Harry could not bring himself to be surprised at the revelation that Fred had been brought back to life. Upset, agitated, even furious, yes, but not surprised. Of course, none of these feelings were directed at Fred - or George. They had done nothing- no, he had to correct himself. Fred had done nothing but die for them. George must have done something, and if Fred had come back from the grave, then surely Death was involved.

"Did you know that identical twins are rumoured to share souls in some cultures?" Tom's word was fed into his ear in a sugary tone, too much like Death's honeyed voice for Harry's comfort. He was no fly; they would not be able to catch him by being sweet.

"Soulbond." Harry mumbled back, his eyes going from Fred to George and back again. The twins were kneeling next to Mrs Weasley, assuring her that it was alright, that it wasn't a cruel trick; all with tears in their eyes and smiles on their lips.

"My clever boy." The honey was thicker than it had been before. Just hearing it made Harry's skin feel sticky. He felt even more in need of a hot shower than before; he needed all traces of death - and Death - washed off of him. Not that a shower would ever be enough. He had blood on his hands, scars that would never heal.

Harry gave the twins one last look before he turned his glowing eyes towards Death. The smile on their face was cruel in only the upturn of the corners; the rest was deceivingly pleasant. Harry's lips thinned out in disapproval. He apparated to Walburga Black's former room, both to quietly give the Weasleys privacy, and in hope of holding an undisturbed conversation.

"What. Did. You. Do." Harry bit out his demand as soon as Death appeared in front of him, anger filling the vacant space in his bones. He felt shame as he realised that he had not been this angry when Death bound him to Tom, but his life held less value than George's. Not only that, but Tom was made up by a soul part that Voldemort had thrown aside - Fred had given his whole life; his whole soul.

"I healed your surrogate brother's soul. Leaving him with only half would be cruel."

Harry would have believed them, if Death's smile weren't crueller than their words. As his anger stopped burning hot - the flames diminishing down to something cold and fearsome - the background bled into his vision; it fit Death like a glove. There was still bones and blood on the floor since before the war - back when Buckbeak had occupied the room - and Walburga's taste in interior design was grotesque. Nothing less should be expected of a woman who had once put house elves' cut off heads on the wall as decoration.

The door to the bedroom opened before Harry could form the cold flames into scathing words. He turned to glare at whoever interrupted them, but his glare faltered as he realised that it was Tom.

"You left me in the kitchen, clearly intruding on a private moment between your red-headed companions." Tom greeted them, not attempting to hide his disgruntlement over the situation. Harry did not feel better seeing him, but he did feel better knowing that Tom was out of sight of any Order members. He felt better knowing that Tom had sought him out, instead of taking it as an opportunity to disappear. Of course, their bond limited them, but Grimmauld Place had too many rooms, too many secrets.

"I wasn't sure you wouldn't be forcibly apparated with me." Harry admitted. He wondered if they could measure the distance between the basement and the third floor, before realising that it would much simpler to test the limits of the bond by going outside and walking in different directions. Surely, a bond that forcibly apparated Tom would also set up invisible walls if they were too far apart.

Tom said nothing but instead turned to give Death an annoyed look. Harry turned as well; he was still angry over the situation that they had left behind in the kitchen.

"Would it be better if I left your friend with a bigger hole than the hole I healed for you?" Death asked. Their smile remained cruel honey, but their voice was as cold as Harry's anger. "Would it be better if your friend saw a ghost every time he looked in the mirror?"

Harry felt like he couldn't breathe. Death's words were like daggers, and he was unable to defend himself. The blood ran cold in his veins as he tried to imagine George's pain; he tried comparing it to looking in the mirror and seeing the parents that he had never known, to having every adult in his life compare him to a man named James and a woman named Lily, but it couldn't in any way measure up.

If not for Tom's arms suddenly holding him up, his knees would've hit the floor.

"You did this for no one but yourself." Tom spat out, his eyes cold but his hands soft. Harry turned his head; hid his wet eyes against the fabric of Tom's shirt. He agreed that Death thought of no one but themself, but that did not lessen the overwhelming guilt he felt. He had been selfish. He wasn't allowed to be selfish. Especially not in the aftermath of a war that had been fought for him; because of him.

"I only do what my Master wants."

Harry ripped himself from Tom's embrace, careful not to push Tom away as he freed himself.

"You do only what you want! I've asked you for nothing!"

"As I've told you before, everything is in your soul, Master."

"You say that, but how can I trust your words when the only one able to see my soul is you?"

"Death cannot lie, as I've told you before."

"Yet you still twist facts to work in your favour!"

"It's not lying."

The words were coated with enough honey to make Harry suffocate. Tom's arms found their way around his waist once more, supporting him as the sudden fire died down. He was tired, he was hungry, he was dirty. Too much had happened in the short time since he returned to Grimmauld Place, since the war had ended.

Harry didn't protest as Tom coaxed him over to the bed. He thought about mentioning the bedroom that he had shared with Ron in the past, but they were in Walburga's room; the Master bedroom. He had to accept that it belonged to him, that he was the Master of the house unless a rightful Black tried to claim it. If they did, Harry would fight them with tooth and nail - Grimmauld Place was the only thing that remained of Sirius.

His thoughts washed away as soon as his head hit the pillow, the emotional exhaustion forcing his body asleep.

Harry made for a pretty picture, brown skin and black hair contrasting against the pristine white sheets even when covered in grime and blood. It could only be prettier if Harry's eyes had looked back at him. Tom felt like he was struck by the killing curse whenever he held Harry's attention; it was thrilling. The corner of his lips turned up slightly, in the softest of smiles. It disappeared as his attention was diverted from Harry by Death politely clearing their throat.

"I hope you remember our agreement."

"You should be more concerned with remembering it yourself." Tom shot back. If words were poison, Death would not be smiling.

"I'm not human," Death reminded, tone too reminiscent of what one would use when speaking with a child. "My memory has no limits."

"Yet you're already testing the lines of our agreements."

"I only want for my Master to be happy, by any means necessary."

Tom looked back to Harry instead of answering. This was perhaps the only thing in which he would agree with Death. Although he had questions about his other self, and old plans he wanted to put into work, Harry's happiness was above anything else.

His existence relied on Harry being happy. Death had made that clear.