a/n: Ah, well, I've jumped onto the Harry-is-Skull bandwagon. And I always love MOD!Harry, so that's in there too.

I wanted to write something not too long or complex, and hopefully highlighting Harry's lovely friends and family as people who are worthy of those titles.

Harry's life truly began around his late-twenties, when he finally realised it was acceptable to step away from the wizarding world.

During his early years after the Battle of Hogwarts, after Voldemort's final demise, Harry had found himself drifting aimlessly through life.

The threat that had plagued him for majority, if not all, his years was finally gone, and it was such a surreal change. He was used to being bogged down by the weight on his shoulders, to constant dangers, to being chained down by duty and responsibilities. But with that all gone, and Harry didn't know what to do with himself because everything else was so foreign.

He'd kept himself busy, helping with the reconstruction of Hogwarts and attending the funerals of friends and classmates. Then once there were no more distractions to hide behind any longer, he'd enrolled into the Auror Program like everyone expected of him, because he needed to get his life back on track.

He would train, study, and have dinner with Ron and Hermione. His life was finally normal for once, but he still couldn't shake off the feeling of wrongness of it all. Harry felt like he was suffocating in a stifling routine, body craving for the unrelenting need to be free.

Yet he was free already, wasn't he? Voldemort was dead, and he wasn't tied to that damn prophecy any longer, no longer the fated Chosen One.

Still, regardless of that small nagging in his mind, Harry continued to carry on each day, because his life honestly was normal for once, just as he wanted it to be… until around his mid-twenties when Harry stopped aging entirely.

He laughed a hollow, bitter laugh at the irony of it all – normal, when was his life ever normal?

Ron had huffed at his bitter tones. "Don't worry, mate, we'll figure it out."

"Only you," Hermione added teasingly, with fondness in her voice. Harry felt instantaneously better, though that also may or may not have to do with the fact she'd started researching right away for his sake.

So, it turned out the mysteriously loyal Hollows might have had a hand with his eternal youthfulness. He'd tried again and again the ditch the things, burn them, bury them, or lock them in his vaults, only to have them mysteriously appear by his person the very next day.

Ron looked out of his depths, and Hermione had a glint in her eye when they found out about it. Harry heaved a loud sigh.

Harry supposed he could live with constant youthfulness – he finally managed to get himself used to the idea -, and then that was when the withering pains in his chest started.

The first few times it occurred, he'd assumed it was merely heartburn, or whatever wizarding equivalent condition it was. He would've happily continued to delude himself in the months to come, were it not for his magic. The familiar warmth of his magical core felt like it was changing, slowly but surely, every passing day. He would've noticed it earlier, but it didn't feel wrong. It was only growing stronger, with a hint of some exotic flavour Harry couldn't name, yet it flowed naturally and familiarly and Harry hadn't paid it much heed.

In fact, his magic was fine - it was just his body that couldn't keep up with the increased surge of magical energy, or so Hermione hypothesized.

That night they had figured that out, Harry went to bed, only to be greeted by a dark figure in his dreams.

He – it – was a blurry thing, with no discernable figure or traits. It was like a smudge of ink in his dreamscape that negated his eye's ability to focus. Yet, it felt heavy and familiar, and Harry couldn't turn away.

It took a moment of staring and squinting, before Harry murmured, "Death," in a sibilant voice, awfully confident and calm.

The figure moved to acknowledge him. It didn't speak, but Harry somehow understood it all the same.

He listened. Then he woke up, and made plans to call up his best friends.

...

"So," Harry began, drawing out the word as his two friends awaited the reason for his summon. "I met Death," he said, quick and to the point.

Ron choked. "W-what?"

"Are you alright, Harry?"

Harry shrugged like it was a normal event, meeting the absolute being that no one could escape from. "I haven't died yet, but… apparently Master of Death is a thing."

The two studied him for a moment before Hermione finally continued.

"I figured, considering you've managed to stop aging," Hermione said, slowly. "But I didn't think there was an actual personification. So you're literally the Master of the being known as Death?" she questioned.

Hermione's gaze was intense, burning with the need for knowledge. Harry squirmed uncomfortably. "Uh, I think so? Though it sounded more like joint supervision over the death of the world, to me."

"Misleading title, innit?" Ron chuckled.

A smile twitched on Harry's lips, "Right?"

"Boys," Hermione chided, amused, but nevertheless unwilling to let them stray off tangent. "Did Death tell you why you're feeling sick?" she asked worriedly.

Harry paused, and Ron immediately sobered.

"What is it, mate?" he urged.

Harry tried to pull a comforting smile on his face. "It turns out you were right, 'Mione," he said bitterly. "My body can't keep up. I'm dying." He ignored the twin looks of horror on their faces. He'd had a long enough rest after Death's visit to sort his anger and fear – the hoarse voice and broken furniture in his house conceded to that. "I'm getting more powerful to prepare as the Master of Death, but a human body can't endure the powers of Death, apparently."

"So the more power you get- " Hermione whispered out, knowing full well Harry was gaining it day-by-day.

"-the sicker I become," Harry finished when she couldn't. "Until I die."

"You don't have to be dead to be the Master of Death!" Hermione bursted out, before sinking into herself, "Do you?"

Ron gripped her hand like a lifeline.

"I'll wake up … like- like the War," he murmured softly, hating the memories that those simple words pulled along. "My magic will help me reborn as the Master of Death." Harry paused, before continuing cautiously, "…I just don't know how it'll change me."

In an ideal world, it would be exactly like seventh year. He would wake up with no change, with perhaps just a sore back. But now he would be the Master of Death, and what exactly did that entail? Could he still be Harry Potter as well as Master of Death, or would Harry Potter truly and completely die when that day came?

His friends looked older than ever. Harry's heart clenched, and the uncomfortable feeling in his chest had nothing to do with the influx of Death's power – not this time. He drew his friends into his arms. "I'm sorry," he murmured, "I'm sorry." Because he knew how much they'd hurt over his death the first time around, and how much more they would hurt now, because they'd expected the pain of war and death to be long over.

"How long do you have?" Ron asked.

Harry didn't know.

It was Hermione who changed his life for the better, when she then followed up with a, "If you die tomorrow, will you regret your life?"

Harry hadn't understood until she sighed and continued, "We are your friends, Harry. We can see you haven't been truly happy in a while. Maybe it's time for a change of pace, to find what you're missing – live your life like every day is your last. I don't want you to regret."

"You deserve it," Ron agreed.

"But I have a career, and you two are here…" Harry tried not to think about how the thoughts of travelling the world blinked into his mind for all of a second.

"Sod it," the redhead exclaimed, "you don't even need it."

"You're unnecessarily tying yourself down," Hermione added. "We love you, Harry, but we can do with letters and the occasional visit."

"But…" How could Harry protect them if anything happened, if he was so far away? Ron and Hermione and the rest of the Weasley were strong wizards and witches on their own right, but Harry worried.

"Don't think about us for once. What do you want to do?"

He wanted to break free from Britain's Wizarding World where everyone knew his name and life's story, and be just Harry. He wanted to travel, and learn new things. He wanted to experience what the rest of the world had to offer.