the forefront of my mind.

This … otherworldly war led by a child no older than seventeen finished its decades-long fight not long after the body at my feet begun to cool, the roars of victory rang loud over the decimated castle I once called home. It deafened my hearing and shook the very depths of the marrow within my malnourished bones and I felt myself grow tired, weary and fatigued. How much longer was I supposed to follow the path others had laid out for me? Was I, the man who died and fought for others, not allowed to live? To be happy? To live content in the monotony of a simple yet boring life? A life where I am safe and protected like any and every child ought to?

Days after the Battle did my friends finally pursue me; in tow was Ginevra Weasley, the sister to my friend and brother in distant blood, Ronald Weasley. He looked none too pleased, yet the two women before him beamed in unhidden glee as he shifted to and fro on uneven feet.

I welcomed them into my home and I was burned soon thereafter. Ginevra was to become my wife, Hermione had declared. Ronald had apologized following the sudden silence that Hermione's words had brought. "Sorry, mate," he'd said. A grimace evident on his pale and tired features. "mum found a contract buried in dad's workshop. I would've warned you but..." I understood. I felt no ill-will to the youngest Weasley male. He was a good friend, if not jealous and petty at times. He was a child, I could not fault him on his attitude through our Hogwarts years. He had stood with me while I denied the contract and its contents; I had not been so lucky with Hermione.

The women left fuming, and Ronald appeared more tired and distraught than before. I offered him a room to rest in and he took it with a grateful smile. It was not long after that day that I had been struck with a sudden illness. Part of it had been because of the refusal of the marriage contract. I had fainted while talking to Ronald one night and he had caught me mid-fall. Like a damsel in distress, I mused. A funny gesture in a decidedly unfunny outcome. The Healers at Saint Mungo's declared that I was dying and I felt no fear, no grief. Only relief.

Life had not been kind to me regardless of my short time within Gaia's domain. It would make sense that Death wouldn't be either. "You're not dying, Mister Potter," said Ragnar, a Goblin Healer from Gringotts Bank. I had asked him to explain this sudden phenomenon and he gave me a cutting smile in return. "you're becoming something other. A curse, possibly. Have you touched anything you weren't supposed to? Break anything, perhaps?" My heart stuttered and I stared down at my paper-thin hands. I had snapped the Elder Wand in half and thrown the pieces away soon after the War. "Yes," I replied. My voice soft and my brows furrowed. "the Elder Wand. But it's - that's just a myth, isn't it? A legend?" The Goblin paused and seemed to give me a pitying look. I hadn't been sure back then, I couldn't decipher the emotions of Goblin's as I can now. "All legends have some truth behind them, Mister Potter. It's just the matter of finding out where in the lies the truth hides."

I drew my shoulders up and hunched my back as if the stance I held could protect me from the onslaught of emotions that overcame me. I had asked Healer Ragnar what I should do. He gave me a considering look and said simply: "Accept it."

And so, I did.