A/N: It's been so long since I've posted here, my gosh. That's what I get for thinking I can write multiple stories at once! So, naturally, I wrote this one-shot instead. (Though I promise to eventually update everything!)

'What if Harry hadn't only met Dumbledore at the 'ghostly' King's Cross Station?'

"The creature behind them jerked and moaned, and Harry and Dumbledore sat without talking for the longest time yet. The realization of what would happen next settled gradually over Harry in the long minutes, like softly falling snow.

"I've got to go back, haven't I?"

"That is up to you."

"I've got a choice?"

"Oh yes," Dumbledore smiled at him. "We are in King's Cross you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to... let's say... board a train."

"And where would it take me?"

"On," said Dumbledore simply."

~ From "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows", Ch. 35: King's Cross

"What a sight for sore eyes!"

Harry jerked around, startled by the sudden noise. A figure was coming towards them through the mist, becoming more tangible as it approached. As He approached. A very familiar 'he', though the teenager had never met the man before.

"Dad?" Harry's knees nearly buckled.

James Potter came closer and smiled at him weakly, before looking at Albus Dumbledore. "Funny to run into you here."

Dumbledore frowned. "James, my boy. Harry was attempting to—"

"To go back to the living." The man took longing glances at a stunned Harry. He placed a hand on Dumbledore's shoulder. "So I had to hurry."

Dumbledore's brow unfurled, the confusion leaving. He gave a gentle smile. "Of course, this is an opportunity too incredible to pass up."

"Dad?" Harry repeated, unable to look away from the man. James had a windswept look, his expression stressed. He looked older than in the photos. There were a few wrinkles and laugh lines, a dash of silver amongst his dark hair. His glasses were crooked, just like how Harry wore his.

"I won't keep you long." James' uneasy smile turned to Harry, his hand leaving Dumbledore's shoulder. "Your mother wanted to be here as well, so badly. But we weren't sure how her protection would impact you, so..." he cut himself off, choking up. "Albus, I'm sorry. But can we have a minute alone? I'll send Harry on his way soon."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly, patting Harry's stunned form. "I'll take my leave. Live well, Harry. Live well."

Harry didn't notice the old man leaving, nor how he faded into the mist around the walls of King's Cross Station. He couldn't speak. He had thousands of questions—millions—but all he wanted to do was—

The teenager was suddenly pushed back a step as James swept him into a bone-crushing hug, nearly lifting him off his feet. Harry didn't know if he was sobbing or if it was his dad (or both), but he shook as he clutched the man as close to him as possible.

"My son." James gasped into his hair. "My god. What has the world done to you?"

Harry couldn't speak and merely held him tighter. This was eagerly returned.

"We never stopped loving you." James murmured. "We are so proud of you, so proud. I, I can't even begin to—"

Harry wasn't sure how long they stood there, holding onto each other as though they'd fade away if they let go. After minutes, hours—eons—James reluctantly pulled away and looked at him with red eyes and flushed cheeks. "Harry," he whispered the name like a promise, "I'm so sorry, but there's something you have to know."

Harry breathed heavily, starting to get ahold of himself. "I know. The Headmaster said I don't have much time here. It's so amazing to see—"

The man shook his head, still gripping his shoulders. "Dumbledore was wrong."

"What do you—"

"I'm so sorry." James said. "But it was a lark and he 'miscalculated'." He said the last bitterly.

Harry stopped, taken aback. "What?"

James' gaze was eternally sad. "Son, he was wrong. You can't return to life. This is..." he struggled for the word, "your home now. With your mum and I."

Harry gaped. "No, I—Voldemort's still alive. My friends are there! I need to get back and help them. The Headmaster said I could get back!"

The older wizard gave a weary sigh. "Which I understand, I do. It was torture watching you face danger after danger on Earth, unable to do anything." He hesitated. "But tell me why you think you can return to life?"

"Because of mum's protection."

"Which is what?"

Harry stared at him, his mind muddled and racing all at once. "Love?"

James gave a rough, heartbroken laugh. "You think I didn't love you? That millions of parents wouldn't do a similar sacrifice for their children?"

"Voldemort gave mum a choice." Harry was nearly apologetic. "It doesn't make the other stuff…less. But it's just why I survived."

"No. Merlin, no." James waved shakily at a corner. Harry peered over and again saw the fragment of Voldemort, cringing under a bench. "That is why you lived. That fragmented, parasitic shard of a soul. I don't know how it happened. Maybe you were an accidental horcrux, maybe Voldemort had intended it to lie in your…your corpse." The man choked out. "Whatever the case, he got it wrong and you lived. Which was miraculous! But it had nothing to do with Lily. She'll tell you that herself: while sobbing over you, that is."

"But—"

James' voice was hoarse. "There was never a love protection. Do you think those damned Dursleys would have been able to hurt you if there had been? Do you think something so 'pure' could've turned Quirrel to stone? It was always the horcrux, son. I'm so sorry, but that was it."

Harry stared at the man, a good chunk of his world crumbling around him. It took a long pause for him to wrangle a response. "You—you told Dumbledore that mum couldn't be here because of, because of the love protection?"

James smiled sadly. "A harmless lie to the old man. In truth, your mum and I didn't want to overwhelm you. We had quite the argument deciding who should be here to greet you! I might've done an elaborate scheme to get the upper hand—thank you Sirius for not asking questions—which involved a plunger, Lily's favourite disco band, and a literal tonne or two of liquid chocolate. That's why I was late, and only got here in time to hear the tail end of Dumbledore's theory."

Harry blinked at him for a long moment. Even apart from everything else, he got a sudden flash of what his life would have been like with his parents. It was more...confusing...than he'd once imagined. He shook his head. "I don't know about that? But about the horcrux. I have a choice, now, because of what happened after that. Voldemort took my blood when he returned! It tied me to him, to Earth. It's kinda like a horcrux? Look, dad, this has been incredible. But I have to get back to my friends!"

James stared at him, no longer smiling: instead he was mournful, horrified. "The monster stole your blood. It wasn't an 'exchange'. You can't think you split your soul?"

"It's like a horcrux." Harry nearly pleaded. "We've always been connected."

"Because he attacked you!" James clutched his face, both wizards breathing harshly. "Harry, Voldemort defiled everything. But your soul is fine. The connection never went both ways. He butchered his soul, but he could never touch yours. There's nothing tying you to life. I'm sorry, so sorry. But, you're here now. That isn't bad, I promise you. We have so much to catch up on. We can be a family, at last."

There was a terrible, long pause. The only sound was the horcrux's vague groans. Harry felt his strength, his determination fleeing. It was like he was leaning against the old Mirror of Erised, losing himself in the vision.

"Then, why're we still here?" Harry asked weakly, not sure what to think, clutching onto any question.

James gave a mild, humourless chuckle as he let go. "This in-between point? There's no time or space here. It's a place to come to terms with one's death. There's no rush. Whenever you want to move on, I'll be right there with you." He paused, giving a faint grin. "I'm sure your mum's gotten out of ABBA's clutch by now and will be on the train, raging at me, and ready to strangle you in a hug. Beware her hugs, son. They are actually violent."

Harry gazed around the nearly empty platform. There was a train waiting, a vivid crimson against the hazy surroundings. His heart beat rapidly. Could it beat in this place? He felt it, he felt alive. He tried to reconcile all of this in his mind, but it was too much.

Minutes ago (hours, eons, a timeless amount), he'd been willing to walk to his death. But now, faced with reality? Faced with his smiling dad and a ferociously hugging mum? He realised he'd never hear Ron's laugh again. Never see Hermione's smile. Never get the family he'd dreamed of…never tell Ginny all the things he'd so craved…

His knees gave way and before he knew it he was on the floor. Face in his hands. Sobbing like he'd never done before.

"Hey, hey now." Strong arms were again wrapping around him, a reassuring voice in his ear. "I'm here. Son, you aren't alone."

Though it felt like it! Harry clutched at the shirt and the impossible man, no longer caring about the tears streaming down his cheeks. He'd failed: Voldemort still lived. His friends were in the middle of a battle he couldn't return to. Hope had been given and tossed away from him, and damn it! What had he done wrong?

There was a faint rocking and he hiccuped, getting ahold of himself.

"You're so young." His dad said softly, still holding him close…so tightly, as though he might escape. "You've always been so young. I guess, that's the curse of our family: dying young."

There were no more Potters. They were all gone.

No. No, fuck this!

Harry pulled away from his father, nearly scrambling back. His vision was blurred through the tears. "I'm not giving up."

A sigh. "Harry…"

"Dumbledore said I could go back!" Harry nearly pleaded, every inch of him roaring that the war wasn't over. He couldn't abandon his friends. He'd never run away before, and this felt far too close to that. "What about—the Deathly Hallows? Yeah, them! So I don't have a horcrux, who cares. I collected all three objects! From the legend, shouldn't I have some power over death?"

Something between sadness and familiarity crossed James' face. It settled into nostalgia. "Ah, the Master of Death. My father loved telling that story when I was little. Do you know how he always ended it?" Harry shook his head. "He'd set down 'Beedle the Bard', tuck the Invisibility Cloak around my blanket, and warn me not to live in dreams. He'd remind me that it was just a nice fairy tale. My old man, Fleamont Potter—he used everything as a 'learning experience'. So he asked me why the story was obviously fake."

There was a long pause.

"…Fleamont?" Harry barely repressed a snicker, even with the horror all around him.

"Shush." James waved this away. "It was a perfectly respectable name, centuries back. Eh, maybe millennia."

"My grandfather's name was Fleamont?" It nearly felt good to be distracted. Time didn't matter here, right? Why couldn't he talk to his dad for a bit? "You're having me on."

James' grin twitched. Though there was a deep sadness there. "Monty Potter, resident genius. You'll like the man; always up for a duel, him. I'm sure he could teach even you a thing or two." He finished fondly, proudly.

Harry grinned at him. He almost felt relaxed, which was nearly unknown. To have the knowledge that his family was so close…to have his father this close…

But no. He couldn't be distracted. The Headmaster said he could go back and Voldemort was still around.

"Why's the fairy tale nonsense?" Harry pushed the conversation back on point, trying not to notice the hurt on his dad's face.

James' messy hair wagged as he shook his head. "You can't guess?"

Well, it was a fairy tale. 'Death' being a real bloke was impossible enough, let alone having three objects that defied magic. Then, the thought that collecting them could make you the Master of Death? Harry paused, blinking. The Master of Death. That was odd phrasing. "What does being the Master of Death mean?"

"There it is." James said. "It's just another title to collect! Meaningless. After all, who could be the master of Death?" There was a still, tense silence. "Life? Rebirth? Death itself?"

"But it's supposed to be a person!" Harry cut in. Though his heart was already dropping, the suffocating truth closing in on him. "I get it, okay? Death can't have a 'master'. But I'm not saying it's literal! Maybe it's not immortality, but enough to give me a choice?"

James gazed at him sadly. He cupped his chin, and only then did Harry realise he was still crying. "Death can't have a master, son. Death comes for us all." The wizard murmured, his voice barely audible. "If I'd raised you, you would have always known it was a fairy tale. A family legend. It's a lovely heirloom, but is nothing more than that."

Harry closed his eyes, letting waves of grief pound into him. He felt younger and older all at once. Weary. He leaned against his father. "It's all fake?"

James didn't answer. Instead, he wrapped him into another embrace. Harry had never been hugged much in life. This was...nice. Comforting. A bit suffocating, though he'd always felt like that. He couldn't stop crying.

"We're so proud of you." His dad whispered. "You accomplished so much in such little time. I can't even begin to..." he choked up, "I wish it'd been longer. I wish I could've raised you. Merlin, I wish everything! But you have to see that this isn't bad. It's, the next chapter. It's us, your mum, your godfather. And, and look." He pulled slightly away to gaze at him. "Life is fleeting. Everyone crosses over eventually. So your friends will be here too. Whether it's tomorrow or in a hundred years, it...well, it doesn't make that much of a difference here." He shrugged. "Time's all loopy. The point is, everything comes to an end. Voldemort will die as well. It isn't your responsibility, Harry. It never was."

"But the Prophecy—"

"Was self-fulfilling rubbish!" James said harshly, before taking a deep breath and calming down. "It only happened because Voldemort believed in it. All Divination is guesswork, you know that. Besides, even if it was true? It might've been fulfilled back in 1981. Or when you walked into the Forbidden Forest. The point?" His voice was desperate for Harry to believe him. "You're a child. You're so young, and those damn people dropped the world on your shoulders. It was never your burden to bear. It isn't your responsibility. You didn't fail; you succeeded beyond anyone's wildest dreams!"

It didn't feel like that. Harry just rested against his father, too exhausted to reply. The man seemed to understand and adjusted them, so that they were comfortably settled on the hazy floor. Neither spoke. Neither had to. His father's arms were looped gently around him.

James gave a vague hum after awhile. Harry recognised the melody, which was when he suddenly laughed with a hysteric edge. The man looked down at him with a wane smile. "What is it?"

"Just, ABBA." Harry choked out, feeling a ridiculous hilarity fill him. "You two like disco?"

The grin broadened. "It's catchy."

"It's disco." Harry shook his head. "Don't tell me you guys are wearing platform shoes up here."

James sniffed with fake affront and an amused edge. "What's wrong with platform shoes, young man? Next you'll be saying bell-bottomed trousers are out of fashion!"

He snorted, leaning into his dad's warm hold. "Why couldn't you like the Beatles or something? That's respectable."

"Oh, I like them too." The man said with a sly grin. "Ringo and I are best mates. Oi!" He replied when Harry smacked his arm. "Alright, alright. But once he croaks we surely will be. In fact, Sirius swears by ol'Lennon's magic brownies. They're right good for a muggle. He took 'Getting a little high with friends' too seriously, if ya know what I mean."

Harry laughed again, this time without the hysteria. It was nonsense. Wonderful nonsense. That his parents were waltzing around the afterlife to an ABBA soundtrack, as Sirius smoked god knew what with John Lennon?

James grinned broadly, picking himself up and helping a wobbly Harry to his feet. "You see, it's not that bad. This is just the next chapter. Let's walk, hmm?" The man steered him towards the ghostly Hogwarts Express.

"What is this place, then?" Harry asked. He wasn't fully convinced—though maybe he was. He took his father's hand. "I mean, the afterlife. Is it Heaven or something?"

His dad shrugged. "Not so much. It isn't paradise, just like there isn't an eternal torture. For the evil folks, they're in a place where they repent and learn remorse. For us? There's a place to remember life and loved ones, while exploring new things. You wouldn't believe what's just beyond here! It's...well, it's peace."

Peace. Harry had never heard anything quite as beautiful. "Do you like it?" He said in an uncertain tone.

James squeezed his hand. "Did you like life?"

"Yeah."

"No you didn't." James said kindly. "Barely anyone does. You just lived. It was nice at times, it was bad sometimes, and the moments of joy made it all worth it. It's similar here. Death's usually nice, sometimes bad, sometimes boring, and sometimes?" He paused and held Harry's gaze, a smile unfurling. "Sometimes, it's utterly beautiful."

Harry looked away, wiping his eyes. He'd stopped crying. "We'll be together?"

"Always, love. Always."

"It doesn't sound too awful." Harry said softly. He glanced around, seeing they were right next to the train's inviting door. "You're sure there isn't a way for me to...I mean, if there's any chance..."

James' arms wove around him sadly, solidly. "You're home, Harry. You're finally home."

Home. That sounded even better than peace. Harry relaxed against his dad, giving in at last.

"Your mum can't wait to see you." James murmured into his hair, holding his son close. "She's just on the train."

Harry looked up at him, feeling far younger than his seventeen years. "You'll come with me?" He asked childishly.

James laughed, pulling back with twinkling eyes. "You can't escape me. I've just got something to clean up here." He gestured back at the horcrux still hiding beneath the bench. "Save me a seat, okay son? I'll only be a minute."

Harry grinned, practically pouncing onto the train. It felt familiar and he could see compartments down the hallway, with the faint noise of chattering wafting towards him. He desperately wanted to find his mum, but turned back to the open door to beam at his dad. He'd never really said these words before, though when he opened his mouth and met his father's gaze they felt right: "Dad, I love—"

James Potter was no longer smiling. His cloak had turned into a shadow, and his face had become something else. The train door slammed shut in Harry's face. The teenager jerked backwards into the train, lungs in his throat as his unbeating heart raced in sudden terror.

James stepped up to the train, his face pressing against the window of the closed door. He was grinning again; a ghastly, skeletal grin. "You cannot escape me, Harry Potter." The whisper flowed through the glass as Harry tried in vain to open the unrelenting door. "No one can. But do not fret, my young Master. Your parents are truly waiting on the other side."

Harry screamed as the train's whistle blew, his fists frantically pounding the door. The wheels moved and Death vanished back into everything and nothing.

Soon enough, King's Cross Station was silent once again.

A/N: It bothers me when Jason can easily take on Goliath. I can stomach Harry triumphing over Voldemort due to a technicality. But Harry triumphing over death, without 'Death' putting up a fight? Nah. Death's trickier than that.

To be clear: the 'man' had always been Death, not James Potter. When he touched Albus Dumbledore, he influenced and urged the soul away. Harry could have returned to life (like he did in canon), but instead he boarded the train and stayed super dead.

Sorry, not sorry.

Oh, by the way? I know the ABBA members aren't dead. Just imagine that Death doesn't care and is making up nonsense, or that Lily's listening to an album or a cover band. Cool? Cool. And the Marauders would absolutely be getting high with John Lennon, you can't convince me otherwise.