Harry often wondered if he would be a dragon if wizards had magical animagus forms. It wasn't because he was a parselmouth- a skill which to the surprise and dismay of many schooltime housemates and friends alike, stayed with him after his short lived, be it untimely demise. Harry had conceded to their protests at first, and rarely used the skill. However Harry had traveled the world in the short years after Voldemort's defeat, and leaned of magical communities that revered and even worshiped those who spoke the language of serpents.

In Egypt, the Master of Death had been astounded by the sheer amount of parselmagic tomes and Harry had done his best to absorb all he could. Healing spells, defense spells, twisted cursus that Harry would have once never dared looking at he studied in relish. Harry had gone to Egypt first, originally to track and understand the beginnings of Horcruxs. He had thought that if he thoroughly understood them, that he could gain some deeper understanding to why Riddle had twisted himself into the broken, crazed being known as Voldemort. Because surely, in a world of magic and the impossible splitting ones soul couldn't have been the only way to secure immortality. Harry had not, to his chagrin, found any new information on Horcuxs- Horcuxi? He wasn't even sure what the proper plural was.

He did find, after being dehydrated, lost, magically exhausted, and chased by a bloody Nundu that he swore were local to East Africa, not North- that parselmagic was rather prudent at healing. Harry had been too tired to apparate further than the he had, the desert was if anything sandy, unforgiving, and really fucking big. He was laying down in the shade of one particularly spherical mound of sand that Harry had, in a last attempt to untwist the shattered remains of his right arm, concentrated though the white pain and tried his best to think. The basilisk venom he had been dosed with in second year had thus far kept him safe from every poison he had encountered, but Harry hadn't done anything as brash as to purposely inject himself with every conceivable venom, poison, or potion he could lay his hands on. Luckily, he hadn't seemed to be suffering any adverse effects due to poisoning, so Harry focused on his arm. Harry had known that the more complicated wand movements for higher levels healing charms were impossible for him to perform with his left hand, and though he was skilled in wandless magic, it was hexes and curses he was apt at, he was barmy at regular healing spells as it were. In desperation, Harry squeezed his eyes and hissed through his teeth:

''HEAL!''

It wasn't the most original thing to say, but Harry forgave himself due to the situation at hand. The carnage that was his arm had done exactly that, and though he had to go to a Mediwizard afterwords and get his bones vanished because the healing had been so bastardized and crude, Harry was alive.

It was then and there Harry decided two things: he would never again ignore anything in his arsenal based off of the fear and prejudice of others, and that in the future, he would be more prepared for unexpected situations. Though Moody was a bastard, Harry'd wished he would have been more vigilant in face of the wretched nundu. He remained in Egypt for seven years, and at 25 returned briefly to Britain.

Ginny had saved herself for him, although he had told her she had to do no such thing before he left, and cried joviently into his arms upon his arrival. She hadn't aged much, and Harry noted she had only gotten more beautiful with the passage of time. It was then, that he realized, he didn't love her. The prophet run flush with gossip the moment his return was spread. 'When will Lord Potter propose?', 'When will our Saviour pop the question?', 'What will The-Man-Who-Conquered do now that he's back in England?' And wasn't that title a laugh- Harry was sure a muggle war lord by the name of Genghis Khan had already taken that sobriquet.

While sitting in the burrow, surrounded by friends and pseudo-family, Harry thought about the Prophet, about all the expectations laid upon him. He thought about how he was asked to become Minister, and then, after his refusal, pushed towards becoming an auror. He thought about Ginny's lips brushing against his, and the way his stomach used to flutter and how his face had heated. On Christmas, wearing a new knit jumper courtesy of Mrs. Weasley, Harry found himself wishing he were back with the nundu.

In the time that he was gone, Harry had met people of every variety and had faced many world views and teachings- to be back with people who seemed to blind themselves with their prejudices and unfound hate irked him to the umph degree. But Harry would be lying if he said that was the only reason for his newfound apathy.

It was boring.

The Weasley's hadn't acted differently from normal, and that was what annoyed Harry the most. He tried explaining parselmagic, about how it could heal and protect. Harry then had been met with narrowed eyes and cautioned: 'Better not show anyone else that, Harry. We've known you for a long time so this must be a mistake- quickly stop it before anyone else sees.'

Harry didn't love the Weasleys. But he was fond of them.

He had spent his life groomed and conditioned to face off Voldemort- to sacrifice himself doing so, and now that the big bad to end all big bads was dead, he found himself in search of purpose. Harry didn't resent Dumbledore for his manipulations that grew clearer as he aged, and was even mildly impressed he had been lead on such a tight leash. While he traveled, Harry had been able to immerse himself in new, shiny things, and was often distracted. Harry had been running, from Dumbledore's legacy, from Britain, from any responsibility that were time and again shoved upon him.

He didn't break up with Ginny immediately.

She was safe.

The day after christmas Harry ventured into Gringotts and did what he had been putting off for years. Once again, the Prophet ran stories of him going in to retrieve the Potter betrothal rings, and later, when he left, Harry would regret not glamouring himself. He hadn't because he was unsure of how the Goblins would react, and after the incident with Helga's cup, he knew he was on thin ice with the small, toothy creatures. After many hours of tedious paper signing, stamping, arduous truth oaths and blood tests, Harry found himself in the possession more money than he could ever dream to use, four lordships and their respective gaudy rings, and a gargantuan pile of artifacts and books of varying rarities and usefulness.

Harry was mollified by the sheer hard amount of wealth he had come in possession of, and to the combined amusement and annoyance of the golins, he had all of the contents moved into a singular vault. Harry then spent a pretty penny -not that it mattered anymore, with the gratuitous amount of gold he owned- to get a full audit of the vault. He made sure to tip nicely, and had the auditor swear an oath not to divulge any secrets of what they may or may not find.

After that Harry had done his best to study the mass befuddlement that was wizard politics, ediqit, and dove into his own familial history.

Years had passed, and he still remained a ghost to the general population of wizarding Britain. Harry had told Ginny that after what happened with the war, he wasn't sure that he could love her like she deserved. He apologized for making her wait so long, and swore that he would always look after her the best he could. Ginny eventually conceded, and though his relationship with the Weasleys as a whole had frayed, they still were on speaking terms.

Harry had lost most contact with Hermione after he revealed that he'd been studying magics of a more questionable nature, and had only frequently spoke with Neville and Luna. The letters between Hermione and him had gotten few and far inbetween- it wasn't an abrupt ending, it was one that flickered and faded tell the last letter she said ended with a softly scrawled farewell.

He still kept tabs on her though, on the Weasleys, on Neville, on Luna, and even little Teddy. They were his friends, and family or, well, had once been, and though he couldn't bare being around their bigoted views after his exposure to the rest of the world, they were his. Harry set up protection wards for them, made sure they had enough coin to send their grandkids to Hogwarts, and quietly made sure any troubles that would otherwise present themselves towards them disappeared.

Harry had once again set out to travel after he'd eliminated the remaining murmur of death eaters that skulked around the corners of Knockturn and other dreary, dark places.

It was when a 35 year old Harry who looked no day over 20 coughed a mouthful of blood into his sleeve as he lay at the steps of a crumbling Greek temple that a true smile arched across his face. His chest ached, his breath was wet and sticky and he knew he was on his last leg. It wa the first time in years, that he had felt this alive. Pushed to his limit, not knowing if he'd survive to see the next sunrise.

In front of the downed wizard an impossibly skinny figure stoon hunched and steady. It was withered and gaunt, barely recognizable as female. It was dressed in a grayed toga and had wiery black hair that spindled off of it's leathery skin in greesy spools. It's eyes, Harry noted with both interest and unease, were sewn shut. As was its mouth- stitched closed in thin, golden threads. The creature- for to call it a woman would be wrong-, lifted it's hads towards Harry palms turned outwards. The left, a singular pale eye blinked slowly, long lashes framing a pupil that spun around rapidly as if it couldn't focus. The right palm had a large gash across it- one which peeled back into crowded teeth that formed into a bastardized grin. A thin, wet tongue darted in and out, and the creature took a long, lumbering step towards Harry before stopping.

"Moirai," Harry intoned, eyes narrowed. His vision was hazy from the beating he had taken, but he was sure that what stood before him was something greater than he had initially imagined.

"Harry Potter," The Creature whispered, it's voice was unused, cracking slightly, yet it held the slick properties of oil and something far too profound and otherworldly for Harry to fully grasp. "Fate Favouried child, poor broken child."

"Broken?" Harry scoffed. "Maybe today, but that's thanks to the protections of this temple. The Ancient Greeks were some nasty warders." His eyes filled with mirth. "Give me a day and I'll be right as rain. You on the other hand," He gestured weekly at the creature. "Need at least a week. See a good Mediwizard, some pepper up would do you good."

"You have been touched by death," The thing went on. Harry froze in place. "and you've mastered it. Fate Favouried child, sweet broken child." The creature took another step. Harry found himself unable to move, and could do nothing but look on in wide eyes as the thing stretched out it's arm and placed one of Its long, pale hands on his shoulder. Harry expected pain, for it to squeeze and snap bone. However the Moirai's hand was nearly light as the air itself, and Harry could only feel the magic of the creature gently push against his own. It was a tepid thing- it neither flowed or sparked brashly. Harry had never felt magic like this before, it was akin to a calm endless well, and at the same time, it was nothing.

"You've been alone, twisted to the will of another, than abandoned. Without place, without purpose, fate favoured child, your binds hold you tighter than you know."

"I'm not alone," Harry challenged despite himself. He looked into the eyeless sunken sockets of the Moirai. "I have friends."

"You have no friends, Harry Potter."

Harry blinked. Having an ancient creature outright tell him he was friendless was both unexpected and somehow liberating. "Really," he pursed his lips. He had Hermione, and the Weasleys. They never talked anymore- but Harry had made sure they were set up for any sort of future.

"People are not dolls, Fate Favoured. You may smile, and be fond of those who you allocate yourself with. You buy them clothes, you give them money, but I see you, Harry Potter. I look into your soul, into your magic, and you are alone. A tool whose use has been fulfilled, lacking purpose and motivation. For all the chances you've had, and all the more that you haven't, you've never loved. You're empty."

Harry bristled, unable to tune to words out. The creatures second hand rested on his other shoulder, strationing his form up. It was so gentle, so sickenly gentle. "I have people I care about."

"But," It continued in a monotonous drawl. "You care, you do care. I can see that. You care for them one might a painting or fine wine. You like them because they acknowledge you, you like them because you can visit when you please and be unbound. It would be no different had they been art that you checked up on, once every couple of years to dust and shine."

Harry's smile dropped, and his emerald eyes grew sharp. "You make it ssssound like I have ssssome sssort of pathology."

"You've been alone for so long, Fate Favoured. But there are others just as lonely as you."

"Trying to tell me I'm not special then?" Harry sneered. "And what's with this 'Fate Favoured' bollocks? I can hear the capitols."

"But you are special, Master of Death, Boy-Who-Lived, you are Fate Favoured," The Moirai rested it's temple on Harry's own. "And I," It drew its head back, before slamming it against Harry's forehead in a blinding smash. The last thing Harry heard before his world faded into darkness was a gentle whisper. Like what a mother would tell her babe before putting him to bed.

"And I, I am Fate."

[BLACK BOX] Harry Potter wondered if he would be a dragon animagus not because of the piles of gold he owned, or even because of the knowledge he sought to accumulate, but because his hoard was one of people. He liked it when he was noticed, he liked it when he was treated well. He liked it when people had trust and faith in him- not blind, foolish faith that the ministry semed to crave, but the select affections of the few who he had deemed interesting. He had grown up with nothing, Harry hadn't even known his name wasn't Freak until elementary. Harry would treat his horde right, he would never let them be in the state he had been when he was younger. They'd be taken care of, they'd be safe. He'd treat them right, he cared about them. They were his, after all.