Author's Note: This is a prequel/spin off to the heavily AU fic October, that being said because it's a prequel it's mostly intelligible without having read the original fic but there are some mentions to events in the main fic that would be not quite understood if you haven't read at least part of that fic first. I recommend you read it but if you don't want to that's your decision.

"I am eternity"

-Azrael, October

The drift from consciousness into dreaming had grown more alarming with the years rather than less. It seemed as if there was less of a transition now that sleep eluded him. Sometimes all it would take was a blink, a slight closing of the eyes, and then his mind would wander into memory and sometimes even further.

Standing in Dumbledore's office beside the pensive, dressed in the pale form of the now fifteen year old Azrael, he immediately knew that he had drifted into himself once again. In the plane known as reality he was lying with closed eyes on a too small mattress next to a teenage Tom Riddle, but that was neither here nor there but somewhere else entirely, almost irrelevant.

Staring at the office it looked more or less the same as it had in his sixth year, before the destruction of Hogwarts and McGonagall's renovations. Half lit, only the silver memories drifting in the pensive to provide light, it appeared ominous and more than a little surreal the scent of power drifting from the books and glittering silver of unknown inventions.

In a corner Fawkes glowed like dying embers in a recently stirred fireplace.

Eventually the door to the office opened and a blinking young, so terribly young, sixteen year old Harry Potter stepped in; his eyes attempting to adjust to the light.

"Professor, sir, you wanted to see me?" Harry Potter asked staring ahead at his paler, taller, and altogether more ominous counterpart without a moment's hesitation.

So I am to play Albus Dumbledore tonight, he found himself thinking as he looked at the boy.

Harry was wearing an attempt at normalcy like a cloak again, looking rumpled with hair askew and robes wrinkled, continually uncertain of his actions and his thoughts. He was still a gawky boy then, thin as if he had been stretched recently like a piece of gum and his round glasses like coke bottles obscuring his eyes. The image of Harry Potter always brought to mind Clark Kent, someone so desperately trying to be average, human, that it made complete mockery of the human existence. The only difference was that the insult that was Harry James Potter was not yet being consciously made at this point.

"Come in Harry," He found himself saying to the boy motioning with a hand wrapped in black for the boy to come and stand next to him and the pensive.

Harry did not look apprehensive as he stared at the pensive; he had not yet learned the danger that was human thought and memory or the danger that was Albus Dumbledore for that matter. He looked somewhat confused, uncertain as always, but more than that he appeared excited. Of course, he remembered that this was the year that he had expected to learn to confront the mysteries of his life with the help of the headmaster. What a bittersweet disappointment that had turned out to be.

"This year, Harry, we'll be doing something a little different. Your occlumency studies with professor Snape will be discontinued for the moment and we'll focus on… history instead." Again the words were read off like a script with no real conscious intent behind them, as if he too were trapped in a memory, and was only passively watching as it played out.

"History, sir?" Here Harry's eyes narrowed, a touch of resentment, and in them there was a flash of bitter thought and seeds of doubt that Albus Dumbledore had for so long attempted to tear out of him. What good was memory in a war, they seemed to ask. Ah, but Harry, what else is war but memory that refuses to fade?

He just smiled at the boy, "Yes, history, you would be surprised how influential one's past can be, Harry."

(Distantly he recalled that this was not the speech Dumbledore had given Harry in his sixth year introducing the memories of Tom Riddle, he wasn't quite Dumbledore here then rather more of a poorly skilled actor told to portray Dumbledore but who mostly ended up playing himself.)

Harry just frowned, "Sir…" He trailed off, not mentioning that he thought dueling would be more applicable or anything really to help him defeat the menace that was Voldemort.

They both stared into the pensive for a moment, at the silver flecks of memory that swirled inside, swimming about in the water. What memories of Tom would be portrayed there, he wondered. Dumbledore had picked such limiting views of Tom, where he had seemed flat and psychotic and barely even a person, Dumbledore had stopped it at 'I like to make them hurt' and had gone no further. Perhaps that was all Dumbledore had seen of him or perhaps he had wanted to construct that image for the young Harry Potter, it remained unclear, but however he was portrayed the Tom that Azrael knew was much more multi-faceted and brilliant than the little boy in Dumbledore's acquired memories had ever been.

"I digress though," He said to the boy, "What we are looking for, Harry, is not simply one's past but key moments within it. We are on a search you and I, and sometimes to take a step forward we must take several steps back. Such is life, such is the labyrinth, do you understand?"

"I guess so…" Harry said, but he truly didn't, and it was quite evident in his expression.

All at once he didn't want to take Harry Potter through memories of Tom Riddle, to play the role of Albus Dumbledore with only half a heart, he wasn't sure what Tom was to him now but he wasn't a projection to be played on the walls of his consciousness like a cheap piece of theater. However there existed no hesitation in the passive watching of dreams and so Azrael who played at Dumbledore led Harry onward into the mists of memory their eyes locked on the pensive.

It was not Wool's Orphanage 1938 with a sour faced Mrs. Cole staring back at a younger Albus Dumbledore in a canary yellow suit. Tom Riddle, or his surroundings, were nowhere in sight. Instead they found themselves on the periphery of a small but homey living room facing two people with red eyes, a too young man with an old expression, and a red headed woman each sitting at the table and looking away from each other.

"Oh," He said to himself rather than to the younger ignorant Harry Potter standing next to him, "Oh, this is me."

Let me tell you a story, it is a tale to last one thousand nights and more, let me tell you a story that sometimes goes by the name Life.

"I'm thinking of retiring, in a few years, once Lily Luna is done with school. Then you, me, and the kids can all travel around the world for a bit and I'll… I don't know maybe I'll take up McGonagall on that Defense position she always wants me to take."

Harry didn't look at Ginny as he said it, looking instead at the wall, and he didn't know if she was looking at him or not. He kind of hoped she wasn't, that she was staring at the table, or looking at something but not at him with eyes that were too accusing. It was funny, he was the one who had found her in bed with Dean Thomas so shouldn't he be the one accusing? He wasn't though, he wasn't even laughing, instead he was staring at the wall twiddling his hands and thinking how it was all falling apart.

She didn't say he was too young to be retiring, he was, he had only been the head of the Aurors for a few years now and even for that he was young. Only forty years old and already head of his own department, Molly had been so very proud, she always had been though; the mother he'd never had. He'd done everything too young, saved the country, become an auror, become head of the department, he'd even died too young (of course that one hadn't really stuck). When given the position they'd probably thought he'd be there at least ten years, maybe twenty, before he went on to do something else. Maybe become a professor, or perhaps take over after Hermione and become minster, of course he'd never intended to do either of those.

He found that he was doing a lot of things that he hadn't intended to do.

"Paperwork never has been my thing, you know, well of course you know that. And I never have liked responsibility, I mean I'll do it, but I've never really…" He trailed off, she still hadn't said anything and he still hadn't looked at her.

The kids were all off in school, well James had graduated and become an auror, but Albus was towards the end of his Hogwarts career and Lily Luna was in the midst of hers. For the moment it was just him and Ginny in the too big home that also seemed so terribly small. Sometimes he found himself thinking of it as a toy, where he and Ginny could play at house, or maybe it was just him playing at house and family and father.

Then sometimes they stopped playing, he'd find Dean or someone else in bed with his wife and they stopped playing for a few crucial moments and really looked at each other. Dean wasn't the first but some part of Harry, a horrified small voice in his mind, was wondering if he might be the last.

He had wanted so desperately to be normal to just be Harry and not be something else.

"Harry, look at me." Ginny said her tone flat and brooking no argument. He turned slowly, not quite wanting to but looking all the same, and there she was staring at him with cold eyes that were somehow still her.

She was still Ginny no matter how much she changed, no matter how much he didn't, she would always be Ginny.

"I can't wait 'til the kids are out of school, Harry." She said with a sigh rubbing at her red eyes, he hadn't caught her crying yet, he hadn't cried yet either but it was there just around the corner.

"Don't," He said knowing what crossroads they had just reached, "Please don't, Ginny."

"No!" She slammed her hand on the table causing him to flinch, "No, Harry, we're doing this now and you know it too!"

Of course he knew it, he wanted to say bitterly, that's why he was sitting here jabbering away and staring at walls because he knew it. It's why he wasn't screaming about Dean Thomas being in his bloody bed with his wife because he knew it.

He'd always been good at watching his life fall apart at the seams; he'd been practically trained for it since childhood. That never made it easy though, never painless, he just happened to be very good at it.

"Harry, you're not a bad father or a bad husband…" She started before trailing off shaking her head in frustration, "Shit, that's not what I meant. Sometimes, though, Harry I wonder if you're even really a person anymore."

She sighed and rubbed a hand through long red hair just shaking her head and not looking at him, "It's not just the way… the way you look, although it's getting weirder and weirder looking like a pedophile because you're…"

She motioned vaguely to him, to his unchanged eighteen year old face, to his gawky almost adult form that had not aged as his mind had, to him still appearing the schoolboy forever and always while everything around him changed.

"We can't talk anymore, you know sometimes we talk and I… I can't even begin to understand what you're saying. I feel like you're just trying, pretending, that you can really talk to me and understand what normal people are like. You've never been normal, you've never had normal, but you just pretend and nod and smile like you're one of us when you're not."

"I…" He tried to interrupt but she had her point there had been nothing normal in him, nothing at all.

"Don't say anything, you know it too, you've probably known it longer…" She chuckled a bit, the sort of laughter he used to get when Voldemort lived in his head and everything seemed so absurdly awful, "Merlin, Harry, I just can't keep doing this. We can't keep doing this."

If they had had this conversation when he was eighteen, when he was thirty even, he would have screamed back at her that they could and they would because that was what they did. They endured, he endured, that was what life was. She was right though, he was drifting, he'd find himself having odd thoughts every once in a while that were his and not his at the same moment. Being an auror became temporary to him, and time seemed to both speed up and slow down, so that his children were only a minor part of his existence as if he expected to live past them. He felt himself growing accustomed to his too young face, as if he fully expected to see it there every morning staring back at him, and that was more than a little terrifying.

(With immortality there always came the image of Voldemort half transformed into a serpent staring back at him with mad red eyes.)

"I…" He started again trying to find something in him but whatever spark of thought that had been there had drifted out of him years ago, "What will happen with the kids?"

"They're at Hogwarts most of the time anyway, they'll live with me in the summer…" She trailed off the question of where Harry himself would go left unanswered.

Of course, this thought was more bitter than the rest, she'd want the children with her. He wasn't a bad father, she'd said, there was a 'but' implied in that sentence she'd started. It was odd having Harry Potter for a father, he knew it, his children had grown used to the sights of the wizarding tabloids before they were even speaking full sentences. Their daddy was a symbol to them before he was a person but more than that he was too young far too young and he drifted sometimes and…

Of course Ginny would want the children.

"You can't just…" Expect me to leave, take them away from me, throw me out of my own home with Dean Thomas in your bed, so many things left unsaid in that bitter sentence.

"I'm not saying you can't see them, see us, just Harry… It isn't working and it's time to let go." She said, and there was such tenderness there, twenty years of marriage rolled into it that the anger that had been so absent rolled into him like thunder.

"Ginny, this is my home, not just yours or theirs or even your lovers', but it is also mine! I'll take a vacation, I'll go see a healer, hell I will do something but I will not walk out of my house as if I am still that freak locked in my uncle's cupboard!" He stood pushing himself away from the table, magic burning the wood beneath his fingertips and the walls shaking, he forced the rage down and stalked away from the table drawing himself closer to the walls.

"This isn't something a healer can fix, Harry! You died! You died and came back wrong, vacations don't fix that! Healers don't fix that!"

Her words seemed to echo in the air but in them Harry could only hear the phrase, you came back wrong, drumming into his ears with an incessant force that only came from what was true. He didn't even need to look at her to know that the death knell had been sounded.

In a dream within a dream, viewing a memory with a young Harry Potter, the sixteen year old Harry looked over at what he thought was his professor and said, "Sir, I'm afraid I don't understand the point of all this."

But the memories rolled on as memories tended to do; they did have their own inertia after all.

Hermione hadn't been the first to visit him. Ron had come first, but he hadn't been so bad then yet, they had talked about Ginny and work and things at lunch in the ministry and he'd still been… Well he'd still been then. Teddy had come later, wondering if he was okay, and even when it was very clear that Harry was not okay and that he wasn't going to be okay Teddy had left with only a worried expression.

James spent most of his time with Ginny, it was hard to see his father as something other than a figure, something that he might need to be concerned for. He'd dropped in, when Harry had started cleaning out his office and preparing the new head to take over the office once he'd left but it hadn't been an in depth conversation.

It was Hermione though, as it was always Hermione, who was the first to notice that something was terribly wrong and that action had to be taken. He expected nothing less of her, one of the country's youngest ministers of magic.

"Harry!" She rushed into the room where he had been lurking, staring at him with wild frantic eyes, and he looked back at her idly waving a hand and summoning light into the room so that he could better see her face. She'd aged well, not as well as him of course, but well enough. Authority suited her, as he had always suspected it would, and she had been doing wonders for the country over the years leaving him terribly proud of being her friend and brother in law.

"Dear Merlin, Harry, you look terrible." She said softly so that he barely heard it, not quite an admonishing yet, she was too concerned to lecture.

"It's been an interesting year." He said in acknowledgement but without any real emotion behind it. His eyes drifted back to the wall, to the words written on it and the lines that had been crossed out, he was having trouble coming up with new ideas; the pen was waiting in his hand.

"Harry, what are you doing? Quitting your job, leaving the family, becoming a hermit in Grimmuald Place, we've all been worried sick about you." She wrinkled her nose at his surroundings, no doubt bringing to mind memories of Order meetings, Sirius, and Kreature which was a mixed bag for all of them. Grimmuald Place was a place of war and yet he had held onto it over the years never quite willing to get rid of Number 13, and here he was again. Her eyes caught the words on the wall behind her as he had known they would.

"Harry…" She said trailing off and reading the words, "Drowning, electrocution, asphyxiation… Harry, what is this?"

She already knew what it was, he could see that, Hermione had always been a very clever girl. Still, he'd realized in the past year that people liked to play games; with each other and with themselves. They liked to play pretend and they didn't like when someone told them the charade was up.

"A list." He said with a small smile, "It's just a list."

"That's not what I meant, Harry!" She said and pointed to the wall anger now visible in her expression, "What is this Harry?"

"You probably shouldn't call me that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Harry, you probably shouldn't call me that."

No, it wasn't quite anger in her eyes, he decided it was fear. A deeper darker fear than he had ever seen before, not with the dark lord hounding their footsteps, not with Bellatrix's mad laughter in the next room.

"It's your name, Harry, what are you talking about?"

He gave her a grim smile and slowly brought himself to his feet motioning for her to follow him into the kitchen where he began to make tea. As he put the kettle on the stove and retrieved the cups he started talking, "I've been thinking a lot lately, Hermione, really thinking. I know, it's a new hobby, but it passes the time when time just doesn't seem to pass. Anyway I've been thinking and I realized that I haven't been Harry for a while, if I was ever Harry to begin with."

She didn't say anything, he could feel her staring at his back waiting for him to finish, "You see, I thought back to that time with the train and the killing curse and the deathly hallows, Master of Death we said. As if three brothers could find immortality with a rock, a stick, and a jacket; a really nice rock, stick, and jacket but really… Anyway so I started wondering, was that really the first time that I've gone there and back again, I thought about it and I realized that no… I had been to that station before, I just hadn't recognized it."

He turned to her with an expression of wonderment on his face, the expression he had worn when it had all pieced together in his head, each fact falling into place in his head as if it has always been there. In that moment there had been no room for the horror and rage he had always expected at such a revelation.

She looked so small, her mouth in a grim line, and her eyes wide with tears gathering in the corner but she was going to let him finish even if it killed her to do it.

"My third year, the dementors, a whole swarm of them descending on me and Sirius like flies on a corpse. My second year, the basilisk fang lodged in my arm, I should have been dead in seconds. I had always thought it was luck, tremendous unbelievable luck, but then… There was always that famous one, the first one, October 31 1981 with the killing curse at my head. Love, was it really love Hermione?" He shook his head and closed his eyes picturing his mother, weeping over him and screaming as the dark lord destroyed her.

"There have been so many mothers and so many children, were they loved any less than I was?"

In the pause before he started again, tears gathering at his eyes as well but simply staying, not yet falling.

The kettle whistled.

He poured the tea into a glass and handed it to Hermione, she took it robotically, her hands stiff and cold against the cup.

He sighed, "Maybe, maybe I've always been like this, maybe there never really was a Harry James Potter. Maybe I've always been… wrong and I've just been trying to fool everyone and myself."

"What's the list, Harry?" There was a crack in her voice, unwilling, but there all the same.

"The list, is everything I've tried so far, and everything that hasn't worked."

They stared at each other for a few moments, the words simply sinking in, and then she was yanking his hands the porcelain cup shattering on the floor and spilling tea onto his bare feet.

"You are not staying here alone."

She side along apparated him and Grimmuald Place was empty once again.

Watching the scene play out he found himself thinking of the resulting episode that had taken place at Hermione and Ron's home; him sitting in the hallway staring at pictures of Rose and Hugo while Hermione and Ron's furious bickering could be heard in the background. Things along the lines of, can't be left alone, suicidal, needs our help, and always was fine by himself you're making a big deal out of things again.

Ron had never handled emotions particularly well, especially Harry Potter's, because at the end of things Harry's problems had seemed so monstrous and untouchable in comparison to the everyday man's.

He had ended up staying there, only a few days, as Hermione was not a force to be reckoned with but he had more or less quit his hobby of suicide by that point anyway. After assuring her that he was no longer depressed, a statement she didn't believe, and assurances that he would return he went with his original idea of taking a vacation far from Britain.

It was his first time truly leaving the country. Being Harry Potter had demanded so much time, effort, and contribution to magical Britain that he had lost the time where he could simply roam elsewhere. In abandoning his name, in recognizing that Harry Potter as such was only an idea of a person, he was able to finally leave.

He walked the world, seeing everything he felt worth seeing, writing home to the swiftly growing children and dwindling friends when it suited him and feeling altogether like a leaf on the wind.

He did return, as he promised, but it would not be for many years and even then it had only been when they summoned him back.

The memory changed, young Harry twitching with it, this one was much more brilliant than the others had been and seemingly much more terrible for it. They stared into the flames that once had housed the Department of Mysteries in the ministry of magic.

"What's going on…" The young Harry asked squinting against the light and looking around to get a grip on his surroundings.

"Unplanned consequences."

At the edge of the flames a man stumbled out, a still eighteen year old seeming Harry Potter, dressed in travel worn muggle clothing and wearing a grim soot streaked expression of determination. Although his face was still unbearded, clean as it would always be, he did not appear quite boyish anymore. His glasses had disappeared and there seemed to be a sharper more solemn cast to his features that leant him the maturity that the schoolboy Harry Potter had lacked.

He stopped and stared at the flames, seemingly unconcerned when it licked at the tips of his boots and fingers, and the fire danced in his eyes. After a long moment he turned and raised his color to the colder night and walked away with hunched shoulders into the dark.

It was the last night he would ever consider himself British.

News had reached him slowly, he rarely stayed in one continent long enough for mail to reach him. He'd found that he was much more magically gifted than he'd thought, when he tried that was, and apparating to far off destinations with only a post card to guide him was not as impossible as it seemed. Wandless magic had become easier, he'd never tried it before but it seemed almost instinctual, he no longer bothered with small spells like lumos or reparo when a thought or a twitch of a finger would do it for him.

Perhaps that should have been more unnerving, all this power inside him, but being away from Britain and Harry Potter had made it easier to accept things like that.

He kept in contact with Hermione, the children, Teddy, and sometimes Ron and Ginny. Ginny had been very angry when he first disappeared into Grimmuald Place and later into the world. He supposed she hadn't intended the train wreck that had been the end of their marriage and he wouldn't blame it on her but it had happened all the same. He wasn't sure he wanted to see Ginny, to see her with someone else, Dean Thomas or some other man and see her being happy and normal in a way he never could have provided. His marriage still brought bittersweet memories to him, wine that had almost turned sour, he drank nostalgia all the same.

He wrote back, he always wrote back, but he tried not to let the images linger in his head.

He had always intended to return but the vacation became longer and longer as he wandered further and further away from that rainy island nation. He saw things, humanity spread across the land, both muggle and magic all great cities and people that he had never realized existed. Looking at that world, wandering among the different cultures, it was hard to remember that he ever needed to go back.

If that last letter hadn't come he didn't know how long he would have remained gone.

It was Hermione who told him, in blunt uncharacteristic words, you need to come home now.

She had left him one final warning above her signature, "The Department of Mysteries"

She was no longer minister; she had been replaced although she had never intended to devote her life to politics. She had left and spent her time researching now as many other great witches and wizards before her and as governments did it changed and began to resemble the ogliarchy that Voldemort and the resulting restoration after his war had sought to destroy.

He had told Hermione, before he left, that it was best that he go before the Department of Mysteries got too interested in why the boy who lived seemed to keep on living at the same age. It had been a joke then, half serious, but still a joke.

"They haven't done anything yet," She'd said to him when he arrived in her kitchen looking wildly at her and demanding explanation, "But they've been asking if we've had any contact and Albus says that he, Lily Luna, and James have all been getting weird letters in the mail asking them to come in for some standard testing he's never heard of before."

He'd lost most of his temper as a teenager, without Voldemort in his head everything had seemed less infuriating, but a spark of it tinged in fear came into his consciousness at the idea of his children in bits and pieces strewn about the innards of the government. He must have looked wild then, half-crazed, because Hermione was placing hands on his shoulders and sitting him in a chair with a wide-eyed expression.

"Harry, I don't know if it's that bad yet, and your children can take care of themselves they always have been capable… I just thought that you should know."

He didn't act that night, he stayed in Britain but he simply kept watch, and the months grew darker as the pestering of his children grew and the attempts to find him became more insistent. Still he did not move, not until the bill was passed before the Wizengamot, increasing research into inhuman creatures and allowing more ethically questionable research to be performed should it be for the good of society.

Perhaps it had been impulsive, perhaps it would not have escalated as he thought it might, but the labyrinth that was the Department of Mysteries had never left him and had always lingered in his nightmares.

He went without even a second thought and before he knew it he was standing before the building that housed the Ministry of Magic and the basement was on fire with the Department of Mysteries inside.

(The next day he would find them, Lily Luna, Albus, and James and tell each of them with a solemnity that he hadn't worn since during the war that they needed to leave magical Britain; it was no longer their country to claim.)

"The government survived of course, rebuilt itself, although much of the research within the Ministry was lost with the destruction of the department of Mysteries. Not that, after the first time we had run through it, there had been much left to destroy but what little headway had been made in the restoration had once again been put aside. They left my children alone, which was really all I had wanted from them."

The young Harry Potter nodded slowly as if attempting to understand but not quite comprehending. He had no doubt that Harry's expression had been similar in watching the young Tom Riddle through the various memories Dumbledore had shown him. No one could ever say that Harry James Potter did not try.

The world around them had reverted back to the silver mist of memory. It was as good a place to reflect as any, and perhaps it was something of a stopping point for him as well as the country, it would be the last time they looked to him as a messiah certainly. He had always wavered between messiah and fugitive for the British but even they had acknowledged that he had always had reasons for what he did that could be found in the greater good of the nation. In burning down the central government building Harry had ceased to exist solely for them and they had all found that more or less concerning.

James having built his life in Britain did not take his father's advice and instead stayed and weathered the storm. His letters to his father would become fewer and fewer as he resented the terrorist act that had left him as well as the rest of the family in something of a bind. Albus had not travelled far, elsewhere in Europe, and occasionally he would meet with his father as he too roamed the countryside doing odd jobs here and there. Always in his eyes there would be a lack of understanding, an attempt to know his father, but a sad sort of acceptance as he never reached it. It was Lily Luna who went the furthest, traveling the world as he continued to do and see what she could make of it taking after both of her namesakes in the same instant. None of them fully understood the fear he had felt, his reasons for burning down the Ministry, it had only been a shadow to them and for that he would be forever grateful.

"Where did he go then?" Harry asked, not yet identifying this older broken man with himself. How could he? At that age Harry had more or less expected to die when Voldemort did. The idea of an older, even if he looked the same, version of himself was inconceivable.

"Wherever the wind would take him, that's what it means to be nameless, you become the leaf on the wind." He said with a sigh, "Of course, Britain is hardly the end or beginning of all things, and I suspect we still have many more memories to go."

Author's Note: So this story has three different versions of Harry running around at the same time, you know, because that's not confusing or anything. That being said this is the 400th review fic for October with a prompt by nisci asking for "a fic that covers more background on Azrael's existence as Death and his past history. As in, has he done anything major before he met Tom? How long is his lifespan? Was his original life the same as canon!Harry's? Is he able to change his age or does it happen normally? How does being Death/'immortal' work, when Azrael dies is he reincarnated with his memories or does he just come back to life like Lily? How did he end up in Hogwarts again?"

MOST OF THOSE QUESTIONS WILL BE ANSWERED OR AT LEAST VAGUELY ANSWERED, so far as I can tell though, I have a tendency not to explain and let the characters guess or imply things instead. But anyway, this is the big prequel.

Thanks to readers you guys are great, reviews are much appreciated as always.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.