So Much to Live For.

Summary: Death mused, that they had never had such a young master before.

Death mused, that they had never had such a young master before.

Death took the young and old regardless of age or ethnicity, of pride or purpose. It did not matter your rank within your society, or social constructs like gender, or economy. Death was inescapable, inevitable, even if it was in many ways avoided with prolonged existence.

However, Death's master was a different tale.

Death's master greeted them like a lost friend, like a lover, a soul mate of all forms. Like the final brother, so whitty, so smart. He had been Death's last master here. On this plain and in this time.

Yet still he had somehow moved on, death had changed, their master released them…Death released him too. Ignotus has been so old when he had died, so ancient and unyielding. Unadaptable.

Death couldn't understand why he had finally greeted him, finally given himself over. To protect his young? Death was curious.

You see, Death's master mustn't just collect the Hallows, and sing the tale of death and life and destruction and triumph. They couldn't just believe and collect, it wasn't that easy. It was why so many thought the tale a hymn of the damned. Because all the masters before this green-eyed god died old, died alone. Died without legacy.

The Master of Death had only do two things to earn the title and walk the earth eternally; walk the dimensions with gods and before religions for the end of all things.

They had to collect the Hallows righteously; with whit, cunning, valour, determination, and power.

And they had to greet Death as a friend.

Most however, thinking the Hallows a farce, did not greet Death until their natural end, and Death could not accept that. Ignotus had been the only other master of Death, the first, the original and more powerful than the rest. Having passed on his blood he did not die alone, he passed on his tale. Death couldn't accept him properly.

But Potter, the newest. The young.

He was ever so young. Death mused as he watched the boy arrive at the platform, warm cheeks and tear-tracks.

This child collected Death's Hallows, so effortlessly, so cleverly. And here he was, walking to his death before his time, with square shoulders and life burning thought his veins of basilisk venom and phoenix tears.

Death was so thrilled to see him. To see the man who would rule them and walk with them. It had been centuries longer than Death thought it would be. When they had created the Hallows, Death expected instant companionship; human greed, and the shortness of human life practically bred the land for the birth of Death's Master.

And yet it hadn't. Ignotus Peverell has tried, but he had never the ambition for conscious gathering of the Hallows, nor the wit to realise when he had done so. Many others had the ambition but had lacked the true heart of Death's Master. Voldemort and Dumbledore the poisonous fools had both intention and ambition, but neither could face death with friendly means, with love and life in their hearts; one feared death more than any other mortal, and the other fancied himself above death –'the next great adventure' it made Death seethe.

So no, neither man could dare to be Death's Master. Death was no fool, they weren't to become servant to a master they had not approved of. They were the contract holder, they could burn it if they so wished.

The Master of Death was a rumour and a child's tale because Death so chose to never enact the contract of collection.

But here, stood before the boy-man who lived-and-conquered, Death was so filled with adoration and love and infatuation and relief that the contract signed itself. Death may need to give their consent, but Death had never need ask it.

"So the tale was true, I thought it might be." His voice was smooth, filled with grief only one so acquainted with death that they lost fear for it could maintain such a tenor. "The world is filled with magic, how could such a story be false."

It was not a question, and so Death did not insult their master by answering.

"Welcome home, Master." Death replied instead, so eager for a forever-companion, and so intimately aware of their master's nomad lifestyle, one he loathed.

Death would become home for the boy who had death written into his bones as a babe, and whose hands were stained with future blood before he even breathed.

Death would become Home for Harry as he wandered the worlds, and the soft, sad, accepting smile that their Master greeted Death with thrilled them so. This was what Death would accept, and nothing less. Their Master greeted them with no more regrets, with a smile, with acceptance, with arms that would hold Death and a chest since stopped beating.

Death's Master was Death itself, was dead, would not live, would remain an in-between for Death in the mortal realms. As such, Death too would remain a grounding reminded that their Master would forever be more, and forever belong somewhere.

Death swooped forward, billowy black smoke so thick it was endless; like staring into a black-hole, death had been led to believe. Yet still, Harry could see the 'light' that everyone said they saw in momentary death. It was heaven and paradise and rebirth; it was every religion and atheism. It was truth in the lie, and a lie hidden in truth.

Harry did not flinch, he had his anger out when he greeted Dumbledore here in this station earlier. He had made his bones. Why now would he be furious with an unending life, when moments ago he had been sure he was walking to his death?

Harry's only satisfaction really was that Dumbledore, even in his 'next adventure' would never know what Harry had achieved. And Voldermort, in his eternal damnation –for Harry would leave this willowy space once he was done speaking with Death, and he would destroy Voldermort –would forever get to relive this conversation between Harry and his new servant, and know how close he came. Voldermort would forever know that his greatest enemy, now commanded his every suffering.

After that, Harry would leave. He might raise Teddy, the sweet boy. He might age himself accordingly and slip away like smoke one evening many years down the road. He would not marry though. He would leave eventually, and he would find himself some other immortals-or-near-enoughs.

For now though, Death swept forward, cold and warm, and perfectly made to Harry's needs. So humble and kind to their master.

Death smiled to themselves, pleased by the sheer power and calm that their new master exuded. So accepting of his death it was almost nectar for Death.

Still, Death held their master's face in wisps that resembled hands, and pressed lips so cold and dry to the forehead that had become legend. One hand pressed to the boy-man's neck, hot like a branding iron for that is what it was. As the smoke and Death drew away, lips pulling with them the unknown horcrux, and the hand branding Harry with the Deathly Hallows, Death could only grin.

"I will return, Master, when you are done playing games with mortals."

And so the whiteness dissolved as Death's Master stepped back into the mortal realms. Even as Harry became aware of the shaking arms bringing him back to the castle, Death watched on with manic grins and whirling ideas of lust and life that always confused the being who took such things away.

Their master was ever so young, so much younger than any other before him, which of course meant that Harry still had so much more to live for. And now, an eternity to experience it.