"So anyway, this is just a short little thing that I felt like writing because why not. The longer fic I'm writing is going slow. Hope you enjoy it

Harry hadn't really expected to arrive here once again. He had thought that when he was older, when he was ready to die, it would just happen, and he would move on peacefully. When he had died that first, time, Harry hadn't really thought about what it meant. He hadn't thought about how he was there, why it was Platform 9 ¾, why he had a choice. Dumbledore had led him to believe that it was because of the horcrux inside him, but if that was the case, he wouldn't be here now. He'd known something was up when by his 50th birthday, his appearance was largely the same. He didn't look like a teenager by any stretch of the imagination, but he didn't look his age, either. It was Hermione who had brought up the fact that he was the Master of Death.

Back when he gained the title, he hadn't thought anything of it; he was too busy trying to defeat Voldemort to ponder on what it meant to be the Master of Death. Afterwards... well, he had just forgotten. They then theorised that being the Master of Death meant that his appearance was not as affected by age as those around him. Which had been fine. It was odd to see his children looking older than him several decades later, but he was happy. And surely, being the Master of Death merely meant that he would go when he was ready, on his own terms.

And this time did come around. He was around 120 when he felt that it was his time. He had great-grandchildren, he had family surrounding him, and they couldn't see why he had to leave, but he knew that it was right. He had seen so much change, so much growth in the world, that he was satisfied leaving it behind in the hands of his descendants. Ginny and Ron had already passed, and Hermione they both knew was on her way out as well. It wouldn't make sense to hang around any longer.

So, one night, he lay down in his bed, and he just... left.

Around him was the clinical white of death's version of the Platform that transported him to and from home; Hogwarts. It struck him as odd that death was white. In stories, muggle and wizard alike, death was portrayed as black. Perhaps because it's something that people struggle to understand; in a hole in which one cannot see the bottom, all one sees is black. But death, Harry found, was white. Piercingly so. It was also deafeningly quiet. Harry's steps seemed not to make a sound, and he had no clothes brushing against him as he moved. He had no idea how long he'd been wandering around, thinking. The train had not yet arrived, and he was starting to wonder if it ever would. But just as he had the thought, he knew that it wouldn't. There would be no train to take him to death. But he was not afraid. As much as this seemed like some form of purgatory, there was a gut feeling that he'd be able to escape.

He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it sooner. He'd climbed down onto the tracks, safe in his knowledge that a train would not come, and set off walking along them. He supposed that if he walked for long enough he would find himself at Hogwarts.

The walk did not become any greener, anymore colourful as he travelled. He saw trees and fields and skies, but it was all white; so many shades of the brightest white he had ever known. He was not getting a headache as he walked, he was not growing tired, he was not growing hungry. He did not even grow bored, unaware as he was of time passing.

When he reached Hogwarts, he was expecting it to be full of people. It was empty, though he knew somehow that there was another one somewhere full of his old friends and family. Here, his steps began to echo, and there were traces of colour in the corner of his vision. He was not sure if it had more to do with where he was or how long he'd now spent in death.

Walking around the grand building, Harry reminisced about his childhood. He had spent many happy days here, talking with his friends, learning about the wonders of the magical world, growing up from being a boy to a man in such a short space of time. He could practically hear Hermione talking away about how they needed to be studying harder for their OWLs; maybe she too had passed by now. It could have been years that Harry had left.

The urge caught him by surprise. A force tugged at Harry impatiently, trying to pull him down. Curious, Harry let the urge guide him around the castle. Past static paintings, reliable staircases, empty corridors. When he reached the Room of Requirement, there was already a door waiting for him, no need to think of a room to conjure. He opened the door, and stepped inside.

It was almost like meeting an old friend. Only it wasn't like that at all. He had never been in this room before, and he did not see any old friends. But he could feel with overpowering force the presence of the deceased Voldemort. There was a faint sound of whimpering, and Harry saw that there were 7 foetus-like forms gathered on the floor, not moving but for the exertion it took to form sounds.

"If I had expected to find you anywhere, my first guess would've been the Chamber of Secrets," Harry commented, knowing that Voldemort was listening.

He felt a pause, knew that Voldemort was contemplating his answer to Harry.

"The Chamber of Secrets never felt like a true home to me. This room held more wonders and more comfort."

His voice was split, and Harry recognised both sounds; a snake-like hiss over the smooth baritone voice of his early years of adulthood.

"I think death does try to bring you comfort," Harry responded. "Is it as bad as you feared it would be? Death?"

"Worse," Voldemort admitted without hesitation. "I have been given a purgatory in which death does not even know what physical form to give me, nor voice. I had spent so long changing myself, trying to be better, that even death no longer knew who I was."

That was almost tragic, Harry thought. At least he had a body, a voice, a way to move. Voldemort was merely in the air, his horcruxes around him almost mockingly.

"I suppose death would be annoyed you tried to cheat it," Harry said, and he thought he felt almost a glint of amusement from Voldemort. "What form do you feel that you suit the most?" Harry enquired.

"I do not know myself. I have reabsorbed all of my soul pieces, in the states they were formed in. I am simultaneously 16, 20, 24, 30, 47, 55, 67, and 70, with different stages of experience and sanity and mentality. I am broken."

"You largest soul piece is from when you were 16," Harry stated.

"Yes."

"We are all who we were when we were younger, plus who we were when we were older. Surely the same could be said for you. I wouldn't be surprised if you looked around my age."

Harry hadn't been expecting much to happen as he said that, but once he had, Voldemort appeared in front of him, the horcruxes around him having disappeared. Perhaps it was his power as the Master of Death.

They were only an inch apart, and Voldemort immediately took a step backwards from Harry.

Voldemort was the first thing he had seen in full colour, and it was stunning. Blood red eyes were staring at him, confused more than annoyed, his dark hair was impeccably styled as always, and he was just as naked as Harry was.

"What have you done to me?" He asked with despair, and Harry noted his voice had levelled out as well.

"I appear to have given death inspiration for your body. You look rather a lot less intimidating now than you did in your snake-form. Not that it matters much in death, I wouldn't have thought."

"Salazar, could you at least provide me with robes?"

Harry laughed suddenly at the sincere distress that the dark lord was showing at his own nudity. It was strange, Harry thought, that he would be so shy in death. Harry had felt his nudity completely natural for the afterlife, but it was clear that his feelings were not shared.

"I don't think we really do robes in the afterlife," Harry said quite honestly.

He was then struck with a sudden thought. It was an odd thought, one that he'd never had before. In fact, he was quite sure that it was a thought he may have been disgusted with on the land of the living. But he was not on the land of the living, and he was going to do as he wished, because he was the Master of Death.

"Voldemort, can I kiss you?" Harry asked, and it seemed the most natural question in the world.

Voldemort for his part looked horrified. There was a pause as he let the horror sink in, before, confusingly, he responded; "yes."

Ever so gently, Harry stepped forwards, took Voldemort's face in his hands, and kissed him softly. It was the most comfortable he had ever felt.