AN: OMG! I'm so, so sorry for not updating! It's been so long... *grimaces*

Please forgive me (hopefully by reviewing...?)!

Here's the next chapter for you all!

Btw, no bashing in my story. No one's perfect, after all.

As much as he acted like nothing was wrong, something was.

It was wrong, odd, strange. Too many things didn't add up.

His eyes narrowed as he thought back to that meeting. The innocently angelic demeanor, the poor clothing, the nothing special magical power. Where was that now? It must have been a mask. Slytherins were known for their masks after all. Their deceit, their power play, their manipulations. They were the masters of the political battlefield, the snakes that hid in the grass, ready to strike.

He had come in with the high quality robes, that sweeping charisma that was so, so similar to him - no. He couldn't think about that man. That man that was once like the yin to his yang.

Eyebrows furrowed, Albus sighed as he rubbed his temples.

He was a coward.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was a coward.

He wasn't the happy-go-lucky middle aged wizard he portrayed himself to be. Well, not entirely, anyhow. He knew his own power, and what a power he had! He knew his magical ability exceeded Gellert's and, if he could just stop bring such a coward, the Wizarding World might just be free from his once best friend's clutches.

He acted like nothing was wrong around young Tom Riddle, too afraid to approach, too cowardly to face someone so alike to Gellert. Too afraid of failure to even try-!

Everything about the boy reminded him of Gellert. The way he walked, the way he talked, the way his charisma just shined. His magical ability, Albus had obviously underestimated that, was alike to Gellert, too. Strong, blindingly so, when he used it. Perhaps even stronger.

Which was why Albus knew he had to help. But he couldn't. Because he was a coward.

Slumping down into his seat, he crumpled up the letter on his desk and, in a rare show of frustration, set it on fire, watching the words burn.

Dear Albus,

How have you been recently? It's been a while since we've talked, or even written to each other, no? I'm sure you know how I've been doing. After all, I didn't give up on our dream. A dream that you abandoned along with me.

Sincerely, Gellert Grindelwald

Slytherin really was very different from Gryffindor. Despite the confrontation he had with Carrow, the common room was peaceful. He hadn't really stayed and just people watched in a while, preferring the solitude of his dorm, and now that he had, he could see how Slytherin really worked.

Everyone was talking, but not loudly like in Gryffindor.

No, it was like some sort of high class party. The boys talked quietly with each other and the girls gossiped and bantered. All of it was very dignified. There were no people play fighting or jumping around. The most there was, was a playful punch or two or someone grumbling over homework.

It was odd... But an oddly welcome change.

He made a humming sound at that and shifted in his seat slightly.

Immediately, there was a silence that spread in a five meter radius around him before the quiet chatter returned. His eyebrow twitched.

Okay, that was rather annoying.

Every single time he shifted or made a sound of discomfort, everyone near him would go quiet as if afraid to make the wrong move. Or even as if waiting for him to make some sort of prophecy. It had been happening ever since the confrontation.

No one, apart from Abraxas who had come to thank him for the book publicly and Carrow's group to acknowledge his superiority, dared to approach him.

The Slytherins were getting boring... And Harry didn't really know how to fix that.

Maybe he shouldn't have been so harsh on Carrow?

No. Carrow was being an idiot back then. He had every right to subjugate him.

But what should he do next? How should he proceed?

To be totally honest, Harry hadn't a clue. Sure, he had spent ages at the orphanage complementing on wether or not he should go with the whole dark lord idea, but he had never actually made a plan of action. He had just sort of... Jumped into it blindly, really.

He snorted at the thought, ignoring the discomfort of the Slytherins around him.

To think that after who knows how many lifetimes of the Sorting Hat trying to convince him he'd make a great Slytherin, he'd agree, only to realize that his action, going to Slytherin, would count as Gryffindor-ish.

If that wasn't ironic, then he wasn't sure what was.

He blinked blankly.

Wow. In his infinite, holy awesomeness as the Master of Death, he had actually completely neglected to think up a game plan.

(Although that was hardly unusual, it was rather idiotic considering what he aspired to be in this life)

Harry cursed his Gryffindorness and sighed.

Oh well, he guessed that this meant he was going with the flow and relying on improvisation once more. He couldn't really do much as a first year, anyways.

But first... Some divine help wouldn't go amiss, would it...?

It was amazing, stunning, absolutely breathtaking.

The wood was obviously old, worn, but the power it radiated was nothing to laugh about.

But he laughed anyways, albeit bitterly, but trying to sound triumphant.

The Elder Wand. It finally, finally belonged to him.

Him. Gellert Grindlewald.

Not Albus Dumbledore or that fool, Gregorovitch, but him, Gellert Grindlewald.

And with this small victory, that was really not small at all, he should feel triumphant. He should be giddy. He should be laughing maniacally at his success. In his plans, in his dreams.

But he wasn't, he didn't.

Why? Because there was a small voice in the back of his head saying how Dumbledore should be here, right beside him, celebrating the retrieval of the Elder Wand with him.

He grimaced, disgusted by his weakness.

The nearly sixty year old wizard gave a slight sigh. He couldn't deny that he and Albus had been close before, even if he didn't reciprocate the other's romantic feelings. But, even so, there should be absolutely no reason for his wish that Albus was still here, beside him.

If he wanted to move on, he'd have to let go. The Elder Wand was his now, and no one else's.

And soon, the Wizarding world will follow. Then all will be right again.

It was then that he returned his attention to the wand in his hands, which had begun to vibrate. Unsure of what this symbolized, he watched with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

If it weren't for his careful study of the wand, he may have dismissed the sudden glow as a part of his imagination, for in the next second, he found himself knocked over by a tidal wave of power.

He drew in a shaky breath and stood, slowly, feeling weak from what had just occurred. There was more to this wand than he first thought. For some reason... It felt sentient.

Harry was never sure what, exactly, death wanted him to do.

He knew what he wanted. Oh yes, and that was to rest. He'd been alive for too long, seen too much and he just wanted peace. But his blasted title wouldn't give him that. When he had first 'died', he had met Death himself. And, being a bastard, Death told him no. He couldn't die, not just yet.

Sometimes, Death would speak with him when he was among the living. Just a little voice in his head, giving him advice or intel that he needed. However, if he really wanted to talk to the bastard, Harry would have to enter what he now called a 'Death Trance'. Reason? Well, for all intents and purposes, he was dead during a Death Trance. He didn't breath, didn't move, it was really like he had died. But, since he couldn't die, he could come back to the world of the living at anytime he wished.

This was what he was doing now.

After warding his bunk, not that anyone would dare bother him anyway (but you could never be too careful), he settled down as if to go to sleep. There was no point in coming back with a sore neck and stiff joints, after all, when he could achieve the same ends in a position more comfortable than those meditative ones he thought he had to use at first (and, bastard that he was, Death never corrected him on his assumptions).

It was difficult describing what it felt like to enter a Death Trance. It really, really was.

He didn't feel the sense of peace that people described they felt during meditation nor did he feel like he was dying, as you would expect. No, it was, like the first time he had died, like going to sleep suddenly and just spontaneously realizing you were definitely not where you had gone to sleep earlier.

He pushed up off the floor from his sleeping position, blinking rapidly as King's Cross Station materialized before his eyes. Thinking of what he wanted, Harry was relived when clothing appeared on his naked body. No matter how used to this he was, he always felt a sense of relief when he was clothed after waking up naked. The first few times he didn't feel as embarrassed, he was, after all, dead. But once he had gotten used to the this place, he began to treat his metaphysical body like his physical one and much preferred having clothing to wear.

He stood and looked to the scarlet train, The Hogwarts Express. It was the only splash of color in what was now a white, colorless train station. And, as always, standing in front of the only open door like some sort of demented doorkeeper, was Death.

Death's appearance had surprised him the first time and would never fail to do the same no matter how many times he came here.

It wasn't so much the black and red police uniform, nor was it the gold cloak, but instead it was the accessories. Considering the fact that this was Death, one would've expected a skull, here and there. And Harry did. Yet he was still surprised at his assumption being right, for the mask Death wore was that of the skull of a ram. Death's Avada Kedavera colored eyes glowed from within the dark eye sockets on the skull.

As Death turned its head towards him and, for the first time, Harry realized that the style Death wore his dark hair was somewhat similar to how Tom Marvolo Riddle (in other words, Harry himself) had his hair done. Right after he made that connection though, Harry had the feeling that he was connecting dots where there were none. There were a lot of differences after all, but despite the fact that Death's hair reached half way down his torso, their fringes matched and so did the way their hair parted. There wasn't a single tangle to be seen and their hair both curled similarly. He couldn't be completely sure though, due to the black, withering flowers that were knotted into the left side of Death's hair next to the edge of the mask.

Death was significantly taller than Harry, who's metaphysical body was that of Harry Potter's seventeen year old one, like the first time Harry had come to this place. It always somewhat irked him to notice their height difference, even if it was completely illogical to be annoyed by the height of a divine and immortal being.

Absently, Harry wondered if he would reach Death's towering height of one eighty something in his new body as he approached.

"One point eight two meters, master, that's how tall I am," Death commented, an amused glint in his eyes. Harry felt himself twitch in annoyance. Somehow, Death could always read him, not even needing Legilimency to do so. Yet, as Death's master, Harry couldn't do the same. "The mind isn't a book to be read, master," came Death's unneeded parroting of Harry's once most hated professor.

"I know." Harry eyed the immortal being in front of him and then the doorway behind Death that led onto the Hogwarts Express. He knew that it was his way to eternal rest, yet Death never let him pass, no matter what Harry said or did. "You'll never let me pass, will you?" Harry asked, resigned to getting the same answer as he always did.

"I won't let you pass, master, not yet, but rest assured that this door is for you and you only, master. I'm a diligent doorkeeper, master. I'm sorry, but you can't go through just yet," came the expected answer. "It is not your time. The requirements haven't been met. But when that time comes, you will be let through."

"And when, pray tell, will that time come?"

Harry then got the vague impression that Death was smiling as the being reached for a silver chain hanging from his pocket and tugged out a silver pocket watch. "Soon, my master, soon."

Harry narrowed his eyes. There was definitely something that Death wasn't telling him. "Why can't you just tell me what you want me to do?" He asked, voice bordering on a snarl as his irritation swelled. "You're always telling me the same things, over and over again."

The silver pocket watch was placed carefully back into Death's pocket and Death tilted his head, ram horns catching a nonexistent sunlight and gleaming dangerously. Harry stood under the being's scrutiny, glaring back at his supposed servant. "Have I not helped you?" The voice, a rasping whisper, was so quiet that Harry started. "I speak to you, do I not? I guide you, master, and I've told you that your getting closer." Death leaned towards him and Harry couldn't help but pull away slightly. "The only way for you to come into the Realm of the Dead permanently is for you to experience the power you have, the power of being alive and reject that power. Reject all that life has to offer and, only then, can you stay." Death drew back and Harry released the breath he didn't know he had been holding. "I believe it is time for you to return, master. Farewell."

Harry huffed in annoyance but relented, letting himself be pulled back into his physical body.

He blinked open his eyes and narrowed them thoughtfully, ignoring the discomfort from his transition over the boundaries of dead and living.

He turned his head and waved the curtains around his bed open, dispelling the wards. There was sunlight coming from the magical windows in the dorms. It was time to get up.

Abraxas shivered as he awoke, feeling an uncomfortable chill in the dorms. He frowned. Why was it so cold? It shouldn't be so cold, not with all the heating charms layered into the very bricks that built up the Slytherin dormitories.

He held in a whimper as he scrambled to get up, an irrational fear creeping into him.

There was something wrong here. Oh so very wrong.

The chill was crawling up his spine, through his rib age and into his throat. He could feel it.

It was restricting his breath, causing him to pant shallowly. He could see his breath condensing in the air but that was all wrong because the dorms were warm. They were meant to be warm!

He kicked his covers off, the soft, silkily blankets suddenly feeling disgusting and constricting. He... He had to get out of here!

Yanking back the curtains around his bed, he jumped off and looked around. And then, the air suddenly didn't feel so suffocating anymore. He took a deep breath to compose himself and it was then that he realized that there was sunlight. Morning had come.

Riddle's bed was empty. Had the other already left? No one else was up yet. A quick Tempus spell confirmed the time to be 7:21. Classes didn't start till nine, but this was as good as any time to get up, he supposed.

But what was all that before about?

He huffed a bit and walked to the bathroom. It was time to get presentable. Not that he was ever unpresentable, but a little pampering wouldn't do any harm.

He looked into the mirror and jumped. Merlin did he look horrible, as if he hadn't had a good night's sleep in years, there were bags under his eyes and he was pale. His hair was in an absolute disarray. It would take ages to make himself presentable, but he might as well start now.

Several minutes later, there was a banging on the door and someone called at him to hurry up. Abraxas glared a little at the door, but sighed and relented, having gotten at least decent looking. He pushed open the door and was surprised to find everyone else looking just as bad he did.

He glanced at Riddle's bed. He had the feeling that the only one who would look well rested today would be the unnaturally powerful first year.

He was right. Everyone else in all of Hogwarts looked like they were ready to drop down dead, no matter how well they covered up their sleepless appearances.

What in Merlin's name had happened last night?