A/N: This one's a bit early as a thank-you to those of you who reviewed. It somehow does make me write faster.

~oOo~

Albus Dumbledore couldn't remember the last time he had slept soundly. He would delay retiring to bed until after midnight then lie awake as the clock chimed one – even two. Occasionally he would resort to a potion, but the strange knocked-out sort of rest was never particularly restful either. That, and he couldn't stand anything that interfered with the working of his mind.

It was the night before the end of term; in the morning the students would be herded onto the Hogwarts Express and the professors would begin their precious two months of peace. The staffroom had been filled with no other discussion for the past fortnight. Professor Tofty was taking his new wife to Ireland to look for leprechauns; Professor Merrythought was going to stay with her sister in Cornwall; Professor Babel was embarking on a stargazing expedition to Argentina. Professor Slughorn had plans to visit last year's Head Girl in Anglesey where she was training with the Holyhead Harpies – he had a feeling the potions teacher had more on his mind than watching Quidditch, but he tried not to think about that.

Albus had worked at Hogwarts for nearly thirty years. Nearly thirty beautiful Highland summers had arrived and taken the others away to their chosen leisure activity; thirty groups of seventh-years released into the wide world. The first he had taught were middle-aged themselves now with steady jobs in the Ministry and their own children at school. The years, while in those midnight hours seeming to crawl along, had been flying by while he wasn't looking. Was he old, now? It seemed like just yesterday that he had left these ancient walls, newly-qualified, drunk on youth and magic and confidence. Now he had nowhere to go, and no one to visit.

He did not like to think about the past. Partly it was because, logically, it wouldn't change anything – but mostly, it was because it hurt. Certainly it wasn't healthy, keeping this inferno of emotion locked inside forever, but what was the alternative? He had long ago given up the dream of having anyone to share it with and as his star rose and rose in society, the idea of having his chequered past splashed over the Daily Prophet seemed less and less appealing. It was better to cultivate the image of the slightly mad genius than to let anyone get closer.

On this particular night, the clock chimed three and still sleep seemed a long way off. He flipped back the covers, donned a robe and slippers and trudged to the window. The night was moonless, but a clear sky hosted thousands of stars. Perhaps there was a sort of tenseness in the air, or perhaps that was merely the reflection of his troubled thoughts.

War was coming. The students didn't know it – the Professors didn't talk about it – the Ministry refused to acknowledge it. But it was coming all the same. It had been coming for years, closer and closer in subtle motions that made it hard to decide when to act on it. He wished he were somewhere else, wished there could be someone else to deal with it. Somehow he knew already that there wouldn't be. He would be pushed, once more unto the breach, not because he deserved it (though Merlin knew he did) but because the rest of the country was too scared or too incompetent. They would make him a hero, or a martyr – the headlines wouldn't care which way it went, alive or dead he would sell a thousand copies.

The threat of war had crowded other thoughts out of his mind. He could not focus on his research or even properly on his teaching, and the alarm bells that went off every time he saw the Riddle boy went largely ignored. Pretending he was fine was becoming an increasingly complicated charade that he no longer knew how to stop acting out and every time he closed his eyes the image of wild blond hair and laughing eyes sprang up to mock him.

In the dead of night, he allowed the masks of daytime to slip away. No longer Professor Dumbledore, Hogwarts' most celebrated teacher and presumed next Headmaster; no longer A.P.W.B. Dumbledore, alchemist with a talent for innovation; no longer Wizengamot member forty-two, consistently resisting nomination for Chief Warlock. Just Albus, a boy who became a man in the heat of one summer argument but never really grew up. Albus, who had used teaching and judicial service and magical research as if to atone for the sin of his own nature; used intellect as a sword and eccentricity as a shield.

It was not as though he had any particular desire to visit Argentina or bed a nineteen-year old Chaser… but still, he wished he were any one of his colleagues, going off for summer without a care in the world.

Albus – the curious child who did not at all feel fifty-seven years old – was lonely and scared.

~oOo~

Tom watched as the train left Hogsmeade behind, wondering if he were the only one not looking forward to the holidays. Across from him, Granger was engrossed in her potions textbook, though he couldn't imagine why. She'd clearly read it almost as many times as he had, and the exams had been a week ago. Perhaps she was sore because he'd beaten her, but that result had hardly been restricted to potions. That reminded him of something.

"You only got an E in transfiguration and an A in charms." She straightened her back defensively and looked up, expression surprisingly smug.

"So?"

"You could have got two O's… without a wand."

"Oh… yes, I suppose I could have." She was maddening! He didn't like not being answered… even if he hadn't technically asked a question.

"So. Why?" He ground out.

"I prefer to be underestimated." He had never heard anything that made less sense. While he was trying to comprehend, she added, "Also, it will make it all the more noteworthy when I beat you at the OWLs."

"No-one will beat me. Ever." Her smile was conspiratorial.

"Well, we'll see about that. You'd better keep practising over the summer."

"You know we can't do magic outside Hogwarts!" There was a small, odd pause.

"Oh. Yes. Well. I meant, reading and stuff. Do you have any plans for the summer?" He blinked, surprised by the sudden change of topic not to mention the stupidity of asking him that question.

"…Well, after I spend a week in the south of France I'm probably going to go dragon-spotting in China."

Her laugh was a strangely pleasant sound, filling him with a sense of power at having created it. The whole experience was unfamiliar to him – uncharted territory – so he panicked and added: "I suppose I'll go to Diagon Alley when I can. What about you?"

"I don't know my uncle that well… I'm not sure what it's going to be like. I'm happy to be out of the hospital, but I'll probably miss the castle, and the food." His stomach rumbled in agreement; visions of porridge and stew and rice pudding surfaced in his mind.

The snack trolley came and went, for neither of them had any money, and the rugged scenery of the north began to give way to fields and hedges. Granger finished the potions textbook and began the crossword in yesterday's Prophet, but he just stared out of the window at all the landscapes he had never visited, and had the sense of going from one prison to another.

They were back in London by six thirty, which was just as well because it took him almost two hours to walk from King's Cross to Vauxhall carrying his battered suitcase. He entertained the idea of going somewhere else but suspected it might earn him another visit from Dumbledore.

Mrs Cole answered the door, drink in hand as was her custom after the younger children went to bed at eight. She stared at him for quite a while before there was any sign of recognition – perhaps this wasn't quite her first drink.

"Oh. Tom. Come on in."

He stepped reluctantly over the threshold, noticing the new cracks in the floor tiles and another year's worth of grime on the faded paintwork. It felt nothing at all like coming home.

~oOo~

Once Tom had left the platform, Hermione began to thread her way through the crush of hugging families.

"Hermione! There you are." She stopped, surprised. The voice was familiar but the fact that it was attached to a visible body was not. The man was fairly tall, perhaps forty, with dark hair parted at the side and a kind sort of face. He wore a grey muggle suit that had seen better days, but nevertheless looked well cared-for. She realised she had been staring like an idiot for far too long.

"Erm… U-uncle John. Hello." There was a definite spark of amusement in his eyes which would have been unnoticeable to anyone else. He picked up her trunk, leaving her with just the owl in its transfigured cage.

"Shall we?" In his other hand was a flat cap, and he used it to gesture towards the barrier.

She had never much liked walking at the solid wall, and preferred to do it with her eyes shut, so she did not immediately see the new destination. Her first thought was it's very windy inside King's Cross today. When she began to hear birdsong, too, she opened her eyes.

The sun was bright; too high, in fact, for after six in the evening. They were looking out at a field of crops, waving in the warm breeze.

"What day is it?" She asked, when she had regained some brain function. Her companion chuckled.

"Good question, but don't worry, we've just gone back a few hours. I wanted to get home before he gets home – well, you know, before I get home. Gosh, it's all a bit confusing, isn't it?" She merely raised an eyebrow, still not really understanding but thinking that one could wait a long wait for something around here to make sense. She turned around, realising she was stood on a doorstep. At Death's door. For once it was literally rather than figuratively.

"Is this your house?" It looked old – unsurprisingly. The stonework was rough, and though the door appeared more modern than the rest of the façade it still wouldn't have looked out of place in a medieval church.

"Obviously." He raised his hand and the door juddered open, allowing a view of the space within. She entered curiously.

Though the sun outside was warm, the inside of the house was cool. The main room ahead of her was some sort of banqueting hall with a table large enough to seat perhaps twenty. Tapestries decorated the walls and a low fire burned in a huge grate; incongruously, a grandfather clock stood in one corner, currently reading 3.34. The overall effect of the décor was peculiarly homey.

"Ah, Nifty! This is Hermione." She turned around and saw that a house elf had appeared while she was preoccupied. He was wearing a smart black apron monogrammed with the letter N in silver, and levitating a tea tray. Upon being introduced, he bowed low in her direction. She smiled.

"Will master be liking his tea in the sitting room or the garden?" It looked odd to see someone in 1930's muggle attire holding a conversation with a house elf, and she wondered if it were odd for the elf, too.

"The garden, please, Nifty. You've all done such a lovely job with it." The little elf led them joyfully out of the room. Hermione was too busy being happy to see a wizard treating an elf with respect to notice where they were going.

The heavy oak door opened out onto an enclosed courtyard where a table with several chairs sat on a neat patio next to an ornamental pond covered with lily pads; roses, wisteria and honeysuckle climbed the surrounding walls. Opposite the house, the gaps in the wrought iron gate revealed a glimpse of the meadow and woodland beyond. Hermione had never seen a place more like a picture book.

Nifty set the tea tray down on the table and left with another bow. She was still gaping at the scene and was only vaguely aware of the set of eyes appraising her reaction.

"It's beautiful," she said, at last. Zorion – or should this form be Uncle John? – looked uncomfortable with the praise.

"Yes – er – you see, when one lives such a long time… One tries to make the best of it. I can't take any credit, of course, it's all the elves' work. Tea?"

With the tea there was bread and butter and strawberry jam, so it was a while before either spoke again. Sun was pouring into the courtyard; coupled with the humming of the bumblebees and the scent of the flowers, the effect was that she temporarily forgot everything that troubled her.

"I assume that's not how you really look?"

"No. You gave me the idea, actually – that hilarious story about Polyjuice potion. Wasn't invented in my time. I made a few adjustments so that the effect will last until I undo it." Hermione felt that now, if ever, wasn't really the time to enquire as to how.

"I don't suppose you can change me back? You know, to my real age. Just for the summer. You've no idea how weird it still is, being like this." His expression went from surprised to sympathetic to puzzled in the space of a few seconds.

"Well, it was easy enough when you were dead… I've never tried it on someone living."

"Kill me, then." He blinked several times, rapidly.

"Pardon?"

"Kill me. Then send me back as my true self." Perhaps her lack of concern for dying was moderately worrying, but in the scope of all her other problems she felt it was rather minor.

"I – I… No! I couldn't. Don't be silly. I couldn't." She had assumed that Death himself wouldn't have had much problem with the idea, but apparently she was wrong.

"But you kill every day!" He looked so hurt that she suddenly felt awful.

"I transport souls, I don't kill. I don't! I've never wanted to kill anyone. I swear it." She decided not to notice the way he had chosen to say never wanted to rather than never have, and reached for his hand impulsively. It felt different to that first touch months ago that had imprinted itself onto her lonely mind.

"Sorry… I'm sorry. Maybe you can work out how to do it without me dying?" A burning feeling began to crawl up her arm from where their hands were joined. The itch spread, until suddenly she experienced a sensation as if every bone in her body was simultaneously broken. Her scream was cut off as the pain in her chest made producing it impossible. Dimly she was aware of Zorion having risen to hover over her, but then everything went fuzzy and dark.

When she opened her eyes, she was looking up at the sky. Zorion was crouched beside her, and he helped her get up again.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I suppose that was… quite predictable, actually, but I wasn't thinking. Here you are." He waved his hand and the air in front of her became reflective, showing her eighteen-year-old face. She immediately forgot about the ache in all her joints.

"Oh! Thank you!"

"I can see why you prefer to look like this," he said, before going really quite red and turning away. She had no idea what to make of it, not being used to compliments or grown men being embarrassed. Instead, she opted for asking where the bathroom was.

The journey to the bathroom ended up being a Nifty-guided tour of the whole house, kitchen garden, outbuildings, meadow and woods. The little elf had a thousand things to say about each place, and it was only when a distant bell sounded that he squeaked and exclaimed that he'd almost made Miss Hermione late for dinner.

Dinner was brown trout with vegetables from the garden, as if to mock her for thinking she might miss the food at Hogwarts. The younger Death joined them, invisibly, and she got the feeling that he wasn't too happy at the invasion of his solitude. After the plates were cleared away, he retired to the sitting room and they went back out to the courtyard alone. The breeze had dropped, leaving the evening air pleasantly warm.

"You seem like two different people," she said, as the crimson twilight set fire to the poppies in the meadow and a pair of bats flicked by overhead. He was quiet for a long time.

"I suppose sixty years is a while, even for me. He doesn't understand my motives in coming here – in bringing you here."

"Neither do I." It was always going to be a sore subject, she thought.

"No. I know. I'm going to tell you something…" She didn't dare speak, wondering what it could possibly be and ready to explode with anger if something terrible had been hidden from her.

"I've been so selfish."

"You don't say?" It was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and then she felt childish.

"I deserve that. Look. I sent you back because I had this mad plan. It wasn't thought through very well, because… that night you died, I was so sure they would be joined together, I couldn't bear it any longer. It shouldn't be just anyone who unites the Hallows. And that night… I had two chances to be free." His eyes carried a faraway sort of expression.

"This is somehow about the Hallows? You want someone to unite them? I thought it was about… Voldemort's soul."

"Ah, well… yes… and no. You must think me a monster. But, you see, I've been doing this job for so long. Everyone and everything I knew in life is so long gone and I – I just want to cross over."

"So what do the Hallows have to do with this?" Her temper was feeling quite short, though she wasn't even really sure why. When she watched him produce a chocolate frog card from inside his jacket, she almost exploded.

Pythagoras (c. 570BC – c. 495BC) was an ancient Greek wizard who set up a school of magic in what is now southern Italy. Pythagoras travelled widely, learning about the use of magic in different cultures, and was presumed dead when he did not return from a trip to India in 495BC.

"Pythagoras went to India to find the Varanasi Chest. It was rumoured that whoever could open the chest would receive eternal life. He found it."

"Yes, great, but I still don't see what this has to do with–"

"Each Death must set a task. A legend, passed into folklore. The one who completes the task shall become the master of Death… take Death's place."

Of all the things she had ever wondered about the Hallows, that had not been among them. It was hard to process. Harry… Harry had been so close to having them all! Thank goodness he had not. Suddenly the final, horrifying piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

"You want it to be Tom Riddle." In the silence that followed, you could have heard the proverbial pin whistling through the air even before it made contact with the floor.

"Yes."

"You – you – bastard!"

"I think you'll find it's quite an elegant solution–"

"Elegant?! He's a mass murderer!"

"He was a mass murderer. Although, I grant you, he has already technically murdered you." Even though he was trying to hold in his laughter, it still annoyed her.

"And you want to reward him with the eternal life he's so desperate for?" That shut him up. He looked at her squarely.

"There is nothing – absolutely nothing – rewarding about eternal life. Not for me, and not for Tom Riddle. In life he became something terrible. As Death he could not do those things. And yet he is one of the few powerful enough to take on the role. That is why I call it an elegant solution."

Time passed until eventually the courtyard was cloaked in darkness. Hermione conjured a jar of bluebell flames and watched them cast strange shadows on Zorion's tense face.

"I see what you mean," she said, finally. "But I still don't understand why I'm here."

"I suppose… you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I knew Tom would need someone, and it couldn't be me. When I saw your soul, I knew it was the one. I'm sorry."

"So you'll get to die, and I'll be stuck here in the wrong time with nobody. Thanks, again, for that." As she swept angrily back into the house, she did not see his conflicted expression or the hand he reached out but stilled before it could stop her retreat.

~oOo~