The Master of Death

Chapter3: Familiar Faces

bHarry woke to the feeling of an old sheet sticking to his sweaty cheek and sharp pain in his head. He pressed a hand against his scar in a useless attempt to keep it from aching. Forcefully, he opened his eyes to escape the lingering nightmare. His hands were shaking. Fear of Voldemort was coursing through his veins. Vaguely he became aware of a familiar scent surrounding him. Slowly the realization of what had happened washed over him. Despite the adrenaline still pumping through his body, a part of him recognized what was really going on. Harry grinned, while the image of Cedric's dead body had barely started to fade.

For the first time in years, he felt alive.

Pulling himself together, Harry shoved the irrational fear of Voldemort aside. He hadn't remembered the night on the graveyard so clearly in years. He felt incredibly young and old at the same time. Despite the darkness, Harry knew exactly where he was. The sickly moonlight falling through the only window illuminated enough of his surroundings to get a good grasp of his location. But even then he was quite certain that he wouldn't have needed to see the shabby wardrobe in the corner, the bookcase full of dusty books that Dudley had never bothered to read and the familiar bedside table, to realize that he was back in his old bedroom.
Back with the Dursleys in Little Whinging.

Harry wanted to laugh. Out of all places, Death had to bring him here.
His creepy twin was sitting on his desk on the other side of the room, letting his legs dangle from the edge. Harry swore it was darker where he sat.

Out of habit, Harry wanted to adjust his glasses but he realized that he wasn't wearing them at all. He spotted them on the bedside drawer. But as he reached to grab them he paused. Curiously he stared at his hands. They were smaller. Skinnier. And they lacked a familiar scar. Suddenly confusion at why he expected a faint line in his own handwriting scarring his skin pushed to the forefront of his mind. Harry shook his head to rid himself of the weird sensation. He had the strange feeling of two opinions on that matter clashing in his mind.

A whisper from the other side of the room caused him to turn his head and once more his brain seemed not able to choose which emotion it should settle on.

"Death," Harry said eventually, while simultaneously trying to convince himself that he wasn't hallucinating this other version of himself in his bedroom. Perhaps this was dark magic and- Harry forcefully shoved the notion down. He had been a damn Auror for half a decade. He knew what dark magic looked like. Meanwhile, the creature smirked at him, seemingly waiting for Harry to regain control over his brain.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "So this is what your version of fun looks like?" he asked and immediately recoiled from the sound of his younger voice.

Death's smirk broadened. "Would you have wanted two versions of yourself running around?"

Harry scowled. "That's easy for you to say. I'm currently fighting the urge to pack my things and call Dumbledore because this looks awfully like something caused by Voldemort to mess with my mind."

"Your soul will get used to it."

Harry scoffed. Death continued to watch him and suddenly Harry realized that the creature was wearing jeans and an ordinary shirt. The whole idea of it was so bizarre that he didn't quite know how to react. Oddly enough, it was this image that eradicated the smidgen of fear, which a part of him had still felt while looking at Death.

The being still seemed weirdly out of place, but more real. Its shape was no longer blurred at the edges, instead, it appeared more tangible and its hair seemed to have settled, mostly. Also, the clothes were a rather human touch. Even when Death began to purr, the sound no longer echoed from the walls and actually came closer to the noise a kneazle might make instead of thunder.