"Yes!" Harry pumped his fist in excitement.

He stepped back and admired his work. Standing before him, in a perfect arc, was a faint shield, shimmering and pulsing slowly.

He was in his magical safe room, practicing the shielding charm Protego. It had saved his arse many a time, so it was only natural then for him to make it the next spell he added to his wandless repertoire.

So far, it had proven the most difficult spell to cast. Circe, it must have taken him well over fifty attempts before he managed to pull it off, and now Harry was proper tired. He knew he was tired, felt it in his bones, and yet there was a sense of exhilaration as well as his magic thrummed around him, keeping him going.

What a strange sensation it was, being so conscious of his magic. In the Wizarding World, he was only ever aware of his magic when it was flowing out of his wand. Looking back, he couldn't believe how out of tune wizards were with the energy housed in their bodies.

Trying to learn Protego wandlessly wasn't about hand movements, or reciting the incantation with the right pronunciation. No, it was about feeling the magic and trying to guide it — to shape it — into the right form such that it could produce the desired effects of the spell.

It took Harry a while to get a feel for the technique, to learn how to shape his magic to produce the same effects. Though difficult, the process led to a deeper understanding of the shielding charm. It was difficult to describe, but it was as though the spell was a woven tapestry of magic, and he had finally been able to break it down to its fundamental threads and patterns.

With that greater understanding, Harry tried wandlessly casting variations like Protego Duo or Protego Maxima. It took several attempts before he succeeded, but the shared foundation of the spells made it much easier.

Beaming with pride, Harry marvelled at his progress, his emerald green eyes shining brightly in the dark, lit up by the glow of the magical shields. Not since his first year at Hogwarts had he felt such marvel, such joy and awe, at the wonders of magic. It was as if he was discovering magic all over again. An eagerness to learn, to experiment, to grow and be better welled up in him — uncovering a part of himself that he'd thought long gone. A part suppressed and buried long ago, after the Dursley's left their mark on him. It had been so much easier to shrink. To make himself smaller, less noticeable.

Not anymore.

If Hermione could see him from wherever her soul rested, he was sure she would be proud.

Perhaps a little miffed as well.

He could see it now. She would scrunch up her nose, furrow her brows, and smack him on the arm, all the while complaining about how he waited till she was gone to show any interest in learning.

If only he could see her again.

If only… if only…

Maybe?

For only the second time, Harry called out into the void for the stone, and the void answered. The Resurrection Stone appeared in the palm of his hand. It was cold, not to the touch, but it still felt chilly to his senses — brimming as it was with the power of Death. Harry was perturbed to realise that he didn't dislike the feeling, just like the last time he was exposed to Death, in that endless nothing that felt so cold, yet comforting.

He closed his hand, pressing the stone deeper into his palm, digging its edges into the tender flesh.

"Hermione. Ron." He whispered, reverently like a prayer.

The stone had worked once, summoning his family to him as he walked to his death. It wouldn't fail him now that he was truly its master. It wouldn't.

Something was happening.

A building pressure?

Cold wind blew in out of nowhere, like galloping gales racing through the room. The gust extinguished his shielding charm, as though it were merely a candle in the wind, and turned off all the lights. This was no ordinary wind. Had his wish worked?

'Please. Let it work.'

Harry jolted into action and looked frantically around.

Front. Back. Left. Right.

He spun around desperately, sure that Hermione's spirit had followed his call and that he would be able to see his dear friend. Surely Ron wouldn't be far behind her, and naturally the ginger git would complain about being called second. That was how it would play out…right?

"They are beyond your reach."

Harry stilled, distantly aware of a piercing pain in his right palm. He had clutched the stone so tightly that its edges were digging into his palm. He didn't care.

"Why?" His question came in a short, sharp burst.

One word. One question on which his fragile psyche was so precariously balanced.

"Their souls do not exist in this universe," Death explained, his dual-toned voice coming from behind Harry. The voice did not lack sympathy, but it felt hollow coming from the entity. "The stone is powerful to be sure, but there are boundaries it cannot cross."

To his knees Harry fell, curling in on himself as though he were wounded all over, as if the stone were digging into his heart, his stomach, his lungs — not merely his palm.

For the second time in the past month, Harry lost himself to the raging torrent of his emotions. He tried to act natural, and was able to keep his pain at bay most of the time. However, cracks had formed. Spreading fractures worked their way through his mental barriers until, at last, they broke down.

Pounding his fists on the carpet, he cursed his heart for beating — for feeling so strongly. Although it hurt to admit, deep down he wondered if Voldemort had the right idea casting out all these horrible human emotions.

Tears dripped down Harry's cheeks, landing silently on the floor. He lost himself to the sobbing, to his heaving chest and the blood rushing to his head, making itself known as an ache, the pounding of a drum. All the while, he felt Death lingering behind him — a silent vigil.

After a few minutes, or perhaps a few hours — he certainly felt drained and empty enough for it to have lasted as long — Harry took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He closed his eyes and slumped forward, letting his clammy forehead and sweat soaked hair touch the tear-stained carpet.

In the months that followed the war, he learned Occlumency and secluded himself in his home — away from the memories and spectres of his past. But the knowledge that he wasn't truly alone brought him comfort. That day in the forest, his parents had told him they were always with him, and he had known in his heart that Ron, Hermione, and all the rest were watching over him and the other survivors. Now… now, as he fought back the tide, clawed his way back into control, and rebuilt his barriers, Harry was keenly aware that they weren't watching over him anymore.

Now he was truly alone.

Harry opened his eyes, blinking as he found himself able to see perfectly well in the pitch-black room. He clumsily staggered to his feet and, with a sharp inhale, swivelled around to face his doppelganger.

"How are you here?" he asked Death. "You got me killed so we could speak last time."

Death chuckled, in his unique dichotomous voice. "Admittedly, that was not a necessity for you to enter my realm."

"Are you kidding me?" Harry snapped at the deity. "What was the fucking point then? You let Peter see me dead!"

The all-powerful being didn't seem at all bothered by Harry's irritation. Death merely smirked slightly, teasing but not necessarily mocking.

"My apologies, dear one," Death told him. Harry didn't know how to feel about the fondness in his words. "Our meeting needed an appropriate venue. As for Peter Parker," Death glanced at the desk in the corner, where Harry stowed the finished and signed secrecy contract. Death gave him a knowing grin. "Well, that seems to have worked out for the better, no? No longer must you hide what you are from him, nor his fellow heroes."

"Hnngh," Harry grunted, not really satisfied with that answer, but willing to let it go. He supposed it didn't matter now. Shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair, he asked, "Why are you here?"

"You used the Resurrection Stone."

"And? I called for my friends, not you."

"They did not answer."

"I know that," Harry bit out, still feeling quite raw.

"They could not answer the call," Death continued, ignoring Harry's defensiveness. "I, however, could."

Death stepped forward, approaching Harry and entering his personal space.

"It has been several weeks since last we spoke." Death reached forward and placed his right hand on Harry's stiff shoulder. "I've watched you begin to accept what you are, and for the first time I have felt pride as I followed your progress with your magic."

For a moment, Harry was pleased, knowing he had made Death itself proud. Then something Death had said caught up with him.

"I, however, could."

That's right…

Without another thought, Harry lurched forward, grabbing Death by the shoulder.

"You! You can do it! Bring them back!" Harry beseeched the deity.

Death sighed, not reacting at all to Harry's firm grip on him. "I was hoping to delay this conversation, but I suppose that was a fool's hope." The doppelganger pushed Harry's hands away and stood up, looking the most solemn Harry had ever seen him. "I could summon your friends' souls here. I could even restore their bodies and breathe life back into them. It would be a trivial task for one such as me," he explained. Harry's heart was pounding in his chest and his eyes were impossibly wide as he listened to Death. "But I will not."

And in that moment Harry felt as though his heart had stopped beating and fell through his chest, as if it couldn't bear the weight of his disappointment.

"Why!?" he cried out angrily.

"Because it goes against what I am,"Death told him, as if that answered anything at all.

"…Explain."

"I am Death, and as much as I am a being, I am more so a natural force. There exists a balance between life and death; I am responsible for that balance and keenly aware of it at all times. I cannot— I will not take actions that would upset that balance."

Harry could only look up at him through watery eyes, lips parted, speaking without sound.

"In truth, restoring your friends and family would be as a single drop falling into the ocean, an inconsequential ripple that would soon fade away, but that matters not. Once, I might have, but…" Death sighed and closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself. "When the worlds and I were young, foolish mistakes were made, with disastrous consequences." Death turned his head to the side and winced briefly, before focusing his enthralling gaze on Harry once more. With a steely voice that left no doubt as to his resolution, Death said, "Never again. I swore an oath not to take any actions that would disturb that balance — no matter how small. My oath is not binding, for what could bind Death? Yet I honour it just the same. So yes, I could do it, but do not ask it of me."

Struggling to accept what he was told, Harry watched as Death walked closer and knelt down — when had he dropped to his knees? — to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Do you understand, Harry?" Death asked softly, yet an undercurrent of hardness remained. "None can escape Death, save for you. That is how it must be."

Harry didn't say anything, running Death's words through his head again and again.

Death let go of his shoulder and stood up. "I am sorry to have caused you this pain, Dear One," Death apologised. "Would you like me to leave?"

Yes. No. Harry didn't know.

Harry wanted to be furious. Death had outright admitted that he could bring them all back, but he was choosing not to. That should have been enough to earn the deity his unending hate, but all he felt was resignation. It seemed an impossible fight to fight, convincing Death himself to break an oath he held so close to his heart. Who was Harry to stand here and proclaim that his friends and family were of more worth than the trillions that had passed before?

It was true that Death seemed to care for him, but Harry could feel it in his soul — this was not something Death would budge on. So any rage, any fight and determination he could have mustered, all of the fire that he had carried with him all his life... It was swept away before he could bring it to bear. All that remained was a hollow sadness.

'Why did he let me hope? Why?'

That's what really hurt most; in the midst of his sadness Harry had spotted a glimmer of light and Death had snuffed it out. If only he had done it cruelly and maliciously so that Harry could hate him for it. He sighed and slumped down onto the floor.

"No," he finally answered.

For some time, they didn't speak, not even when Death levitated Harry onto his armchair and conjured a seat opposite. He simply sat back and closed his eyes, hands pressed to his face.

He was the one to break the silence, minutes later.

"I feel like I've been hit by an emotional bludger."

"Understandable."

Harry had so many questions, but he didn't think he could take any more emotional upheaval. Best stick to the simpler ones.

"Why do you look like me?" he asked, having been too overwhelmed to comment on it in their first meeting.

"Does it disturb you?" Death asked, looking himself up and down. "Like calls to like. Your mind is not yet able to comprehend the vastness of Death, thus the form I took was that which was most familiar, and what could be more so than your own visage? Would you like me to take on a different form?"

"It's bloody weird," Harry muttered, "but no, it's fine. I can get used to it, probably."

Death hummed in thought. "This form exists for your eyes only," he said, blurring out of reality into an amorphous blob of shadow. Death's disembodied voice continued speaking. "If it causes you discomfort, it serves no purpose."

Harry watched with interest, as the mass of shadow coalesced again, forming the shape of a tall woman. When the shape settled and the shadows dissipated, Harry found himself face to face with a pale skinned woman with a sharp, chilling expression.

"Is this preferable?" Death asked in a demure voice. It gave Harry shivers, and not in a good way. Contrary to her tone, the woman looked like she was liable to murder him at the slightest offense.

"Merlin, no!"

Death hummed in thought, then was swallowed by shadow again. This time, a wizened old man appeared, not unlike Dumbledore. Once again, Harry expressed his discomfort.

Death cycled through a few more forms, each rejected for a different reason, until he settled on the body of a young man, around a head taller than Harry, with the same black hair, pale skin, prominent cheekbones, and pitch-black eyes as before.

Tilting his head and examining Death's new look more closely, Harry realised that while Death was no longer his doppelganger, many similarities remained. If he wanted to, Death could pass for a relative.

"What say you to this one?" Death asked.

"Errr, you look like…" Harry trailed off.

Death nodded. "I thought it might be fitting. We are strangers to one another, but when you mastered the Hallows, when I chose you and gifted you, when you became a Child of Death, we created a bond. This body represents that connection, does it not?"

Harry was oddly flattered, but there was one thing he had to set straight.

"I was too overwhelmed to ask last time," he spoke, softly at first. "But," he continued, gaining confidence with every word. "What are we to each other? Did you-" Harry winced, "adopt me? I already have a father. He's dead."

"Ah, 'tis a fair question," Death moved closer to him on the couch. Harry tried not to flinch. "I do care for you, in a way, or I would not have chosen you. However, as I said, we are strangers at present. What relationship we develop, well... that depends on the both of us, no? As you said, you already have a father, and I would not replace him," he reassured, allowing Harry to relax.

"Mayhap one day far into the future we will be as dearest of friends or as brothers," Death mused. "However, it is too early to say what form our relationship will take in the years to come. For now, I would be content to watch you grow into your own, and mayhap offer a guiding hand on occasion."

Harry didn't know how he felt about being friends with death itself, but he didn't hate the idea of having Death itself watching over him. He also chose to ignore the fact that 'years to come' likely meant centuries, millennia even. That was a package of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes that he wasn't ready to open yet.

"That sounds like a good start," he told Death earnestly.

Death smiled."I am glad to hear that."

"Yes. Well." Harry looked away and busied himself with pushing his bangs to the side, embarrassed by the genuine delight in Death's expression.

"There is one thing," Death said sombrely, capturing his attention again.

"Hmm?" Harry raised a brow.

"When we last met, you asked me what I wanted from you," his deathly visitor said, "and I told you that all I wanted was for you to walk the path of self-discovery, to become greater. Do you recall?"

Harry nodded, wondering where this was going.

"This, above all, is your life to live. You are yet young, a new-born babe to my eyes. Thus, this path must be yours, and yours alone. When danger strikes, and when the path is strenuous, I would not have you look to me for salvation, though I would not truly forsake you. If I were to shield you from all consequences, that would be the greatest disservice I could offer. Do you understand?"

Harry narrowed his gaze and stared at Death with piercing green eyes, then nodded. "I do."

"Good. Now, I must take my leave. Have you any questions before I depart?"

Feeling weary all of a sudden, Harry shook his head and answered, "No. It's — uh-hum — it's pretty late and I'm feeling rather peaky. I think it's best I get some rest and sleep on everything you've told me."

"Very well. Rest well, dear one," said Death, watching Harry fondly. He then stood up, and shadows began to gather around him. They enveloped the man, then receded to whence they came, leaving Harry alone in his study.

'Well, that happened.'

A flurry of emotions washed over Harry as he played the entirety of the encounter over again in his head. His friends… Merlin, he couldn't deal with that right now.

That momentary spark of hope — oh, how it burned. He turned his focus to the rest of the conversation with Death instead. 'I would not have you look to me for salvation', he had said — a harsh statement to some, but Harry didn't take offence. Death had made his meaning clear, and to a large extent, Harry agreed with him.

Immortality was terrifying as it was, but a life with no struggle? A life in which a greater power intervened to erase his sorrows? It sounded like a beautiful lie, and it was revolting.

He would simply have to rely on himself, grow on his own, and in times of struggle, he would use his own strength to bring matters to a close. Harry felt more comfortable with that, to be honest. Ever since he'd watched the light fade from his best friends' eyes, he'd known this was how things had to be…

[A/N]: I wrote the first draft for this chapter almost a year ago, and the story was pretty different back then. It was a real debate whether or not this chapter still fit in the story, if it still added anything of worth, or if it just ruined the pacing. That said, I do like this chapter, and I'm curious to see what people think about it.

And as always, thank you so much for all the lovely reviews on the last chapter!

Cheers!