The Master of Death.
What a novel concept, for a mortal creature to have absolute dominion over the actual embodiment of Death.
That Death itself could be confined and controlled by a being who held artifacts supposedly crafted by Death itself.
Why would Death create the instruments of it's enslavement?
However, rational thought didn't factor into the story, as that isn't what the legend speaks of.
Primarily, the journals and scrolls written by mad fools and storytellers, tell of how one could transcend and become immortal.
Collect three trinkets, and Death would be leashed to your fingertips, your wish was their command.
You would be able to play the role of judge, jury, and executioner of all creation, form existence with a wave, or dictate the fates of billions.
Unlimited power and all that it entails, with near unstoppable might to carry with it.
It was not so, obviously, as I've died many a time.
I sadly don't have unlimited power either, as I end most days exhausted, barely able to cast a simple light spell, let alone destroy anything.
But, that is what people believed would happen if one collected the Hallows.
Nothing is as it's written, however.
Wiser men than I had fallen prey to such trickery of course, but none were more the fool than I was.
Everything was a lie, from the beginning of my fool's life, to the very end.
Of course, my mockery of a life would close with a mockery of a legend.
Every line, every tale told by old men over fires, or written in timed journals hidden away in dusty alcoves.
All lies
I collected the Deathly Hallows, of course, but by accident, I swear.
The cloak bundled in the Christmas present box, that fool's anonymous letter with it.
The stone in that damn ring that killed said fool, a man that honestly deserved a more… worthy punishment.
And finally, that damn wand that I held for less than ten minutes.
I put them all out of my mind then, locked away on the day of the final battle, sealed up with my first death and the demise of so many I cared for.
Imagine my surprise of course, that upon my deathbed, I learned of my curse.
That I would have a thousand final battles.
Contrary to the belief of many, I wasn't to be resurrected.
Upon death, I don't get a "second chance."
I died as Harry Potter, and that was it, no Horcruxes to cash in, no extra lives.
Harry Potter was no more, but I, the being that once was him, still exist.
All of who he was rests with me, forever, no matter the body or form, I always come back.
I live and die, but I will always exist, in one form or another.
I am now a form of existence, always there and endless.
My curse wasn't immortality, it was rebirth.
I lived many lives, in many times, and many worlds.
I have been born and died in every era, I've raised civilizations and razed them.
I've been both leader and destroyer, I've been father and son, I've been hero and villain, and I've been the monster and slayer.
I've lived many lives, some strange, and some exciting, but my latest…
Seems like I live in trends.
There's always a man, there's always lies, and well… I guess there's always me.
However, this one seems interesting enough.
I have a brother.
In this world, I was born Henre Rianofski, to a lonely couple in 1908.
Oddly enough, because it rarely happens, I'm Russian this time around. That was interesting.
Born into poverty, or near to it, my family managed with their small business.
My new father, Pyotr was a very… timid man. Working at his little carpentry shop on the edge of the village, making chairs and furniture that pleased the nobles that lived beyond our village.
Of course, with the revolution on the rise, my father died very quickly and fiercely, as he refused to fight on the front-lines, for either side.
They executed him in a dirt field while we watched, his head thrown to our feet as the men laughed at our horror.
They burned his shop to the ground that night, destroying any hope our poor mother would have in this world, let alone our home.
My father's death was tragic yes, and it still sears my blood and makes my rage sing in my ears, but my father wasn't very important in this world. I've accepted that with time.
My little brother, however, was important.
His name was Andre.
He liked to be called Andrew.
When Andrew turned eight, our mother turned to me, a boy of only eleven, and tasked me with getting the both of us to safety.
To escape to freedom, and safety.
To leave her there.
I never had much affection for any of my parents past my original ones, but something about my latest set... endeared themselves to me.
One of the hardest things I've ever had to do, was take my brother by the hand and leave our mother there.
I received word years later that she was executed, much like our father.
I never told Andrew.
I probably should have, but I never did.
We were children, lost in a war-torn Russia, looking for escape by any means.
Luckily, we weren't the only ones leaving.
There was a stream of people, families, literally anyone possible, running from Russia, heading anywhere but here.
If I had been a normal boy, it probably would have taken us longer to leave the country… but I am still the Master of Death.
The only magic I did in this world so far, was stun my brother, and Confundo ourselves onto a ship headed to America, surrounded by hordes of others escaping the country, just as we were.
We avoided the war, but Andrew always questioned our voyage.
I gave plenty of excuses, even made fake tickets that I claimed to have bought.
The look of disbelief in his eyes, when he was just eight, was one I'd remember forever.
It was the same look that he gave me the last time I'd ever see him.
Andrew loved America from the first time he saw it.
The sights, the sounds, even the skyline drew his awe and love.
I had never seen him happier, and for a long while, I was truly happy for him.
The way he looked to the towers of New York, to the way his eyes lit up at the sound of a trolley roaring down the street, to even the blush on his cheeks as a girl his age was pushed past by her family.
Andrew had found something in America that I don't think he ever expected to find.
And I, Henry, Harry, rediscovered something I thought long lost.
I had lost feeling, any kind of emotion, long ago, somewhere in between my twelfth life and Ancient Egypt, but in that moment…
I was happy, so, so, so very happy.
We went to school, and we prospered.
I was always clever, even back at Hogwarts, but with several lifetimes of knowledge and experience, I became a genius.
Andrew wasn't a genius, but he was something much better than me.
Andrew was a thinker, and he had dreams and desires like anyone else, but his were so much... grander.
I loved listening to his dreams, and promised to fulfill every last one.
He wanted to be an Engineer, I told him he'd be the best.
He wanted to build fantastical machines, I told him they'd be incredible.
He wanted to help people. I told him he'd save the world.
And for years, the two of us, Andrew and Henry Ryan, swept through America, learning all we could.
We were happy, mostly, but the way our professors always spoke down to Andrew started to get to him. I knew it did.
My brother had an anger to him, a darkness that I knew, when he near attacked a professor for saying that his dreams were impossible.
My brother called him a parasite.
The second world war snuck up on us.
While the signs were everywhere, we fought to be ignorant, we strived to be happy.
We had run from a war within the country of our birth, and neither of us wanted to even think about the danger to our new home.
Of course, I knew World War II was coming, but I wasn't paying attention.
I wasn't, until a group of armed soldiers showed up at our home, and forced me out the door.
The draft had come for me, I was to prove my devotion to our new home, I was to prove my worth.
My brother, wasn't.
It broke my heart to do so, but I left my brother there in New York, and went to war, so that my brother wouldn't have to.
Ironic, because he would have to, in another war.
Thankfully, we'd be together then.
As we should have been.
The war was long and rough.
The time spent in the Forest of Dean was a class field trip compared to trying to survive within the trenches, fighting across Europe, spilling blood, both mine and that of my enemies.
At times, I wondered why I was even fighting, but I always remembered at the end of the day.
Andrew's combed hair, and his dorky little glasses.
I'd smile down at the photo I kept, and I'd move on to the next day.
I knew my fellow soldiers all fought for someone.
It was there I learned, that a man fighting for someone is to be trusted.
That's why our enemy scared me so.
The man that has no reason to live, is the enemy to be feared.
Very rarely did I use magic at all during the war, as I barely got the chance to.
When you're on a battlefield, mortars raining from the skies, and bullets flying in all directions, "Expelliarmus" isn't going to do much.
Honestly, I doubt I would have survived long enough to even say it, let alone wave a wand.
I chuckle, when I think about what my old teammates would have thought, if I had just one day revealed that Magic existed.
Just broke the Statute over breakfast.
I imagine most would have believed me on the spot.
War does funny things to a soldier.
What we worry about so much... seems so little when your life is on the life every single second of every day.
That's how I got over my grief, and how I moved on.
Harry Potter died, but Henry Ryan could live.
And my brother sure as hell would.
A carbine got me through that war.
A team got me through the bloodshed.
My brother got me home.
I was on a plane over the Atlantic Ocean.
It was 1945, the war was over.
My brother sent me a letter, bound in an ornate gold and brown envelope.
He wants me to come home, not to Russia, but to the small apartment we shared in New York.
There's a photo, there's now a luxurious tower there.
It has our last name on the sign.
My brother's done well for himself.
He's got a new idea he says, he wants my help, just like the old days.
He included a hand drawn design, it's on a piece of line paper. It's clean and pressed, like all of his usual work, but his writing seems… hurried.
My brother wants to build a city unlike any other.
He calls it Rapture.