Title: Come What May

Author: DuchessAndromeda

Rating: Pg-13

Disclaimer: I write fanfiction. I'm 17. I don't have a job and I live with my parents. After all that, do you really think that I own Harry Potter and his friends? Please. Only in my slashy dreams.

Author's Notes: I'm posting this, and I'm also going to copy what I saw another author did and put the review responses up on my livejournal. The link is in my profile, but it's also www. livejournal. com/ users/ angelicpain

Thank you to all my reviewers and my wonderful beta, Wiccan PussyKat. As you can see, I do not plan on discontinuing the story, even if I did take about a month long hiatus… sorry, school got in my way. I was busy writing lots and lots of IB and AP essays. And I still have one test left to go, yay! Not.

It was dark, but it wasn't threatening. Somehow, in this place, it didn't matter that he shouldn't be here, or that he couldn't see anything else. All that mattered was the peace that the darkness brought, the promise of safety while he rested. Harry closed his eyes (although there really wasn't any difference in the sight), and let himself drift away.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he finally came back to himself. The scenery was still the same, as well as the comforting presence. Harry waited, letting his mind work through everything it hadn't had a chance to this summer, trusting in the fact that he really had seen Albus, and that the Headmaster wouldn't have let him go anywhere that was completely unsafe.

Harry was looked up, (although there wasn't really an 'up'), and was surprised to see the area in front of him gradually lightening. It wasn't much, but in this utter darkness, the littlest bit helped. Slowly, even though there was no time - it still seemed slow - the light condensed and formed itself into an old man. At least, Harry thought the man was old.

With white hair the man's only true concession to age, it was rather difficult to determine if this person was 30 or 300. The face was smooth, unmarked by time and worry, but his eyes (green as Harry's own) held within them much wisdom and sadness. However, none of these things were what managed to convey the illusion of age the most.

It was the power of the sheer presence that the man held. As if it were a force tightly bound by the master that only time and practice could be. But even though the power seemed to be controlled, it's strength was still there, straining to be let loose, much like a chained dragon. Chains can only hold out for so long, and Harry hoped to be nowhere near this stranger when they broke.

The man smiled, and it was pleasant, even if it did bear faint resemblance to one of a predator. He seemed familiar to Harry, and when he spoke with voice like whispered wind, Harry knew that he had met this man before.

"Hello, Harry. It has been a while since I have truly seen you last. I am Death."

Up in Dudley's room, Alastor Moody cast his magical gaze around the room, searching for any more surprises. He was looking for the faint glow that indicated that an object was enchanted, and his patience paid off. He had dismissed the faint red light when he had entered the room, believing it to be caused by the muggle's alarm clock. Now he once again berated himself for his lapse of Constant Vigilance, as he realized that the glow was coming from the clock, but from the buttons instead of the numbers. Like most things in the room, it didn't come with the complete certainty that it would be touched every day, but as an alarm clock, it stood a better chance than most. Finding no other charms, Moody stepped closer in order to get a better look at the youngest Dursley.

On the surface, the child appeared to be merely sleeping, and it was the little things that close observation revealed that made Moody sure that the overweight boy had been dead for a while. For one, even though the scent of urine hung in the air, the sheets were not damp. Also, the boy's too-pink skin seemed to have expanded, and not with extra weight, rather with the preparation for sloughing off. Interestingly enough, there was no smell of decay in the room. If Dudley had been dead for as long as it seemed he had, wouldn't he have started to emit the noxious odour of decay and death? As far as Moody knew, there was only one way for all the factors to be combined.

Feeling cold inside, he clunked out of the room, hurrying towards the master bedroom and Petunia.

Someone was calling his name, but it didn't matter. Nothing matter except to him except for the child in his arms. It was only when two pairs of hands inserted themselves into his line of sight and threatened to tear his boy away that he looked up. In front of Albus stood the two teenagers that had first alerted him to his child's fate. They looked different, and it took him a moment to place what had changed. They appeared to been frosted, as if they had been standing in the snow for long periods of time. Small icicles clung to any available hair and their lips were lined with a bluish tint. Albus blinked. It was summertime. Forcing his mind clear of such thoughts, he gave them a mildly reproaching look. They hadn't really done anything, after all.

"Voldemort planned this." The words spoken by the red haired part of the duo effectively cleared Albus' mind of any remaining fog fragments.

"How do you know this?"

"Because he just visited us under the guise of a zombied vulture. He also came bearing gifts, as if in payment for what he hopes for." Hermione reached into her pocket and dangled the unconscious rat by its tail, allowing the Headmaster to view its silver paw. Once she was satisfied that he had looked enough, the rat went back into her pocket.

"And so at last the final marauder comes back to us. Thank you Ms. Granger, get one of the professors to conjure you an unbreakable jar. Leave some holes for air, but I think that's all he'll be needing." Hermione nodded, and his child felt heavier in his arms. Albus glanced down on slightly open eyelids, showing nothing but white. He put one hand near Harry's face, but felt no warm puffs of air welcome it.

"Poppy!"

"D..Death?!?! But, but..."

"But what, Harry?" The mans voice was gentle, soothing. "I thought that you wanted it all to end. To come back to me again."

"Yes - no - not like…" Harry pushed his glasses up further on his nose and attempted to explain. "I want it to be over… but I don't want Voldemort to win."

"What makes you think that you are the only one that can bring him to me? You, a child still in school. Underfed, abused, neglected. How can you bring him to me?" Harry's eyes filled with tears that he wouldn't let fall. He was Harry Potter, and Harry Potter wasn't supposed to cry. Even in front of strange men who claimed to be Death.

"I know that I can't. But I have to try! If I don't try, what would happen to them? The other students… they don't know much of anything about defending themselves. Even the Seventh years last year needed my help… if I can't do it, don't lead them, then who will?"

"What about your Headmaster, the one who defeated Grindelwald? Surely one who did that could take care of another Dark Lord."

"He can't. He's already dealt with one dark lord, should he really be expected to deal with another? Hasn't he paid his debt?" The man smiled at this. He really was pleased, but it still made a shiver run down Harry's spine. "And besides which, Voldemort… he's not real any more… is he."

"No, he's not. And do you know why?" Harry swallowed thickly. He knew that he really wouldn't like what the next revelation would be… but he had to know. Stiffly, he nodded his head. "Tom is not real any more because you distracted me. I hadn't expected for that day to come so soon… And then he became even less real when he was resurrected." Harry felt his heart sink. It really was all his fault.

"W…Why? Why did I distract you?"

"Ah, that is a question for when you understand more. But don't worry, I'll be sure to tell you before we leave this place."

"And where is this place, exactly?"

"Why, Harry, don't you recognize it? We're inside your mind."

Alastor had found much of the same in Petunia Dursley's room, so he grimly set out back down the stairs. There was still Vernon to consider, after all.