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Blood From Whence He Came	By : Ladygreychaton Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 17519 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Do not own Harry Potter, characters, rights to, any books, movies, songs, poems or references made. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling, this is just for fun, with no intentions of profit.

Chapter List
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[[Conqueror of Death Harry dies of old age, and gets a chance to jump his bloodline. Not-Godlike, realistically powerful Harry. AU. Altered Timeline. ]]
(( Do not own Harry Potter, characters, rights to, any books, movies, songs, poems or references made. Several hints to Harry Potter books, but again belong to J.K. Rowling. Any further things belong to their original owners, aside from original characters. Used with no intention of profit! Pottermore, Wikia, original series are included rarely, but please don't think I own these either! ))

Chapter 1
Have you ever tried to fight sleep? It tugs at the back of your eyelids, a pressure that reminds you that you haven't. A dull buzzing in your senses, limbs heavy and warmly complacent. Petulant at the very thought of obeying your command, your body resists moving. How can your body be so warm and still with hands so cold? You struggle to open your mouth, form a question but find the effort too much. Sounds are distant and it takes you a few moments to realize that everything feels a little further, a bit more delayed. Slowly, you slip into the realm beyond and all your aches disappear, but in that moment you're content.
This was what dying felt like for the old man who had once been Harry James Potter. Quietly, and in his sleep, the hero of the wizarding world, father of three, grandfather to many... slipped away in the night. When his wife found his body the next morning, she would weep, family and friends, they would mourn him together all over the magical community.
But our story lies not with his end, but with his new beginning. For when he died, he died the Master of Death. A title with no significant magical power on it's own, save that Harry never wanted it and he was in possession of the three Deathly Hallows. With that, the spirit of the Man Who Lived won an audience with Death.
When Harry Potter died, he woke again before Death with a gasp, only to be chastised. 'Do you really need to do that? You only think you do, believing you are alive. Accept that you have passed into My realm and it will cease to be an issue, Harry James Potter.'
The voice echoed, thrumming in a way that made his teeth ache--- or at least he 'thought' it did, or would if he had been alive. But if he was truly dead, he had little to fear. He had lived to the ripe old age of a hundred and twenty-four, with a large family, an even larger extended family. Evil had feared an uprising, as long as the laws his family and friends had put in place. Hermione Weasley née Granger was a fierce Ministry attendee in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Her husband, and Harry's best mate, Ron Weasley was a former Auror on the wizarding force, and occasionally attended Wizengamot bills or speeches. He also participated in training new Aurors on his spare time, when he wasn't helping with raising his children, grandchildren, or working at his brother's store Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.
Harry himself had been a determined Ministry worker throughout his life, forcing bills and legistate with a mighty hand. Head Auror to be exact, giving lectures on how to defeat Dark Wizards with ingenuity and spells. With age, he learned that it wasn't such a terrible idea to use his fame as long as it was for a noble cause, and he had his family to keep his feet firmly planted on the ground. Yes, passing had not startled him, though he would miss waking to Ginny's breakfast attempts and her fiery brown eyes, never dulled by the years. The woman who had co-lead Dumbledore's Army with Neville while Harry had searched for pieces of Voldemort's soul never lost her edge, still as stubborn, proud, and powerful as she stood beside him from the day Harry realized that she was the one. Yes, he would miss her.
'Why the living spend so much time reminiscing is beyond Me,' the Voice continued, sounding bored in that odd breathy fashion it had. 'Especially you, leaving Me waiting as you are. One would think you'd be more curious what the next big step would be...'
The drawl of the voice reminded Harry of Snape, or perhaps one of the Malfoy family. Eventually, the spirit of the Man Who Lived seemed to realize that he didn't have to have a physical mouth in order to speak. "What is the next step, then?" He curiously asked, then found himself further surprised to hear his voice as it had been in his early thirties. Odd indeed.
The voice heaved a sigh which would have raised the hairs on the back of Harry's neck... Had he still had hair, that is. It was a strange sound, like the wind howling through the forest, mixed with a woman crying, or was it male? It was so very hard to tell. Either way, it seemed that he had finally asked an appropriate question as the voice answered, 'We finally get to the point. I do grow weary of waiting, you know. For such an intelligent wizard, you do take forever to accept Death... You haven't even realized you can see without your eyes yet, have you?' And Harry realized that no, he had not seen a single thing of where he was. It wasn't that it was dark, not in a classic sense. Truly, it was as though there was nothing to see. But he was also afraid. What would opening his eyes in the afterlife be like?
Harry wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing, and slowly, carefully, he allowed himself to look around. If there were things that were going to devour his being, whatever was left, he wanted to be aware. Green eyes once covered by spectacles opened, peering about cautiously.
It wasn't the same as when he had died before, rather than the King's Cross Station, Harry found himself on a ash covered beach in the middle of an abyss. Blackened skies that seemed to stretch forever up, and then collapse and spiral downwards rolled above his head. Shards of broken mirrors or were they stars perhaps? --Twinkled in any distance he looked. Finally, Harry looked to were the Voice had come from, finding a figure that vastly resembled a Dementor. Tall, hooded and cloaked in black, with long skeletal hands, Death stood and waited for Harry along the sands of Time.
"Oh," The Man Who Defeated Voldemort breathed, fealing the ash and soot beneath his toes. Strange how he felt so young now, when he had died wrinkled and feeble in his bed. "So you're Death then." It seemed an appropriate thing to say at the time, but sounded laughable once he had said it.
Death seemed to look at him, and Harry felt very small. Tiny, compared to the figure, like a grain of sand in the universe of souls that Death ferried to the afterlife. A rattle, then the Voice returned. 'I am Death, the end that all must meet when their time comes, though many try to cheat Me, few come close. In the end, all are equal before Me and must walk through to be judged in the afterlife for their deeds or be reincarnated.'
Harry perked a little at this, smiling at the thought of living again, meeting Ginny in the next life--- a life without Voldemort, and getting married again. It sounded truly wonderful, and he was about to say so when the Voice of Death continued, 'But you, oh Master of Death, do not have that luxury. No, you are bound to Me, and through that you have specific obligations to fulfill.'
Harry sputtered a bit, shaking his head as he looked to the hooded figure. "Look, you're wrong! I can't be the Master of Death! I never wanted that! I accepted death, I died! Doesn't that break your deal? I never wanted the items, unless it was to keep them from other people... well, alright, so I used them a couple times... and found them useful... but I wasn't greedy. I gave James the Cloak when he was old enough, and the wand I broke and returned to Dumbledore's tomb. The stone was lost in the forest... really, what kind of Master am I?"
Harry felt a shudder pass through him, a terrible sense of forboding as though Death was amused or pleased with him. 'The best sort of Master, Harry James Potter. You accepted Me, and you came to Me willingly. You didn't seek my items, and even returned them to me, or let them pass off to the generations as myths and simple magical items.' There was the most unsettling feeling that Death was smiling, if it could. 'I met you three times, each time you died. And each time, you became Master of one of My items : at one, the Cloak. At seventeen, the Stone. And finally, with your last death at one hundred twenty-four, you became the only true master of My wand. You preformed a task that no one else could, and therefore the magic and contract resides in you.'
Instantly, he wanted to reject this, and did so as best he could, shaking his head. "No, no... you see, I did my part. I can't have some obligation to Death, or whatever you say. I don't want to be Master of Death. I did my part being the Chosen One, I'm done with Fate messing with my life, and now my afterlife... No, I'll take a simple ticket to resting or reincarnation where I can eventually meet my family and Ginny. Thank you." Yes, that sounded like the key to him, just the ticket to a long and happy ending.
There was a silence that the old wizard had taken for winning the argument, thinking it was settled until Death spoke again, it's unsettling voice crackling and sparking in the quiet of the dim. 'I have watched your world, Harry James Potter, I have seen it age and grow. Surely a man of your own progressive years has noted that as the world turned, it... Changed.' The man considered the entity's words, wondering what it was getting at, then nodded. After more than a century of life, he had seen the muggle and magical world learn and shift, evolve in ways he hadn't dreamed of. Knowing this, he nodded. 'Then you should have paid closer attention to how the world was dying, foolish man. How the world had shifted between vibrant and lively, to a pale imitation of Life that man sought to desperately hold onto.'
Harry's mouth gaped open, wondering for all the world what Death was talking about. Then the memories came pouring back. First, it had been hot. Summers had been gradually warmer than everyone was accustomed, but everyone shrugged it off. Then the winters were drier, without snow in places known for it or sparsely fallen. Muggle scientists were bluffing and saying it was just a small fraction, that soon it would fade, next year would be a harsh and cold winter. But the year after was so warm their lips peeled in December. The British Prime Minister turned to the Ministry of Magic, begging for spells to fix this monstrosity of weather, only to find that weather magic (aside from small flurries in general areas) had been outlawed hundreds of years ago.
Witches and wizards didn't mind so much, they had cooling charms built into their clothes and they could preform magic to tend to their gardens to prevent the worst of the blinding sun from browning the crops--- until it began affecting them too. When the waters dried to such a degree that witches and wizards could no longer preform a suitable household or first year charm, the public outcry was great. After all, one of the first rules of magic was that one could not produce something from nothing and have it be a permanent transmutation. Water (if you wanted it to be actual water, and not slight of hand, or disappear) was becoming impossible to conjure as the world's supply became harder to access. And what little they did draw from was terribly muddy or salty.
Death interrupted Harry's reverie for a moment with a quietly whispered, 'But you never had that problem, did you? Not even with a simple 'Aguamenti', no, it all came easily to Harry James Potter. They didn't like that... did they?'
Harry had to internally admit that, no, they didn't nor like that he was doing the impossible again. People were dying in small parts of the world from drought, starvation and dehydration. When the world could barely produce half a glass of despicable water unfit to drink without draining and boiling, he was making crystal clear, whole and pure water. Freshwater merfolk were becoming extinct, can you imagine the scandal the wizarding world would make of the Chosen One now? Ginny and Hermione had refused to let anyone in the family speak of it to anyone, convinced that they'd want to find out why he could do the impossible. 'Where was he draining the water from?' the Ministry would want to know. 'It has to be more than conjuration! We'll study him and trace it back to the source!' The girls had ranted for hours, making everyone vow not to tell the family secret of his oddities once more. It felt good to know that such powerful and loyal witches had his best interests had his back, even if they were a bit... jealous. He could see it in the tired looks they gave him, the weathered look of their skin as they failed yet again to make water like his come pouring from the ends of their wand.
And then one spring, the opposite began to happen. Just as the nonmagical community had predicted, it began to get colder, and a nasty, bitterly cold summer followed by a harsh winter came. The whole world breathed a sigh of relief, basking in the icy rains, the pelting of hail, even as it cut off powerlines and shut down schools. When the snow piled up in the mountains, experts waved it off with a, "That's good! We went without for so long, the rivers are so depleted! It'll all settle, let the world catch up!"
But it didn't settle. Animals began to die, entire species froze to death. Not just nonmagical species either, as the world was quick to find out. It began with the Ashwinders. Fire snakes, they didn't do well in this new frozen world, and it was a great loss to the potionmaking community. Then the Fire Crabs began to die off, one by one, no matter what the magical community did in an effort to rescue the rather... difficult species. Before long, they were gone. The world opened it's eyes once more and realized that one temperature was not better than the other, and quite possibly it was going to end this way.
Harry recalled how his friend Neville had worked hard to move entire species of plants to spacial enlarged greenhouses, desperately trying to preserve magical flora from the icy claws of an eternal winter that seemed to have settled over the world. People were dying again, whether from frostbite, animal attacks or from an attempt to rescue others. More were coming down ill, and the nonmagicals were begging for a cure in the form of potions, wanting to break the Statue of Secrecy.
"It was madness," Harry recalled aloud. When the world had finally thawed, tempers had been high. Magicals had lost a lot. Potions were hard to make, and cost a great deal of money as most were only from supplies gathered before species died out. Nonmagicals became bitter, they outnumbered the wizards 3 to 1 and they had suffered greatly. They dropped the proverbial 'bomb', deciding to break the Statue of Secrecy. The world became an age of witch hunting once more, when your neighbor could send out Investigators over a child. Pettiness often was a reason to send Witch Investigators, such as the Smith's next door having more food to eat or cleaner clothes. Surely that was a sign of witchcraft, if ever there was one.
Death seemed to pause before he spoke again. 'Your people eventually hid away, cutting off contact from the nonmagicals, did they not? Save for when Hermione Jean Weasley pushed a bill through to rescue muggleborns, you never interferred in the muggle world again.'
Harry shook his head, feeling as old as he had when he had died. The years had passed swiftly, and it had seemed so very strange to cut off ties with the nonmagicals. But a war had been brewing, with racial attacks around every corner. It was the only way, really. A memory that stuck out in his mind, was when Dudley Dursley's son had tucked his daughter (not yet one year old), who was displaying magic into Albus Severus' arms and begged them to disappear with her. That was the last they had seen of him.
"We did our best, I think... we just didn't want to fight. Not after Voldemort, not when nonmagicals weren't trying to be... evil. They were us. We fought for them, to protect them. We couldn't fight them. We just wanted peace," came the weary voice of the old man who had once been Harry Potter, and the wizard wondered if his perception of self changed with how he thought.
Death moved to sit on a bench nearby, something made of old and dead tree trunks. For a moment the wizard wondered if he had never noticed it before, or if the cloaked figure had simply willed it into existence. Then Death spoke. 'This was not how it was supposed to have gone, you know,' the Voice seemed slightly bemused, and the cloaked hood tilted up. 'That is why you have a job to do, Harry James Potter. I can place you in the timeline, and rearrange things. We can make this better... the whole world, as you know it.'
Harry paused, considering the words. "If it's not supposed to have been different, why don't you fix it?" He asked carefully, then shrugged. "And how will I know that my future won't be so different that I'll hate it? How do I know that I'll want a different future? Sure, the world will be better, but what about me? My future, my wife, my kids... will I have them?"
The dementor like being rattled and seemed to suck in a breath, then sighed, releasing a sound that reminded the wizard of someone gasping for the last time. 'The being known as Harry James Potter in the correct timeline will likely marry Ginny Weasley and have three kids, without having to face peril. He will be happier, as will she. They will be a normal, happy couple, and you will see them from time to time, should you wish it.'
Now, Harry frowned and looked to Death with a look that would've made James Sirius drop whatever prank he was preparing. "...You're speaking as though I'd no longer be Harry Potter. If I wouldn't be Harry Potter, then who would I be? It's great that the other Harry would be happy and have a great life, I guess... But what about... well.. the me you'd be sending back? Who would I be?" There was a suspicious glint in his green eyes. Having dabbled vaguely in politics with his best friend, he knew well when someone wasn't saying something and what it could mean. It was what one didn't say that was important, rather than what they did.
Death regarded him in silence, and it seemed to stretch for an age. 'I was rather fond of you, Harry James Potter. From your first meeting with Me, when your mother stood in My way, I found you intriguing. She pleaded with Me, as she had Tom Marvolo Riddle, the would-be-usurper. But you? You stared calmly as though you had nothing to fear, and accepted Me, accepted him.' There was a slightly jealousy at the last bit, and Harry was confused. Wondering for a moment if Death had been angry that a horcrux and his mother's sacrifice had kept him from death that first time on Halloween, 1981 in Godric's Hollow. But after a moment, Death continued. 'You were worthy of My cloak, I never sought to take it from you. In fact, I would have returned it to you if someone had stolen it from you... I would have stolen them, in return.'
A chill crept over his heart at this, the knowledge that if someone had sought to steal his cloak, his father's cloak, without his knowledge... to truly take it, Death would have come for them. He would have taken them to an early death in order to seek to return the cloak to Harry. But he didn't speak, instead he waited. The cloaked figure, the entity as old as Time itself began to speak again. 'When you came to Me the second time, with partial ownership of two of My items, but not wanting them... I was elated. You willingly walked to Me, eager to accept peace if only to protect. You embraced Me like a lover, and I admit you were breathtaking in Death. You were given a choice... to come to My realm, or continue back, since that... abomination had resided in you. Now, rid of it, you sought peace. But... after realizing they needed you... you left Me.' There was a needy edge to Death's voice, a wailing that sounded like bones scraping over one another. 'You mastered the Stone, and you didn't seek it, having already seen your parents and family. How very... fascinating you are, Harry James Potter. You returned, defeated the usurper, claimed My Wand, and then repaired your own... broke the Elder, and returned it to a Grave, where I could claim it Myself. So I waited... and waited. I waited for you, Harry James Potter, to grow old enough to take quietly. I watched your world become more like an echo of Mine... and now I come to you.'
Harry shuffled his feet, realizing that Death had a fascination with watching the living... more specifically, him. It was awkward, almost as though a genderless creature that came for all things, even Gods, had just admitted to having a crush on him. He was also acutely aware of one thing, and decided to speak up. "You never answered me, though. We've discussed how the world is messed up, and how I became the Master of Death... but who would I be if I went along with this? What is my obligation? What is the Master of Death?"
The rattles continued before settling. An answer seemed to form in the silence as the Voice spoke, 'Your Obligation to Me, is to fulfill Our connection. For We are connected, Harry James Potter, and will be forever more. As long as I exist, so shall you. You shall die and meet Me, and I will be forced to return you to the timeline again... and again. You are the Master of Death... but you are not My Master, you are a master of My items.' There was an edge to it's words, as though warning him not to get ahead of himself. Harry hadn't been about to, but listened carefully as Death spoke again. 'Your obligation is to fix the untimely dying of your world, as I am unable to interfer with mortal domain. But you, Harry James Potter.... you do not have that problem. I will guide you, and you will fix the falling of the pieces.'
The wizard swallowed, aware that the action was not something he was physically doing and only implented as an illusion to comfort him. Why did it always have to be so complicated when it came to him? After a moment, he glanced at the hooded figure, looking to his black skeletal hands. They seemed longer than humanly possible, with fingers charred and blackened. Harry nodded. "Who would I become in the timeline, since you leave me no choice?" He repeated. This seemed to be the one question Death was avoiding. It couldn't be that bad, could it?
'You can only be placed in the Timeline from whence My three items came from,' Death admitted carefully. 'That bloodline is to which they were given, and that bloodline is to where I can put you. The Peverall line, to be specific... We can go forward, or we can go back. Should one attempt not work, and Our attempts prove fruitless, We will simply kill you and move about through Time to another bloodline and try again. Make no mistake, Harry James Potter,' The Voice said carefully, addressing him with such a serious tone that Harry felt chastised. 'I intend to fix this mistake, and so shall you. You are not alone in this, but I am forbidden in helping in certain matters. That is why you are My vessel, or Vassal, if you will.'
Now didn't that sound even more complicated and terrifying? The wizard flinched internally, knowing that there was little he could do to refuse. He had told Dumbledore no, he had even managed to tell the Ministry and Voldemort himself to go off themselves... but Death didn't seem the type to take 'no' for an answer.
Thinking back, Harry tried to recall all of the bloodlines that had married into the Peveralls. There were the Gaunts, he knew, who had come into the possession of the Resurrection Stone and turned it into a ring. The Potters, he knew were related to the Peveralls as he himself had been one, they had held possession of the Cloak of Invsibility. He also thought the Prewetts and Dumbledore had been distantly related to the Peveralls, possibly the original owners of the Elder Wand, but those were the only names that popped instantly into his mind off of the family trees that he recalled. Harry had studied a few when he had researched the Deathly Hallows at 12 Grimmauld Place. But overall, aside from the Gaunts, they weren't terrible families to be born into. He just needed more information.
Death always seemed to know what he was thinking, without him speaking. Perhaps when you died, one didn't have to speak aloud in order for words or memories to flow forward to one another, for the being answered him. 'You were born July 31, 1980 to James Potter and Lily Evans Potter... James Potter was the Peverall line, and came from Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, both pure in magic and able to be traced to one of the three brothers--- Ignotus Peverall.' Harry nodded, he was aware of his family tree, have painstakingly stared in wonder and longing at a family he could not have. A family that looked so much like him. 'But there is another option, you know. Charlus Potter, and his wife Dorea Potter née Black... they had a son.' Death paused. 'Did you ever wonder why no one ever knew what happened to that child? Why there is no information about him, though he ties the house of Black and Potter together? Dorea Potter was not disowned, Harry James Potter. The child of Charlus and Dorea would have been James Potter's cousin... your Uncle, and another connection to your godfather, Sirius Black. His cousin as well, I believe. Why then, is there no information about such a significant person? Why then, does no one know where he is, or what happened to him? No Death, no Life.'
Harry had a feeling where this was going, and he found... he didn't mind. If he was forced to go through this farce of a life, if he was forced to go back in the timeline and rescue the world once more... why not be a part of his family? He'd be his father's cousin, his godfather's cousin. He'd get to see his family, get to be with them all. It wasn't like things would change too terribly. Death had already told him he could meet the other-Harry, if he wanted, if he succeeded. After all, he'd be Uncle to Harry Potter in that timeline, and able to look after him if something did happen. But there was so much he could prevent! So much he could do.
It was very overwhelming, and he wanted his wife's hand to hold, or Ron's steady gaze, perhaps Hermione's brilliant mind to guide him. Neville's sturdy shoulders to lean against, or Luna's blinding smile, so full and free even now so many years later. They would all know what to do. But he was alone, and likely would be in the next life. They would die and pass on to the future--- or maybe they wouldn't, maybe they'd be recycled into the present back into being born again if things went right. But he wouldn't be Harry Potter any more. They wouldn't know him. They wouldn't offer him counsel, or late night chess games, cups of hot cocoa while pregnant women puttered about the kitchen complaining about their husbands. No, he was well and truly alone in this.
But perhaps... perhaps things would be better. Perhaps the Creevey brothers wouldn't die. Maybe Hermione wouldn't become so disillusioned with the world she was born in, sobbing into her husband's shoulder and begging him to make the stonings of small children stop. Maybe spoiled, prattish... but overall innocent young boys like Draco Malfoy wouldn't have to see the world awash with blood and break a little bit. They wouldn't have to practice killing small animals and feel a small bit of themselves die instead. Harry had never been fond of Draco, but he could agree that the blond was no killer. He didn't have the stomach for it. So many deaths that could've been prevented. The Weasley family alone was torn apart, one look at George's face was like looking at a man who was searching the crowd for someone who would never return. He'd look into mirrors and have a nervous breakdown, years after the loss of his twin. Could he really prevent this? What would all this have to do with making the earth better? Would it affect the climate?
'So many questions,' Death mused. 'They tumble about until you're practically tripping over the words. Some I cannot answer right now. I only know that if you go back and fix some wrongs, others have a chance to get better. The world was changing. Magic was fading, despite it's effort to blossom in dark corners. As such, the earth began to die as it's tenders and minders withered, so too did She wither. Your kind were always meant to protect the world, and bring stability. Nonmagicals jump forward in leaps and bounds, while the magical folk are supposed to be centered with thoughts of creation at heart. You will prevent the destruction at all costs... and if not, we shall try again.'
Harry fiddled with his hands, twisting the fingers together. His hands hadn't been as long and elegant as his mothers, nor as thin as Ron's. They were short, and a bit stocky, but they worked well for him. He was a thin, gangly wizard in his youth, who eventually grew into his bodyparts, though he'd never been as tall as the redheaded chaser. Twisting them was a nervous habit, something he'd carried with him into death, it seemed.
The wizard sighed, wondering what he was supposed to do with this information as he ran a hand through his hair. Another habit. Magic dying had lead to the world's climate change. How had magic begun to die? Surely it couldn't be dying. Well... he supposed that made sense. Originally, there had been so many students at Hogwarts. Forty alone in his year. By the time James Sirius went to school, it was down to thirty-something, and that was with the baby boom that followed the war. Magic was dwindling. The years that followed slowed to twenty per year, with less and less students in dorms, and fewer muggleborns found to enter the world. Could such a thing really be the cause of an entire world erupting into mass chaos? It didn't seem likely, but he could hardly argue with numbers and logic.
Ginny's horrified face rose in his mind, her voice screaming out as she heard that the man that Lily Luna had wanted to marry, a muggleborn, had been killed by nonmagicals. Her scream as he was carried back to Hogwarts, begging for it not to be true, her denial. Could he prevent all this? Could he stop the terrible horrors of the past from becoming the future? Did he want to try? Would he even be given a choice? It sounded like he'd be doomed to try, forever locked in a timeloop. If he failed once, that timeline would be cast aside and restarted with another bloodline picked and another body for Harry to begin again.
'Yes, boy,' Death said, for once not calling him by name. Harry was startled, and wanted to say that he hadn't been a boy for over a hundred years--- but to Death, he supposed he would always be a child. 'There is no choice, only to accept and move back. The sooner you do, the sooner We can begin...'
He swallowed hard. If there was no denying it, if there was no fighting it... then he'd best get started. After all, he was a Gryffindor, he'd chosen to be a Gryffindor. He may have Slytherin qualities, but he made his path and he followed it. If Death was going to send him back, he was going to face it head on and use whatever he could to save his family and friends from hardships as well as the world. Consequences be damned, they deserved a good life, even if they'd always think of him as a strange old man. Or if they never knew him at all.
Harry turned to Death. "What will I do?" Death smiled and breathed in a great, shuddering breath....

[[Alright, so I know I said I wouldn't start another story while I was working on the other... but this has been stewing and... right now I'm going through a lot of stress. A lot. Personal matters are making it very hard for me. So I'm exerting a bit through writing one of my favorite topics. My other story had not been shoved aside, not to fear. I love both.]]
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Blood From Whence He Came