A/N - The letter that Dumbledore sends to Harry is taken verbatim from the book, aside from a change to the date that Dumbledore is picking Harry up to account for the shift in the timeline. This chapter is also a bit shorter, but it's necessary in order to get into Harry's mindset. Feedback is appreciated!

July 31, 1996

Harry awoke with a groan, turning over in his bed to face away from the blinds. The sun had risen to the point where it shone through the blinds at the perfect angle to hit Harry's eyes. He blindly grappled around on the nightstand for his glasses before realizing that he'd never taken them off before falling asleep.

No wonder, Harry huffed, thinking back over his wide-ranging discussion with Death. It had rattled him enough to forget to remove his glasses. It felt like a dream, that conversation. Like it had been something his subconscious mind made up to screw with himself.

There was one way to be sure. Harry pulled the collar of his shirt out just enough so he could glance down at his skin. Yes, there it was. The silver lotus shone on his skin, stubbornly in the same place where he'd watched it form.

Harry let the collar of the shirt go and relaxed back against his pillow. He was very conflicted about this whole spirit elemental deal. On one hand, it would mean more training and more special things about him that he'd never asked for in the first place. He'd never asked Voldemort to murder his parents, he'd never asked for the wizarding world to place him up on a pedestal one moment and tear him down the next, and he'd certainly never asked to become an extinct elemental.

Harry was well aware of his not-so-concealed bitterness toward the wizarding world at large. He rather thought that the Ministry was in dire need of a complete overhaul and there were so many things wrong with pureblood dogma that he wouldn't even know where to start in correcting it.

On the other hand, Death's manipulations would ensure that Harry actually had a chance of surviving the final confrontation with Voldemort. He couldn't pinpoint the moment when he'd realized that the war would boil down to a fight between him and the Dark Lord. It seemed like the knowledge had always been a heavy weight on his soul, the cloud just over his shoulder that he was scared to look back at. Death's parting words about Harry being able to survive being hit with the killing curse had served to lift some of that darkness off his mind and let a shaft of light back in.

I never expected to survive the final battle.

It was a relief, finally naming the feeling that had been following Harry around for five years, rearing its ugly head up in moments of mirth and putting its oppressive boot on Harry's back in times of strife.

Harry swung his legs over the side of his bed, rumpling the covers further and gazing around the room. Despite the clutter on the floor, his existence was fairly spartan. He only bought and used what he needed to survive school. He had very few things of sentimental value, anything he wanted to keep safe was kept in his trunk. It was a sobering thought that the entirety of Harry's life could be packed up in one school trunk in a matter of moments. It was almost as if he'd been subconsciously preparing for his short-lived time amongst the living by leaving as small of a mark as he could manage.

No longer, Harry firmly told himself. Now that he had someone committed to his side, committed to seeing him come through the war alive and relatively intact, he was determined to prove that Death's faith in him was not misplaced.

It wasn't just Death either, there was apparently a Reaper coming to Hogwarts to help him with training and with the Horcruxes. Harry supposed that disposing of Voldemort's tethers to life with the help of a servant of the one being Voldemort fears above all others was a sort of poetic justice.

Actively planning for a future that Harry knew he'd live to see lit a flame in him, a burning fire of passion that would fuel his actions and ignite his rage against a world that had beaten him down for too long. The first step, Harry decided, would be to start applying himself in school. No more skiving off homework to discuss Quidditch with Ron or play Exploding Snap with Dean and Seamus. He'd actually need the knowledge he was learning now. Harry slid off his bed and began clearing up the various objects spread across his room, his open trunk the epicenter of the mess.

He paused, a broken quill dangling in his hand as a thought hit him. Could he have been suicidal all this time and never known it? Casting his mind back over his years at Hogwarts, he could freely admit that there were multiple instances where he had recklessly thrown himself into danger, not caring about the consequences. Not all of that could be explained away by his Gryffindorish tendencies to act first and question later.

Harry supposed the question was moot now. He had every intention to see Voldemort's dead body lying at his feet when all was said and done. What he'd do after, he had no clue. Travel the world? Search for a job? The uncertainty of it all was comforting. He didn't have to figure it all out now, he was only sixteen after all.

He set about cleaning his room with a renewed purpose until he came across a sheet of parchment that had been folded and reopened so many times that it was beginning to fall apart at the creases. He flattened it out once more on his knee and his eyes traced over the familiar words.

Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Thursday at eleven p.m. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.

If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,

I am, yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry had received the letter a week prior. He'd sent off a hastily scribbled yes on a spare piece of parchment and sent it off with the owl that had brought it as requested. He'd thought on and off of the matter of assistance that Dumbledore needed his help with. Far be it from him to give Harry any more information than necessary. Harry was begrudgingly willing to concede that it was prudent, given the risk of mail interception. It stung though, giving Dumbledore even that much.

Ever since he'd learned of the prophecy at the end of the last school year, Harry had become disillusioned with Dumbledore. There was a time when he'd thought the man hung the moon and stars in the sky. Learning that Dumbledore had kept such an important piece of information from him under the pretence of sparing his innocence left him with a bad taste in his mouth. He doubted that he'd ever really been an innocent, growing up the way he had with the Dursleys. Their tender mercies had made sure that Harry arrived at Hogwarts broken down and willing to latch onto the first person who showed a bit of kindness.

Harry snorted mirthlessly. So much for kindness. Dumbledore was perfectly happy to keep all his cards close to his chest, only playing them at the moment that he thought would most benefit him. He treated those around him as mere pawns for him to manipulate at his behest.

Well, now he had more reliable players in the game that were actually on his side. Harry thrust the letter away from his hand, dispassionately watching it flutter to the floor. Dumbledore could go off and play the chessmaster with someone else, he was done bowing to the whims of others.

Harry went over to the window and opened the blinds, watching the sun moving ever upward toward its peak. It felt like the sun was heralding a new beginning for Harry. A new chance to do things right. Harry supposed he had Death to thank for that. He let out a genuine chuckle at the irony; Death being a new beginning.

Harry left the blinds open and went back to his task of cleaning. He wanted to be ready when Dumbledore came to pick him up tomorrow, he didn't want to stay at the Dursleys house a minute longer than necessary. He had things to do and a Dark Lord to kill.