This only left one parcel. Harry picked it up and felt it. It was very light. He unwrapped it.

Something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor where it lay in gleaming folds. Ron gasped.

"I've heard of those," he said in a hushed voice, dropping the box of Every Flavor Beans he'd gotten from Hermione. "If that's what I think it is - they're really rare, and really valuable."

"What is it?"

Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It was strange to the touch, like water woven into material.

"It's an invisibility cloak," said Ron, a look of awe on his face. "I'm sure it is - try it on."

△⃒⃘△⃒⃘△⃒⃘

The Snitch. His nerveless fingers fumbled for a moment with the pouch at his neck and he pulled it out.

I open at the close.

Breathing fast and hard, he stared down at it. Now that he wanted time to move as slowly as possible, it seemed to have sped up, and understanding was coming so fast it seemed to have bypassed thought. This was the close. This was the moment.

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

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

△⃒⃘△⃒⃘△⃒⃘

"But you're too late," said Harry. "You've missed your chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took this wand from him."

Harry twitched the hawthorn wand, and he felt the eyes of everyone in the Hall upon it.

"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" whispered Harry. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does . . . I am the true master of the Elder Wand."

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort's was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco's wand:

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmus!"

The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted be-

tween them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort's green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with the unerring skill of a Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scar- let eyes rolling upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hands, staring down at his enemy's shell.

△⃒⃘△⃒⃘△⃒⃘

In the following years after the devastating results of the Battle of Hogwarts (which Harry was sure was going to enter Hogwarts: A History), wizarding society in Great Britain was only just starting to recover. After the war, Kingsley had been named temporary Minister of Magic and he had been doing his best to rebuild wizarding Britain. The very foundations upon which the Ministry of Magic had been built were rotten, corroding and corrupted; it was this that Kingsley had demolished and was now slowly building anew.

Hermione had gone back to Hogwarts, as soon as it had been renovated, to finish her schooling and get her twelve Os. Ron, unwilling to go anywhere without Hermione had followed her (although Harry believed that his perpetual jealousy had forced him to go along so as to fend off any other young men interested in wooing one third of the golden trio). After their graduation both had stayed at the school. Hermione had replaced Binns as Professor of History of Magic and Ron worked as a part-time Quidditch instructor.

Harry had been reluctant to go back to Hogwarts. He couldn't imagine him traversing those familiar hallways without a large portion of his former classmates. Many had chosen to return to the muggle world (the wizarding one to hard to live in now), some had gone back to work at their parents' businesses, and some, like Harry had abandoned society as a whole.

He had secluded himself from everyone and everything in the dark, shadowed rooms of Grimmauld Place. A Fidelius Charm had hidden the house from the world once more. Only Kreacher had received the secret and even then, it was only because of Harry's unwillingness to go to the local shop to get food. And in his seclusion, Harry had turned to the extensive collection of books in the Black family library. He had never been a bookworm, but circumstances had forced him to start doing research.

The circumstances being his youthful appearance.

Mere days after the Battle, Harry had been doing his laundry muggle style and had been emptying his trouser pockets when he had noticed a hard object in one of them. The Resurrection Stone. Unwilling to tempt himself into using it again, Harry had apparated to the Forest of Dean, and had thrown it as far has his exhausted body would allow him to.

A few days after that, Harry had found the stone wrapped up in his invisibility cloak; and on top of that, lay Dumbledore's wand: The Elder wand.

It was at that moment, that he had realised that he had indeed become the Master of Death. The Master of the Deathly Hallows. This had been the reason for his seclusion and obsessive desire to find a way to escape this world. Suicide had been contemplated, but after Harry had been mugged (on one of his rare trips to the wine tavern) and subsequently stabbed in the heart, Harry had died only to reawaken, gasping for breath in his bedroom in Grimmauld Place without any knowledge as to how he got there.

And finally, after nine and a half years, Harry had finally exhausted the resources of the Black family library. And from this enormous collection of books, Harry had only managed to glean some information about alternate universes. And yes, that was what he was trying to find information on. Dekadon Delis, a greek researcher from 1843 had claimed in his diary that he had been transported to this universe from another one, after a failed magical ritual. Diaries with similar entries were scattered throughout the Black family library and in most of them, the wizard or witch involved had somehow failed to complete a magical ritual.

It was due to this lack of information, that Harry, for the first time in nine years, left the security of Grimmauld place in order to go to the British National Wizarding Library.

The sun was shining brightly when Harry left the house and although he did spend several hours a day in the backyard of Grimmauld Place, Harry wasn't used to gentle breeze ruffling his hair. The suit he was dressed in was slightly ratty and had been made for a stockier man (Harry had dug it out of Sirius' things). It was slightly old fashioned and he noticed a few heads turning to stare at him.

Nevermind them, a voice said inside his head, they're muggles. In the wizarding world no one will look twice at you.

Harry had glamoured his face into that of an old man, with wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, partly because he was interested what he would look like as an older person, and partly because at least that way, people would stay away from him more as the elderly were respected very much in the wizarding world.

In his hand he held a hard, stiff cane, which he had to lean on every now and again when his right leg acted up. The war had left him with a limp and after a bit of research, he had concluded that it was only psychosomatic. Nevertheless, although he was armed with that knowledge, the limp had only gotten more pronounced over the years. He attributed it to his increased guilt that he could have saved more people.

The Leaky Cauldron was full with people drinking and singing drinking songs. Somewhere in the crowd, Harry could see some faces he recognised. Behind the bar stood a hunched but happy looking Tom. Harry smirked lightly, it seemed that not much had changed.

No one gave him a second glance as he walked through the pub and to the back door where the tapped the correct sequence on the brick wall.

Harry smiled sadly as the flourishing Diagon Alley was revealed to him. He could almost imagine Hagrid standing next to him and explaining to Harry's 11 year old self where to buy what. The last time he had been here, had during the war when Harry, Hermione and Ron had broken into Gringotts. That sad smile slipped of his face and instead the corners of his mouth twisted downwards into a frown.

He often thought of Ron and Hermione, he wondered how they were getting on; were they married? Did they have children? Or had they broken up? Harry mentally shook his head, trying to rid his mind from old memories. He was an even bigger freak than he had previously been. He couldn't die now, he didn't age and he was the Master of the Hallows. Ron and Hermione would want nothing more to do with him. Besides, his depressive and nihilistic attitude to life would only darken their lives.

Harry swiftly made his way to the National Library and was amazed how little attention he was paid. It was refreshing being someone else. Someone unrecognisable.

He muttered a soft 'Good morning' to the librarian as he walked in and she briefly raised her head and glanced at him, then went back to her magazine. Harry cleared his throat to speak and when he spoke, his voice was raspy from disuse.

"Would you be so kind as to tell me where the books on alternate universes are?"

The librarian sighed and turned her eyes on him again, she looked unhappy to be disturbed again, but seeing that it was only a kind-looking old man, she agreed to show him.

She led him to the back of the library and pointed at a wobbly bookcase, "Here, Mr-"

"Underwood. Thank you-" he looked down at her name-tag, "Ariana." She gave him a tight smile and disappeared into the labyrinth of book cases.

Picking out the most trustable books, Harry levitated them with a flick of his wand and made his way to one of the study-tables.

△⃒⃘△⃒⃘△⃒⃘

The day for his departure had finally come. After another three years of preparation, it had finally come.

The goblins had been none to happy when he had waltzed (well, really, limped) into Gringotts, but they had grudgingly agreed to execute his will on his desired date. The ritual Harry would be performing wouldn't allow him to bring anything with him, although Harry somehow knew that the Hallows would find themselves back in his hands. So for this reason, Harry was leaving all of his money, his titles and possessions to Hermione and Ron and the rest of the Weasleys. He had written them a letter saying he was sorry, and explaining what he was going to do and that for once in his life, Harry was going to do something for himself. He knew that while hurt, Hermione would be happy that he was finally allowing some of his Slytherin qualities, namely self-perservation, to shine through.

The ritual was quite complex, and it depended on ancient runes and many precise calculations. For this reason, Harry had been forced to spend the last three years learning about the art of ancient runes and arithmancy.

Harry wet his lips as he sat down crosslegged in the middle of the basement of Grimmauld place. It all came down to this. Twelve years of preparation and he was finally doing it - escaping from the demons of his past.

He was sitting in the middle of a large chalk-drawn circle. This circle was divided into six parts, each filled with smaller runes which turned a glowing blue (the tattletale colour of pure and raw magical energy), when Harry put his hands on them. He could feel his magic thrumming against his fingers. The building was starting to shake and Harry shook his head as powdery cement started drifting on his hair and face.

"Mataferete me apo auton to kosmo. Apeleutheroste me apo auta ta desma, Parte me makria," Harry intoned carefully, as he closed his eyes. He was starting to feel his magic being locked onto the ritual. Swallowing heavily he repeated the three sentences again. And then again - each time rising in volume.

And then... suddenly he seemed to loose his voice. The air was sucked right out of his lungs, as though he had been thrown into space. He struggled to breathe, but everything was suddenly closing in on him. Everything was dark. And then pain exploded in his chest, originating in his heart and spread throughout his body. He felt the strong presence of magic intensify tenth-fold - suffocating him.

There was no single clear thought in his mind, and just as he thought he was going to die, just as he thought he had glimpsed a light at the end of a tunnel, he felt the pain withdrew, and he felt fine again. At calm... and content. And then he knew no more.