REST OF SUMMARY!

Harry Potter wasn't most people; most people didn't kill the most dangerous Dark Lord ever known as a teenager, most people didn't become the Master of death by accident.

Most people didn't travel back in time to try and change the same Dark Lord who they killed, who killed their parents and caused the death of everyone they'd ever cared about.

But of course, Harry wasn't most people, and that's exactly what he did.

1943 was a strange new time, and sharing it with Tom Riddle was even stranger. He was cold, and obsessive, and he seemed to have taken some sort of interest in Harry, even though he'd only gone there to try and oppose him. It was funny, really, he wanted to go, insert himself into Slytherin so he could watch from the shadows, pry for information, and now here he was performing Dark Magic with the very man who murdered his parents—who he killed—for no reason other than that he wanted to, and that he liked Tom almost as much as Tom liked him.

END OF SUMMARY!

Hey there, welcome to my fanfic! Please be aware that there are triggers for this story, and I will give warning for those and how to skip them in the notes!

This is cross-posted on ao3 under the name HeavensAether, yes, that is me, it has not been stolen.

Thank you to Jack and Jenn for looking this over for me, you guys are amazing!

If you enjoyed, favourite, follow, maybe review, thank you! Enjoy!

" You wish to go back and fix things," Death said; it wasn't a question, and it was so fucked up because he'd already said the same thing a million times, and they'd had the same conversation in the same place like a million times already.

And they're standing in the middle of The Battle Of Hogwarts Memorial Cemetery, staring at the solemnly silent graves of his friends and family, and it just felt bitter and tired at that point. Harry was suddenly feeling weary and exhausted. "Yes," he answered stiffly, because he always had the same answer—unable to lie—when he was staring at the buried corpse of his friends and family and peers. Sirius, Remus and Tonks, Fred and George—who killed himself mere weeks after the war ended—even Ron and Hermione had fallen to a rampant group of Death Eaters at the twin's funeral. They had fought valiantly and had fallen with their wands filled with freshly-cast spells.

"Would you?" Death asked.

"What could I even do?" Harry said bemusedly, "kill Voldemort?"

Death gave him a side-eyed glance. He'd shown up one day with each of the three items Harry had strived to get rid of, proclaiming him the Master of Death, immortal and impossible. "If you wanted," he said airily, shrugging, and glancing away with feigned disinterest, and Harry stilled.

"You're joking…"

Death shrugged again, which Harry could tell was a yes.

"Why?"

"You're my Master, your wish is my command—besides, you have a long time now to do whatever you want, might as well have fun with it, you know?"

Harry turned, gripping his wand tightly in his pocket, until his hands went white from the pressure. He wasn't worried about it breaking, he knew it never would again. His eyes were cold and glittering like cutting emeralds against Death's steel grey. The entity felt an icy grip of pride in his chest that he had gotten such a strong, confident presence as his master. "You're being completely honest with me right now? You're serious?"

Death held up his hands placatingly, "what reason would I have to lie?"

Harry cast a suspicious stare at the Being, mouth pursed. "So… what do you want me to do, then…?"

An amused expression flitted across his face for a moment, before it faded back to blank. "You're the Master now, remember?"

Harry blushed and glanced down, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh… right," he shuffled his feet absently, worrying his mouth between his teeth. "I… guess I'll go pack my trunk. What time period are we going to?"

"That depends," Death shrugged, shifting from one foot to the other in response to Harry's movement. He looked suddenly alive and animated; he was like a statue brought to life by an intriguing conversation.

"On what?" Bloody hell, the amount of dancing around he needed to do with Death was insane. Every conversation was a battle of wits and words, it was a desperate struggle just to worm any kid of information out of them.

Death's stare was always cold, dead and milky silver, calculating and predatory. "You," he said simply, as if it was obvious, "what do you want to go back to do?"

Harry hesitated, "Change the future…?" He asked hesitantly, unsure. He didn't even know what he was being offered here, not completely, at least.

Death huffed impatiently, "Yeah, I'd gathered that. You know what, I'll start you off. Here we have two options—you can either go back and see what killing him does, or you can go back to try to change him and his actions. You choose."

He thought about it, deeply, genuinely; he actually thought about it. Could he actually go back and kill a young, helpless Tom Riddle? Could he potentially go back in time and slaughter someone, a child, in cold blood—racist fanatic and genocidal murderer who'd killed his parents and caused the deaths of everyone he'd ever loved—or not. Honestly, he didn't know if he could, if he could raise his wand with steady, unshaking hands; stare dark eyes down with a cold, unflinching look and cast the curse that had ruined his entire life. It had swept through mercilessly, with absolutely no remorse for the pain and suffering it had caused and carried with it like leaves on a cool wind breeze.

No, he decided. No, he could not.

"I-I want to change his actions…" Harry stuttered reluctantly.

Death gave him an almost approving smile. "Good, then go pack your stuff, Master.

And with that, he'd sealed his fate