630There was a flash of green and suddenly, Harry was gone.
He woke slowly, like soft bubbles drifting to the surface of warm water. He felt as though his body rested on clouds, if the term body even applied. He felt…light.
Quiet.
A thousand pounds he'd never known he'd carried all his life, suddenly gone from his shoulders. It was blissfully quiet without all those busy sounds of living. The rush of blood through his veins, the slow in and out of breathing, the feedback that traveled through his bones. It was all…quiet.
Was he done? If this was death, he needn't have feared. This was not so bad.
He sat up. Sense came rushing back. He was standing naked in a soft white field. The notion that he was uncomfortable with that had hardly formed in his mind before he realized, no, he was clothed.
The further he looked, the more detail was revealed to him. It looked a bit like King's Cross station. A channel formed in the ground, tracks suddenly there where they hadn't been previously. And up ahead, a familiar face sat at a picnic table.
"Back again, Harry?" Dumbledore smiled. Next to him was a bundled form, whimpering like an injured baby.
"Professor Dumbledore? What's going on? Where are we?" Harry peered at the swaddled bundle.
"You died," he said simply. "That is the only thing we can be certain of. This is, as they say, your party, Harry. We are wherever you want."
Harry gazed off into the white distance. The further he looked, the further the world seemed to fill in. It was as if he was standing on canvas even as an artist painted around him.
"What's that?" Harry pointed to the bundle. Dumbledore turned terribly sad and a bit regretful. He tipped the form towards him. Harry jumped back.
It was the most hideous creature he'd ever seen, hardly fit to be called a baby. It made the homunculus Wormtail had dropped into the cauldron in the graveyard look positively normal. It had grey, twisted skin and pitiful crimson eyes, a lumpy gash for a mouth and slit nostrils.
"Is that a - the horcrux?"
"It is."
"And I'm free of it?" Dumbledore nodded. A bit of cheer returned to him.
"Sometimes I wonder what might've been, had I taken a different path with Tom Riddle, right from the orphanage. But he has made his decisions. And now, so have you."
Harry wondered if the lightness he felt was because of it. He sat across from Dumbledore.
"Now what? I'm dead."
"Are you?" Dumbledore gave him a mischievous look.
"You said I died." Harry was confused.
"I did, didn't I? But you're a bit of a unique case, Mr. Potter. In a couple of ways." Dumbledore laced his fingers. "You found the gift I left you in the snitch."
Harry nodded slowly. "And you have long possessed your father's cloak.*
Another nod.
"And through an extremely unlikely set of circumstances, you managed to disarm Draco Malfoy."
What Dumbledore was saying dawned on him.
"I'm the Master of Death?"
Dumbledore beamed. "I had planned other protections, other chances and routes for you to return back to life. Your mother's sacrifice lives on still. Not just in you, but in Voldemort as well. And curiously, in the hearts of every person in Hogwarts right now."
"You planned this." Harry knew, of course. But hearing it from the man's mouth, not just a memory, it dredged up fury that had not yet hit. The truth of Dumbledore's betrayal finally set in.
As quickly as his good cheer had arisen, it vanished. Dumbledore looked absolutely wretched. "I did," he admitted. "I offer you my sincerest apologies, Harry, though I do not deserve to be forgiven. I am sure I would have done it again if forced to. You are free to hate me for the rest of your death. I would well deserve it. But that needn't be now."
Harry unclasped his fist. He had tried, hadn't he? It obviously ate him up inside. And Harry would have done it, too, wouldn't he? The horcrux had to die. It just had to.
"Why not?" Harry said with forceful calmness. "I let him hit me. No one died for me. No one's skirts to hide behind. I saw it." then, the realization. "If I ever did hold the allegiance of the Elder Wand, Voldemort just won it back."
"Are you sure about that?" Dumbledore looked down at the picnic table. Harry followed his gaze. In front of him, rather like a meal setting, three familiar items were laid out. "You chose your death. It defeated Voldemort as much as it did, you."
"Like you did," Harry realized. "You meant for Snape to kill you. You asked him to. Nobody would have defeated you. You'd have died with the Elder Wand, undefeated."
Dumbledore nodded. "Funny how things never quite work out the way you expect. Nevertheless, there is nobody else I'd rather see wielding the Elder Wand, Harry."
Harry looked down at the Deathly Hallows. He was hesitant to touch the wand. "Your wand, sir."
"Your wand," Dumbledore corrected. "It doesn't seem like the Stone would be very useful here, does it?"
"No. Where is everybody else?"
Dumbledore hummed. "We are in a sort of waiting room. Or perhaps a crossroads. You have a decision to make, Harry. While Voldemort lives, he anchors you to life. Much like a horcrux, though forged through your mother's love, rather than by the futile efforts of a wounded soul trying to hold itself together."
"I could go back."
"You could go back," Dumbledore confirmed. "However, you are also the Master of Death. More paths are open to you, I think, than any other. Where will your path take you next, Harry? To its end? On to an ultimate confrontation? Back, to retrace your steps? Or perhaps sideways, to somewhere brave and new? Or perhaps you might stand right where you are. That, too, is a sort of choice."
Harry slouched on the bench. He did not want to think about it. He did not want to be cornered into such a heavy choice. Hadn't he earned a break? He'd been on the run for almost a year now. Except, he did not deserve a break. Not when muggleborns were still being rounded up by Umbridge's ministry, not when Voldemort himself walked the grounds of Hogwarts, when battle might break out again at any moment. Dean Thomas was on the run, too. Only, he couldn't stop Voldemort. Not like Harry could. Luna had been through worse, Hermione had been through worse. Harry could not pretend he had had the most difficult time.
He picked up the Elder Wand, turning it over in his hand. Could he do it? Could he kill Voldemort? Harry had never killed anyone before. How would he do it? The killing curse? No, that was asking for trouble. He didn't think a disarming spell was going to cut it.
They would expect him to confront Voldemort. To fight, to kill him. Harry did not mind confronting the monstrous wizard. But to kill him?
And Ron and Hermione, they would hate him for giving himself up. Even if he came back, they'd know. He'd have to explain himself to them.
"So many people need me," Harry said miserably.
Dumbledore shook his head. "If I may offer one last piece of advice, Harry? This decision should not be for them. What does Harry Potter need? What is best for him? What will make him happy?"
Happy.
He was at least a year too late for that. Ginny came to mind. Her fiery hair and temper, the way she actually challenged him like so few else did. He'd stuffed that up, too. If he could go back in time, maybe. Couldn't he? Dumbledore had said back was an option. It wasn't attractive to him. Retracing his own steps, stumbling through the same mistakes. If he wanted to go back far enough to make a difference, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, everybody would be different people. Strangers.
He wasn't ready to be done. Harry knew that much for certain. But the prospect of returning felt too weary to contemplate. Even after Voldemort was dead, Hogwarts, all of Britain, it would take a lifetime of rebuilding. And it would never be the same. People would look to him for everything. The Boy-who-lived stuff would only get worse if he actually killed Voldemort. He did not want to go forwards, backwards, or stand still.
A thought occurred to him. "What happens if I go back and die again?"
Dumbledore stroked his beard. "I suppose you'll come back here. I suspect true death will have to be your choice."
"Will Voldemort die without me?" Harry wondered.
"We can never be certain." Dumbledore tapped the table next to the Elder Wand. "Even the best laid plans go awry. I suppose it is a question of trust. The cup is gone. The diadem is gone. The diary is gone, the ring is gone, and now you too, have been freed from a great burden. Do you trust Mr. Longbottom to slay Nagini?"
Harry thought about it. And the more he considered it, the firmer his belief was that yes, Neville Longbottom absolutely had it in him. He thought about the steely strength he'd seen in Neville when he'd finally returned to Hogwarts. Neville had grown into a great man without Harry ever really knowing.
"And Voldemort himself?"
Dumbledore smiled wryly. "There are a great many capable duelists among the Order, and I suspect Voldemort will have a hard time defeating them when none of his spells can touch them."
The enormity of the protection Harry had granted them tugged at the corner of his lips. "I imagine so, sir," Harry grinned.
Recklessly, he proposed an idea. "Well, what if I took a break? What if I went sideways, had a bit of time to myself. Then I came back here and went back."
Dumbledore beamed. "What a wonderful idea, Harry. I can think of no finer idea."
Harry got up awkwardly. He glanced at the deformed baby-horcrux. "What happens to that?"
Dumbledore hefted the bundle. His brows met. "I suppose I shall bring him onwards with me. A few other bits are already waiting for him."
"Really?" Harry wondered. After all that, mutilating his soul and murdering and torturing a bloody streak through Britain, Voldemort just got to go…on? "He's going to heaven?"
"I didn't say that," Dumbledore chided. "He is going onwards. The rest is beyond us."
"Beyond us as in unknowable, or beyond us as in divine judgement?" he asked. Dumbledore shrugged with a little smile.
"I believe you have somewhere to be."
Harry bit his tongue. Even in death, Dumbledore was still mysterious and cryptic. With his departure drawing near, a surge of emotions welled up in him. Conflicting, mixing, churning feelings. Dumbledore the mentor, the wise, the teacher, the warrior, the betrayer, they all stood before him, the focal point of an amalgamation of emotions Harry couldn't hope to untangle. All he knew was that he would miss the man dearly.
"How?"
Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "How indeed? This is, after all-"
"-My party," Harry grumbled. "Yeah. Alright."
He thought about King's Cross. A train would be coming soon, no doubt. To take him on. To a grand adventure, he was sure. Just like the real one. Behind him was the Known. Once, it had been Privet Drive. He had stood on the precipice of a wild adventure. Back then, he had been brave enough to board. But the world was not linear. On both sides of King's Cross, London surrounded the busy train station. There were different adventures out there. Harry made his choice.
"I'll miss you, Professor," he said, suddenly wrought with emotion.
Dumbledore smiled sadly. "Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, those who must go on without. I wish you the best, Mr. Potter."
"'Bye," Harry rushed out. He began to walk away, perpendicular to the tracks. Then he began to jog, and finally to sprint. He forced himself not to look back.
He dashed through brick archways and leapt over other empty tracks, running, running, out into the unknown.
Harry shot upright. It was cold out. Wind stripped the warmth from his bare skin. He got up and immediately noticed his state of undress. Only this time, wishing his state of nudity away didn't solve the problem. He curled in on himself. On the ground at his feet, a familiar pile of shimmering fabric sat on the dirt. Harry tugged the invisibility cloak over himself. A pair of items fell out. Harry picked up the Resurrection Stone. The Elder Wand fell to the dirt. The stone was like a cube of ice. He switched it to his left hand and picked up the wand.
Years ago, Harry had first touched his first wand. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. It had sent warmth coursing through him, a most wondrous feeling that proved that he, Harry, was a wizard.
The Elder Wand reacted far more strongly. The moment his fingers clasped it, power surged in him. Not warmth exactly, more a sense of might. A symphonic fanfare pierced the quiet forest, as if heralding the arrival of a great hero in a time of need. Harry felt a surge of purpose rush through him, urging him to fight, to stand up and be that hero. A ray of light fell upon him from above, the smell of laurels in his nostrils. Faintly, at the bottom of his ears, Harry heard raucous cheering.
Then all was quiet again.
He conjured himself clothes. He hadn't had a very firm idea of what he'd wanted – perhaps underwear, jeans, trainers, a t-shirt and sweater. What he got was rather ostentatious. A set of robes in dark green with a snowy owl embroidered in white across his lapels. A cape fell from his shoulders to the backs of his calves, which were clothed in leather boots. It was way too over the top.
It looked like something Malfoy would wear. He gave stricter instructions on his second conjuration. Jeans and a t-shirt. The Elder Wand obliged without complaint.
He took stock of his surroundings. Evergreen trees and thick underbrush dotted the lumpy landscape. The rush of a river came from nearby. Harry followed his ears to the water. Sharp, cool air brought back memories of the Forest of Dean. Had it really only been a week ago? Everything had exploded so quickly after the Snatchers caught them. Harry banished the memories. He wished Ron and Hermione were with him. The adventure at hand would have been much simpler. They brought different strengths to the group. Without them, Harry felt a bit lost.
Harry stumbled across to the river. Where it flowed, there was enough of a gap in the trees that he could see up and out of the forest. Mountains soared beyond the treeline, rising sharply into the sky and terminating in green-and-white knife points. The mountainsides and valleys were lush with evergreens. The river itself was fast. Not quite frothing, the spray nonetheless misted over Harry's face in gauzy curtains. The sunlight played over the mist, forming a little rainbow.
Harry followed the river. The bank was mulchy, and his conjured trainers sank a bit into the dirt. Bordering the river, boulders formed the points around which the bends pivoted. Thick grass clumped in tall tufts, snugged up to polished stone.
He heard the waterfall long before he saw it. A rolling thunder that rumbled without end, accompanied by the sound of gushing water. The treeline gave way to a rocky shelf. Harry crept to the edge, wary of the wet stone beneath his feet.
The view took Harry's breath away. The rushing river hurled itself off an enormous drop. It had to be a couple hundred feet down into a valley below. A breeze caught the falling water midair and threw off curtains of mist. At the base, the waterfall exploded into plumes of spray. From there, a smaller river wended through the valley, twisting to run right through a little village.
AN: Harry Potter Canon is shifted up so that Harry departs in spring of 2020.