Disclaimer: Harry Potter and any and all related official materials are the property of J.K. Rowling.
The Gift of Death,
Nighttime in Godric's Hollow was as normal as could be expected, at least for those who paid attention to such things. The air was warm and dry, the trees stood silent, the leaves still, untouched by any wind. The people of Godric's Hollow spent their evening inside, windows open, relaxing as the heat of the finishing day slowly began to ebb away. No one paid mind, whether intentional or not, to the silent mist that began to creep its way across the village square. No one noticed as it slowly spread towards the little graveyard by the church. No one saw as it flowed over and around the headstones and grave-markers to encircle one particular headstones, just as no one saw the strange figure that stepped, seemingly out of nowhere.
Tall and cloaked all in a black, so deep that it seemed to swallow all light, hooded so completely as to have no discernible face at all . In its gaunt, emaciated hand, the figure held a tall staff, and if one could look hard enough, they would see a flickering something, sometimes there, sometimes not, extending out from the head of the staff almost two feet.
But no one could see this flickering something, nor the staff, nor the hand that held it. Nor could anyone see the tall hood form, or even the strange mist that moved with wind, even if they had gotten up, out of their comfortable chairs, left their brightly let houses, and walked right through it. Not one living person would be able to witness this scene at all, not unless the figure wished for them to.
The figure stood before the one tombstones that the mist ringed, looking down at the engravings upon tit. It raised its staff and rapped it once, twice, three times on the ground. And in a voice as cold as deep winter, as empty as the void, and as distant as a long forgotten day, the stranger spoke.
"Spirits of the Dead, Hear and Heed me. Answer the call of He Who Watches the Threshold, He Who Guards the Veil. Answer the voice the Harvester and the Pale Rider, the Watcher and the Reaper. Answer the Call of Death."
For a moment, there was silence, filled only with the chirps of crickets and noise issuing from the nearby houses. Then softly, like the sigh of the wind, a voice came back to Death, as from a great distance, or a memory. Two forms appeared, faint and indistinct, as if born from the mist itself.
"Why are we called back from the endless dream? Why are we summoned here, where we feel naught but pain and loss and sorrow?"
"I have need, thus I call. There is one who walks the world again, one who should be dead, his soul claimed."
"Why should we care, we, who have passed beyond the worries of life?"
"You know this man, for it he who hastened your passing. The one who calls himself Lord Voldemort."
The misty shapes seemed to writhe and wail, anger and sorrow ringing clearly in their voices. "We know that name and we that man! Why do you afflict us with the pain of his memory?"
Death's grip tightened on his staff. "Because I require your aid. He has cheated me. He should have died those fourteen years ago, when his curse rebounded. But he has shattered his soul and hidden the pieces from me. They lock him here, to life, and now he has regained a body, and mocks me with his triumph."
Death raised his cowled head to the wraith-like figures. "I wish for you to help me claim the scattered pieces of his soul. If you do this, I will return you to life."
the apparitions seemed to focus on the cowled head. "Why would we wish to return to the world of the living?"
"Voldemort is hunting your son."
The apparitions froze, as if time had halted.
"He survived? He lives?"
Death nodded. "He lives, and he thrives. And he is in great danger. Four times since the night of your deaths has he narrowly escaped me through luck and circumstance. Ow he has need of you, for the danger grows. Take my offer and you may be with him again. What say you?"
This time, there was no hesitation. "We accept."
Death raised his staff, arching it in a full swing. The flickering shimmer at its head solidified, realizing itself into a large blade, extending perpendicular to the staff, curving down slightly. Using on hand, Death swung through the hazy, smoky apparitions. And the earth before the stone marker erupted with a flash of purple fire.
As the light from the flame faded, it illuminated two figures lying prone on the ground. For several minutes, motionless, one began to move weakly, starting to push itself into a kneeling position. James Potter raised his head and looked around in confusion.