I owe you all, my readers, a huge apology for several things.

First, for such a long hiatus (nine months). I won't spout excuses, but it was due to my inability to manage my schedule well, shifting between college and writing. It came to the point where I put down the story off my mind completely. After months of my absence in writing, I had to reread this story and my mind began to see things in a completely different way.

I have no doubt that some of you have already lost interest in the story. And those who haven't, I'm sorry—I will quite possibly disappoint you again—I have decided to rewrite the story. This decision was absolute the moment I reread the story and saw the injustice I did to the characters. Harry too cowardly, his Master of Death affair amiss, Rosalie a caricature of who I've imagined her to be.

And while I can say that I'm deeply sorry for the long hiatus, I can't say the same for the decision to rewrite it. I've fallen in love with the new idea, and there is no turning back. I can only hope that you will feel the same.

That being said, if you decide to walk out on this story now, I won't hold it against you—thank you for your patience and earlier interest. For those who decide to give this new story a chance, sit back, relax, and I hope you can love the story as much as I do.

Powerful!Harry. Seriously. I'm not going to details with his process of learning to use his MoD power to its full extent, but he will be able to use it well in the upcoming chapters, although there are things he still isn't able to do. Darker!Rosalie, since in this story she had never met Emmet in the woods. She was left to be reminded of her past every time she toyed with the idea of romance.

WARNING. This story includes a depiction of Death, Life, Fate, sins and the rules of universe. It is purely a work of imagination. If you are an extreme religious who can't let your imagination play, then I advise you leave. If you are an extreme atheist who can't open your mind to the idea of death, afterlife, sins and so on - then I suggest you leave as well.

I do not mean to offend ANYONE of my readers. I want no hate toward the concept (criticism is NOT hate). I love this story immensely, and I hope that you do too.

DISCLAIMER: The universes of Harry Potter and Twilight Sage belong to J. K. Rowling and Stephenie Meyer respectively.

This chapter is beta-ed by the amazing PhoenixFanatic999!

"Many years from now

I know you'll hear me somehow

When our bodies free our souls

The places we will go"

#1
Savior's Demise

After the Second Wizarding War, England continued to be its own busy city, unaware of the fact that years before, they were on the verge of being massacred, if not for the work of the Chosen One. The Savior. The Boy-Who-Lived. Numerous titles and gifts were given to the Boy-Who-Lost-It-All, but nothing prevented him from shutting himself in a muggle apartment in the heart of London. The boy who left the world he loved because he loved it too much.

On that particular morning, a knock rang through his ever-quiet front door. His eyes opened in a flash, but he kept his body still.

"Harry?"

George Weasley's wary voice relaxed Harry's posture, though Harry made no move from his bed.

"Harry?" George called again. "Come on, you promised you'd come."

Harry rolled between the sheets, groaned, and reached sluggishly for the doorknob, revealing George with short, clean haircut that Harry hadn't seen on him since Bill and Fleur's wedding. It took Harry into a rail of flashbacks—sandy brown hair blurring together with red, brilliant smiles, loud music and swift dancing. Harry blinked quickly and smiled wryly, returning George's raised eyebrows.

"So this haircut is strictly for weddings, then?" Harry asked as he turned and fell against the couch.

George ignored him. "I see that you're not dressed."

"I don't plan on dressing up."

"Do I need to drag Fleur here?"

Harry shuddered. "You wouldn't do that."

"Oh, if that's what it takes," George shrugged, sitting on the edge of the couch. His eyes turned serious as he met Harry's. "You promised you'd come."

"I know."

"It's really important for her—"

"I know. I'm coming," Harry said. "But I don't plan on arriving early."

George scoffed. He stood and disappeared into Harry's bedroom and returned with custom-made suit which Harry had locked away for weeks.

"Such a nice suit," George sighed. "If it weren't for the fact that you're so short, I would've stolen it and worn it myself."

"Two inches," Harry grumbled as he got up. "You're taller than me by two bloody inches."

Harry snatched the suit away from George's grasp and went into his room. He could hear George turning on the television. It still seemed bizarre, at times, considering that he used to be afraid of looking at it. It changed four years after Fred's death as George had come to Harry's apartment, red-faced with alcohol and tear-stained cheeks. Harry had tucked him in on his sofa and had been about to turn off the muggle sitcom he'd been watching, when George'd told him he'd wanted to see it.

"You see, that's his type," George had said, gesturing to the dark-haired woman on the screen. "Brainy and perfectionist. The polar opposite of our joker selves. And just like them, he would try to hide it, just for the thrill."

The words our joker selves had felt like a knife through Harry's chest, but he hadn't wanted to turn George's first light talk about his dead twin with Harry's own bitterness. So he'd simply asked, "Really? That's his type?"

George had grinned. "Did you know that Fred had his eyes on Hermione?"

Both sadness and curiosity swelled inside of him as he'd answered a mild "No."

"The first girl that matched his type perfectly," George'd said, his eyes lost. "You see, we even set a series of pranks for Fred to woo her. You know, to imply that he fancied her. But then we noticed Ickle Ronniekins' crush on her and Fred called everything off. The designs of (those?) pranks that took us weeks to create—gone."

Harry had smiled. "He was a good brother."

"The best," George had agreed. "It was a good decision, though. Hermione and Ron turned pretty serious—remember the size of that ring? Took all of Ron's secret saving(s). In the end, it wasn't even used."

A flash of red-hair. A splatter of blood. A mind-numbing cry. A green light, and then silence.

"Harry?" George's voice broke through his reminiscing. "You're taking an awfully long time, mate."

"Yeah, sorry."

Harry didn't know why he'd put this on hold for so long. It was a rather quick process; all he had to do was to remove his clothing, use Scourgify, put the suit on and mess with his hair. In the span of five minutes, he was already out of the door.

George gave him a rare, soft smile. The kind Harry knew was reserved for either Fred or Ron.

"You ready?"

Harry returned the smile easily. "The most ready I could ever be."

The journey to the Weasley's burrow was silent. George was absorbed with the news, while Harry's mind was at its own turmoil.

How could he ever be ready for this?

"The uprising is starting to get worrying, don't you think?"

Harry scoffed. "They're pathetic low lifes. Half of them are already caught, and the last one that attempted to take me on couldn't even aim right. They're desperate to revive Voldemort, but we both know there's zero chance of it happening."

George smirked. "It brings memories, hearing you talking like this."

All of the sudden, the Burrow was in sight. Harry mentally prepared himself. He prepared the practiced smile at the edge of his lips, ready to set upon old friendly faces. He relaxed his shoulders, foreseeing a lot of hugs and kisses, and his legs, foreseeing the inevitable dances. Most importantly, he prepared the cage inside of him, checking every second that it was locked and that he would not at all be visited with regretful misery tonight.

George gave him a light side-hug as they entered, and Harry walked a little more straightly.

It was as though they went through transition between two different worlds; one minute there was solitude, the next one everything seemed to be bursting—both literally and figuratively. There were several tiny fireworks already lit at the edge of the room, lighting up Mrs. Weasley's face as she recognized him and came over to pull him into a hug.

"We're so glad you're here, dear," She said kindly.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Mrs. Weasley beamed, but George gave him a pitying side-glance which Harry ignored.

The first thought that he registered as he searched the room was that it was painfully similar to Bill and Fleur's. The location was exactly the same, the tent was identical, minus the difference of color—even some old decorations reappeared. The layout was also similar—food on the west, the arch on the south-east, the huge space on the middle for the groom and bride to have their first dance.

Then it became very easy to blur the present and the past. The moment Harry had nothing to do or say or listen, his mind drifted and replaced the present elements with those of his memories; Fred and George and the bridesmaids, Bill and Fleur's first dance, Ron and Hermione twirling awkwardly, Ginny's pretty smile to him from across the room…

Harry spent the next hour desperate to make himself busy with small talk. It was tedious at the same time as it was wonderful. It had been months—for some, years—since he had last seen the rest of the Weasleys, Fleur, Neville, Luna, Seamus, McGonagall, even Kingsley. There were few people that Harry saw regularly. George crashed his apartment whenever the ginger wanted. Harry still went for tea at Hagrid's occasionally. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly sentimental, he went to Hogwarts under the Invisibility Cloak and visited the house elves. He never visited Dobby, because the grave was too close to the Weasley's and Harry couldn't bear to show his grief to them—for they were once a family, but not quite anymore.

Harry smiled as he sipped his drink and observed his surroundings. He used to love these people; he was sure with every fiber in his being that he would die for them. Maybe he still would. But he had lost the connection that he once had with them—too enamored with slight chance of surviving to care about living. Too desperate in war, happy simply for the fact that they had a future, that he couldn't care less about what the future contained.

Eight, long years had taken him to this point. People accomplished a lot in eight years. For Harry—well, it wasn't as if he was completely out of things to do. He attempted a career in professional quidditch and played for the Chudley Cannons—Ron's favorite—for a while. If he allowed himself to be vain, he would even say he restored them to glory. It ended after three years of unbearable fame and the peaking need for solitude. For the next five years, he remained unemployed, burying himself in his apartment. To be honest, he couldn't remember anything worth-noting in that span of years.

"Harry."

Harry blinked. "What?"

George approached him carefully. "The bride wants to see you."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Really. You think you can handle that?"

"Yeah. Of course," He lied.

His mind reeled as he walked to her room. What could she possibly want from him? Right before the wedding, after five years of disregarding each other's existence?

The moment the bride's room door opened, the cage was unlocked. He was stricken with a pang of regret as he saw her—the most beautiful bride he had ever seen. Still, he smiled.

"Ginny," Her name felt weird on his lips. Foreign.

"Harry," She whispered, sounding as though she might burst to tears any moment. Harry took a step closer in alarm.

"Gin—what's wrong?"

"Nothing, really," She grinned, wiping the little beads of tears around the corner of her clear brown eyes. "I'm just... really happy to see you, is all."

"Really?" Harry couldn't help himself. "You're happy to see me?"

Ginny stopped smiling. "You're not?"

"No, well, I'm elated," Harry said. "No. That was a lie. To be frank, I don't know what I'm feeling. Or what I'm doing here. Or why you summoned me."

There was one long moment that all Ginny did was to look at him.

"You haven't changed at all," Ginny said softly. "I thought I'd be surprised with how different you'd look—but you didn't change at all. Not since I last saw you."

"Why did you call me here?"

Ginny seemed slightly taken a back.

"I..I called you here to be sure," She started. "I was having second thoughts about Dean and I thought that seeing you would solve it. I'm sorry. I know it sounds horrible."

"And?"

Ginny looked puzzled. "And?"

"Does it solve the problem? Seeing me?"

"Not at all," Ginny said quietly. "To be honest, I'm even more confused."

Harry shook his head and sat at the nearest chair. He gestured the chair opposite him, half-way across the room, but Ginny didn't take it. She slowly walked to him until they were only a step away and he was right in front of her hips. He recognized this setting with bitterness. It was something that they used to do, whenever he had an episode. He would rake his hair on the chair and she would come to his front and sit on his lap. Her arms would find him and envelop him in a warm hug. He would bury his face in her hair, smelling the sweet, sweet fragrance on her neck.

Of course, she did nothing of the sort. Harry blinked to banish the memories, and looked up to meet Ginny's shimmering eyes.

"If I ask you to ride with me to the sunset," She whispered. "Would you?"

The deepest, darkest part of him longed to hear these words. Yet now that he actually heard it aloud, his answer was certain. "You love him."

"What do you know?" She challenged. "We haven't spoken for years. Four years, one hundred thirty seven days, to be exact. How could you possibly know how I feel about him?"

"I—"

"And how could you know—that—that—I spent the last four years one hundred thirty seven days unable to stop thinking about you?" She demanded. "That even to the last seconds before my wedding, a part of me wishes that it's you standing at the altar, not Dean? That despite the fact Dean has been nothing but a perfect gentleman for me, it's still you that I want?"

Harry remained silent.

"That after all these years, despite me desperately wanting to, I just can't get over you?"

It wasn't that it was one-sided either. He would be lying if he said that he hadn't thought about her. At least every other day he would be reminded of her, wonder what she was doing... but nowhere near what she had just expressed.

He had stopped loving her long ago.

He couldn't give her the number of the days since the last time he loved her. Bloody hell, he didn't even remember how long they had parted. He hadn't even bothered to count. Loving her had been abrupt; like a quick, breath-taking Firebolt spin. Stopping was a gradual, numbing process.

"Dean is the one that loves you," Harry said as kindly as he could. "I don't. I used to, but then I stopped. But it doesn't change the fact that I care about you. I want you to be happy—and it won't happen with me."

Ginny started sobbing. Harry stood in alarm. He switched their places and forced her to sit. He knelt before her, so they could see eye-to-eye. "You're having pre-wedding jitters. It's fine. It's normal. The future with Dean is scary and that's why you cling to the past with me. But the Ginny I know is much braver than that. Ginny would wipe the tears, take a deep breath, and walk bravely to the altar. That's the Ginny I loved. And the one that makes Dean head-over-heels for her too."

Silence followed, but unlike before, it felt comfortable rather than painful. When Ginny finally looked up to meet his eyes, hers were full of tears, but she was smiling; a genuine, soft smile that Harry noticed only belonged to him. It was what Harry both hoped and dreaded to see.

That night, Ginny walked down the altar, hand-in-hand with a beaming Arthur. She proclaimed her vows to Dean without wavering, and kissed the groom sincerely. Harry had thought it would hurt—it did, but it didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. The tight pain in his chest was overwhelmed with the Weasley's infectious joy.

As soon as their first dance of the couple ended, Ginny gestured for Harry to enter the dance floor. At first, Harry shook his head lightly, mouthing "I don't dance" and raised a glass instead, but Ginny took the liberty of pulling him to the dance floor. The act ignited a few chuckles, especially the ones who knew their history. Harry glanced at Dean. They were locked in a stare for one second, but before Harry could make out his thoughts, he'd turned away and invited Katie Bell for a dance.

"I'm quite sure George's outraged," Harry commented as they swirled around the room. "He'd been calling himself your favorite brother for years."

"This isn't the line for brothers."

"What exactly is this line, then?" Harry asked.

"The line of the two men I love most in this world," Ginny said softly. "Starts with Dean, ends with you. And not just tonight."

Harry stayed silent, although he knew perfectly what she meant. Back in Hogwarts, she had dated Dean first-until Harry took her away from him by stealing a kiss from her before his eyes.

"It ends with Dean," Harry corrected firmly. "Starts with Dean, then me, and then ends with Dean."

Ginny smiled painfully. "It ends with you both."

There was nothing he could say. He knew she wasn't trying anything. She was simply expressing what she had suppressed for years. She had been tied with Dean now-she knew that their door had been closed. Nothing could ever happen between them again.

The dance was quicker than he'd expected. Although he had dreaded it at first, he'd come to long for it after it ended. Once the music stopped, Harry pulled her into an embrace. He breathed her in and knew that it was a mistake—countless memories of her bombarded his mind, sweet and agonizing all at the same time. He released her with unavoidable guilt, smiled at her for one last time, and then left the party and his past behind.

"You did great," George said, once Harry returned to his flat. The ginger was slouching around as it was his apartment, a bottle of Firewhiskey in hand. He poured Harry a glass and continued, "There were times that even I wasn't sure whether you'd run off together, but you did great."

Harry dropped his glass. "What?"

"No—no—you did fine," George assured as he waved his wand. Harry's glass reassembled itself and returned to Harry's hands. "I was talking about what happened in her room."

Anger came to Harry. It was supposed to be a very intimate moment; a secret between the two of them only.

"Don't get angry," George drawled lazily, although Harry saw a flicker of worry in his eyes. "What would you have me do? She's my only sister, you see. I had to prevent what would be the worst mistake of her life."

And as soon as it appeared, his anger depleted. Harry hung his head in shame. Some part of him wanted that to happen.

George shook his head, "Her worst mistake wouldn't be to run away with you. It depends on your answer. If both of you were in love and sure of what you want, I'd gladly plan your escape route myself. But if one of you isn't sure but you go for it—that's a mistake."

Harry scowled at the pity in George's eyes. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Sorry. It's just.. A part of me bet on you tonight."

Harry stared. The ginger's face was solemn, no trace of humor visible. "You're joking."

"Not this time. You don't see yourself and Ginny when you two were together—it was something out of a fairy tale. I despise sappy shit like that but what you two have was... real. All these years I honestly thought you'd somehow end up together. Even tonight. Dean's a nice bloke and all, but... he's not you. You're perfect for her."

"This really doesn't help, George."

George grinned. "I know. Which is why I brought this."

Harry took the bottle that George offered and downed the burning liquid. "This does help."

Once George was asleep, Harry stood. He covered the ginger with a blanket and turned off the lights. He went for his room to lie down and try to sleep, but a black book at the furthest part of the bookcase caught his eyes. Smiling, Harry took the book off his case and flipped it open. It had been years since he last saw this. He strove to restrain from reminiscing as much as he could—a photo album was out of question. He had the mind to burn it before, but couldn't bring himself to actually do it.

Cedric. Fred. Sirius. Remus. Tonks. Snape. Dumbledore. Dad. Mom. Ron. Hermione. Ginny.

Their faces haunted Harry in those order; it started with the one death that stole his innocence—Cedric's—and ended with the dead promise of a lifetime companionship. It marked the beginning and the end of the Harry Potter that saved Britain. The Hero. The Savior. The Chosen One. The Boy-Who-Lived.

In a way, none of their deaths hurt that much anymore. He always felt a tug in his heart every time he thought about all of them, but not for Ron and Hermione. Even to this day, a part of him refused to believe it. They were the two out of three people that he thought he'd spend the rest of his life with. Such a simple, careless, dangerous promise. Two left him for death and one left him for another man.

Harry shook his head. It wasn't fair placing blame on them for being dead. He was pretty bloody sure none of them wanted it. And it wasn't fair for him to blame Ginny either. She left because he didn't have anything to offer—he was a man with nothing to lose and to give.

In the end, again, the burden of blame was on him.

His train of thought paused when he took notice of the last photo of Ginny and him. It was at the old Grimmauld Place, right before he left it for good. Ginny was holding a cup of hot coffee and Harry was behind her, his arms around her shoulder. Both were smiling—momentarily forgetting their grief. It was astonishing how young Ginny looked at this photo; the ginger that Harry met yesterday had more angular face, sharper cheekbones, less light in her eyes when she smiled. This photo was taken after the war—shouldn't the present be cheerier than then?

And he looked at himself five years ago. He couldn't spot any difference at all, except for the light in his eyes. Harry scoffed lightly, and then turned the pages to the day of Hermione and Ron's funeral. Again, she was with him, this time with their hands intertwined. She looked more grim here, but younger. A hint of innocence in her body features tainted by the recent war. Beside her, he looked like Death himself; dressed in completely dark robe from head to toe, with dull, green eyes.

Harry frowned. He flipped the page back to the photo of him and Ginny in the Grimmauld Place—taken almost five years ago. He returned to the photo of his best friends' funeral. Then, he tossed them onto the bed and stood abruptly, reaching for mirror—finding the same exact face he found in the last two photos.

Were his eyes deceiving him?

He placed the three pictures on the bed. He blinked, looked at them from every angle, and blinked again. He diverted his attention to rummaging the papers. Harry used to hate it, but at the time, uncountable article about him made it easy to search for his pictures. Harry took the pages that contained his face, cut them, and stuck them across the wall. He didn't count the time—but all of the sudden, his wall was filled with his past selves throughout the last few years with identical faces.

Ginny's words rang in his mind. You haven't changed at all.

That night, Harry couldn't sleep. It was beneficial, in a way, as he had no need to take the Dreamless Sleeping Potion just to escape darkness lurking in his own consciousness. Instead, he stayed awake all-night raking his brain. Dawn arrived and Harry was still in no luck; so he took one of his most recent photos, walked out of his room and nudged George awake.

"No," George resisted, facing away from Harry.

"George," Harry hissed. "Wake the hell up."

"No."

Harry gripped the edge of George's blanket and flipped it around, causing the ginger to fall with a thud.

"THE BLOODY HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!"

Harry forced three of his photos into George's face. He had folded all of them—so that the only thing that could be seen was his upper body. "Look at them. Guess the order."

The rage in George's face decreased slightly. "The order?"

"The order of the dates," Harry said impatiently. "The dates these photos were taken. Guess it."

George eyed him with disbelief and clearly was about to scream at him again but Harry cut him. "Guess it. Please."

Perhaps that George detected dread in his eyes or the slight tremor in his voice. He turned his attention to the three photos and inspected them carefully. "Well, this is rather hard."

Minutes passed, and George reached a decision. He showed the picture of him in the funeral. "Oldest." The most recent picture of him. "Mid." Him in Grimmauld Place. "Newest."

"Wrong," Harry said softly. "Guess again."

George turned frustrated. "I don't know. They all look the same. You took these photos in what, a week?"

Suddenly, Harry really needed to sit. He found the edge of the coffee table before his legs betrayed him. "Years. Eight years. I took these photos in eight years."

The change in George's face was disappointing. He shrugged, "Well, you age well."

"Too well!" Harry cut in, anger beginning to cut through the thick panic he was buried under. Once he realized he'd snapped at George, his anger evaporated, leaving exhaustion in its stead. "I guess I just need sleep. See you later."

He ignored George as he took a vial of the Dreamless Sleep Potion, until George snatched the tiny vial out of his hand. George looked troubled. "You're still drinking this? This shit destroys you."

He was too tired to argue with George, so he said nothing and went for bed.

For once, without the potion, he didn't wake up screaming. There were no nightmares, but he did dream of something he couldn't decipher. He woke up feeling confused, as though he just had a long talk, but a minute later all he could remember was a hooded face.

George pretended that Harry wasn't batshit insane last night. He prepared breakfast, cleaned the living room, and collected Harry's photos back to his drawer. Harry joked that he didn't need a girlfriend now that he had George. To that, George simply rolled his eyes and left.

Harry didn't leave the flat that day. The healers at St. Mungo told him that it wasn't a good idea to mop around the house, that he should busy himself as much as possible. They said it helped, and it did, only sometimes not enough. After all, eight years later, Harry still had those episodes at times. But that day, Harry didn't have the strength to leave his shell. So he stayed on his couch, still like a corpse, until he finally fell asleep again.

This time, he dreamed of voices.

He woke up with a jolt, but not with screams, so it was still better than he'd hoped. The voices that echoed in his mind made no sense. Honor. Duty. Fate. Right. Power. Soul. None of those words recalled anything to mind, but he couldn't keep his mind off it. The words reeled inside his head like an endless scroll for days and then weeks and then months, until finally, one day Harry forgot to take his usual dose of the Dreamless Sleep Potion.

This time, it didn't feel like a dream; it was as though he was transported into another realm. He would have panicked and disapparated away, only the strange familiarity of the landscape and curiosity anchored his feet to the land. In front of him was the hooded face from his earlier dreams. The hooded face had the build of a man, but for some reasons Harry couldn't think of it as a male. It wore a thin, oversized black garment that scattered around it as though it emerged from the land itself.

He had thought that the face was shadowed by the hood but he was wrong. The face was not there. There was nothing inside of the hood, and yet it spoke.

"At last, you returned with a sound mind."

Harry staggered. The voice was not from the hooded face, but was spoken into his own mind.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Death didn't answer his question. "I have waited for this day to come. The day for the return of your resolve; the sign that you were ready to hold the burden of your duties."

It had waited for him, apparently. Perhaps since the day he reunited the Hallows. Eight years, then. Eight long years passed and Death waited for his answer, even if Harry was never offered the question.

"Eight was hardly a significant number. I was prepared to wait for hundreds—thousands, if I must."

That was it.

The answer that Harry had been dreading. Ever since he noticed the freakiness of the photos, this question lingered in his mind. He had tried to banish it, marking it as impossible, but now the answer was confirmed. Harry suddenly felt the urge to fall and lie on his back. The world seemed as if it was crumbling. The world was crumbling.

Lightning struck across the sky with terrifying force. Rain dropped. The ground trembled, furious, and Harry fell.

"We are currently in your mind," Death's voice hissed. "Your mind is self-destructing, but it still belongs to you. To stop it from falling apart is already in your power."

It was no use; his mind couldn't take it, and he woke gasping for air.

How does one deal with immortality?

For some, immortality was a once-in-a-lifetime offer. For him, it was death sentence. Ironic, considering that was the one thing he couldn't get.

The second time Death appeared in his dream, he maintained the structure of his own mind. He could feel the ground shaking lightly with each step he took toward the unmoving entity.

"Well?" Death's voice queried. "Are you prepared, at last? To take your right as the beholder of my power?"

Harry's entire body was trembling with fear, but his voice was steady. "No."

"You delay, but time does not," Death replied. "Time has already done its duty to your mortal body."

"I didn't say I wanted to delay," Harry retaliated. "I want to refuse."

"Destiny has also done its duty. There is no rewriting it."

"I don't care. I won't do it."

"Denial has no purpose; you will—"

"I'M DONE WITH THIS!" Harry screamed. "I'M DONE BEING WEAPON! I'M DONE WITH POWER AND I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT DESTINY SINCE IT DOESN'T GIVE MUCH IN RETURN WHILE WRITING MY LIFE EITHER!"

The sky exploded and so did everything in sight. As Harry fell, he briefly caught a pair of icy blue eyes watching him from under the hood, shining with something he couldn't understand.

The first person he told was George. His best friend stood there, unblinking, searching for lies on Harry's face. The minute George realized that Harry was telling the truth, he mumbled weak denials that turned quieter and quieter until the room was silent. After an hour or so, George proclaimed that he would find a way and that he would stay by Harry's side even if the world itself stopped aging. Harry simply smiled in appreciation, because at the very least, he believed the latter.

After the dream that changed his reality, Harry refused to stop drinking his dose. He vowed to never see Death again; to bury the knowledge so deep into his subconscious that only he and George would ever know. For once, he wanted to rebel. This time, he was the one to write his own destiny; not some ancient entity spawned out of both fairy tales and nightmares.

But Death was relentless. It was weeks after his last encounter with Death when he started to hear voices awake. Master of Death. Fate's Right Hand. Bringer of End. They unnerved him to no end, but if there was something he was sure about himself, it was that he was tenacious. He'd ignore the calling until the end of the world if he'd have to.

Harry returned his attention to his surrounding the moment his clock let out an unearthly sound. The clock was a gift from Arthur just after the war ended. Harry didn't give a lot of thought into modifying it—the only people on the clock were himself, George and Ginny. He tweaked it so it would scream in alarm the moment one of the hands touched DANGER. Which now, Harry realized with pulling dread, was happening.

In a span of seconds, Harry summoned his Firebolt, destroyed the huge window at his flat and zoomed upwards the sky, giving no thought to the shattered glass all over him, as his mind reeled with George's face on the clock's hand.

Harry wouldn't call himself paranoid—but on this very day he was thankful that he'd been paranoid enough to put a tracker on George. He sped up his flying, his vision fixated on the ball of light in front of him, showing its way to George's location.

Not this time, Harry swore vehemently.

He hadn't sped this fast since ever. The worst thing about the tracking spell was that it couldn't be used with apparation; he'd have to go through the journey—no matter how urgent it was. It left the odds to his flying ability.

When he finally crashed through an abandoned shack on the west outskirts of Knockturn Alley, the light disappeared, and he fell and glided through its basement, until he halted, stopped by an unmoving body. A tall, orange-haired body with blue eyes opened wide and unseeing.

"George..?"

Harry brought his ears to George's heart. There was no sound. He put his hand together and started to pump the center of George's chest.

"Come on," Harry grunted, trying to restart George's heart when his own was failing. "Not this time. Please."

He could barely breathe. His pushes were weak, but he knew they should suffice. If it couldn't work, then it was because it was too late.

No. No. No. NO—

He was slashed from behind. From his right shoulder blade to the left part of his hips. The cut was instant, deep, and blood would keep gushing from his body until he passed out in minutes. The pain was exploding in his back, and it took all he could to turn around and placed his gaze on the attacker. Black cloak with the emblem of seven snakes. He'd seen it countless in headlines, but he'd turned a blind eye. He and his loved ones were safe hiding from the public—until this day. Slowly, Harry rose.

"You did this?" Harry asked, almost inaudible.

The attacker, the one standing before his followers, showed Harry a set of pearly teeth. "Impressed yet, Boy-Who-Lived?"

When Harry didn't answer, the attacker continued. "You're very hard to reach. No one knows where you're hiding—even after a little… persuasion. We thought the murders we committed would be enough to lure you out, but apparently you're not as heroic as we originally thought. It took a personal approach to—"

Rage burned through his veins as Harry fired his curse. The impact alone made him stagger as his head began to spin, but he could see clearly enough. The curse shot with the speed of his Firebolt and crashed through the attacker's face like a bullet through a watermelon. Blood splattered against Harry's face. Screams exploded and echoed inside the wall of stone. And then silence. The followers of the attacker stared at him, mouth-gaping, wands shaking in the air. Blood dripped from his chin.

Harry tore his gaze away from the headless form of the first attacker and met each of the others' gazes.

Everything became a blur. His anger became fuel. He shot every offensive spells that came to mind—left to right, up and down. Red and blue and green and gold exploded in the enclosed space, but all he could see was blood, and all he could think was how to spill more. Screams and blood and flesh swirled across the basement, almost in a rhythm. Amidst the sea of emotions, of rage and power, he realized he missed this. Adrenaline surging through his body, his magic realized in the realist, liveliest way possible.

Seconds passed, and everything turned deafeningly quiet, aside from his own heartbeat.

As though he snapped from an illusion, Harry's attention abruptly shifted to George. He jumped past the mangled corpses and approached the body of his best friend. Regret washed over anger and horror in an instant as he realized George hadn't been protected from his curses.

His previous energy depleted in an instant. His fingers trembled as he waved his wand over him, muttering incantations to heal a dead body. He couldn't breathe properly—not when those eyes were looking at him, accusing him.

"Not again," Harry pleaded. To anyone. Anyone that could hear him. "Please."

Selfishly, he could list hundreds of wizards of witches he'd rather see dead than George. It was fate crueler than his own. The ginger had barely learned to live after the death of his twin—Harry had barely learned to live with the death of his best friends. The last few years were hell—but it was at the very least bearable with George's presence.

He could no longer hold the tears. He screamed, tasting blood inside his mouth as he did. He couldn't accept this—he wouldn't—

"You could save him."

His eyes snapped to the tall dark figure suddenly shadowing them. Again, Harry found two icy blue eyes staring into his soul from under the hood.

"You can save him," It repeated. "The moment you embrace your fate, to do so will be in your power. There will be repercussions, without doubt; with each innocent soul you return to their body, a portion of your own will be taken."

His eyes hardened, tears still streaming down his face. "And then I will be eternally damaged, won't I? Damaged souls go to limbo. Become your possessions."

"Souls heal," Death answered shortly. Its voice lacked trickery. "If your soul remains damaged when Time ran out, then yes, yours will forever be mine. The master becomes the servant."

"To heal a soul is to regret," Harry recited quietly. "Then what if I do not regret returning a soul to the body?"

"Regret relieves oneself of sin, and cleansing sin heals souls. It is not regret itself that heals souls. Healing souls can be done by many things, Master, but it is not something of a task. After all, Time truly heals everything."

Silence. The voice of Death rang in his mind like a gong. He understood every syllable, but the words were foreign to him. They buzzed like countless bees inside his head, gripping his heart as he slowly realized what this meant.

Finally, he found his voice. "Give me the ratio of soul regeneration proportioned to Time."

Death smiled. "One revival of an innocent equals a lifetime of the involved soul. The moment the soul you revive returns to me, then your soul will start to heal. In time equal to their Life time, the healing shall complete."

"And if Time ends before my soul heals completely?"

The voice that followed was almost bloodthirsty. "Then you become mine."

"A debt, then. And a gamble."

"For lack of better speaking, yes."

Harry's gaze dropped to George's unseeing eyes. Life can never be fair, can it?

With determination he'd never had for the last few years, Harry looked into Death's eyes and asked, "How?"

But it wasn't a question needed to be answered. Harry could feel Death's magic pulling his; he could feel them merging, day and night, oil and water, fighting each other until it fused into one, solid, unbreakable power. He felt it both entering his body through every surface of his skin and emerging from the center of his chest and moving through his veins. It was as though he was cleansed from inside-out, his old magic replaced by something entirely foreign but also completely his.

Abruptly, Harry and Death weren't the only ones in the room. There were souls—transparent, but unlike ghosts, they were not floating nor were they bluish hue. The souls of the followers of the uprising, Harry realized. They squeaked in fear as Death advanced on them. Harry expected another bloodbath—but all Death did was too touch them, and then they burned, dissolving into nothingness.

Harry was morbidly fascinated by the scene, until he realized George's soul was kneeling next to his corporeal body. George's face was full of confusion as he stared down his lying form. Slowly, Harry reached George's transparent shoulder and was surprised when it didn't go through. George, apparently, was too, as his gaze snapped to Harry's instead, and his eyes went as wide as saucers.

Magic danced in Harry's finger tips, as he pushed George back to his body.

George's blue eyes widened. He took a sharp, deep breath through his mouth. He was understandably confused—Harry was ready to answer anything he asked, but the ginger beat him to it by hugging Harry fiercely.

"How the bloody hell, Harry?" George's voice shook.

"Very long story."

It was cruel, how life worked. He never wanted fame or glory or wealth and they kept on coming to him. He wanted nothing more than to escape loneliness and it was the one thing he was always denied.

Leaving Britain after what happened was an inescapable decision. Harry disliked it, but George didn't. The one-eared ginger despised it. He claimed that just because Harry was immortal and apparently able to manipulate souls, that there was no way any party would come after him or those he loved—which made George backtrack immediately as he himself heard how naïve it sounded. Aside from that, Harry didn't really feel like staying anymore. It took Harry years to realize, but Britain was slowly eating him alive.

One night, he slipped into McGonagall's office to have a little talk with his deceased mentor. Dumbledore's portrait was huge, as it should be, so Harry couldn't bring him out for privacy. Instead, he cast a small-range muffliato.

"Harry?" Dumbledore asked in surprise.

Harry gave his old mentor a long look. There wasn't a single difference between the Dumbledore in the portrait and the Dumbledore he used to know. And Harry was similar to him; trapped in a box, immune to the current of time.

For a second, Harry wondered if he should tell him. Despite Dumbledore's good goals, the means the old man used to reach said goals made Harry resent him. But Dumbledore was beyond the grave now, and all that was left was an animated source of his intelligence. There was nothing the portrait could gain from Harry—there wasn't anything left.

Maybe it was logic, maybe it was desperation, but Harry told him. Harry relieved everything he told George—the signs, the first meeting, the first realization, the ramifications. Like to George, Harry avoided talking about how those things made him feel. Dumbledore stayed silent throughout Harry's speech, his eyes calculating, his frown growing with every word.

"I—This isn't what I expected, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly. "I'm sorry. I truly am."

Words and regrets meant nothing. Despite Dumbledore's intention, the result was the same. Harry wanted to snap, but he managed to reply lowly, "That's not what I'm here for. Not for explanation, not for apologies. I've heard them."

"Then what, my boy, are you here for?"

"Solutions."

"If you've decided to see me, then you've already known that there is no solution to your immortality."

"True," Harry agreed. "I know. I've talked to it, you know. There's no way to back out from it, but maybe I don't have to go through it alone."

Realization dawned on Dumbledore's face. "You're here to find a way to grant immortality to others?"

Harry gave the old man an incredulous look. Was that how people perceived him? Did he appear to be that selfish? How could he condemn others to this when he himself wanted out of it?

"No," Harry denied. The question offended him, but he couldn't find it in him to get angry. "I want to know if there are… immortal people that you know. That you trust. I've done my research on mentally-stable and intelligent creatures with immortality, long life-span, or immunity to aging and so far I've found none."

Dumbledore's eyes abruptly became lost, and Harry wondered if portraits had feelings.

"I must admit, I didn't think that you'd ask for this," Dumbledore muttered. "Actually, yes, my boy. I've made many connections in my long life. All sort of people, all sort of creatures. But they're all business, Harry. Very tricky business. I don't think—I don't think that they deserve you. You—Harry—after everything you've been through—you deserve better."

"Well, that's not possible, is it?" Harry snapped, politeness thwarted by desperation. "If I have the liberty to choose, headmaster, I would've chosen Ron and Hermione to come back."

Dumbledore remained silent. Harry's head felt like a tangled mess, and he turned on his heel to leave, but Dumbledore stopped him.

"What?" Harry turned.

"There is one person," Dumbledore allowed slowly. "A person whom I trust with my life. And if you'll have me, with yours."

A spark of hope flickered in Harry's chest, but he ignored it. "Who is it?"

"A vampire," Dumbledore said. "Ancient and brilliant like myself. But unlike me, his kindness knows no bounds. His name is Carlisle Cullen."

"You seek a person," Death rattled. The sound was alike to claws scratching metal. "A man, but at the same time, not."

Harry's gaze fell to the void under Death's cowl. He was lying on the ground, rugged grass itching his back, but unable to move. In years, he'd never felt this drained—physically and mentally. It felt as though a rock was sitting on his chest, chaining him to the earth. It had been this way for the last three days. Upon agreeing to take the title, he was transported into a realm familiar only to him. After all, this was the place he'd visited every time he had his nightmares.

Death never told him that blood would be spilled. Not that he needed warning; the moment Death raised its scythe, Harry knew it was going to be bloodbath.

What he didn't expect, however, to be so shamefully overpowered by the entity that called him Master.

"Well?"

"Yes. I'm looking for a vampire. The name's Carlisle Cullen."

Abruptly, there was change in the atmosphere. The wind shifted. The sky darkened. Harry could feel Death's distaste hanging in the air.

"And why would you stoop so low to willingly search for such abominations?"

In his tired state, Harry glared. It took a great deal of effort to force himself to sit. Automatically thinking of the late Remus Lupin, Harry snapped, "Not all became what they are by choice."

For four long seconds, all that transpired was the contact of their gazes. Despite being unable to see Death's eyes—if it even had one, Harry still felt the cold chill on his nape.

"Truer words have never been spoken," Death said. "Choice, Master, is the only thing in this world that matters."

Before he could even show his surprise, his stomach was no longer able to withstand his weight. He fell on his back with a thud. He could feel his consciousness drifting, but he forced his eyes to remain open, and his lips to move. "Why?"

"It's the command of Life," Death told him. "Do you know, Master, that there are two of Fate?"

Harry shook his head.

"There is Fate that is predetermined. There are events bound to happen at fixed points of time. No mortal efforts would be enough to defy it. No men strong enough to prevent it. No children pure enough for their wishes to be granted and cancel it."

Flashes of images attacked his mind before he could help it. Ron's unseeing eyes. Hermione's unmoving body. Fred's half-grin on his pasty face.

"And there is Fate that is undecided. Events that would never transpire was it not for the bravery and kindness of mankind. For their greed and deceit. In the end, the choices of mortals were all that matters for Life, and ultimately, for Death."

Harry processed this, and then asked, "And what of vampires?"

"This command is especially significant for vampires. For their existence itself is abomination. Do you have any inkling to what started it?"

Again, Harry shook his head.

"You," Death whispered icily, and Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Rather, a version of you. The First Master."

"There were others before me?" Harry asked immediately. "What—what happened to them?"

"One," Death allowed. "A wizard. One who gained the title before the Hallows came to Life. To my utmost shame, he cheated Death. In the age where magic was as free as will of men, unbound by mediums wizards have now created, a man created a spell unlike anything before or after. A spell to grant mortals strength beyond this plane, and immunity against the current of time."

Death's scythe made its way to Harry's neck. The cold steel touched his skin, but no blood was drawn.

"The wizard met his end, of course, but not by my scythe. No—I was not the one with most loss. Time was enraged; Time banished the First into the realm beyond the workings of Time. A place you've visited, not so long ago."

"The limbo," Harry whispered.

"Yes," Death's hiss was predatory, and Harry could just imagine the sadist grin hiding underneath the hood. "But alas, the damage is done. The spell is created, and its effects are being passed throughout generations as we speak. Every time a mortal is bitten, they cheat Death."

"This is where choices play out?"

"Choices matter in every situation, in every moment. Death, in the truest sense, is predetermined. Every mortal has its own Time Limit. Those that chose to defy this rule, whether by ending his own life or another's, damage their own souls—a condition only repairable by remorse before their own Time is over. Whole souls belong to Life," Death grinned. "Damaged souls belong to Death."

"That's.. That's a mess," Harry muttered. "The chain of murder don't always stop. Suppose there's a girl whose father was killed. She killed the murderer. The murderer's wife killed her. Then—"

"Choices are based on intentions. Intentions and remorse, Master. The two factors determining whether a soul would be mine. In that case you created, then the only soul that will be mine is the soul of the murderer—the one that started the chain."

Harry nodded slowly. "That's.. fair."

It could be his imagination, but Harry could've sworn that Death was happy. The scythe relented from Harry's neck and disappeared into nothingness. "Then what of vampires?"

"Becoming vampires cheat Death. Vampires who did not seek vampirism are pardoned in the Afterlife, assuming they passed the trial."

It was the first time Afterlife was mentioned. Despite Harry's curiosity, he didn't press the topic. Rather, he asked, "Trial?"

"Vampirism is a trial. The ultimate test of temptation. Those who seek human blood beyond surviving purposes commit murder and therefore damage their soul. The same rule applies."

"And Carlisle?" Harry pressed. "The vampire that never spilled a single drop of human blood?"

"Is as pure as the purest of mortals," Death answered. "If his company is what you wish for, then so be it. But you need to find him yourself."

Carlisle Cullen.

That name became the only thing that mattered to him these days.

Follow the light, Harry. For the light will lead you to him.

Dumbledore's voice played over and over in the back of his mind, urging him to strive forward. Under his Invisibility Cloak, he dashed with the speed that surpassed even vampires. His goal was one—the location of a certain animal-hunting vampire, but the goal was never in sight. The shimmering blue ball of light that promised to lead Harry to him kept on zooming forward without a stop. It had been this way for days.

Rain fell, heavy and unforgiving. Harry had enchanted his clothes to remain dry, but nothing can be done about his own body. Lightning blasted behind him, and with mild horror, Harry saw the ocean beneath him shook. As though it was enraged, both sky and ocean swirled. It became harder to travel, and as Harry found a tiny lone island in the vast sea, Harry decided to stop and rest.

The storm lasted for three days. It would've been dangerous, had he not been a wizard. Few simple flicks of the wand and he was tucked safely inside a magically-expanded tent, along with bedroom, loo, tiny library, potion worktable, kitchen, and a fireplace in front of which he stayed every night.

The moment the sun emerged and the sea was calm once more, Harry took off. He put on a few precautions, mostly for the wind and Notice-Me-Not Charm. Traveling by Firebolt was exhilarating, and certainly one of his favorite experiences, but it did get tedious after a long time. After seven hours passed, Harry found himself slowing down. He hadn't noticed it before—how the ocean glittered at the touch of sunlight. How alive the sea was, dancing around, swinging back and forth, calm yet deadly.

Suddenly, he had the urge to touch seawater. He descended slowly. The feeling of his foot touching the warm water was ironically alike to being thrown a bucket of ice. He felt more alert—energized. There was complete freedom in the vastness of the sea. At that moment, in which the only thing that mattered was him and the sea and the sky, Harry didn't resent being alone.

And abruptly, with Fate's morbid twist, Harry realized that he wasn't.

It was in a blink of an eye. He was speeding with his Firebolt—but with the visual sensitivity of a Seeker, he noticed it. A human, with hair of gold, deep in the clear sea. It was entirely out of context that he stopped before he could think. Slowly, unable to believe what he just witnessed, Harry turned and looked down.

He didn't have the chance to scrutinize the figure further; the figure was suddenly in front of him, and Harry found himself looking into bright, clear golden eyes on the most beautiful face he had ever seen.

Exposed to the sun, her skin scattered the light. It was then that Harry knew what she was. Not a muggle version of mermaid, not a veela. But exactly what he had been searching for.

"Vampire," Harry whispered before he could help himself.

He couldn't even hear his whisper himself, but his utterance snapped her out of her shock. Her eyes narrowed with animosity. Harry's hands moved to his wand. She noticed.

"How are you doing that? How do you know what I am?" The girl demanded, her voice musical even when impatient. "What are you?"

Harry couldn't believe his luck. His journey had only numbered to a few days but the end goal couldn't be predicted. It could take weeks, months, years before he actually reached Carlisle. The tracking spell that Dumbledore used only worked for directions—it told him nothing about distance.

His mentor told him how rare it was to find a vampire like Carlisle; compassionate, and refused to hunt humans. Yet the first vampire Harry encountered was one with golden eyes.

He smiled widely. The girl instantly turned wary.

"Hello. I'm Harry."

ALRIGHT, that was long. I hope you don't find it tedious… the next chapter will decrease significantly in length.

Song Quoted in This Chapter [MUSE]

Goldspot - If The Hudson Overflows (Listen to it. Seriously)

Anything you want to ask, just review! I'll be glad to answer. I'm open to constructive criticism, as it helps me get better. Feedback is always welcome! Hate it, love it, REVIEW! Reviews are good.