Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harry had not intended to get a tattoo. He had never known wizards had tattoos other than the dark mark until he saw the man in Diagon Alley. The war was not in full swing quite yet, in spite of the battle in the Department of Mysteries. It was acknowledged that Voldemort was indeed back, and the Alley was looking a little worse for wear. Shops had pulled out, while Weasley Wizard Wheezes had inserted itself on the scene. Fred and George were making good with the investment Harry had made in them, and he was proud of everything they had accomplished on their own. The silent partnership was paying off, and it was something Sirius would have enjoyed.

Still, the joy in the shop's atmosphere was grating on his senses, and memories of Padfoot made him ill at ease. He wanted to be somewhere else, so he stood outside the garish spectacle of a store, and that was when he saw the wizard walk by.

He at first thought that they were regular tattoos, until the dragon breathed fire in a rush of reds and golds. Suddenly, he was pushing off from the wall he'd been leaning on and following after the man.

The man turned down towards Knockturn Alley and Harry pulled up short, unsure if he should follow any more. He knew about the dark marks, which were a kind of tattoo. Were tattoos dark magic?

His curiosity got the better of him and he followed the man down the alley Hagrid had painted in such a horrible light his second year. Of course, he had been a tiny twelve-year-old at that point, and that was not an age when he should have been wandering alone, his accomplishments aside. Ending up in Borgin and Burke's had been a mistake, and the presence of the Malfoys had just cemented the idea that it was not a good place to be.

Still, Borgin and Burke's was not the only shop on Knockturn Alley.

The tattooed man turned into a dark building that didn't quite look like a shop, but it didn't look like a residence either. Harry suddenly realized that if this was a trap, he was walking right into it. But he wanted to know about the tattoos. So, he knocked on the door.

It opened to reveal the same man. "Ah, Mr. Potter. I thought it might have been you following me. Is there something you need?"

Face to face and caught out in his stalking, it took Harry a moment to get his thoughts back in order. "I wanted to ask about your tattoos."

"I thought as much. Come in." The man stepped to the side, opening the door wider to reveal a clean and well-lit area that was quite unlike the dingy quality of the shop's exterior. "My name is Alexander Provost, but you can call me Alec."

Harry stepped in, his senses still on high alert, but there didn't seem to be anyone else in the shop. That didn't mean much. Portkeys could be almost anything, and he knew that friendly faces could be hiding an enemy. "Is this your home?" he asked, unsure where to begin the conversation.

The area didn't look like any house Harry had ever know. There was some sort of bench or padded table in the middle of the room with a stool sitting next to it. There was a large book sitting on a shelf just inside the door, and large windows, which weren’t visible from the outside, letting a lot of light filter into the area. It looked comfortable, though not particularly like a home.

"No, this is my shop. My parlor. As you might have guessed, I am a tattoo wizard. One of the first in England, I think. There aren't many benefits in the wizarding world for being muggle raised, but this is one of them."

"Did you do your tattoos yourself?" Harry turned back to the man, his eyes dropping to the vines that seemed to wrap around the man's wrists and writhe beneath his skin.

"Some of them. Here, sit down." He offered Harry a stool that he pulled out from under the shelf with his foot before sitting down at the one by the odd table. "I did the ones that I can see and readily access. Like my wrists. Unlike muggle methods, I'm not injecting ink under my skin. I am essentially painting with magic under the first few layers."

"Who did the rest?"

"My mentor in America. He taught me how to do this. The vines you were admiring were part of my mastery project. I had to prove that I could do it to others and it's a lot harder to do it to yourself, so I decided to show off a bit." Alec laughed. "My mentor thought I was crazy when I said I was going to do it. But he told me that he would sign off on everything if I passed his inspection."

"I take it you did." At the nod, Harry frowned. "What happens when you go out into the muggle world. Won't someone see that your tattoos move?"

"That's one of the things I had to learn. In the initial process, there's a special detection charm that is built into the tattoo itself. Everyone in the know is part of a verbal magical contract. If there is anyone in the vicinity that is not part of that contract, the tattoo goes dormant so we can avoid breaking the Statute of Secrecy." Alec stood up and grabbed the book from the shelf. "Would you like to see some of the other designs I've done?"

Harry spared a thought for his friends and the members of the Order. Then he brushed it aside. This was something he was curious about, something to think about besides Voldemort and the fact that his life was constantly in danger. "Sure," he replied, reaching for the book. "I'd love to see them."

He really didn't intend to get a tattoo. He certainly hadn’t walked into Knockturn Alley expecting to get anything, except perhaps a bit of information. But there had been a picture of a scruffy black dog in the book, one that had looked exactly like Sirius. And then he'd found himself thinking that it would be a fitting remembrance for the old rascal. Then he'd found a stag. Then a badger. And then an angel holding a bouquet of white lilies.

He was, he reasoned, a consummate Gryffindor, charging ahead without thinking.

His pocket was forty galleons lighter, but he felt less weighed down by the past and all the anxiety of what would come in the future. It was an odd feeling, knowing that he was carrying creatures on his skin. He could feel them, to some extent, and knew that at least one had migrated from its original place to settle over his heart. Two seemed to be exploring his shoulders and upper arms. He wasn't sure, but he thought that he felt the last one in its original place on his back.

The process itself had been quick, since Alec had done the designs before. It was merely a matter of copying them over with a bit of personality. When Harry had told him who each one represented, the man had merely smiled and told him he understood. Harry slipped back into Diagon Alley before an hour had passed.

It was apparently still long enough for people to worry though, as a bushy-haired missile barreled into Harry in the middle of the street.

"Where were you?" she demanded. "You just disappeared! We thought…"

"I'm fine. I'm sorry I scared you," Harry said, returning the hug. "I was just… looking around. I went a little astray."

"The Order searched the whole Alley!"

"I was in Knockturn Alley. I saw someone and…" He stopped.

He didn't want to tell her about the tattoos. Not because she wouldn't understand, because she might, but because this was something he wanted to be his and only his. He'd had most of his secrets trotted out in front of people either by necessity or because someone was looking to destroy him, and he didn't want this to be used against him. These were personal, far too personal to mention in the middle of Diagon Alley and far too personal for him to want to share it with anyone.

Something shifted slightly above his heart, and it comforted him. He knew that it was the angel with lilies sitting there, and that the tattoo for his mother would support him whatever he decided.

"Harry, you have to tell someone if you're going to go somewhere. Please," she pleaded. "I was worried."

"I'm sorry. I won’t do anything that stupid again," he promised.

He didn't, after all, intend to get another tattoo.

“I don’t think you can promise me that, Harry.” Hermione smiled at him, taking some of the sting out of it. “You’re you.”

Harry didn't get a chance to look at the tattoos again until he was taking a shower back at the Burrow. The angel almost never left the place over his heart, though the stag sometimes joined it. The grim—which was what Alec had called the dog—tended to curl up on his shoulder and upper arm. The badger seemed to have taken up residence on Harry's shoulder blades and gave Harry the feeling that Cedric was watching his back. A feeling he was grateful for, though he regretted not having been able to protect him from Voldemort. It was an old wound, but it still ached.

The tattoos made no sound, which Alec had identified as one major difference between actual magical portraits and tattoos. Even if a tattoo was imbued with a specific person's personality or memories, it still would not be able to talk because of the different magics used to create the art.

Because they were still so new, they were a bit distracting. He found himself losing track of a conversation slightly because one of them had shifted when he hadn't expected it, and he was startled by the movement. But he was starting to realize that the tattoos could produce different sensations based on what he needed.

From the angel, he would often get a feeling of contentment or presence, depending on what he needed. From the grim and the stag, he often got playfulness and protection. And somehow the badger made him feel wanted, like he belonged where he was. He didn't know for sure if this was something that was meant to happen, but it was something he needed.

He was being careful even though he was back at Hogwarts. He would find times when he was certain that the other boys in his dormitory would not be in the bathroom to just sit and look at them. He hid these little moments from Ron and Hermione mostly because he didn't want to tell them the real reason he was always in the bathroom and he didn't want them to conclude that he was suddenly concerned about his appearance. Or that his hormones had caught up with him.

Actually, when he thought about that, he didn't mind if that happened if it meant that he grew a few more inches. If nothing else, he would rather not be the shortest person in his year. Even Lillian Moon, the smallest of the girl, had recently grown past 5'3".

He didn't want to be ridiculed for yet another thing that someone misconstrued. Besides, they both seemed to have other things on their minds besides him, as they should. Ron and Hermione were at odds with each other for whatever reason. Ron seemed to be taking an interest in Lavender Brown, and Hermione had a problem with that. Harry decided he was going to stay out of it and try to actually focus on school this term. With Snape serving as the Defense teacher, he knew that it was not going to be a simple or a fun year.

Not that he'd actually had any of those, he mused ruefully. Things seemed to go wrong, whether he acted on something or not.

Dumbledore was pulling Harry out on the weekend for extra training. At least, that's what the Headmaster called it. To Harry, they were simply going through the memories of Tom Riddle's life from other people. He wasn't learning any special magic and it was frustrating with everything that was going on. His frustration must have been showing in more ways than usual as the badger on his back had migrated to his right breast. Considering it was the embodiment of Cedric, he figured it was a show of solidarity and support.

The familiar sense of despondency settled in his stomach as he thought about the people who had died for him. His mother and father, then Cedric, then Sirius. Something he had done, whether it was existing or trying to play fair or going off half-cocked, he had caused their deaths.

One of the tattooed figures ventured down his arm and a small black head peeked out of the end of his sleeve, staring up at him. Suddenly, the head disappeared and the grim started running circles around his arms until he came to Harry's armpit. Once there, he started messing around in a way that was ticklish and extremely distracting. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Harry's lips. It was just the sort of thing Sirius would have done to get him out of that mood.

Academically, he knew that the tattoos weren't tied to the people they represented, merely his memories of those people, such as they were. But there were times they acted in ways he didn't expect but were completely within their character. Like the grim trying to cheer him up.

Tired and not really paying attention to the rest of his dorm room, Harry took off his shirt on the way to the bathroom. He could hear Ron snoring loud enough to wake the dead, and everyone else usually had their curtains closed and silencing charms up so they didn't have to deal with that.

A soft gasp, barely audible under the din cause by a sleeping Weasley, sounded behind him. His head snapped up and he turned around, wild eyes meeting the shocked expression of Neville Longbottom.

"Harry?" he asked, seeming to struggle to find the words. "You have tattoos?"

Slowly, Harry nodded, searching Neville's face for signs of discontent or revulsion. For his part, aside from shock, Neville was carefully, studiously, frustratingly blank.

"When did you do that?" A hint of genuine curiosity crept into his voice. "Over the summer?"

"Right before coming back. It was a spur of the moment sort of thing." Harry shrugged. "I didn't even know the wizarding world had tattoos until I saw Alec. Other than the Dark Mark."

"In general, we don't. At least not in Britain. They're not very well thought of." Neville cocked his head to one side. "Who's Alec?"

"Alexander Provost. He's the artist who did mine. He has a shop on Knockturn Alley." Harry sighed. "I guess the magical world is a bit like the muggle world in how they look at tattoos."

"I wouldn't know about that," Neville confessed. "Hermione says that the muggle studies class is shite, but I'm kind of stuck with it now. Considering I already took the OWL for it. Even got an EE for it."

Harry shrugged. "Well, if after all this has blown over and we're still alive… If you want to wander around on the other side of the barrier with someone who knows what they're doing, let me know, and we can tour around London or something."

Neville smiled. "I'd like that." He glanced at the tattoos again. "Do they mean something?" Immediately, the boy blushed. "I-I mean… I've heard that sometimes people get tattoos that mean something special, and I was just—"

Harry decided to rescue Neville from his stumbling tongue. "They do mean something. They represent the people I've lost."

"So that's—"

"Mum." He pointed to the angel. "Dad." To the stag. "Sirius." To the grim. "And Cedric." To the badger. "It may just be me projecting on them or something, but I feel like some part of them is actually with me when— well, all the time."

Neville suddenly had a considering look on his face. "Do you think you could take me there? Maybe over the holidays or something? I want— well, maybe— One for mum and one for dad?"

"You should think about that. I got mine rather spur of the moment, but it seems like something you should think about." Harry shrugged again. "You actually have someone that might get upset about it."

"I dunno," Neville laughed. "Gran might want to get one too."

Harry decided not to mention that he couldn't think of a woman with a stuffed vulture on her hat ever wanting to get a tattoo. Augusta Longbottom, from what little he did know of her, was a force of nature, and perhaps she might be interested in them, but he couldn't see that for himself. He just hoped Alec wouldn't get in trouble for anything if Neville decided to get them in spite of his Gran. Especially since some of her ire would inevitably fall on Harry’s head as well for letting Neville know about it in the first place.

In retrospect, Harry should have known this was inevitable. It happened every year without fail and Madam Pomfrey kept threatening to place a plaque on one of the beds to reserve it for him. Honestly, he was surprised she hadn't followed through on it yet. Yes, through circumstances that were no fault of his own—like most times really—Harry had been delivered to the hospital wing and was sentenced to stay the night.

He wasn't going to fight this one, though; his head did hurt and cursing Cormac McLaggen for his idiotic move didn't make him feel better. He would rather have actually cursed the bastard, but he wasn’t going to get around to it today given his imprisonment in Madam Pomfrey's lair.

Shooing his friends, well-wishers, and garden-variety gawkers away, she pulled the privacy screens closed around them and sat down beside his bed. "Now Mr. Potter," she said quietly, even though he knew there were spells to prevent sound from carrying beyond the screens. "Why don't you explain to me why I was not informed of your most recent bodily changes?"

"What?" Although she had fixed the crack in his skull, his brain was still a little foggy.

"Your tattoos, Mr. Potter. To the best of my knowledge, I am your primary Healer, and I need to know when there are other magics involved that might impair the healing process. You're quite lucky they are simple enough to pick up in the standard diagnostic charm. If they had not, any healing I applied would have warped the magic that they contain."

"Oh," he replied dully. "I didn't know that. Or that I had to tell anyone about them."

"Does anyone know about them?"

"Just Neville. I got in late and wasn't paying attention to see if anyone was still awake."

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "And I suppose it wouldn't have occurred to him to mention that your healer should be informed. I really do think that Albus did you a great disservice by placing you in the Muggle world and forbidding all contact until you came to Hogwarts. Muggle healers don't know how to handle magical children, and I don't believe you saw many of them from the scans I got during your first year. Besides that, there is basic knowledge that people expect you to have, and from the number of times you have been in this hospital wing and asked about them, I know you didn't know any of it."

"Sorry."

"This is not your fault, Mr. Potter. If it lies with anyone, it's squarely on Albus's shoulders." She huffed. "I will need to put a note about your tattoos into your file, where any future healer you have can access it."

"Can anyone else see it?" he asked, suddenly feeling a creeping panic collect in his gut.

"No. Only your healer is allowed access. Anyone else who tries to break into it is tagged with a spell that identifies them to other healers and to the Aurors. Medical privacy is magically enforced, and I would hope that people know better than to violate it to dig up muck on someone."

"So, you won't tell anyone?"

"Of course not. Even if I wanted to—which I don't—I am bound by the oath I took as a healer. I cannot reveal any information about a patient without the patient's explicit consent."

Harry sighed, and some of the tension fell from his body. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Mr. Potter. Now rest. It's the best thing for your injury at the moment."

Later, Harry didn't remember hearing the last bit of that.

The world was going to hell, and he was stuck in Surrey, trying not to let his brain leak out his ears in boredom. Dumbledore was dead. Snape was a murdering traitor. The fingerprints of Voldemort could be seen on all the reports of strange weather, odd deaths, and frightening disappearances. There was so much going on and he was stuck at Privet Drive, waiting to see if the Order would get him out before Snape ratted out his location to the Dark Lord.

On top of everything else, it was also really fucking hot. He had gotten so sick of his shirt sticking to him from all the sweat that he had taken it off.

He'd actually forgotten about that, and that none of his loving family knew about his tattoos, until he ran into Dudley in the hall as he crossed to the loo.

Big D did a double take, then let out a little eep when one of them moved. "H-Harry?"

Harry winced and turned to look at his cousin. "Yes?"

"It moved."

He sighed. "Wizarding pictures move. I'm sure you've seen the picture of my mum and dad on my desk."

"Yes, but… It's a tattoo! It's on you!"

Harry had to swallow a laugh. "Tattoos generally go on people, yes."

Dudley glanced furtively towards the stairs, then leaned closer conspiratorially. "When did you get them?"

"Last summer." Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Look, can we talk about this after I use the loo?"

Dudley nodded, stepping aside to let Harry pass. "I'll be in your room."

Although he tried not to be concerned about his cousin around his things, Harry rushed in the bathroom in order to get back as quickly as possible.

"So," he asked as soon as he closed the door of his bedroom behind him. Dudley was sitting on his bed, so he took the chair at his desk after pulling on a shirt. "What do you want to know about them?"

"Where did you get them?"

"In the wizarding world. Down a slightly disreputable alley, from a bloke who was actually rather nice." Harry had been thinking about getting another one—a phoenix to commemorate Dumbledore—but he wasn't sure when he would be able to get in there, and he was honestly a little bit afraid of what might happen to a muggleborn tattoo artist in Knockturn Alley. Things were bad enough in Diagon Alley, with people going missing and shops getting attacked. Alec was rather unassuming, and he had only the barest of connections to Harry, but things were going to be far more difficult if Voldemort got his way. And the way things were looking, it was heading in that direction at the speed of a bullet train.

"Could I get some moving tattoos?"

Harry blinked. "I don't know. Why would you want to? You can get regular tattoos."

"But then they wouldn't move."

"Well, mine don't move all the time. If anyone who isn't in on the whole magic thing sees them, they can't move at all. And that's most of the people you associate with. All of the people you associate with."

Dudley got suddenly intense and focused. "But I would know that they could move."

"I don't even know if you can get them. I don't know if it's only something wizards can have or if it's something others can have too. I didn't ask about that because I didn't think it would come up." He threw up his hands in the air. "I don't know if he'll even still be there with what's been going on. It's not exactly safe for people like him."

"But if it is, and they can, will you take me to get some?"

Harry shrugged. "That's a lot of 'if's, you realize? Like, if I can find you after. Or if I'm still alive."

"What?" It was odd to see Dudley's face shift from that intensity to confusion and horror. A few years ago, he could have sworn the boy would have gleefully watched him get killed. But perhaps Dudley was growing up and out of the bully he'd been for most of his life. Harry didn't know what might have caused that shift.

"Remember a couple years ago, when I came back and was stuck in the house a lot because I would be in danger if I left? Well, this dark lord had used my blood to resurrect himself, and he's been out to kill me since I was a baby, all because of a stupid prophecy." Harry slumped forward, his arms crossed and resting on the desk. "Apparently, I have to kill him, or he has to kill me, and he's got fifty years of experience on me. And a small army of minions who all want what he wants. So, I kind of have the odds stacked against me."

"You'll be fine," Dudley said, with all the confidence of someone who didn't really understand what Harry was up against. "You've beaten a lot of things. Including those demmy-thingys. And you're not really afraid of anything."

"I wish that were true," Harry muttered under his breath. He was acutely aware of the things he was afraid of: getting other people killed, letting people down, not being able to find the horcruxes… The list went on and all of it revolved around failing. If he failed, he was letting more down then just himself and his friends. Voldemort was hungry for power and control. He wouldn't be satisfied with just the British wizarding world. Harry doubted he would be happy if he managed to conquer the whole world. He could usually tell when Voldemort was pleased, but he didn't think the man could ever be or had ever experienced actual happiness. Considering how much of it he had stolen from Harry, he refused to pity him for that, though.

"I better go before Mum thinks you kidnapped me or something more ridiculous." Dudley stood from the bed. He paused on his way to the door and turned back. "But if you can, find me after? Let me know what happened."

Harry blinked as he sat up, still confused by this sudden change in his cousin. "I will," he finally promised. "After."

Ron had left more than a month ago for home or wherever the hell he went, and Harry was still in a bit of a foul mood because of it. He didn't show it around Hermione, who was having her own issues with the git's departure, and vacillating between crying about it and threatening to castrate him if he came back and expected things to be the same. Harry almost—almost—felt sorry for the bastard, should Hermione get her wand on him. Not enough to try and stop her just yet, though.

He also, unintentionally, got careless again. In his defense, he thought Hermione was still in the living room of the tent reading one of her books, which was where she could be found most days. Instead, he ran into her, bare-chested and still dripping from his shower, in the hallway going towards his room.

He winced at her sharp intake of breath at the sight of the grim curled up on his collarbone. The stag and the angel were together over his heart. She couldn't see the badger between his shoulder blades yet.

"Harry," she asked, her tone dancing on the narrow line between sharp and confused. "Why do you have tattoos?"

"Because I paid for them." He tried to push around her and ignore the incident, but she pushed back with a hand on his chest.

"When? And why?" Her voice was harder this time. He should have known she would find out about them eventually, but he didn't have to like it. And he really didn't.

"Last summer, before sixth year. And because I wanted to." He couldn't judge what he thought her reaction was going to be to it. He had been consciously keeping this from Ron and Hermione since he got them, and now there were others who knew about them when they didn't. Ron, since he had abandoned them, still didn't know about them.

"But why?" Hermione repeated, like she was trying to understand why the universe existed, why magic was given to some people and not others and Harry had all the answers she would ever need but wasn't telling her.

"Can I get dressed in something other than a towel before we finish this conversation?"

Her eyes narrowed, but she nodded, and Harry took the time to gather his thoughts. She was going to be mad. She and Ron were always upset when he kept things from them. He didn't really have a good reason for keeping them out of this particular aspect of his life, just the desire to keep something so personal private. It hadn't worked particularly well, but only four people had known about them before this, and one of those people was Alec.

Hermione was waiting for him outside his bedroom in the tent, her expression stubborn. As soon as he was in her line of sight, she turned toward the main part of the tent and glanced back pointedly to make sure he was following. He briefly considered ducking out of the tent to avoid this conversation, but with as delicate as Hermione's temper had been lately, he knew it wasn't a particularly good idea. At best, he would come back, and she'd curse him. At worst, she might leave without him out of spite or think that he had left, and he wasn't willing to do that to her.

They sat down at the table across from one another.

"Why?" Hermione asked, her voice raspy and wrung out. It was a tone he had gotten used to hearing recently, another effect of Ron's absence on their group dynamic.

"Hermione." He made his voice soft and firm. "I don't know what you want from me here, but I don't think I can give it."

She stopped long enough to look up at him, and then they just stared at one another. Hermione looked exhausted and slightly angry and like nothing had made sense for a long time. To be fair, it really hadn't. They had been wandering for a while, trying to make do without Ron and living with the knowledge that they didn't know what was going on in the world beyond their tent.

They had fallen off somewhere keeping track of who was still fighting out there and who had died, and Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know the names of those who had died. He had a notebook full of names of people who had died in the last war, and another section that started with Cedric's name. He was the first one to die when the war resumed. Because the wars were not separate. The players were slightly different, but the war was the same.

"Why would you get tattoos? And why didn't you tell me about them?" She looked so thoroughly offended that Harry felt guilty for a moment.

"I didn't mean to get them," Harry admitted. "I followed the tattooist back to his shop. I was curious about his tattoos because they moved. Considering everything we've been through; I'd like to think you'd understand why."

She nodded knowingly. A little too knowingly. "But you didn't say anything about them. You have three."

"Four, actually." Harry rubbed his neck under her sharper gaze. "There's another on my back. A badger."

He could see the exact moment the symbolism hit her. All the pieces were there and available for her to interpret, and she didn't disappoint. "Harry..."

Harry couldn't help bristling under the pity in her tone. "Whatever you think, it's not that. I know they're not coming back. With Mum and Dad, I've been living with that my whole life. I just—"

Words abandoned him and he couldn't express how much he needed that little bit of something that was like external affection. They weren't meant to replace the people he'd lost, they weren't apologies for not being better, even though part of him was convinced that every one of their deaths was his fault. They were a living memorial that he had chosen for himself, a reminder that the dead are never really gone.

Hermione backed down at the emotion blazing in his eyes. From her perspective he supposed he might look more than a little mad, but she needed to understand that he wasn't doing this for anyone else. It was one thing he had done just for himself. And if the magic in them died with him, they were little better than pretty pieces of art on his skin, but it wouldn't matter then. Someone would remember him, and he would finally get a chance to know the people he hadn't had time to truly know.

"Okay," Hermione said finally, patting his hand. "I understand."

He was fairly certain she didn't, but he didn't say so. She had been granted far more choices than he had in life, and he didn't think she would fully understand what that meant until she lost something she wasn't going to get back.

Ron found out about the tattoos the moment he returned to them, mostly because Harry was again mostly naked and soaking wet. The difference between then and when Hermione found out was chiefly the temperature of the water and the situation that caused him to get wet.

Ron didn't ask about them until after they got back to the tent and dried off, Ron practically singed under the heat of Hermione's ire.

"Why do you have tattoos, mate?" Ron asked as they huddled around the small brazier in the front room. "When did you get them?"

"Before sixth year," Harry said, choosing to answer the second question than try to delve into the vastly more complicated 'why' question again.

"Huh. I never noticed."

Harry shrugged. "I didn't make a point of showing them off or anything. They're personal."

Ron nodded. "Your mum and dad, right? And Sirius and Cedric."

"Yeah." Harry knew that Ron was a lot smarter than he let on. It wasn't from books like Hermione, and it wasn't really in fighting like Harry, but he understood people almost better than they could understand themselves. There was no explanation needed between them, nothing more that needed to be said.

"You going to get anymore?" Ron asked

"I dunno. Maybe." Hermione would probably hex him if he said he was thinking about getting more if he survived this war. The phoenix for Dumbledore, and maybe, if Alec could do it, the names of the people who died for this. Maybe Harry would show Alec the Marauder’s Map, figure out how to create a shifting list of names rotating around his wrist. Maybe he'd think of something else before then.

"Let me know if you do, yeah?" Ron bumped their shoulders together and that simple gesture filled him with more warmth than anything else. And with the necklace destroyed, things were looking just a bit better.

They should have been more cautious; Harry knew they should have been as much as he knew the situation they were in was all his fault. But living in the tent made the rest of the world not seem as real. Yes, it was dangerous, but it was also not in the tent with them unless they tuned to the radio where Fred and George were giving reports on the progress of the war. But he hadn't grown up to fear the name of Voldemort. He wasn't even really afraid of what Voldemort would do to him. He wanted to live, of course he did, but he was far more concerned with what Voldemort would do to the rest of the world than he was about his own life. After all, his own life hadn't really mattered before.

Harry had been slowly coming to the realization that he had never really lived, and therefore didn't really have anything to lose in this. His family was largely gone. He only had Ron and Hermione, and he was reminded every time Ron tuned to the secret station that they both had families they were concerned about. Hermione had erased their memories of her, but she still had family, and Ron's family was actively or passively fighting against Voldemort. They had people who would miss them and who they would miss if something happened. Harry was beginning to understand that maybe it was okay if he didn't make it out the other side of this war. He didn't want to die, but he wasn't sure he really had a future.

Still, he didn't want to be where he was, with Bellatrix Lestrange holding his head back by his hair while he was kneeling in Malfoy manor, waiting for Draco Malfoy to identify him.

"Well?" she asked in her breathy, girlish voice. It was loud and harsh against his ear.

"I can't be sure."

Draco was staring at Harry and there was a strange expression on his face, but Harry couldn't tell exactly what it was with his glasses missing and his head dragged back with his vulnerable throat exposed to the room at large.

"Potter doesn't have tattoos," he said.

A chill ran through Harry. All of his tattoos had migrated and, instead of sitting safely beneath his clothes, Prongs and Padfoot had taken up guardianship on the backs of his hands. The badger moved from his regular place on his back to settle on the inner forearm of his wand arm and, most visible and telling of all, the angel had moved from over his heart to creep up his neck. He didn't know what it looked like to others at the moment, but the disturbed look on Draco's face and the way the magic of the tattoo swirled under his skin, he could imagine that she was glaring at everyone in the room at the very least.

"Look closer, son." Lucius Malfoy was a blur of color moving next to the paler blur that was Draco. Without his glasses, he couldn't tell, but Lucius seemed muted as well. And the furious, desperate whispering Harry struggled to hear added a bit of weight to his suspicions. None of the Malfoys were particular enjoying what being subservient to a fickle Dark Lord was starting to mean. Still, Lucius sounded loyal to Voldemort.

"Don't be shy, sweetie," Bellatrix was saying, hovering over Harry's face as she dragged Draco haltingly forward. "Come over." She pushed Draco down onto his knees until Harry could see him face to face. Close enough for Harry to see the ghostly pallor hanging like a veil over Draco's face. "If this isn't who you think it is, Draco... and we will call Him, he'll kill us all. We need to be absolutely sure!"

"What's wrong with his face?" Draco asked.

With the abruptness of a bone snapping, Bellatrix was suddenly upright, leaving Harry heaped on the floor, his scalp burning slightly from where she'd been pulling at his hair to keep him upright. "Yes, what is wrong with his face?" she demanded of the snatchers in a tone that was deceptively breezy.

"We captured him like that," the head snatcher replied. "Something he contracted in the forest; I reckon."

"That happens during a stinging jinx." Harry felt the fear crawl up his throat. He couldn't see it, not stuck staring into Draco's face like he was, but he could feel as Bellatrix's manic energy shifted to focus on one particular party in the room. Hermione. "Was it you?" The flat way she said it, Bellatrix was more than aware that Hermione was the one to cast the jinx. "Give me your wand and let's see what your last spell was."

The next shift in the atmosphere was unexpected and obvious to all. Even Draco turned to look, and Harry was glad not to have those eyes trailing down his face to glance at the angel poised protectively around his throat. He wished his wand wasn't acting as an excellent imitation of a broken stick right now. He wished he could make the magic he could feel roiling within him actually do something to get them out of this. It had burst out of him before, why couldn't it now?

There was a roaring in his ears that blocked out most of the sound, the sick feeling that he wasn't going to make some miraculous escape from this one. Draco knew it was him, though why he was stalling about telling the others Harry didn't know, and they would call Voldemort, and it would be over. He tried to look past Draco where he thought Ron and Hermione were, but the colors were muted and distant and he couldn't tell where one vague shape ended and the next began.

Sound returned as he was being dragged away, just enough for him to realize that he was being taken to the cellar, Ron was with him, and Hermione was still upstairs with Bellatrix. He fought hard against the hand holding him, but it wouldn't let up. He and Ron were both unceremoniously tossed into a dungeon-like room with an iron lattice door that locked as soon as it closed. His tattoos had slipped back beneath his clothes, but a firm sense of resolve set in. He couldn't leave Hermione up there with that bitch and he wasn't going to die in Malfoy's cellar.

"They're very lovely," Luna said from behind him.

Harry knew she was talking about his tattoos. He didn't really bother to hide them much anymore. There weren't enough people to have an opinion on whether he should have tattoos or not. If they were smart, they were worrying about surviving this war themselves rather than obsessing about what the teenager they hoped would end the war had done with his own body.

They had been at Shell Cottage for two days now, waiting for Griphook to decide whether he wanted to help them or not. Luna was going to stay with Bill and Fleur for a while because it was safe, and she really deserved to be safe after everything she'd been through.

"Thank you." He felt more than a little raw and scared with how close things had come there. "Are you okay?"

"I've been better." That she'd hadn't said a word about nargles or plimpy soup in the past couple days spoke volumes for her state of mind, and Harry didn't blame her in the slightest. He didn't feel safe these days, but she should have been.

"I'm sorry," he started. "You wouldn't have been taken if I hadn't given that interview—"

"Maybe not, but it's too late to change things now. And that interview was important, and we're still alive." She gently reached out and took his hand. "You can't be at fault for everything they do. You weren't there, you couldn't have stopped it. But you saved us."

"Dobby saved us," Harry argued. "I just got him killed."

Luna hummed, and Harry was getting the impression that she was disagreeing with him without coming right out and saying it.

"You should get another," she said. "After everything. You weren't made to grieve with words."

He blinked at her, not for the first time wondering if she could somehow read his thoughts. If she could, maybe she could see the vague ever-shifting images of tattoos he wanted to get when everything was over, if he was still alive at the end of it.

"I think I'll want to go too," she confessed. "I don't think I was made to grieve with words either."

They sat in silence for a while and, when Harry got up, he felt lighter for it. He was almost sad when they had to leave.

Harry was standing just beyond the tree line of the Forbidden Forest. He had known it was coming to this. In some ways, he had known his entire life that it would come down to him and the dark shape in his memories.

He pulled the snitch Dumbledore had given him out of his pocket, weighing it in his hand. It was the last riddle the Headmaster had left for him, and it had been growing heavier every step of this journey. At this point, he was almost sure what was inside it. Pressing it close to his lips, he whispered, "I am about to die."

The snitch broke in half in his hands and a stone much heavier than it looked like it should be dropped into his palm. Although, perhaps the weight of it was only in his mind. The problem with the Wizarding World, at least in his mind, was that too many of the stories were true because they had magic. Perhaps it wasn't Death the three brothers met on the road, but why else would the enchantments on the invisibility cloak still be there after what had to be at least 600 years. How could a stone call forth ghosts of the dead who never became ghosts? How could a wand make more difference than skill in a fight?

Because it was true and the Resurrection Stone was sitting in his hand, crafted by the hand of Death and placed there by the machinations of Dumbledore. He would meet Death soon. Maybe he could give the Hallows back.

It was almost funny. Voldemort had made a horcrux of the Resurrection Stone, tied his soul with something so close to Death that it called the souls from the other side. He probably didn't even know about it. Until talking to Xenophilius Lovegood, Harry hadn't known anything about the Hallows or any of the Wizarding fairy tales. Maybe he should have looked for them, since the stories were almost all true in the end. 

He twisted the stone three times, as the brother did in the story, and a whisper of wind was the only thing to announce their arrival. Surrounding him were the spirits of the people he lost. Remus, who died so recently beside his wife Tonks, Sirius, who he had barely known before he lost him, and his parents, looking so young and fragile. And so very, very sad.

"Harry," his mother whispered, drifting closer. Neither of them dared to touch the other, the tale of the second brother's death ringing in Harry's head. He could not be with them, not like this.

"We're proud of you, Harry," his father said. "We've always been proud of you and we always will. No matter what."

"Even if I turn and go back to the castle?" He knew he wouldn't. He knew he was set on this path for a reason and that he couldn't just turn around. There was another horcrux to destroy, and he was going to make Voldemort do it himself.

"Even then," James promised.

Harry couldn't place the feeling that welled up inside of him. Instead of standing there trying to interpret it, he started walking deeper into the forest. Death was waiting for him at the end of this journey and it would be rude to be late. It was difficult to walk beside his biggest failures, knowing that his very existence had brought each of theirs to an abrupt and violent end. One of which he had been an active participant in.

He turned to Sirius. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Sirius told him, somehow more stable and saner in death than he had been in life. Maybe there was peace to be found on the other side after all. "I've never thought it was your fault."

"None of this was ever your fault," Remus stressed, stepping closer until they could almost brush arms. "This war was started by people much older and more experienced than you or any of us. We were still in school when it stopped being a stand-off."

"We're the ones who died for it, though," Harry replied bitterly.

It was a shock to realize he was bitter about it. He had been robbed of his parents, his childhood, his sense of self and safety. This war had taken so much from him and he was still going to give his life for it. So, yes, he was bitter that it had come to this, but it wasn't going to stop him now. This war needed to end and the people he loved needed to be safe.

"No more, though. I'm the last one that they're going to kill."

"It shouldn't be you." His mother had moved to his other side and he stopped to look into the eyes that people said were so much like his own. "You shouldn't have been asked to do this."

"But I was. I've been marked since before I was born." He reached up and brushed a finger over his scar, which burned under his touch. "He just made it obvious."

Too soon, he was nearing the edge of the clearing Voldemort had mentioned. He could see the Death Eaters through the trees and, in a very real way now, he could see his own death waiting in their midst. He would have asked Sirius if dying hurt, but he couldn't bring himself to give it voice. Knowing the answer wouldn't change things, and he would find out soon enough for himself. This was the end of it for him.

Dropping the stone into his pocket out of habit more than anything else, he stepped into view of Voldemort.

Death was quiet and he was unclothed in the emptiness that surrounded him. His skin was bare, and that caused him more consternation than the fact that he was naked in an unfamiliar place. Although death wasn't as unfamiliar to him as it was to others.

"They're not soul-deep."

Harry looked up into the face of something. Or, rather, someone.

He was suddenly clothed, though he got the impression this was more a formality than a necessity for this person and he felt the impulsive need both to thank them and apologize for the effort they expended to do it. He clamped down on both.

"What do you mean?" he asked instead.

"Your tattoos. They aren't inscribed on your soul," the person clarified. "And surely you've realized this isn't your physical body here?"

"Oh." He hadn't, but he hadn't really had time to think of it. He was dead. His body was still laying in the forest somewhere, Voldemort probably crowing with victory over it, and Harry was dead.

He was suddenly struck with the thought that this wasn't at all what he'd been expecting. He hadn't realized he was expecting certain things from death, even without asking either his parents or Sirius and Remus about it. He had been expecting answers, an explanation from Dumbledore as to why it had to be him, how all of the pieces fit together in the end. He wanted to know that his efforts weren't wasted, that he actually died for a good reason and not just because of a set of memories taken from Snape's dying body, memories he had yet to fully process.

He wanted to know why he was chosen, what some unknowable force had seen in him that they would make him the Savior of the Wizarding World. Most of all, he wanted to know that the Wizarding World was worth saving. When it produced such people as Bellatrix or Voldemort, or even just Lucius Malfoy, was it really worth saving?

"Do you want me to bring him to you?" the person asked. Harry didn't know them, not explicitly, but they were almost kind. "If you want answers from Dumbledore, I can bring him here for you."

"Where is here?"

The person shifted, their cloak floating and fluttering around them like gossamer and spider webs. "I thought you might get around to that question. This is The Space Between. This is where souls sort themselves according to what they need or desire. Or what they expect. This is where one decides if they are going to an eternal rest, to which afterlife they commend their soul, or returning to the world as a spirit to walk among the living."

Harry nodded. He wasn't sure why he was nodding exactly, except that the explanation made sense to him. This was the judgement seat of Death, a place that existed across mythologies, religions, and cultures. The only difference was that Death didn't care how the souls of the dead sorted themselves. The souls judged themselves based on what they believed. Briefly, Harry wondered if he should have understood that, as he found he wasn't sure where to place himself in this.

"You, however," Death continued, "are not here for that unless you want to be."

Harry paused. "What do you mean?" This was not something he expected Death to say. He wasn't sure this was something Death should say.

"You are unusual," Death replied. "I do not extend this offer to others, nor would I offer it at all had you not collected the gifts I gave."

"Gifts?" Harry remembered every gift he'd been given in his life. He imagined it would be difficult for someone like Dudley or even maybe Hermione to recall without a bit of thought, but Harry knew them all with every waking moment. He remembered the reluctant regard shown by the present the Dursleys had sent him at Christmas his first year. He remembered the invisibility cloak under the tree that had become so important in his life, especially recently. "Do you mean the Hallows?"

"That is what your fellow wizards call them, but they were gifts I gave. Easily given, easily squandered, easily separated, and yet you collected them all together at the same time. You have the Stone in your pocket, the cloak tucked under your jacket, and the wand's allegiance is yours, even for the hand wielding it attempting to kill you."

"I was going to give them back," he said. It was the truth, and he wasn't sure if he could do that now. He wondered if one of the Death Eaters was taking them off of his body right now.

Death cocked their head to one side. "You were. How strange. It doesn't matter now. Once gathered, they won't be owned by anyone else. Not even me."

"You said I wasn't here unless I wanted to be. What did you mean?"

Death straightened and folded their hands in front of them. "You have the choice to pass on or to return to the world of the living."

"What about the horcrux?" Harry asked. He was prepared to stay dead if it killed Voldemort. The continued survival of the man who had already cause the death of nearly everyone Harry was close to was not something he was willing to risk just to save himself. He would rather suffer a far more painful death than he had and never find rest in death like his parents to ensure Voldemort stayed dead this time.

"I have been collecting the pieces of Tom Riddle for years, even the tattered fragments from tearing his soul again. The scrap of his soul you carried will not be returning with you." Death offered him a wry smile, and it chilled Harry to see it even though he knew it wasn't meant for him. "One way or another, he will find his way here soon."

"But I can go back."

Death nodded. "My gifts will have no other. Without you, they will turn to the things I made them from. A stick of an elder tree, a sharp stone from a riverbed, and the dust of a thousand graves. Even should you choose to die now, I believe the power will follow you."

Harry knew he didn't want to die, not really. He wasn't about to leave the others to deal with Voldemort on their own, and he had so many people he needed to protect. He knew it down to his bones, to the depths of his soul.

"And you have made your decision." Harry didn't even bother to ask how Death knew. It was probably written on his soul, and there was no one better to be able to read it than Death themself.

He nodded.

"I think it was always going to be you who collected them."

It was such a quiet comment that Harry couldn't help looking up into Death's face again. "What?"

"The Hallows, as you call them. I think you were always meant to have them all. You reached beyond the Veil before you had more than one of them." They smiled, and it was a different smile, a kind one that Harry almost expected to see on the face of a grandmother who saw the end coming soon. "Most who reach out to touch the dead as you did call upon the power selfishly. They want to pull back what cannot be returned. They try to steal the souls of the dead. You merely captured an imprint to keep beneath your skin. That, I think, was when you won me over."

Harry opened his mouth to ask what they meant, but Death put a hand over his lips.

"Your friend, she was half right. You were not meant to grieve with words. You were not meant to grieve at all. You were made to remember, and that is a burden more difficult to bear than any you have been given, and I am sorry for that."

Harry nodded because on some level he understood. He had known he was different even before the Dursleys beat it into him. He knew there was something wrong with the way he encountered the world compared to everyone else. People didn't go through life knowing that Death was something close and intimate to them, but he didn't understand that until people started asking if it was scary to face down someone everyone equated with death and his answer wasn't 'yes'. Even standing beside Death he understood that people weren't supposed to come into death with any expectations other than where they should go.

Other people didn't look at Death and see one of their oldest friends.

"When you go back, remember this," Death whispered. "Remember me."

The mist hovering around them swirled and grew thicker and Harry wanted to reach out and touch Death just once. Wanted to offer comfort to a being who had watched him grow into the person he was. But he didn't touch, and the mist took him away.

After the battle, Harry sat on one of the upper staircases and remembered Death. The ghosts had gathered below, offering what help they could to the people who survived. Which was everyone Harry died to protect.

He wondered if the others noticed the way the Killing Curse curved away from people. He wondered if anyone realized that he really died and made the choice to come back. He wondered if they could read on his face what he had become.

If they could, Harry hoped they would tell him because he wasn't sure what he had become himself.

Death's words hung on him and he knew the implication of what they said. Coming back from the dead—and he was dead—meant that he would never be in the position to make the choice he had made. He would remember and remember and remember everyone he was going to lose and had already lost.

He rolled up his sleeves and just stared at the stag on one forearm and the grim on the other. Death had called them imprints, and he knew how right that was. He had reached beyond into the space he would never see and brought back a tiny bit of essence of who the people he lost had been.

His mother hovered over his heart. His father stood at his right arm and Sirius was on his left. Cedric was watching his back.

He knew it wasn't them, not exactly, but it was the essence of who they were. It was comforting to have that.

"Harry?"

Harry glanced back to see Neville slowly walking up behind him.

"Do they need something?" Harry asked. His voice was hoarse even though he hadn't done enough that it should be.

"No, I just... You weren't there, so I came to find you."

"Oh."

Neville sat down beside him and sighed. The silence stretched between them and it was awkward, but Harry wasn't sure what to do about that.

"Do you suppose it's still there?" Neville asked. "That tattoo shop you told me about?"

Harry shrugged. His last visit to Diagon Alley hadn't taken him anywhere near Alex's shop and he hadn't even thought to look then. Getting away from Gringotts was a bit of a priority at the time.

"I suppose we could check," he replied. Part of him was afraid of what they would find. Alec was a muggleborn, from what Harry could recall, and the last year hadn't been kind to muggleborns anywhere, as they discovered.

"Shall we go now? Before they miss us?"

Harry stopped and looked at Neville. The boy was older, wiser, harder than he had been when they were in Gryffindor together. Harry was different too, but this was a more subtle change, like it was who Neville was always supposed to be, but he'd never had the chance to discover it before. Technically he wasn't a boy anymore. None of them were. Neville was the man out of the whole silent congregation of Hogwarts to stare Voldemort in the face and yell back. He was the man who pulled Gryffindor's sword out of the Sorting Hat and beheaded the snake. This was someone Harry had watched grow up alongside him and he mourned not seeing the final steps he took to become what he was.

Neville was someone he would think back on and point to as one of the bravest people he had ever met.

There was a quote he had heard once from a primary teacher. They were a bit disparaging since it was an American who said it, but Harry couldn't help but think it applied here. 'Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the assessment that something else is more important than fear.' Neville, who had been afraid most of his life from what Harry could tell, had lived that. He had learned the hard way what it was to be a Gryffindor, to be brave, and he had been afraid of so many things. Rightfully so, of course. But he never let it stop him.

Neville would be someone he remembered. A lion, perhaps. Or maybe a griffin.

Not yet though.

"Yeah," Harry answered finally. "Let's go."

They had collected Luna on the way out, and Hermione and Ron had appeared on either side of him as if by magic. It was like they knew. Of course, they had been around each other so much, how could they not?

Diagon Alley was a mess, and Harry knew part of this was their fault. A dragon crawling its way out of the bank was not a simple thing to fix. The backlash would be terrible, especially for them, but it was war and there were things more important than the sanctity of the bank to be concerned with. The Wizarding World was full enough of traitors, who was to say any of the other goblins would have helped even if they had asked. Griphook had betrayed them, after all.

Harry turned away from Gringotts towards Knockturn Alley, which was remarkably untouched. It made some degree of sense, of course. Many of those who followed Voldemort lived or worked or generally ended up in Knockturn Alley, and it simply wasn't an intelligent idea to alienate the people he relied on as cannon fodder. Because most of those who came from Knockturn Alley were expendable at the height of Voldemort's insanity, and still they flocked to him.

The shopfront was just as unassuming as it had been when Harry followed Alec to it the first time. There was a vague aura of emptiness like before, and it was difficult to tell if that was some enchantment placed on the building or if it was actually as empty as it seemed.

Harry knocked gently on the door.

For several moments, nothing happened, and Harry's heart started to clench. He didn't want this to be one more thing he lost, even though Alec was probably one of the least sure things he'd had in his life.

But then the door opened, and Alec was there, blinking at Harry.

"Oh. Harry." He smiled. "I just heard about what happened at Hogwarts. I wasn't..."

"I'm glad you're okay." The words fell out of Harry's mouth before he could stop them.

"Yeah. Thanks. For everything, I suppose." Alec stepped back. "Come on in. It's a bit of a mess, but I've been kind of isolating myself from everything for a while."

Harry led the others inside. It was messier than when Harry was last there, but not by much. Trash could be vanished; wizards could summon water to clean things. The worst bit was the staleness of the air, but that was probably a necessity in the political climate Voldemort and Umbridge had cultivated. After all, if there was supposedly no one there, who was going to call the Aurors on the muggleborn tattooist?

The messiest thing Harry could see were the pieces of loose parchment laying about, all of them with new art that wasn't part of the collection Alec had shown Harry the first time.

"I'm Alexander Provost," Alec said, addressing the others. "I'm afraid I don't know who all of you are."

"Hermione Granger." Hermione held out her hand. "You did Harry's tattoos?"

"Ah, yes. Are you all here to get tattoos?" Alec looked just a bit panicked looking over them. "It may take a bit. I don't know if I have all the materials."

"It doesn't need to happen today," Neville cut in. "I'm Neville Longbottom, by the way. We just... We needed to get out of Hogwarts for a bit. Too many people."

"Ah. Perfectly understandable."

Harry wandered over to the stacks of parchment as Luna and Ron introduced themselves. Some of the images were darker than the collection in Alec's book. Skulls featured in a lot of them, as did snakes, and Harry knew if it wasn't for the potential mistake with the dark mark then the image of it would have appeared among them as well. There was an elaborate skull in one picture with flowers growing out of the eyes. Asphodels and carnations and chrysanthemums. Under it, there was a strangely simple design unlike any of the others he had found in the stack. It was familiar, intimate even, and Harry wondered if Alec had been the one to put it there or if some other force were responsible for its presence.

It was a picture of Death.

Remember me, Death had said. They had said this after acknowledging that the people he remembered were inked onto his skin and burrowed down next to his soul.

"Alec?"

Alec turned to him. "Find something you like?"

Harry pointed at it. "This one."

The others huddled close to see the drawing. He could feel Hermione vibrating next to him at the sight of it, and it probably had something to do with the mark of the Deathly Hallows cleverly nestled in the center of it.

"I even know exactly where I want it," Harry continued. "Because no matter where we put it, it's going to go to the same place, so we might as well put it there first and save the trouble."

Alec nodded. "Yeah. I think I have the supplies for that here. Do you want to do it now?"

"If we can." Harry glanced at the others. "Would you mind?"

"Go for it, mate," Ron said. Harry knew he saw the symbol in it too, but he wasn't saying anything.

The Deathly Hallows were not something they really talked about or should talk about. But the fact of the matter remained the Unbeatable Wand was tucked away beside his repaired wand, the Resurrection Stone was weighing down his left pocket, and Death's Own Invisibility Cloak had been his from the moment he opened it on Christmas Day when he was eleven. As much as the tattoo was a symbol of Death, it was his symbol too, a recognition of the gift and the burden of owning them. It was something he was always going to remember, with or without the tattoo.

Harry took off his shirt and lay down on the padded table while Alec went to collect the supplies he needed.

"So," Alec said once he was ready. "Where exactly are we putting this?"

"Right here." Harry pointed at the empty place just above the lower edge of his ribs. None of them knew the significance of that place, but he thought Hermione might guess. This was where Voldemort hit him with the Killing Curse for the second time in his life. His first encounter with the Killing Curse had left him with a scar. It only made sense that his second would be marked as well, the end of a chapter of his life succinctly closed with Death and the Hallows.

"Right." Alec cleaned the patch of skin, setting up the magical paints needed on a small table sitting near where Harry was laying.

He watched the painfully precise movements of Alec's wand as the colors mixed together in the air before pressing themselves into his skin. As before, there was no real pain to the process, but there was a pressure to it, like someone had set a heavy weight on his sternum and told Harry to breathe through it. He did, watching Death slowly appear beneath his skin, blooming into being.

This time he felt when he unconsciously reached out for something more, seizing on a touch of something familiar but alien and adding it to the magic slowly coming together.

Maybe it was his imagination as the edges grew sharper and the black seemed deeper. Maybe he was projecting his perceptions on reality. But maybe it was real, how the figure of Death was somehow just as real as the being he met following the killing curse.

Maybe it was exactly what he was supposed to remember.

"There." Alec leaned back. "Done."

Harry sat up, reaching for his shirt. Still, he couldn't help running a couple of fingers across his skin and feeling the chill radiating from it. "How much do I owe you for this?"

Alec shook his head. "I'm not going to ask you for anything for that one. Not after everything you've done." He smiled. "The next one, though... That you'll have to pay for."

And Harry, in spite of everything that had happened and would still probably happen in the next few days, felt for the first time like the world as a whole was going to recover.

Time didn't pass any faster or slower to Harry than to anyone else. It marched on and he started pulling away, started finding new things to occupy his time. With infinity before him, there was nothing but time to learn whatever he wanted. Runes and Arithmancy, formal dueling, the various social niceties of the wizarding world that he would inevitably trample all over anyway. He even learned how to create tattoos for himself, how to intentionally infuse them with the essence of who they were meant to represent.

After a while, he even learned how to be whole in spite of the things he lost and the people who moved on without him. And still, there was something almost holy about the tapestry on his skin. The ever shifting colors and shapes and figures he had collected told the story of who he was and who he loved better than any biography could ever hope to convey.

And at the center of it all was Death and the Hallows, calm and stationary in all the upheaval.

Voldemort was wrong about immortality. It wasn't about making sure one's own soul endured. Immortality was about accepting that things die and remembering them anyway. And while Harry had a scar on his skin from Voldemort, he hardly ever thought of him anymore. After all, there was nothing left in it to tie them together and Harry had better people to remember.

Beyond that, nothing else truly mattered, and that was okay.