Very quick disclaimer: The universe will be a mix of the Book and Show. Mostly the show, so if you haven't read the books don't worry. And because this is Game of Thrones while there will be Incest/Sex/Non-Con/ and just general dark shit from George RR Martin. There won't be as much as in the books but still, consider yourself warned!

HARRY POTTER

Harry reached the edge of the forest and stopped.

A pack of dementors was flying through the trees; he could feel their chill in the air and knew there was no way he would get through safely. He didn't have enough strength to cast a Patronus. His body was trembling uncontrollably. Dying, it turned out, wasn't so easy. Every breath he took, he could smell the grass, feel the cool air on his face—it all felt so alive. To think that people had years and years, time to waste, so much time it dragged, and here he was clinging desperately to each second. At the same time, he thought he wouldn't be able to go on, but he knew he must. The game was over, the Snitch had been caught; it was time to leave the air…

The Snitch. His fingers fumbled at the pouch around his neck for a moment before pulling it out. He stared down at it.

I open at the close.

This was the close. This was the moment.

Harry pressed the golden metal to his lips and whispered, "I am about to die."

The metal shell broke open. Harry lowered his shaking hand, raised Draco's wand beneath the Cloak, and whispered, "Lumos."

The black stone with its jagged crack running down the center sat in the two halves of the Snitch. The Resurrection Stone had cracked down the vertical line representing the Elder Wand. The triangle and circle representing the Cloak and the stone were still discernible.

And again, he understood without having to think. Bringing them back did not matter; he was about to join them. He was not really fetching them: they were fetching him.

Harry closed his eyes and turned the stone over in his hand three times. He knew it had happened because he heard slight movements around him that suggested frail bodies shifting their footing on the earthy, twig-strewn ground. When he opened his eyes and looked around, they were there. They were neither ghosts nor truly flesh—he could see that. They resembled most closely the Riddle that had escaped from the diary so long ago, a memory made nearly solid. Less substantial than living bodies, but much more than ghosts, they moved toward him, and on each face, there was the same loving smile.

James was exactly the same height as Harry. He was wearing the clothes in which he had died, and his hair was untidy and ruffled, and his glasses were a little lopsided, like Mr. Weasley's.

Sirius was tall and handsome, younger by far than Harry had ever seen him in life. He walked with a confident swagger, his hands in his pockets and a grin on his face.

Lupin was younger too, much less shabby, and his hair was thicker and darker. He looked happy to be back in this familiar place, a scene of so many adolescent wanderings.

Lily's smile was the widest of all. She pushed her long hair back as she drew close, and her green eyes, identical to Harry's, searched his face as though she would never be able to look at him enough.

"You've been so brave," she said.

Harry couldn't speak or stop staring. He thought that he would like to stand and look at her forever, and that would be enough.

"You are nearly there," said James. "Very close. We are... so proud of you."

"Does it hurt?"

The childish question escaped before Harry could stop it.

"Dying? Not at all," said Sirius. "Quicker and easier than falling asleep."

"And he will want it to be quick. He wants it over," said Lupin.

"I didn't want you to die," Harry said. Like his question, the words came without his permission. "Any of you. I'm sorry—" He was talking to Lupin more than any of them, pleading with him. "Right after you'd had your son... Remus, I'm sorry—"

"I am sorry too," said Lupin. "Sorry I will never know him... but he will know why I died, and I hope he will understand. I was trying to make a world in which he could live a happier life."

A chilly breeze that seemed to come from the heart of the forest lifted the hair at Harry's brow. He knew they wouldn't tell him to go; the decision had to be his.

"You'll stay with me?"

"Until the very end," said James.

"They won't be able to see you?" Harry asked.

"We are part of you," said Sirius. "Invisible to anyone else."

Harry looked at his mother.

"Stay close to me," he said quietly.

And he set off. The dementors' chill did not stop him; he passed through it with his family, and they acted like Patronuses to him. Together, they marched through the old trees that grew closely together, their branches tangled, their roots gnarled and twisted underfoot. Harry clutched the Cloak tightly around him in the darkness, traveling deeper and deeper into the forest, with no idea where exactly Voldemort was, but certain he would find him. Beside him, making scarcely a sound, walked James, Sirius, Lupin, and Lily, and their presence was his courage, the reason he was able to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Harry's body and mind felt oddly disconnected now. His limbs moved without conscious instruction, as if he were merely a passenger, not the driver, in the body he was about to leave. The dead who walked beside him through the forest felt far more real to him now than the living back at the castle: Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and all the others seemed like ghosts as he walked toward the end of his life, toward Voldemort...

A thud and a whisper: some other living creature had stirred nearby. Harry stopped under the Cloak, and his mother, father, Lupin, and Sirius stopped as well.

"Someone's there," came a rough whisper not far away. "He's got an Invisibility Cloak. Could it be—?"

Two figures emerged from behind a nearby tree, their wands raised. Yaxley and Dolohov peered into the darkness, directly at the spot where Harry and his family stood. But apparently, they could see nothing.

"Definitely heard something," said Yaxley. "Animal, d'you reckon?"

"That headcase Hagrid kept a whole bunch of stuff in here," said Dolohov, glancing over his shoulder.

Yaxley looked down at his watch. "Time's nearly up. Potter's had his hour. He's not coming."

"And he was sure he'd come! He won't be happy."

"Better go back," said Yaxley. "Find out what the plan is now."

The two turned and started walking deeper into the forest. Harry followed them silently, knowing they would lead him exactly where he needed to go. He glanced sideways, and his mother smiled at him, while his father nodded encouragement.

They had only traveled a few minutes when Harry saw light ahead. Yaxley and Dolohov stepped into a clearing that Harry recognized as the place where the monstrous Aragog had once lived. The remnants of the vast web were still there, but the swarm of Aragog's descendants had been driven out by the Death Eaters to fight for their cause.

A fire burned in the middle of the clearing, its flickering light casting eerie shadows over a crowd of silent, watchful Death Eaters. Some were still masked and hooded; others had bare faces, their expressions grim and resolute. Two giants sat on the outskirts of the group, their massive forms casting long shadows over the scene, their faces cruel and rough-hewn like boulders. Harry saw Fenrir Greyback skulking nearby, chewing on his long nails. The great blond Rowle dabbed at his bleeding lip. Lucius Malfoy stood among them, looking defeated and terrified, while Narcissa's sunken eyes were full of apprehension.

Every gaze was fixed on Voldemort. He stood with his head bowed, his white hands folded over the Elder Wand in front of him. He might have been praying, but Harry suspected he was counting silently in his mind. Standing still at the edge of the clearing, Harry thought absurdly of a child playing hide-and-seek, counting down to zero.

Behind Voldemort's head, the great snake Nagini floated in her glittering, charmed cage, coiling and swirling like a monstrous halo.

When Dolohov and Yaxley rejoined the circle, Voldemort looked up.

"No sign of him, my Lord," said Dolohov.

Voldemort's expression did not change. The red eyes burned in the firelight as he slowly drew the Elder Wand between his long fingers.

"My Lord—"

Bellatrix spoke from where she sat closest to Voldemort. Her face was disheveled and a little bloody, but otherwise unharmed. She stared at him with a mixture of awe and desperation.

Voldemort raised his hand, silencing her. She fell quiet immediately, her gaze never leaving his face, worshipful and enraptured.

"I thought he would come," Voldemort said, his high, cold voice breaking through the silence. His eyes remained on the flames. "I expected him to come."

Nobody spoke. The Death Eaters seemed as terrified as Harry felt. His heart pounded violently, as though it were trying to escape the body he was about to cast aside. His hands were slick with sweat as he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and stuffed it beneath his robes, along with his wand. He did not want to be tempted to fight.

"I was, it seems... mistaken," said Voldemort.

"You weren't."

Harry said it as loudly as he could, with all the force he could muster. He did not want to sound afraid. The Resurrection Stone slipped from between his numb fingers, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw his parents, Sirius, and Lupin vanish as he stepped forward into the firelight. In that moment, it felt as though nobody mattered but Voldemort. It was just the two of them.

The illusion broke as quickly as it had come. The giants roared, and the Death Eaters rose together, a chaotic chorus of cries, gasps, and laughter. Voldemort had frozen where he stood, but his red eyes found Harry instantly. He stared as Harry moved toward him, the firelight flickering between them.

Then a voice yelled out: "HARRY! NO!"

Harry turned sharply and saw Hagrid, bound and trussed to a nearby tree. His massive body shook the branches overhead as he struggled, desperate. "NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT'RE YEH—?"

"QUIET!" shouted Rowle. With a flick of his wand, Hagrid was silenced.

Bellatrix sprang to her feet, her wild eyes darting eagerly between Voldemort and Harry. Her chest was heaving in her tight corset, and for a moment, it seemed as though she was the only thing moving, aside from the flames and Nagini, who coiled and uncoiled in her glittering, charmed cage behind Voldemort.

Harry felt the weight of his wand against his chest but made no move to draw it. He knew the snake was too well protected. Even if he managed to point his wand at Nagini, fifty curses would strike him before he could cast a spell. He kept his gaze on Voldemort, and Voldemort stared back, tilting his head slightly to the side, a mirthless smile curving his lipless mouth.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said softly, his voice blending seamlessly with the crackling fire. "The Boy Who Lived… come to die…"

None of the Death Eaters moved. They were waiting. Everything was waiting. Hagrid struggled violently against his bonds, while Bellatrix panted with anticipation, her eyes never leaving Voldemort.

Harry's thoughts drifted, strangely detached from the tension around him. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his hands slick with sweat. He thought of the wand and the Invisibility Cloak he had just stuffed beneath his robes. He thought of Ginny, with her blazing look and the feel of her lips on his. He thought of Madame Rosmerta, Cho, Romilda Vane… and then, absurdly, he thought of Bellatrix, standing there now, and what her heaving chest might look like without the corset.

Harry wanted to believe that he was dying without regrets. But as he stood there, waiting for Voldemort to raise his wand, the truth gnawed at him.

If he was honest, there was one regret, small but persistent, that had been nagging at him since he had seen Snape's memories. He thought of the way witches had acted around his father and Sirius—their shy, nervous giggling, their inability to meet their eyes. Snape had hated it, hated the reminder of how popular James and Sirius had been. But it had shocked Harry, because he had only just realized that the same thing had happened to him.

He had thought, for so many years, that girls acted strangely around him because they didn't want to talk to him—or worse, that they were laughing at his awkward attempts to talk to them. But now he knew the truth. Now he understood.

He wished he hadn't been so oblivious.

It was a selfish, childish regret, but it was there, nonetheless.

His childhood with the Dursleys had left him ill-equipped to deal with the opposite sex. He had grown up painfully introverted, and during his years at Hogwarts, he lacked the social awareness to understand how famous he was. He realized, too late, that from the moment he had stepped into the castle, he could have had seventh-year witches pulling him into broom closets.

And there had been no one to teach him.

None of the teachers at Hogwarts would have told him that his unruly black hair was attractive or that the scar on his forehead, the lightning bolt Voldemort had left behind, made witches' knees weak. Sirius might have told him—Sirius would have told him—but Sirius had left his life too early, before he could share that particular wisdom.

Harry thought about it now, as he stared into Voldemort's red eyes. He thought about how oblivious he had been, stumbling through school, clueless to how many witches would have dropped their robes in the Great Hall, in front of Dumbledore himself, just to say they had shagged the Boy Who Lived.

The realization had flipped his worldview upside down. He thought of all the opportunities he'd missed: the shy smiles from Parvati Patil at the Yule Ball, her sister Padma too. He thought of Romilda Vane, who had tried to drug him. He thought of how easily she could have just told him she liked him. Maybe then, the light would have clicked on in his brain, and he would have seen all the other signs.

And now it was too late.

Voldemort had raised his wand. His head tilted slightly, like a curious child wondering what would happen next. Harry smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. He wondered, absurdly, how Voldemort would feel if he knew that the Boy Who Lived was dying thinking not of him, but of all the witches he could have, but didn't, shag.

It was silly. Silly and pointless. But Harry was dying. He could afford to be honest with himself.

He saw Voldemort's lips move, and the flash of green light filled his vision.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Everything went quiet. Harry waited for… well, he wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Pain? Death?

How do you know when you die?

After a moment, he opened his eyes. He was lying face down—when had that happened? Voldemort, the Death Eaters, and even the sounds of the forest were gone. Nobody was watching. Nobody else was there. He was perfectly alone.

A long time later—or perhaps no time at all—it dawned on Harry that he must still exist. There must be some kind of afterlife, because he was lying somewhere, definitely lying on a surface. Almost as soon as he reached this conclusion, he became aware of one peculiar detail: he was naked. Convinced as he was of his solitude, the fact didn't bother him, though it intrigued him slightly. He wondered if, as he could feel, he would also be able to see. Testing his theory, he opened his eyes wider and realized that he still had them.

He lay in a bright mist, though it was unlike any mist he had ever encountered. His surroundings were not obscured by vapor. It was as if the mist itself were waiting to solidify into something real. Beneath him, he could feel a surface, white and flat, neither warm nor cold—simply there, a blank canvas of existence.

Harry sat up. His body appeared untouched, unscathed. Reaching up, he touched his face and realized he was no longer wearing glasses.

Then a new sound broke the silence: a soft, pitiful thumping. It was faint at first, but it grew louder—a flapping, flailing, struggling kind of noise. The sound was pitiful, yet somehow indecent, and Harry had the peculiar feeling that he was eavesdropping on something private, something shameful.

For the first time, he wished he were clothed.

Barely had the thought entered his mind than robes appeared a short distance away. They were soft, clean, and warm. Harry pulled them on, marveling at how they had appeared as if summoned by the mere act of wanting them.

He stood, glancing around at the strange, misty expanse. Was this some kind of great Room of Requirement? The longer he looked, the more there was to see. Above him, a vast domed glass roof glittered in sunlight, though there was no clear source for the light. Perhaps it was a palace, he thought. Everything was hushed and still, except for that odd thumping noise, which continued somewhere close by in the mist.

Turning slowly on the spot, Harry watched as his surroundings seemed to invent themselves before his eyes. The mist parted to reveal an open hall, bright and clean, larger even than the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The glass ceiling arched high above him, flooding the space with light. It was completely empty—except for—

Harry recoiled. He had seen the source of the noise. On the ground, curled beneath a small bench, was a form unlike anything Harry had ever encountered. It looked like a small, naked child, raw and flayed, its skin rough and red. The thing shuddered as it struggled for breath, its tiny body twitching and flailing pitifully.

Harry's stomach turned. He was afraid of it. Small and fragile though it was, he did not want to approach it. Yet, something compelled him forward. He moved slowly, cautiously, ready to leap back at the slightest provocation. Soon, Harry stood close enough to touch the thing, but his hand froze before it could reach. He felt like a coward for hesitating. He knew he should comfort it, but he couldn't bring himself to. The sight of it filled him with unease, and he took a step back.

"Leave it be, Harry."

Harry spun around, his heart racing. Sirius was walking toward him, a wide smile spreading across his face. He looked alive—more alive than Harry had ever seen him. His skin was flush with color, his long hair was neat, and his gray eyes sparkled with warmth.

"Sirius!" Harry's voice cracked with disbelief. Before he knew it, Sirius had spread his arms wide, and Harry was embracing his godfather for the first time in years.

Stunned, Harry wrapped his arms around him, clutching him tightly, overwhelmed by the sheer reality of the moment.

"You're dead," Harry blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them. It was something he had known for years, but saying it aloud felt strange, almost unreal.

"I am," Sirius replied, matter-of-factly, his voice calm and steady.

"Then… I'm dead too?" Harry asked, his voice faltering. The thought hadn't fully registered until now. Saying it aloud made it real.

"Ah," Sirius said, his smile growing warmer, "that is the question, isn't it? But no, Harry, I don't believe you are."

"But…" Harry raised his hand instinctively toward the lightning scar, which seemed to have gone missing. "But I should have died—I didn't defend myself! I meant to let him kill me!"

"And that," Sirius said, his eyes shining with pride, "is exactly why you're still kicking. Leave it to James' son to get one over on death itself!"

Happiness seemed to radiate from Harry's godfather, like light, like fire: he didn't think he had ever seen anyone so utterly happy.

"All right, out with it then," Harry said, wanting Sirius to explain.

Sirius barked a short laugh. "You know the answer already."

"I let him kill me," Harry stated, more to himself than to Sirius.

"Got it in one," Sirius nodded approvingly. "And?"

"So, the piece of his soul stuck inside me..."

Sirius leaned forward eagerly, urging Harry onward, a wide roguish grin on his face.

"...has it gone?"

"That's right, Harry!" Sirius clapped his hands. "Voldemort destroyed it. Your soul is now whole, and completely your own!"

"But if that's true, then…"

Harry glanced over his shoulder to where the small, maimed creature trembled under the chair.

"What is that, Sirius?"

"That?" Sirius glared at the creature, his expression hardening slightly. "That's a pitiful remnant not worth our concern. Best to leave it be."

"But if Voldemort used the Killing Curse," Harry started again, "and nobody died for me this time—how can I be alive?"

"I think you know," said Sirius. "Think back. Remember what he did, in his ignorance, in his greed and his cruelty."

Harry thought. He let his gaze drift over his surroundings. If it was indeed a palace in which they sat, it was an odd one, with chairs set in little rows and bits of railing here and there, and still, he, Sirius, and the stunted creature under the chair were the only beings present. Then, as if a fog had lifted, the answer came to him.

"He took my blood," Harry said.

"Exactly!" Sirius said, his eyes filled with amusement. "He took your blood and rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood flows through his foul veins now, carrying Lily's protection with it! It bound you both to life while he lives, the arrogant fool."

"I live...while he lives?" Harry repeated slowly. "But I thought it was the other way around? That we both had to die? Or is it the same thing?"

Distracted by the creature's whimpering, Harry looked back at it again.

"Are you sure we can't do anything for it?"

Sirius waved a dismissive hand. "That thing is beyond saving. Don't trouble yourself over it."

"Then explain... more," Harry asked, and Sirius smiled.

"You were the seventh Horcrux, Harry, the Horcrux he never meant to make. His soul was so unstable that it broke apart that night when he came to kill you. But what escaped from that room was even less than he knew. He left more than his body behind. He left part of himself latched to you, the little boy who survived.

"But the fool has never understood what truly mattered. Love and loyalty—what does Voldemort know about that? Nothing. He took your blood thinking it would make him stronger, not realizing he was also taking the very enchantment Lily placed on you when she died to protect you. His body keeps her sacrifice alive, and as long as that sacrifice survives, so do you."

"Then if I'm not dead," Harry asked slowly, "where are we?"

"Well, I was going to ask you that," Sirius said, looking around, seeming to really take in their surroundings for the first time.

"Where would you say that we are?"

Until he had asked, Harry had not known. Now, however, he found that he had an answer ready to give.

"It looks," he said, "like King's Cross Station. Except a lot cleaner and empty, and there are no trains as far as I can see."

"King's Cross Station!" Sirius' smile had become a bit sad. "You know, from the moment you were born, James and Lily never wanted to let you go. They always dreaded the day when they'd send you off to Hogwarts."

There was a pause. The creature behind them whimpered, but Harry no longer looked around.

"I've got to go back, haven't I?" he said, more to himself than to Sirius.

"That is up to you, Harry," Sirius shrugged. "You've already given so damn much of yourself to this war. No one could blame you for being done with it all."

"I've got a choice?"

"Of course," Sirius nodded. He glanced around the vacant station. "Way I see it, you could...let's say, board a train and leave this all behind."

"And where would that take me?"

"Somewhere new," Sirius said simply.

They fell into silence again.

"Voldemort has the Elder Wand," Harry said after a moment.

Sirius nodded grimly. "He's got it all right."

"But...you don't want me to go back?"

"I want you to choose what feels right for you," Sirius said. "If you choose to go back, then it needs to be because you want to. You've already fought so bravely. Voldemort has only one Horcrux left. You can trust your friends and the Order to finish this fight. You've sacrificed enough, Harry."

Harry glanced again at the raw-looking thing that trembled and choked in the shadow beneath the distant chair.

"Don't pity that thing, Harry," Sirius said, far more disgusted than Harry was of the creature. "You've done your part. You've been so brave. If returning feels too much, it's okay to say it's enough. If you feel that stepping back now is what you need, then let others carry on. They're strong, Harry, and they'll keep fighting. Remember, you are loved, and you were never fighting alone."

Leaving this place would not be nearly as hard as walking into the forest had been, but it was warm and light and peaceful here, and Harry was tired—bone-deep exhaustion from years of fighting, of losing people he loved, and finally, facing his own death to protect the world from Voldemort.

"You really think it's okay? For me to just...go on?"

Sirius stepped closer, reaching out to grab him by the shoulders. "Harry, you've sacrificed more than any one person should ever have to. You've been braver than most could ever dream of being. It's okay to go now."

The approval to let go, to let others carry the torch was all Harry needed. He turned toward the gleaming train tracks, where the train waited, its doors open as if expecting him.

Walking toward the train, each step felt lighter than the last. The burden of being the Boy Who Lived that had weighed on him for so long was gone.

Now, he was just Harry…

Harry who had a choice.

Steam billowed from the train, and it started to move. I don't want to leave yet, Harry thought, and his face must have been an open book because Sirius patted him on the back.

"Go on then, Harry," Sirius said, trying to keep the mood light. "And remember, no matter where you end up, you have a life to live beyond what others expect of you. Always make the selfish choice to be happy. You've earned that right."

With a final hug, a squeeze that seemed to convey all the unsaid words and feelings, Sirius stepped back. Harry climbed the steps to the train, turned back once to wave, and then disappeared inside.

Inside the train, it was warm and bright. Harry found a compartment and settled into the seat, looking out the window as the train started moving, slowly at first, then faster as it picked up speed.

Outside the window, the world became a movie, flashing through scenes of his life. The first scene wasn't as scary as it had been before—a flash of green light, the very one that had attempted to end his life in infancy and did end his life in the forest. The view shifted to more mundane scenes of his life growing up in 4 Privet Drive as the train raced on.

Eventually, he saw Hagrid tell him he was a wizard. Then he was meeting Ron and Hermione. His fun and exciting, but also dangerous school years at Hogwarts. Snapshots of his life continued to play until all the scenes had run their course and finally faded completely after Harry saw himself walking into the forest.

A few seconds later, or at least from Harry's perspective, the Boy Who Lived found his vision filled with a blinding white light and there was an otherworldly voice resonating around him, filling his ears and soul with an eerie melody.

"We finally meet, Master."

Harry looked over his shoulder toward the voice. Standing in the door of his compartment was a humanoid figure twice as tall as him and covered in long robes and a hooded cloak made of ripped white cloth.

"Death?" Harry asked, not sure why he even bothered. Who else would it be? He had just accepted his death after all.

Two pale white hands reached up to pull the hood back. Harry expected to see something ghoulish, like a Dementor's face covered in thin, scabbed skin, with empty eye sockets and a gaping large hole where the mouth should've been. He was ready to keep himself from reacting. He was here to die, but that didn't mean he wanted to insult Death.

Death's hood fell revealing familiar bushy brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail with a few wild strands framing her face. "Yes master," she said, her voice was light and sweet, but it still gave him chills hearing something like that from Hermione's mouth. "I've been waiting for you."

Harry gave a slight bow. That was something people did for death, right?

Death giggled as she stepped into the compartment. She removed her outer robe and underneath she was wearing a replica of Hermione's uniform only it was far from the standard Hogwarts regulations. Her skirt was scandalously short, barely grazing the curve of her ass offering a glimpse of her red and gold thong, the delicate straps cutting into the soft flesh of her cheeks, framing them perfectly as she bent over to set her robe down.

"You do not need to bow, Harry," she said, using her finger to lift his chin. "You are the true master of death. The only one who did not seek to run away from Death, who accepts that he must die and understands that there are far, far worse things in the living world than dying."

"So it's true?" asked Harry. He was doing his best to keep his eyes up and not look down at where the top two buttons of Death's white button-up were undone. "All of it? The Peverell brothers —"

"—were the three brothers of the tale," said Death, nodding. "Oh yes, I granted them each one of my Hallows."

Harry was shocked. Even at the end, he assumed that the story of the three brothers was a bedtime story, or at the very least not the complete truth. He figured the Peverell brothers were just three gifted wizards who succeeded in creating powerful objects. The story of them being Death's own Hallows seemed to him the sort of legend that might have sprung up around such creations.

But here he was, hearing it from Death herself…who looked like his best friend. Why did she look like Hermione?

Death leaned closer until there was only an inch of air between their noses. Harry was once again glad she didn't look anything like how he thought Death would look.

"Did you think I would be some hideous beast?" Death tilted her head to the side. She was looking at him curiously, then she sighed. "You mortals always think that. I wonder why?"

After a moment of silence, Harry realized the question wasn't rhetorical and that Death was waiting for him to answer.

"Um…because you're Death?" he answered, though it came out like a question. "I mean to most people dying is the scariest thing in the world."

"Exactly!" Death let out a little huff. "It's not like I'm the one actually killing you mortals. I don't have any control over when or how you die. That's not my power. I only come after you die, to gently sever the last ties between the soul and the body, and to guide the deceased to the afterlife. Why would I present myself as some scary terrifying beast and make the whole ordeal even more difficult?"

"I... I don't know," Harry admitted. He couldn't really argue when she put it like that.

It made sense, but it still didn't change the fact that the idea of dying was terrifying. He had faced it multiple times already, and even at the very end, when he accepted his death, walking into the forest had been the hardest thing he had ever done.

Not that he planned on arguing semantics with Death. He might be the "Master of Death" but he wasn't sure what that meant. Was it a metaphor, or was he supposed to become the new death? And if Death was just a guide, what if he insulted her and she refused to take him to the afterlife? Would he be forced back to the Wizarding World? What would happen when he died again?

Death reached out and gently cupped Harry's cheeks. Harry felt a sudden rush of peace wash over him. All his worries faded away as he looked into her purple eyes.

"Do not be afraid, Harry," she said, in answer to Harry's unasked questions. "You have nothing to fear from dying, because you can't die."

"What?"

"To guide a soul to the afterlife, I must sever the ties between the soul and the mortal world, but a servant cannot harm their Master."

"I don't want to be the Master of Death," Harry protested weakly, the title sounding too grand and permanent for his liking.

"It is not a choice that can be undone. You have proved yourself worthy with my Hallows, Harry. The title is yours."

Harry's protest grew into frustration. "But why do you even need a master?" he demanded. "Why risk giving your Hallows to three mortals?"

For a moment, Death looked almost sheepish, which was odd, considering her role.

"Being Death is a lonely and thankless job, Harry," she admitted. "I wanted someone to talk to, someone who wouldn't just see me as the end."

Staring at her startlingly human expression, Harry sighed. "I'm still scared of you, though," he confessed.

"Yes, you are right now. But this is only your first time," Death said with a smile. "The problem with you mortals is that even the ones who believe in reincarnation never remember their past encounters with me. They forget that there is no reason to be afraid and always come back scared."

"First time?" Harry asked. "So, I'm not going to spend eternity here with you?"

Death looked genuinely surprised by the suggestion. "Of course not," she said quickly. "I might want someone to talk to every now and then, but I don't need a pet."

Harry couldn't help but feel a bit insulted by the jump straight to 'pet' instead of something like boyfriend or husband. But then again, to a being like Death, the idea of dating a mortal probably didn't even register.

"Oh?" In a sudden playful move, Death squished Harry's cheeks so that his lips puckered. She grinned at him playfully. "Do you find me attractive, Master? Do you want to be my boyfriend?"

Caught off guard by her forwardness, Harry didn't know how to respond. He was about to quickly change the subject when he remembered Sirius advice: Witches liked confidence, and pretty privilege was a thing. The only difference between being a creep or a flirt was whether a witch found him attractive or not.

Boldly reaching around Death, Harry spanked her white robes taking a great big handful of her large, round arse, filling his palm and fingers with springy, bouncy ass cheek.

"Harry!" Death yelped at Harry's sudden boldness.

He was worried he may have overstepped and was about to let go and apologize when he felt her arch slightly into his touch. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she moved her hands from his face to wrap her arms around his neck.

"How bold of you, Master. Maybe you do want to be my boyfriend," she said, cheeks red as she pouted up at him. "We might have to explore that idea sometime."

Harry gave her a lopsided smile and another playful squeeze. "So, I'm just going to keep getting reincarnated, but because I'm the Master of Death, I'll remember all this?"

"That's right," Death said, and before Harry could ask how reincarnating worked, she leaned even closer and pressed her lips against his.

Harry's breath hitched as Death's lips crashed into his, her tongue pushing past his teeth in a wet, sloppy kiss that left him dizzy. His hands fumbled with the buttons of her top, fingers trembling as he peeled the fabric open to reveal her bare chest. His stomach twisted when he saw Hermione's familiar form staring back at him, her small, perky breasts exposed. He froze, guilt clawing at him as he remembered the dreams he'd had about her—dreams he'd buried deep, ashamed to admit even to himself.

Death pulled back, her lips curling into a wicked smirk. "Oh, Harry," she purred, her voice dripping with mockery. "I know all about those little fantasies of yours. How you'd imagine her under you, moaning your name. Don't be shy now."

Harry's face burned, but before he could protest, Death's body shimmered. Hermione's form melted away, replaced by Narcissa Malfoy's tall, elegant figure. Her platinum hair framed her face perfectly, and her icy blue eyes locked onto his with a predatory glint. "You always did want to get back at Draco, didn't you?" she teased, her voice low and sultry. "Shagging his mum would be quite the revenge, wouldn't it?"

Harry's gaze dropped to her chest, where her mature, fuller breasts hung slightly, larger than Hermione's, the nipples pink and inviting. He swallowed hard, his discomfort giving way to a raw, primal hunger. He nodded, unable to form words, and leaned down, taking one of her nipples into his mouth. He sucked greedily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud as Narcissa let out a soft, approving moan.

But then he felt her body shift again, the breast in his mouth swelling even larger, heavier. A strand of red hair fell in front of his face and he pulled back, expecting to see Ginny.

Instead, he saw green eyes and his mother's face.

"Bloody hell!"

Harry jerked back, slamming his head against the wall behind his seat as he tried to get away.

"You don't not enjoy this form?" Death asked. "Do mortal males not like big breasts anymore?"

"We do, just not when they're attached to our mums," Harry muttered, keeping his eyes closed. "So, please change."

"What form would you like me to take?"

"Anyone but my mum!" Harry exclaimed, his eyes still firmly shut.

"What form would you like me to take?" Death asked, sounding genuinely confused.

Harry kept his eyes closed, taking deep breaths to calm himself. "Just... I don't know. Maybe Ginny?"

When he cautiously opened one eye, he saw Ginny Weasley sitting across from him, her long red hair cascading down her shoulders, freckles dotting her nose. But the magic was gone. Harry had deflated like a popped balloon and doubted he'd be getting hard again after seeing his mum's face.

"Too far?" Death asked, and Harry nodded.

Way too far. There was no way he was going to be able to kiss her again now, let alone fuck her.

Thankfully, the train had reached its destination, wherever that was, Harry still wasn't sure. It came to a complete stop, and the door to the compartment slid open.

Instead of the Hogwarts Express hallway, the doorway looked more like the Veil in the Department of Mysteries.

"Oh? This is your stop, Harry," Death said as she climbed off his lap. "We must have lost track of time."

Harry stood up too and Death walked him to the door. It felt like a lifetime ago that he'd first seen the Veil in the Department of Mysteries and watched his godfather fall through it.

Now it was his turn.

"Go on," Death said, giving him a little nudge. "You'll be back here before you know it."

Harry stepped through the doorway and somewhere else, in a different universe entirely, a baby with grey eyes and reddish, dark-brown hair was born.