He turned over the stone a third time, hoping that his worst fears would not be further stoked. Had Dumbledore really planned so meticulously that he'd deliver the ghost of his loved one's to him or would the old man come himself.
Harry didn't know which option he dreaded more.

He stood rooted to the ground, still hidden under his cloak. It was supposed to hide oneself from death. Surely it could hide him from whatever spirits he'd just summoned. His hopes were in vain though.

The young woman hugged him from behind, draping her arms around his shoulders. He could see her tears, feel her sobs against his neck, but he could hear nothing. A ghostly blue embrace trying to stop him from walking to his doom, clinging so tight that he had difficulties breathing.

Two men were standing in front of him. Side by side, flanking the way that Harry knew he'd had to take. Like guardians of an unseen gate they stood there, ramrod straight with pity in their eyes.

Their presence was unbearable. Not when he would join them for eternity in a matter of minutes. Two steps forward and the woman slid from his shoulders, crumbling to the ground. She looked so utterly desperate, grasping for him with an outstretched arm while on her knees.
Not another second could he stand her pleading looks. Determination finally filled him as he reached the invisible gate.

By now what little emotion they had displayed, had been drained from their countenance. Harry wondered why only his mother had retained some form of self, when Sirius was the one he knew best. It was suspicious, seeing him stand there like a trained soldier, not meeting his eyes. A few years ago he thought he'd give everything to see him again, to bring him back, but standing before him was just a parody, a mockery, another twist of the invisible knife buried in his back.

Something was not right. Dumbledore might have given him the tool, but Harry doubted that he had the power to toy with these spirits from beyond the , this was just another power playing with his life. Turning their spectres into glorified goalposts.

He just wanted to be done with it. As soon as he passed the gate they vanished into black mist. Harry turned to see the ghost of his mother also fading, her silhouette surrounded by the vapours. She was slumped on her knees in resignation, head bowed down, radiating defeat and sadness. Her hands were digging into the ground, leaving marks that no ghost could've done.

Harry froze in place as her head snapped up in an instant, her whole body shifting just as swift. Where his mother had been, full of grief, he now saw a hunter, ready to run down her prey for all eternity, until it inevitably tired, and skewer it with unfathomable eyes met and he saw only greed and hunger. A greed for all things undying. A gnawing hunger for everything evading her grasp.
She smiled like an older sibling would, stealing a toy from the younger. Not because they needed it, no. Because no one else was allowed to play.

—

The instant the curse hit him he felt his scar explode. Where it had been sitting near his fringe above his left eye, he felt it burst downwards. Splitting, twisting, burning through his skin, carving canyons, riverbeds and chasms through his skin. Eyes already closed in enduring this torment, he felt his left eye give out completely, as the fire reached past his split eyebrow.

Maybe it was a Crutiatus and not the killing curse, but it couldn't be. This pain was even beyond the torture curse. Cedric had only looked shocked in his final moments. No twisted facial expression had marred his departure, sudden as it had been. Harry could not help himself envying scars stopped burning on his cheekbone, leaving the left side of his face in ruin. He'd been full of vanity, he realised. Why care about how you look when you die? Be at peace with yourself.

—

"I am truly sorry, Harry. For all this responsibility, this trauma and this betrayal. But it had to be done willingly, unknowing of any greater ambition or intention. The sacrifice had to be pure for it to work."

They'd been sitting on this bench for a while now. And while Dumbledore truly seemed honest and full of remorse, Harry could not muster up many words. His left eye remained closed and the scars crawling down his face had turned pitch black.

"I believed that if I could give you a chance at surviving this ordeal, then maybe I'd be worthy of your forgiveness, eventually. And so while this conflict played out, I tried stacking the deck in your favour, but I truly understand that I am worthy of everything you throw at me."

It was all too much. This sudden openness. The horcrux withering away below the bench. The revelation that he was still not dead.

"Survival, sir?", he managed at last.

"Indeed Harry. There are two trains in this station. One will let you move on, while the other will take you back. In sacrificing yourself, you managed a clean split of the two souls in your body. So now the choice lies with you."

"How could you have planned this, sir? It all seems so very unlikely to not go wrong at every turn."

Dumbledore shuffled uncomfortably on the bench next to him. It seemed to Harry that he was still reluctant to spill the whole truth. Just as the thought reached him, Dumbledore had found his resolve.

"What would you do Harry? When presented with the child of your friends that tethers your worst enemy to life. Would you be able to kill an innocent child that just lost its parents? In my youth I would have done it without a doubt, but I have grown older and hopefully a bit wiser", Dumbledore allowed himself a sad smile.

"Remember when I talked to you about there being always a choice, Harry? I did not want to make the easy choice, no matter what restrictions my plan laid upon your life, I hoped that you would live and be happy for at least a few years. And in case everything worked out even more years."

"You are correct of course, that it was lucky. Lucky that you did not leave the Dursleys jaded and bitter. Lucky that you made the best friends you could have. Lucky that you are as selfless as you are. But even if things went differently at every crossing, you would have deserved to live anyway. Every child does."

Silence reigned between them again, while Harry mulled over the words. A second lease on life. The roller coaster that was his existence wasn't done with him yet. It was simply the dip after the first drop. Now it was time to rise to an even greater height.

"A last question, sir", he began standing up. "The hallows. Was that just stacking the deck as well?"

Dumbledore looked worried for a second before he nodded. "Yes. When the stone fell into my hands and we had all three between us two, I thought that maybe, just in case there is some truth to this Master of Death that it could help you survive in case the sacrifice did not. Alas Tom now has the wand, so your return from the dead will be more trying."

"Did you ever use the stone, sir?" Harry asked, hopeful that his experience earlier was just his desperation playing tricks on him.

"I did, but only once. I talked to my past love about the hollows and what he thought about that title. Gellert said that he did not believe the fairy tale. The hollows to him were just powerful tools of high renown. He used their symbol to strike the fear of death into the hearts of his enemies." A concerned look crossed his face before he went on, almost whispering.

"I always felt like the hallows were testing me and I had always been found wanting."

—

Harry found himself in a compartment, window slid open, Dumbledore waiting outside. He still fought with himself what to say and what to think of the man as his departure grew near.

"Thank you, sir, for everything." It felt like hollow thanks, but it was the best he could manage.
Dumbledore seemed to notice too, as he only responded with a polite nod and a sad smile.

"I-I…", Harry brought himself to admit it. "I think I saw whatever was testing you, sir."

The surprise evident on his face, Harry thought to spare him the question.

"It wore the face of my mother and it…", Harry flinched back as the window suddenly slammed shut. Dumbledore looked as shocked as himself, but then swiftly gestured to the still open doors of the train. Harry got up, moving quickly towards the exit only for the doors to quickly close with a deafening bang.

Through the window in the door he could see his old professor, slumped as if all strings holding him had been cut, the only thing propping him up was an arm protruding from his chest. The nails were long as claws, digging into the heart they were holding. With a flex the heart burst into black mist and with it his whole body. The cloud lingered for a moment and then his mother stepped through the fog. She looked older, maybe in her thirties, but healthier than he'd ever seen her in his albums.

Red hair billowing in the wind, as the train started moving. The clawed hand rose to wave at him and a smile adorned her face. Every year in a bout of jealousy he had imagined what it would be like, if his mother would be standing on the platform with the was a twisted mockery of all his dreams.

She wore a proud smile, but he couldn't tell what she was proud of. On her wrist there were still tatters of Dumbledore's ever colourful robe from when the hand had pierced him. They flew about like ribbons and she had mastered the art of waving with just the right amount of enthusiasm not to embarrass her child.

It was the eyes again. That vindicated look of someone who had just found a hundred pound bill on the ground, where nobody could have dropped it. So what to do but keep it?

Harry was sure now. He'd gotten on the wrong train.

—

"Expelliarmus!"

He knew he shouldn't, but his body was working on his own. His left hand reached out on reflex, the Elder Wand almost within catching distance.
Harry still couldn't believe he got this far. After waking up in Hagrid's arms, he felt better than ever before. Stronger yet lighter on his feet, one-eyed yet better vision than he thought possible. His instincts went into overdrive when the fighting began, guiding his every move without a thought.
He was utterly untouchable, the weight of the world having been left in the train station. No time could be spent thinking about what else he left behind there.

The fighting had started immediately, but it went well. His newfound presence on the battlefield had drawn a lot of attention, but he could deal with everything they threw at him. It was as if his opponents had aged a century, ill-coordinated movement, jittery fingers and taking their time with everything.

When Tom finally deigned to duel Harry himself, he'd already gotten used to his new fighting style.
Tom had been a difficult opponent. Harry wondered if the way he saw the world now was how it had always been for Tom. Both of them were moving, casting and deflecting at unfathomable speed and as soon as one of them stumbled the other would be sure to end it.

The Elder Wand clattered on the ground next to him. He had found his control, the disturbing eyes in his mother's face a stern reminder, that some things were better left untouched. But regardless, he felt the world tilt on its axis, as his left eye snapped open and the world stood still.

Everything was tinged in grey and black, shadows filling the great hall with no one there to throw them. Every life, every soul, every dead body resonated within his mind. Glaring in contrast to the now colourless surroundings.
Tom's soul or rather what was left of it, blinding in its desire to be free. To rejoin its other parts. To be free of its false husk.
He had to comply. Just so that he wouldn't have to look at it any longer. He lifted his right arm and took aim.

"Incendio!"

The flames were coloured grey and black just as everything else was, but it felt right. There was no doubt in Harry's mind that this was the natural state of things.
Everything started to slowly move again, as if easing him back in the flow of time. The stream of fire had already struck true, though he could not remember it travelling any distance.

Harry and everyone around him watched in morbid curiosity as Tom Riddle turned to ash. A last whimper left his lips as his soul left his body. To him it almost sounded like a sigh of relief.

—

The aftermath of Riddle's death was chaotic, but quickly dealt with. The death eaters stood little chance in a fight, when they were clutching their arm in excruciating pain. Distraught as they were, having lost their lord, most surrendered in a matter of minutes.

Many had died and many more were mourning. Harry tried to pay his respects to all of them, but was harried by well-wishers wanting to congratulate him on his victory. It became too much for him again. All the attention and people wanting to attach themselves to him.

He tried looking for the Elder Wand again, so that someone could detain it, destroy it or sink it in the sea, yet found no sign of it. The thought that someone already made off with it in a matter of minutes sat ill with him.

As he was giving up his search, he found something very out of place. A single sewing needle lay amidst the death beds of two aurors. Harry had seen how aunt Petunia and Mrs. Weasley sewed on rare occasions, but this needle shimmered in all colours, even if everything else was still steeped in twilight.

His left eye burned at the sight of it, so forced it shut, painfully irritating the still fresh scars on his eyelids. Colour returned slowly to his sight and with it the needle turned a dull grey, looking perfectly ordinary. Picking it up, he was perplexed as it crumbled into miniscule black sparks, fading from existence.

Not making heads or tails of the situation and fed up with unexplainable events, Harry made his way outside, considering the best place to rest undisturbed. Derailing his ambitions of peace and quiet was the figure standing in the entrance to the hall.
Flanked by the large doors of the great hall was his mother. This time she looked truly happy, her eyes swam with tears and her smile nearly broke him. Her hair laid upon her shoulder in an elegant braid and her robes drew in all light around her, a black so deep that it felt like looking at nothing at all.
For a second he thought this could be the real one, but then she opened her mouth and time came to an abrupt halt again.

"What a brave gift thou hast granted me. What a performance. A spectacle forsooth. I deem thee worthy."

He couldn't move. Again he found himself rooted to the spot. His mind whirling with all the possible problems he just caught himself in.

"Kneel! So that I may bestow mine treasures upon thee again."

His body gave out instantly, moving into place on its own. His hands upturned and outstretched, his head adequately bowed. He watched on in quiet terror as the figure moved in.

"A stone of communion, so thou art ne'r without mine council"

The resurrection stone lay heavy in his left hand. Now inlaid in a necklace of blackened metal that felt icy to the touch.

"An instrument to aid thy profession, a weapon of innumerable forms"

She held out a sword, its blade thin as a needle, and laid it carefully on his right hand. It immediately shrank into its previous form, the Elder Wand, its heavy knots balancing in the palm of his hand. Harry cursed himself to hell and back, for falling for the easiest trick in the book, touching a magic artefact lying innocently between two dead bodies.

"My profession?" He managed to ask under her heavy gaze. Harry felt her smile grow vicious as she took two steps away from him.

"A mantle, to remind thee of thy labours and that thou were mine from the beginning."

Harry knew what was coming, but nothing could have prepared him for this sight. The cloak was grotesque. White-grey stitchings of skin that was an assortment of faces, limbs and torsos. He despaired, seeing the face that made up the hood of the cloak, its expression radiating a torment beyond imagination. Her smile grew wide and toothy, as she revelled in his discomfort.

All the time he and his friends huddled under the cloak. Innumerous nightly strolls taken below its safety. The many hours Harry had taken comfort in it, it being one of the few connections to his father. Everything was a twisted inside joke only this being could enjoy.

She came closer, lifting his chin up with a single clawed finger, so that she could look into his eye again. Fitting the cloak around his shoulders and pulling up the hood, she admired her work. Then she met his stare.

"What is thy profession?"

The cloak was one thing, but the needle rested heavily in his mind. The very thought disgusted him. The thing he wanted most, was to just stay mum, hoping that she'd lose interest in him. Harry knew it was not to be.

"To skin…people and…stitch them?"

Her laughter, hidden daintily behind her claw, was shrill and grating. Something in it irritated his ears, where her normal voice was soothingly pleasant. It reverberated in his head long after the laughter passed.

"Oh how uncouth, how blasphemous thou art mine little empyrean. The skin of lesser folk shall ne'r be graced by mine needle."

Harry gave her a confused look, feeling all together too uncomfortable and too out of his element.

"I shall take pity on thee, gracious as I am. We dispatch those souls whose bodies refuse to perish.", she nodded in the direction of Tom's ashen remains.

"This was thy trial. Uplift thine ambitions!"

She stroked the tormented face of the hood, with a look of nostalgic fondness. Her claw wandered down to his shoulder, where an arm connected with a foot. She patted his shoulder and continued.

"Those who most egregiously cling to life, style themselves as gods! It is those blasphemers that thou shall skin! Wear them as a warning to all whom might perceive it! Beginning with this forgotten land, thou shall slaughter and stitch till none are left! Till our mantle may enshroud all of reality! Till all is eternally obscured from those whom seek to put themselves above their station!"

Her speech came to an end. His ambitions had been very low indeed. Harry couldn't figure out how to get out of this, still frozen on his knees, he figured she could just command his body to do as she wanted. He sighed. The warnings were there. It had been glaringly obvious that the hallows were fishy. You just had to pick up the shiny thing on the ground.

He tried to make up excuses. That he'd been tired, stressed, confused, betrayed, but he knew in his heart that this was just an unhealthy amount of coping. With how focused she was on him, he figured it wouldn't have mattered anyway in the long run. As she had said: He'd been carrying her cloak since his birth and so had his ancestors.

"What doth thou say, mine empyrean?"

He figured he could just ask. Why was it him that had gotten into this mess? Why not his ancestors and why not his own children?

"Thou art empyrean. Only thou shall become a god, aknown of thy mortality, humbled in thy ascension, yet unfettered from time, unchained from this land when thou art done with it. A companion of mine in this conflict, for I hast no want for a servant."

She pulled back his hood and slipped the necklace over his head. Tracing his blackened scar gently with a knuckle, she soothed the tissue, leaving only black inky marks where wounds had been. Harry's left eye opened by itself, freed from its scarring, and truly saw her for the first time.

A gigantic figure bowed over him, the ceiling of the great hall not even close to support their height. Its limbs were of liquid black flame rimmed with ashes, each leading to its torso, which was shrouded in the same cloak as he was. It stretched beyond everything that he could see, covering every piece of ground and every person. The whole hall, maybe the whole castle, maybe the whole world? The stitchings went on endlessly. From every corner of the hall faces of slain gods were witnessing his unholy induction into insanity, as his god regarded him with a single burning purple eye peeking out from beneath its hood.

Harry forced himself to close his eye before he'd lose his mind completely. The corrupted visage of his mother now seemed warm and welcoming, a pleasant escape from reality. The novelty came to a short end, when he saw the unholy purple glimmering in the back of her green irises. Pulling him up by the shoulders, she gave him the control of his body back, and then held out her hand to him.

"Now mine gloam-eyed companion, ere we to slay thy first god, I offer thee one boon."

Harry had accepted his lot. There was no escape anyway, so he might as well get more comfortable in this new situation. There was also no risk of asking for too much, if he did it this way. He took her hand and made his plea.

"Could you please stop using my mother's appearance? "

Her laughter changed in pitch as she transformed into an old, regal looking woman, yet the unnerving humming inside his head remained.

"T'was fun while it lasted. Thou art easily irked.", she gave him a winning smile, but after all that happened this day, he could only shake his head in resignation.
She quickly led him out of the hall and went on to enthusiastically explain what he'd be doing. Harry could only grimace in the face of what awaited him.

"So there is this goddess of horses, stubbornly clinging to life, e'en though mankind is not using horses anymore. At meetest she hath ten worshippers. I say to thee, their arrogance is unmatched, theirs is a soul that should'st…"