All creative and publishing rights, characters, and pre-existing plotlines belong to J.K. Rowling. I own none of this. This story is simply my take on what would have happened had the concept "Master of Death" been real. Enjoy and please review! There will be weekly updates every Saturday by 4pm EST.

Chapter 3: Tattoo

It was an hour before anyone came to find Harry. When Bill and Fleur first saw Harry approaching, they asked why he'd come. When Harry merely replied, "Guarding the antechamber," Fleur huffed impatiently, as her silvery blond locks cascaded down her shoulders.

"Ou do not trust us? 'Arry, we can take care of ourzelves. 'Ou need to rest!"

"I trust you and Bill with my life," Harry replied, "but I need to be here."

Bill took in Harry's appearance and nodded. Nothing had changed since Harry had woken up a short while ago. He was still covered in stone dust, his muggle clothing badly tattered, and his bare skin covered in burns. The bruise over Harry's heart kept throbbing, but he paid it no mind. After checking with Remus and Tonks, he felt certain no scar would be there.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn't felt anything from the lightning bolt on his forehead since before Riddle's Killing Curse. If the piece of Riddle's soul inside of him had died, Harry doubted his scar would hurt again. With Riddle dead, Harry would no longer see visions into Riddle's mind. The thought caused Harry enormous relief, until he remembered the graveyard at Little Hangleton, where Riddle had been reborn. That will never happen again, he thought.

Still, Harry clenched his wand uneasily.

The two other guards Professor McGonagall sent to help had been Aberforth Dumbledore and Professor Slughorn. Aberforth never spoke much, simply nodding to acknowledge Harry's presence. At first, Slughorn had reached to hug Harry and offer him several hearty slaps on the back. Harry winced. Slughorn's eyes roved over Harry curiously before he called out, "Harry, m'boy! Good gracious, what are you doing up? You ought to be in the hospital wing, resting on your laurels, eh?"

Harry glanced briefly at his former professor.

"Thanks, but I'm alright, Professor. I need to be here."

"Nonsense!" Slughorn replied, genially motioning to the Great Hall, which Madam Pomfrey continued using as an expanded Hospital Wing, "You're covered in cuts and scrapes! You should see Madam Pomfrey! Go on, we've got everything handled here. You heroes deserve your rest!"

Harry knew it was rude not to look at the professor when he answered but couldn't bring himself to care.

"No, thanks. I'll stay here."

Professor Slughorn's smile faltered, having been properly snubbed by The Boy Who Lived. He stood contemplating whether to make brief conversation with Harry, but, for once, seemed to recognize the determined set to Harry's jaw.

"Well, then…alright, if you insist," Slughorn muttered, going to stand by Aberforth, who he began pestering about a herd of goats.

"You know, goat milk can be quite useful in potion making. Not everyone realizes that, of course. And not just any old goat will do. It has to be a beast of the magical variety…"

Harry let Slughorn's voice trail off. He was staring intently at the body of Lord Voldemort. No, he reminded himself, he was staring at Tom Riddle. Not until the final battle had Harry realized that calling Riddle by his preferred moniker, Voldemort, would play right into Riddle's game nearly as much as the term "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." If Voldemort instilled fear in people, then He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named only confirmed and fostered that reign of terror. Harry sighed. Whatever you called him, Tom Riddle wasn't moving.

He lay in the far corner of the antechamber, his long and slender figure as skeletal in death as in life. Riddle's robes were black and spreadeagle, and appeared as though they might sweep him away at any moment. Though it was difficult to watch Riddle's chest for any sign of movement at this distance, Harry could tell by the Death Eaters' expressions that Riddle was truly dead. Though the scene was neither funny nor endearing, Harry couldn't help but draw his lips into a thin smile. The irony burned.

Along the far wall, a group of Death Eaters sat on their knees, hands fastened behind them, and backs pressed against the stone wall. Each was held by some variant of the Body Bind Curse, making them easier to recognize. Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy sat together looking for all the world like a set of sinister and unhappy Russian dolls. Next to the Malfoys were Walden MacNair, who'd been stripped of his executioner's style hood, and Antonin Dolohov. Harry also recognized Thorfinn Rowle and Augustus Rookwood beside them. Although there were a few other Death Eaters he'd never seen, some of whom lay dead in the corner, Harry was struck most not by their identities, but by their common facial expression: Repulsion.

It was so absurd, Harry almost laughed. These were the men and women infamous for their callous, bloodthirsty, and bigoted beliefs. Under the direction of the "Lord" they claimed to love, they had exiled mass portions of Britain's magical community. They'd threatened the freedom and lives of those who simply wanted to live in peace. Their murderous crusades had destroyed businesses, torn apart families, and made Harry's life hell. Now, here they sat. Small and powerless, with their eyes averted from their master, as though they could not bear to look at him.

Harry could have stood there and watched them for hours.

"Son," came a weary voice behind him.

Harry turned around as Arthur Weasley, exhausted and uneasy, approached carefully.

"Harry, what are you doing over here? Come on and see the nurse. Madam Pomfrey is desperate to have a look at you. And Molly will drag you over there herself if you don't come."

Harry sighed, "I have to be here, Mr. Weasley. I have to make sure it's over. If Fred can come back, then who's to say Riddle can't? I need to be here."

Mr. Weasley took a slow moment to look back and forth between Riddle, the Death Eaters, and Harry.

"Harry, son, I don't pretend to know why Fred's come back to us, however grateful I am for it. Still, you're of no use to anyone if you're injured. Voldemort's been dead for hours. Soon, people from the Ministry will be here to pick him and his followers up. At the moment, they are all disarmed, incapacitated, and guarded by three fully trained wizards, and an equally talented witch. Let somebody else carry the load, for a change. Come and see the healer."

Harry looked at Mr. Weasley. Tall and thin, the man was clearly worn ragged from the battle. Mr. Weasley's balding head was sprinkled with dust, which got caught up in his wispy ginger hair. He wore his sleeves rolled up, with his suspenders pulled tight. There was a long, jagged cut on his forearm. The brown corduroy pants he wore were patched in obvious places. Very few times in Harry's experience had Mr. Weasley pulled rank or disciplined his children, but the somber blue eyes told Harry that he meant business. It didn't matter that Harry and his friends had spent the last year away, on the run. Nor did it matter that they were now of-age and at liberty to do as they pleased. Harry would see the healer.

"Sir, I really—" Harry tried.

Mr. Weasley put a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"I know you're worried, but we're worried, too. We're worried about you. Now, come on. Let the Order take care of this. Come and see Molly…"

With that, Harry was steered away to the furthest corner of the Great Hall, where Madam Pomfrey had conjured another bed next to Fred. Mrs. Weasley waited next to an anxious looking Ginny, as Madam Pomfrey set up a privacy screen. The remaining Weasleys, including Ron and Hermione, sat joking with Fred and George. George, who was still teary-eyed at his brother's revival, had happily endured all of Fred's good-natured jibes about his emotional fragility.

"Honestly," complained Madam Pomfrey, pulling Harry by the arm and sitting him down on the bed, "Potter, you should've come to me much sooner. It's been hours since the battle and look at these wounds! They've not been properly cleaned!"

The healer muttered "tsk, tsk," under her breath as she worked, waving her wand in a complicated diagnostic spell. The crease in her brow returned. After performing the spell a second time, she looked at Harry contemplatively.

"No broken bones," she observed, "but you've clearly been hit by a terribly dark curse. It doesn't seem to have affected you permanently, but I'll feel better having one of the Mavens from St. Mungo's look you over."

At Harry's look of horror, she replied, "Don't worry, Potter. You won't have to go to the hospital. We have a team of volunteer healers from St. Mungo's who've agreed to come. They'll be here shortly to look over Weasley, the Lupins, and the Creevey boy…I'll just add you to the list."

After making a small note in her patient log, Madam Pomfrey cast a Cleansing Charm. Harry almost flinched as the dirt and grime lifted from his skin. It was an odd and somewhat intrusive sensation, as though he were showering in public. After vanishing the grime and tossing him a conjured purple robe, Madam Pomfrey slipped behind the privacy screen and commanded, "Clothes off! Robe on! I need to be able to properly examine you!"

Harry grimaced and sighed. More than anything, he hated being a spectacle. But the leftover burns from the Gringotts' Flagrante Curse had chafed against his jeans. In the haste to find Riddle's horcruxes, Harry, Ron and Hermione barely had time to treat themselves with Essence of Dittany and had skipped over several burns. Then there was the general ache he felt throughout his chest, and, he thought shamefully, the weight loss.

Although they had spent some weeks at Shell Cottage eating Fleur's hearty meals, the stress of it all had prevented Harry from recovering properly. He still looked as though food never quite stuck to his bones the way it should have. While he'd always been skinny, he didn't particularly fancy being seen like that. Hurrying, Harry stripped down to his underwear and hastily threw the robe on. He'd just leaned down to tie the robe when he saw it.

Directly over his heart, where Riddle's Killing Curse had struck, was a dark purple and red bruise. At first, Harry had nearly mistaken it for part of the plum-colored robe. Impossible to mistake, however, was the symbol inside the bruise. He'd spent weeks obsessing over the meaning of that symbol and had almost died to discover it. Yet, here it was, taunting him from beyond victory. Glimmering like a golden tattoo over the place where he'd been cursed.

The sign of the Deathly Hallows.

Panic consumed Harry so completely that he barely noticed the golden script etched beneath the Hallows mark, written in some kind of rune. He thought for a moment, until he could think no more. All at once, his pulse quickened, and his breath came rapidly. His blood froze as though he'd dove back into that icy pond, risking it all for the Sword of Gryffindor. His lips moved hoarsely at first, as he squeaked and then shouted.

"Hermione! HERMIONE! IT'S HERE! COME HERE!"

There was a noise outside the privacy screen as Mrs. Weasley and Madam Pomfrey collided, both trying to get to Harry.

"Ginny, stay! There isn't room—"

"Potter, whatever is the matter? Where does it hurt?" Madam Pomfrey demanded as she entered, her eyes searching.

"Oh, my heavens!" cried Mrs. Weasley, spotting Harry's bruise, "What on earth…Harry, dear, when did you get that?"

There was a disapproving tone to Mrs. Weasley's voice, as though discussing Bill's long hair or fang earring. Under different circumstances, Harry would have found this funny.

"Ron and Hermione," Harry repeated, "I need to see Ron and Hermione."

As he said their names, his friends burst around the privacy screen, followed by Ginny. Metal skid across stone as the screen rods shifted, struggling to hold everyone in.

"Who's there? What's going on—" Ron blustered, his wand drawn.

"Oh, my God!" Hermione covered her mouth in shock, staring at the Hallows mark.

"Everyone, out!" barked Madam Pomfrey, "Only Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger may stay. I need room to see my patient. Mr. Weasley, put that away! There's no one here for you to curse."

Madam Pomfrey's tone brokered no argument. She pointed at the privacy screen and looked meaningfully at Ginny, who blushed, cast a worried look at Harry, and left. Mrs. Weasley followed, looking rather put out. After conjuring chairs for Ron and Hermione, the matron turned a stern gaze on her three former pupils.

"Now, what is going on? I'll only hear from one of you at a time."

Hermione looked at Harry, on the verge of asking a question.

"No," Harry, whose instinct had kicked in, put up a hand to stop her, "this is a private conversation. Hermione, Muffliato should work."

Nodding her understanding, Hermione moved to cast the spell. Ron looked from Hermione to Harry, to the Hallows mark and back again.

"Will somebody tell me what in Merlin's name is going on? Why do you have that bloody mark on your chest, Harry? Is that where—"

Ron's eyes got big, as Harry nodded confirmation.

"It is! That's where You-Know-Who's curse hit you! The Avada Kedavra…what the bloody hell…"

"I'll thank you not to swear in my hospital ward, Weasley. And you," Madam Pomfrey pointed at Harry, tired of waiting, "Tell me. What is going on? What is this mark?"

The matron crept cautiously up to Harry and pulled back the lapels of his robe, the better to study Harry's bruise.

"It's…the sign of the Deathly Hallows," Harry started.

"From the children's tale?" Madam Pomfrey rolled her eyes, shaking her head, "The things your generation use to mar their own bodies. I'll never understand! No, Potter, I mean this mark. This nasty bruise you've got. It's clearly where the curse hit you…unless…"

Madam Pomfrey's expression mirrored Ron's as she realized what he'd said earlier.

"He-he didn't do it again? Hit you with the Killing Curse?"

Harry nodded. Madam Pomfrey dropped Harry's robe and huffed, looking like an angry mother. Her usual kind and professional bedside manner vanished.

"You idiot boy! You stupid, noble, idiot boy! What were you thinking? Well, I suppose you weren't, were you? The three of you never are!"

Harry, Ron and Hermione stared at one another, too stunned to speak. Madam Pomfrey wheeled her healer's cart from behind the privacy screen, raving to herself.

"First, you go after that bloody stone! Even though I told Dumbledore that a school is hardly the place to keep an object like that! And then he let Rubeus bring in that ruddy three-headed dog as a security measure."

Madam Pomfrey seemed to have hit her stride now, and she had seven years' worth of grievances to air. She worked while she ranted, first healing the cut on Harry's face and then pulling a small cauldron of burn paste from her cart and pushing the sleeve of Harry's robe up. As she jabbed the paste onto Harry's burnt skin harder than she ordinarily would've done, Harry was temporarily distracted.

"—and then she shows up in the Hospital Wing half-human, with brand new cat ears, whiskers, and a tail to match! And nobody can tell me how it happened? Please," she tutted, rolling her eyes at Hermione, "you three weren't the first students to fail at an advanced potion! I never would have dreamt it was Polyjuice, but honestly—"

The matron finished with Harry's burns and pulled Hermione forward. With a wave and flourish of her wand, the Cleansing Charm was performed once more.

"And what's this?" she questioned, gently lifting Hermione's jaw to study the scar at her throat. "I see Potter's got a scar round his throat as well, only it's cursed so I can't heal it. Did you get them at the same time? Am I going to find one on Mr. Weasley, too?"

She cast a dark look at Ron, who took a half-step back.

"N-no," Hermione started, "It w-wasn't a curse. It was a knife. And that bruise isn't the only thing wrong with Harry! That tattoo isn't a tattoo. It was left by the Killing Curse."

Madam Pomfrey stopped dead; her tirade abated. She let Hermione's face drop, rubbed the bridge of her nose, and took a deep breath. There was a moment of quiet.

"I am sorry. I forgot myself. You three are in my charge now, and I reacted poorly. It's just…" she turned to Harry and looked him in the eye. To his surprise, she patted his cheek fondly.

"After all these years, I've never seen a single student, except maybe Remus Lupin, as often as I've seen you three. You'll forgive me if it's a little much to know that all my work healing you could have been for nothing. Now…" she pulled her hand back, "What's this business about the Killing Curse?"

And they told her, one at a time, each of them filling in when necessary. Harry spoke about Lily's love and how she had protected him through ancient magic. Hermione explained the concept of a horcrux, without revealing that Riddle had made seven of them, and only mentioning that Harry had been one himself. And Ron told her about the Deathly Hallows, and how uniting the three artifacts supposedly made someone the Master of Death. She listened politely, though her brow furrowed more and more as they went on.

"And what's this…Hallows business…got to do with you?" she finally asked, looking at Harry.

"Well, Dumbledore left us a mission," Harry said slowly, "And on that mission, we…came across…the three Hallows. We had no intention of uniting them. I figured all of that 'Master of Death' nonsense was just rubbish, made up for the kids' story. When I found out that I would have to die so that Riddle could be killed, I happened to have two Hallows with me. Riddle had the third, although the Elder wand wasn't his to use. I had won it…accidentally…without really knowing it. It was mine, I s'pose. When Riddle tried to kill me, the curse rebounded again, and I was left with this mark."

After a moment of silence, Harry prodded, desperate for answers he knew she wouldn't have.

"Well?" he asked.

Madam Pomfrey looked at him a moment longer before sighing and shrugging her shoulders.

"Potter, I am no curse breaker. I am a healer. I deal in matters of the physical body. Broken bones, burns, wounds and cuts are what I study. While I can ease the symptoms of some curses, I cannot always remove them. But what you're describing…matters of the soul…I really have no idea what to think."

She offered him a pitiful smile, before continuing.

"This mark that's been left on you…I cannot tell you what it means. I presume you are wondering if it might be the reason so many we've lost have come back to us?"

Harry nodded.

"There are others who may be able to help you. As I said before, we do have Mavens visiting from St. Mungo's. They specialize in curses and have more understanding than I do, but even then…what you're describing is such an anomaly, even in the magical world. Do not be surprised if they have no answer."

Harry looked down, disappointed, and confused. What was he supposed to do now? None of it made sense to him and he hated the idea that Riddle's curse had left him with some unknown power. It reminded him too much of being able to speak Parseltongue because he'd had part of Riddle's soul living inside him. He shuddered.

"Potter," Madam Pomfrey said kindly.

Harry looked up. The old witch's face was lined by her experience, but her small brown eyes seemed hopeful.

"I may not be able to tell you about your curse. But I can say, as a healer, that what's happened today has never been done before. And you've done a very good thing."

With that, the matron continued working. One by one, she finished treating their burns. She'd grimaced at the place where Nagini had bitten Harry on the arm, and at the small oval scar, now barely visible beneath the Deathly Hallows mark on Harry's chest. When Ron had taken off his shirt and exposed the jagged, red splinching scars on his shoulder, Madam Pomfrey had merely shook her head and healed them. She lifted her wand to heal the cut marks at Hermione's throat but was stopped.

"Leave them, please," Hermione requested.

Madam Pomfrey studied Hermione curiously.

"You don't want these scars healed?"

"No. They remind me of what I fought for."

"Very well," the healer said, her eyes downcast and resigned, "But I don't like the look of you three. You all look as though you haven't eaten properly in months. I am prescribing Strengthening Solution for each of you, to be taken twice a week for the next month."

They nodded, accepting their marching orders. Hermione removed the Muffliato spell and opened the privacy screen as Madam Pomfrey hurried over to her other patients. The Weasleys waited on the other side, looking curiously at them. Mrs. Weasley held one hand on her hip, one eyebrow arched in an unasked question.

"What gives?" Fred finally asked, one end of an Extendable Ear in his hand. "We couldn't hear anything!"

"What's so private that your own family doesn't deserve to hear it?" George demanded.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Ron shot back, pulling Hermione with him to sit down. Harry noticed they were holding hands.

"Yes, actually, young man, I would. I've said all along that Arthur and I have a right—" Mrs. Weasley began.

"Molly," Mr. Weasley cautioned, "not here. I'm sure they'll tell us when they're ready, but we can't expect them to divulge all their secrets in the middle of the Great Hall."

"Why not?" Fred piped up from his bed, "The war's over, isn't it?"

"Be reasonable, Fred," Percy started, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has only just died! There may still be escaped Death Eaters or sympathizers about. Not everyone who worked for the Ministry this past year was Imperiused. Some people benefited from the way things have been."

Percy's eyes shifted around uncomfortably as he spoke.

"I-I mean," Percy stammered, "Not that I…I am a sympathizer, by any means."

"Oh, we know!" George laughed, "You resigned!"

"How could I forget Perce's last words to me? Ickle Perce's first joke!" Fred crooned, "So sweet."

Percy rolled his eyes.

"Well, can you tell me then," Mrs. Weasley cut in, making her way to her youngest son, "that you three are alright? Clean bill of health and everything?"

She ruffled Ron's hair fondly. It was testament to what they'd all been through that Ron did not shake her off. He smiled at her reassuringly.

"We're all fine, Mum. Well, we should be. Harry's still got to see some specialized healers, but Madam Pomfrey says he should be alright."

Harry shot daggers at Ron with his eyes, but Ron shrugged him off with a look that plainly said: Well, you've got to tell them sometime.

"Why've you got to see special healers, Harry?" Ginny asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Weasley followed up, "Special healers? Why? Harry, where are you injured?"

She'd come up to Harry, placing her hands on his cheeks and moving his face this way and that, as though he looked a bit peaky.

"It's nothing, Mrs. Weasley–"

"Potter," Professor McGonagall's voice interrupted him. Harry breathed a sigh of relief as McGonagall appeared.

"The Minister of Magic has asked to see you in my classroom. He had to step out to the Ministry for an emergency meeting but would like you to wait for him there. Your loved ones are welcome to come as well. In fact, the Minister encouraged it," McGonagall paused, looking at the ground, "And Poppy told me you're to see the Mavens. I'll arrange for them to meet you in my office. It'll be much more private for you there."

McGonagall sniffed, wiping one of her eyes. Harry thought he knew what she'd been told. Again, as he had the previous evening, Harry felt a rush of loyalty toward Minerva McGonagall.