A/N: Warning for brief mentions of a suicide attempt, not explicit.

Death and dying, existing and not existing, will be major subjects for the majority of this fic.

Chapter One: A Conversation, Overdue

He'd invited them over to Grimmauld Place for lunch. Rose and Hugo - and Teddy, over for the last week of summer holiday — were playing what sounded like an exciting game of exploding snap upstairs, while the three adults chatted in the sitting room.

Hermione updated Harry on the latest Ministry legislation passing through her department; some of the more conservative members of the Wizengamot were pushing a bill that would deny werewolves hospital access unless they "voluntarily" subjected themselves to infertility potions. The entire Department was up in a tizzy over it, though not all for the same reasons. Hermione was appalled to find how many of her coworkers supported the bill, though relieved that both the Magical Healer's Union and the British branch of the International Confederation of Healing were voicing strong opposition.

Ron interjected here and there with quips about various of the more prominent conservative legislators — and just where they could stick their stupid bills — and assured Hermione that most people in the Auror department knew the reasoning for the bill was bigoted nonsense, since a good third of the force have had to deal with unreasonable anti-werewolf sentiment. Hysterical neighbors calling the Aurors to remove a local werewolf for "looking at me funny" and "walking too close to my house" were only vaguely amusing the first couple of times. Then they just became an annoying waste of time and manpower.

Harry nodded along, made small exclamations when appropriate, and heard absolutely none of this. He was too busy trying to think of a way to tell his two best friends that he planned on undoing and rewriting reality for his own selfish reasons.

Ron is in the middle of describing his first Auror trainee charge, a nineteen year-old fresh Hogwarts graduate who immediately made an impression ("I swear, none of us were ever that naive—") when Harry can't delay it any longer.

"I'm dying," he says.

His mouth is dry and he can hear his own heart beating, stuttering with the sudden weight falling from his shoulders in the silence that follows his declaration. Ron's easy smile falls so suddenly it could have almost been comical had his face not been steadily draining of color as the silence stretches. Hermione is staring at him with her mouth slightly open, eyes wide and darting from his face to his hands to the slight hunch of his shoulders and back, trying to find something in his posture, his expression, and letting her teacup fall into its plate with a little clink when she doesn't find it.

Her expression hardens and she sets both the cup down firmly on the coffee table that separates them. "Harry James Potter," she begins in the same tone she uses when she's about to rip someone a new one. "Start at the beginning."

Upstairs, they can hear the faint sounds of the children playing. A small explosion. A short burst of laughter. Harry gulps.

The beginning had been the end.

Harry hadn't felt quite right after the Battle of Hogwarts.

He hadn't noticed right away. For months, time passed not in minutes, but the count of weary faces as they cleared the floor of the Great Hall, listing names and trying to find next of kin. There were no marked hours, only stretched pieces of time spent arranging funerals and hospital stays and arrest warrants and pardons. Harry stopped counting the days by 24-hour intervals and instead counted the number of times per night he would wake up, gasping, blankets plastered to his skin, convinced it wasn't over, that they'd missed something. His nightmares consisted of burning lightning-bolt scars and their implications, and Harry would wake up in a panic, phantom pains bleeding into reality only to send him spiraling further. For months, there would be no rest for Harry Potter.

So really, among all of this, it was understandable he hadn't noticed.

He had retreated to Grimmauld Place as soon as there'd been a reprieve of requests (Mr. Potter, an interview please! — We need your first-hand testimony for — Our condolences to you all — deserve an explanation — Gringotts demanding reparations — want to meet your godson, perhaps? — An endorsement from you would go a long way in — called you in as a witness, I hope you don't mind) and firmly locked the door behind him. The Weasleys had been grieving, and not only had he felt like an intruder in their home but his residence at the Burrow in the aftermath of the Battle had meant the family had been bombarded daily with owls congratulating the Boy Who Won, asking for either his time or his presence, or otherwise demanding his attention. He'd felt he was sullying something sacred by staying in what should have been the quiet home of a family slowly piecing itself back together. He couldn't have stayed. Ron understood.

Hermione had tried to join him, but he'd shut her down firmly. She had her own family to deal with at the time, had to restore her parent's memories and then manage what would no doubt be a terrible fallout when they realized what she'd done. Harry had assured her he understood, there was no need to stay for him when he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, more so now that any immediate threat to his life was gone. Family was important, after all. In the end, Hermione had wrangled a promise from both Harry and Ron to contact her immediately if anything happened — anything, Ronald! — and quickly packed her bag for Australia.

Harry had entered Grimmauld Place and been happy to find Kreacher unharmed, if a little miffed with their sudden departure. The old house-elf had very easily "done away with" the lone Death Eater that had tagged along in their Apparition (Harry didn't want to know), and was quite insulted his Master had doubted the safety of his house. He made his displeasure known constantly, but obeyed Harry without resistance and had notably kept up with the house's chores in his absence. The house, still under a half-broken Fidelius Charm, successfully kept out any unfamiliar owls and uninvited guests. Finally, Harry had time and peace enough to think.

And his nightmares took a turn for the worse.

It had been easy at the Burrow, surrounded by people he loved, waking up to Ron's reassurances that no, Harry, he's not coming back, we all saw him die, mate, it really is over. It had been easy to dismiss the phantom pains that sometimes bled through his dreams into his more violent awakenings as just that — phantoms. It had been easy to see the logic in Hermione's conclusions, that the dreams aren't from his perspective, you're not feeling his emotions, these aren't visions, Harry, they're just nightmares. It had been — not easy, no — bearable. Without his friends, however…

Not for the first time, Harry felt weak.

How could he possibly put his feelings in the aftermath of the war into words? How to describe the fear, the doubt — the hysterical certainty, when he managed to spiral down far enough into panic — that he had failed, that it wasn't over? How do you tell your best friends that you used to break down in the corner of your dead godfather's old bedroom at three in the morning, knees drawn up tightly, trying to bury your head in your arms, trying to pull yourself so small that you disappear completely, sobbing in great, hiccuping breaths? How do you tell the two people who have stood by you in the hardest of times that you had, at one point, begged your extremely upset house-elf to kill you — before attempting it yourself, this time with a nicked basilisk fang, only to be stopped, restrained, and forcibly fed a stolen Calming Draught by the same extremely upset house-elf?

You couldn't. He couldn't.

"I've been studying soul magic," Harry says instead, trying to sound confident.

There's a beat of silence.

"Have you really?" Ron's voice is faint, face still an unhealthy shade of gray.

"I — yes. I, ah…" Harry looks down into the now-empty teacup in his hands and tries to sound nonchalant. "I — expressed — an interest in soul magic and, it turns out, Kreacher knew of some books in the Black library that went a little more in depth and — oh, don't look at me like that."

Hermione was doing her best impression of a furious Professor McGonagall, lips so thin they were almost gone. "You dabbled in necromancy? From the Black family library? Oh, Harry, what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Harry can't help the defensiveness that seeps into his tone. "And necromancy is only one aspect of soul magic, and that's not what I was doing."

"Then what — why —?"

"The horcrux —"

Ron's face goes even paler as he snaps to attention. "What horcrux?"

"Well I didn't make one if that's what you're thinking." Hermione opens her mouth to speak but Harry continues, a little louder. "I wasn't dabbling, okay? I just wanted to make sure it was gone —"

"What horcrux?" Ron says again, this time more firmly.

"My scar horcrux. I just wanted a way to know it was really gone."

"Your scar?" Ron says, slightly alarmed but mostly baffled. "Why? Did it hurt again?"

"…I just wanted to be sure." There must be something in his tone, Harry thinks, judging by Hermione's expression of slow realization. He should have known she wouldn't accept his more-than-lacking explanation.

She leans back into the couch, crossing her arms and pinning Harry with a hard stare. "And just when, exactly, did you begin studying 'soul magic'?"

Harry looks away. "…'Round the end of ninety-eight, thereabouts," he mumbles.

Ron runs both his hands over his face. "Merlin's bloody bollocks, Harry."

Hermione's not faring much better. "You've been dabbling in necromancy for fifteen years!? And telling us this now?"

"It's not necromancy —"

"What did you find?" Ron cuts in.

"Don't encourage him!"

"You said you were dying," Ron reminds the room and Hermione snaps her jaw shut because, yes, he had indeed started this conversation by declaring he's dying. "So what did you find? And why the bloody fuck did you wait fifteen years to tell us? Is… is it Voldemort? Is he back?"

The last three words are almost whispered, and it's amazing how the atmosphere in the room feels instantly heavier, how easy it is to fall in to resignation, how the despair of the war lurks always around the corner, waiting only for three words. Harry doesn't let it linger.

"No. Voldemort's dead. And all his horcruxes with him." It's news he's happy to deliver, had certainly been happy to learn, before the reality of the statement hit him. Some of the tension leaves the room, but his two friends don't say anything, waiting. "It's not Voldemort or the horcrux — or, well, not really." He winces. "No… it's my soul that's the problem."

Kreacher had been very helpful, after both he and Harry had calmed down (Kreacher's not be losing any more Masters!). The old house-elf, after prying the basilisk fang from his hands, pushing him unto his bed, spelling the blankets to hold him, Apparating in and out of an apothecary to steal and force-feed him a Calming Draught, had stayed, teary-eyed, by his bed side and refused to lift the spell restraining him until he'd explained his actions.

So Harry, numb and tired under the effects of the potion, had talked. And talked. And talked. (That's why I have to die, Kreacher, don't you see? Or else everything will have been for nothing. Regulus' sacrifice will have been for nothing.

…Oh, poor, ignorant, half-blood Master. Kreacher sees his Master is still a stupid little boy.)

Th effects of the draught had only just been wearing out — after hours — enough to allow Harry to flush with embarrassment as the elf admonished him, but not enough that he would shake under the realization of just what exactly he had almost done, just how far he'd allowed himself to sink into despair. No, that would come later. At the time, he had felt only embarrassment as Kreacher listed a dozen other ways to make sure the horcrux was gone, some of them being almost common sense, like attempting to speak Parseltoungue, and many magical in nature.

One of them in particular had caught Harry's interest. The only method listed that would truly satisfy him, the only way he could be completely sure.

(Family magicks can be showing Master his soul.)

Harry pauses, unsure of the best way to put this. "It's… damaged."

"Damaged how?" asks Ron.

And this is steadier territory; Harry feels himself relaxing marginally. He has not been sitting idle these past fifteen years after first viewing his sorry, deformed, bleeding soul. His days have been spent in research. In fact, for the first couple of years, they had been spent solely on research and nothing else.

"It gets a little technical from here on out, but bear with me. I can let you see my notes later if you want," he says, looking at Hermione. She nods curtly. "Essentially, the horcrux ripped a hole in my soul. Or, specifically, the violent removal-via-Killing-Curse of the horcrux — which was stuck to my soul, which had in turn grown around the horcrux — ripped a hole in my soul. Imagine getting shot with a muggle gun, for example, and healing the wound but forgetting to remove the bullet. Now imagine someone Accio-ing the bullet out, years later."

Ron was frowning at the muggle analogy, but nodding along. Hermione, however, quipped in, "But wouldn't you be able to heal? I mean, if we're going with the bullet analogy, it would be just like getting shot again, following the same trajectory and everything. Why not heal the wound again?"

"That's where the Killing Curse comes in. Think about what it does, at it's core. Souls can heal, yeah, but only if they're attached to the living. You've never seen a ghost heal, have you? The Killing Curse completely detaches a soul from the realm of the living. And I was… I was dead, Hermione. I died that night, and even though I was able to come back… it all comes down to timing, really.

"The first time I died, when Voldemort tried to kill me in my crib — yes, I died back then, too, let me finish — my mother's sacrificial magic pulled my soul back. It held me in the realm of the living, basically reviving me the same moment I died, so that the unblockable Killing Curse was instead redirected to Voldemort. The horcrux attached itself to me only after Voldemort was hit with his own curse, so you see, I was alive the first time I was 'shot'. And my soul healed around it.

"The second time, though… The curse hit both me and the horcrux. We both died. I just left it behind when I came back, meaning the separation happened… while I was dead. More than that, I used the horcrux's tether to the world of the living to come back. Maybe the gun analogy wasn't the best. That second time was more like… being speared by an entire javelin, shaft and all, and then forcing myself back through the entire javelin again to get back to where I was. And then staying that way, still speared, just at the other end of the javelin, all throughout the rest of the Battle of Hogwarts, before Vanishing the javelin all together." Harry shudders, remembering the absolute mess of a soul he'd seen when he'd first performed the Soul-Viewing ritual. "It can't heal. I don't know if I can describe just how much it's not healing. My soul's been essentially bleeding out all this time."

Hermione doesn't even look mad anymore, she looks more like she's in pain. "Oh, Harry. Why didn't you tell us?"

"We could have helped," Ron says, finally regaining some color. "We will help. There's got to be a way."

Harry looks away again and shakes his head slightly. "It wasn't really bad at first. No need for alarm, really. It wasn't healing, but it also wasn't getting any worse… until some four years ago, I think? The tear seemed to be getting bigger, the 'bleeding' more profuse… and I started feeling some effects."

It's mid afternoon, and the sun cascades through the airy, gossamer curtains he'd bought when he'd redecorated the townhouse. The sitting room is bright and open, made out mostly in warm browns and light beige with various blue highlights in the upholstery. This place hasn't looked dreary in more than a decade, but still the room feels cold. He can no longer hear the children upstairs and he idly wonders whether they're hungry yet. Harry's sitting in his favorite armchair, the one with an unobstructed view of the hallway, and he steadily ignores the stares of his two best friends sitting across from him on the couch.

"What sort of effects?" Hermione finally asks.

My wand doesn't recognize me half of the time, Harry thinks. My magic's erratic at best. I can't produce a Patronus anymore. It crumbles just as it forms, even when I cast perfectly. I've lost the most personal connection I had to my father.

"Trouble with magical output," he says.

I can remember being happy, but every day it gets harder to remember what happiness felt like. I can almost feel myself unraveling, I can hardly empathize with people anymore, I'm restless all the time and nothing holds my interest for very long. And the fear. I'm so afraid.

"Mood swings," Harry adds. "Nothing alarming, really, there's no in-your-face symptoms, it's just… my soul is fading away."

It will be worse than dying, Harry doesn't say. My soul is being destroyed, I won't ever get to move on, I will just disappear. I will never see my parents again. I will never join Sirius, or Remus, or Fred. Or you two, when you pass. I won't ever heal or feel comfort again when it's over.

I'll suffer, ironically, the same fate as Voldemort. You see? I was right, in the end. I lost. I lost, he destroyed me.

"I suspect," he continues, and he still cannot look at them, "that the last days will look something like the aftermath of the Dementor's Kiss. Before my heart gives out."

Ron lets out what sounds suspiciously like a whimper; no one acknowledges it. "How long?" he asks, and doesn't attempt to specify.

Harry understands anyway. "At this rate… seven years, give or take a few months. Still a ways to go." But I can't endure this any longer. Please, I can't. I can't live like this. Harry will never admit to these thoughts.

"Okay." Ron breathes out all at once. "Alright, we've got time, then. We can do this! 'Mione can do some research — no offense, mate, you might have missed something, and I — I know Jemma, you remember Jemma? She transfered to the Department of Mysteries last year, I reckon if there's anything that can help us, it'll be in the Department of Mysteries. I can cash in a few favors and get us in, and you'll see, mate, you'll be alright before you know it."

Harry has already looked into the Department of Mysteries. While the Unspeakables have done some studies into the subject of souls in the Death Room, they would never be able to fix his soul. It simply cannot be fixed. The most Harry might be able to get out of the Death Room is a swift death by walking through the Veil. It is possible he would then be able to meet his parents one last time — before his soul disintegrates without the tether to the world of the living — but Harry seriously doubts it. It is still Plan B.

Hermione's face is calculating. "You already have something in mind, don't you, Harry?"

Despite himself, Harry smiles. "How'd you know?"

"You've kept this a secret all this time. And you didn't tell us even when you realized you were dying." Her voice becomes hoarse towards the end, so she has to clear her throat to continue. She sounds like she's physically forcing the words out of her mouth, like the strain of it is painful. Harry knew, since about the time Ron asked for his help planning his marriage proposal, that he would be driving a wedge in their friendship with the magnitude of this secret. He realized, right about the time Hermione asked him to be the godfather of their child, that he'd missed the deadline in which his friends may have understood his need to keep something so personal quiet, that waiting any longer meant committing to lifelong secrecy. And he knew, this morning, that telling them after so long would hurt them deeply. Hermione's arms have shifted slightly; instead of being crossed, it now looks more as if she's hugging herself. "So why would you tell us anything at all? Why now? You must have found a way to fix your soul, but you need our help."

"I need you help," Harry agrees softly.

There's something to be said about Ron's determination to focus on practical matters. The tension is clear on his shoulders, there's no doubt Harry's betrayal of trust hurts him just as much as it hurts Hermione, but still he trudges on. "Out with it, then. What's the plan?"

"It's going to sound crazy," Harry warns.

"You know we'll always help you, Harry," says Hermione. It's an an accusation as much as it is reassurance.

Harry takes a deep breath. He can hear the children running around upstairs, likely playing tag, and it sounds like the type of normalcy he's never experienced. It's a foreign sound, even after spending years around them, and he doesn't know quite what to do with the feeling.

"My soul can't be fixed. Period. But it wasn't always like this. If I were to go back — to a time when my soul was complete…"

There's a moment of silence, then Ron — "You want to go back in time."

"Yes."

"To when you had a healthy soul."

"Yes."

"Mate."

"Yeah?"

"That's not how time travel usually works," Hermione points out matter-of-fact, knowing Harry wouldn't have brought it up if he hadn't already found something worthwhile.

"Not usually, no," he agrees easily. And this is the moment of truth, the crux of the matter. This is when he either sets out on this crazy venture with the help of his two friends, or he severs his friendship for the rest of his short, miserable life. He wets his lips and says:

"But, then, time travelers don't usually remove their souls before setting out."

Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World and formerly acclaimed Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, knows far too much about the foulest forms of dark magic. He can't not know. Despite his words to Hermione, the study of soul magic can only go so far without delving into necromancy, which in turn can only toe the line of gray morality for about two dozen spells or so before plunging full into the Dark Arts. Harry may not practice the latter, but after fifteen years of study, he is well-versed in them. He knows, step by step, how to make a horcrux. Most importantly, he knows exactly why each step is necessary and how they affect the soul. He knows all the ins-and-outs of possession, and could write a dissertation on the nature of the Killing Curse had he had the slightest inclination. He's had more first-hand experience with all of these subjects than any other person alive.

Harry Potter, at thirty-three years of age, knows more about Voldemort's favorite branches of magic than the Dark Lord himself when he'd died. That was the good thing about not being a pioneer in the field, he supposed; one could easily expound on the other's mistakes. Tom Riddle — as his pitifully mutilated soul knows wherever it's eternally suffering — made a lot of mistakes.

This only makes the prospect of becoming a pioneer in time travel all the more daunting. Theoretically, he has it all figured out. Time travel as they know it is limited because the traveler's soul is permanent. If a second, future soul exists in whatever time frame, its very nature resists all attempts to change the circumstances that led it there, resulting in the sort of time travel that works only in closed loops. If, however, the traveler was separated from their soul at the exact instant they went back in time, the soul of their past self should, in theory, automatically replace it, thus removing any limits over changing the past. One soul. No closed loops. No destiny.

If he fucks up the timing by even a millisecond, Harry could end up a soulless shell lying somewhere abandoned in the wilderness, eaten by the carrion of the past — at best. At worst — if his Sharing Past Soul theory was wholly incorrect — he could rip apart his past self's soul so badly that they both became something less than human, irrevocably changing the outcome of the war in Voldemort's favor. But that probably won't happen. Everything he's studied points to it not happening.

(There is approximately a 2.9 percent chance of that happening.)

He knows the risks. He is prepared to face them. Much as he wants to, he cannot face them alone.

Neither of Harry's friends can seem to bear to look at him right now. Ron is very still, forehead leaning against his knuckles, hands clasped together in front of him as if in prayer, eyes closed. "Mate… Harry, do you hear what you just said?"

"It's not a horcrux —"

"'Horcrux' shouldn't be your measurement of right and wrong!" Hermione snaps. She glances at Harry and shakes her head helplessly. "Right. That's it. Rose! Hugo!" she calls towards the hall, standing up and grabbing her bag. "We're leaving!"

"Hermione, wait! It's not a measurement, I just wanted you to know — it's a whole different process — there's no dark magic —!"

He tries to reach out to her but Ron quickly steps in front of him, still not looking at him.

"Ron, I swear, it's not —"

Hermione turns around anyway. "Really, Harry? Really? You swear it's not dark magic? There's no sacrifice involved, it doesn't hurt anyone, there'll be no corruption?" Harry hesitates and it's enough of an answer to her. She scoffs. "Right. Rose! Hugo! Come down!"

"N— goddammit — it's a material sacrifice only! And the only person it will hurt is me!"

"KIDS! WE'RE LEAVING!"

The pitter-patter from earlier gets louder as Rose and Hugo come bounding down the stairs with all the energy inherent in small children. Behind them, Teddy leans against the banister and watches the scene downstairs curiously.

"Is it lunch time now?" Rose asks.

"Change of plans, sweetie, we're eating at home."

"Oh, okay. Why?"

"Hermione, please —"

"Harry," says Ron, "just… leave it."

"Thanks for watching them, Teddy," Hermione says with a smile, visibly strained only because he knows her so well.

"It's no trouble. We had fun."

The family of four makes their way to the front door, only the children turning back to wave goodbye. Outside, the sun is bright and the slight breeze is the only relief of what has been an uncomfortably hot summer.

"It's the only way I'll see them again," Harry whispers.

Ron, as he closes the door behind his family, sends him a look of deep pity.

The door clicks shut.

It isn't until a week later, a quarter to ten in the morning on September 1st, that he hears from his friends again. Teddy is upstairs still, scrambling to find various missing knick-knacks because Harry's advice to pack last night went unheeded, as always. Harry's alone, packing the last of the lunch he prepared for Teddy in a nondescript lunch-box because Teddy had refused to carry his old, cartoon werewolf-themed lunch-box the minute he turned fifteen. There is an impatient tap on the kitchen window, and he recognizes the grumpy countenance of the Granger-Weasley family owl, Errol 2.

It's a single, hastily-written note, and Errol 2 does not wait for a reply.

Harry — Bring your notes. We'll look them over.

It's tentative, but Harry smiles.

A/N: I'm bringing this fic over from AO3, and will be posting the available chapters (currently, four) here on over the next few days. I don't actually write that fast, so expect the time between updates to increase dramatically after that. For future chapters, there might be a slight delay between the time this fic is available on AO3 and the time it will be available here because I have to make formatting changes, but it won't be for more than an hour at most. Probably.