Summery: The Master of Death is sent to be more interesting in a dimension filled with Time traveling, space ships, aliens, and exploration and adventures where no one has gone before.
Read this before continuing!
A/N: This is a Harry Potter/Star Trek franchise crossover that I have been planning for a bit. It is AU, and will be set primarily within the Trek reality after this first chapter. This is also posted on AO3.
A/N 2: Things to know for this fic: This is AU, Sexual Fluidity, Mentions of Gender Fluidity, Time Travel (only for the first few chaps), Various Star Trek Franchise references, multiple names HP, Humour, some angst for the first two chaps, Humour and Hijinks, Drunkenness, some drug use (briefly).
In regards to criticism: I am not a novelist, this is just me experimenting with the crossover. I am not out to create some brilliantly smart, rich, powerful character. HP is immortal yes, but that's for convenience sake, and there isn't much use of his magic here. This is a casual fic to get me used to writing Star Trek fanfic settings, as well as for the hell of it.
If you don't like, that's fine. Constructive criticism is fine, just don't meticulously go through my chaps to tell me how bad it is, even if there is some good advice mixed in there or not.
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Chapter 1: Endings, Prelude to the Beginning.
When they say that there is a beginning for everything, it is usually because it soon follows the ending of others.
Harry James Potter came to understand that sentiment in a way that many beings rarely could conceive of.
It started with him dying.
It was not the flirtation of near death that he had experienced from infancy to the bare beginnings of his adulthood no, it was a complete walk to his doom. He was accompanied by the shadows of those who had once lived that had mattered to him, and when he spread his arms wide and embraced the Death Curse for the second and final time, he had taken an odd sort of comfort that he could finally move on to where those who had loved him had moved on and rest.
But even dying wouldn't be easy. He was given a choice, a choice that no mortal had ever been offered before, and in the face of his deceased mentor, he took the opportunity to live again, because a part of him just couldn't let go and leave the world to take care of itself.
So he lived again. He defeated his nemesis and murderer, he turned to a people rocked by the casualties of war and took their collective hands and led them into a new millennium of peace. He was The-Man-Who-Lived and chained to that moniker.
For a time anyway.
As what was expected of him, he continued on and became the epitome citizen. He got a job with the Aurors, to continue his work as defender of people, he dated then married a nice witch and they both settled down in a modest home, and soon had 3 children. His friends and schoolmates eventually drifted off and started their own careers and families.
It was seemingly perfect, but there was a hitch to this ideal life, in so fact that, despite his best efforts, Harry himself, and despite many attempts to hide it, was himself not the ideal person to match his persona. Certainly he lived loved and laughed how he was supposed to, and for a time he even fooled himself that he was even happy, but a shadow loomed ever more presently in the background of this perfect tableau. A shadow that got more pronounced with every first grey hair on his wife's and friends heads, with every wrinkle or wince of age that peppered them, as was normal. One such as he would be expected to bare a grey streak at the temples, the start of a silvered beard to match his old mentor one day maybe, as was expected of the perfect normal aging hero of the people.
Only the reflection, the true reflection of him, denied him that normalcy. A face that remained pure of wrinkles barring a few scars or two there and there, his spine remained straight, his joints strong, his hair as dark as when he was a boy.
Ginny, his beautiful wife who bore all the well signs of well earned living, one day sat him down, still almost frantically clinging to the lie, to the ideal, and looked him straight in the eye and quietly asked him to stop.
She talked and he was forced to listen as she told him that, while she loved him she was getting to old for lying, and so she calmly told him "You're not an ordinary wizard Harry."
He had protested, he had fought to the bitter end as Ginny laid out the harsh naked truth to him. She was aging, their friends and family were aging, and one day, will die from old age and Harry...Harry would not. He would look the same on their friends deathbed on Ginny's deathbed, on his children's and grandchildren's death beds and so on.
He had broken down then, sobbing into his wife's breast as she held him as he finally was forced to accept the truth. It was during this breakdown that Ginny had told him that he had to leave and never come back, that it was what was best for the both of them, that she wasn't strong enough to withstand the bitterness of his perpetual youthful beauty. But even as the words were harsh and emotionless sounding, there was a tear in her eye, and a tight grip of her arms around his shuttering figure.
Harry left that same day, taking only his wand and the cloths on his back.
He not to long after disappeared from the Wizarding World altogether.
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100 years later...
At the edge of a cliff in a location of little relevance, a young man screamed his madness to the sky and with a bitter twist of his lips, watched the sun rise on yet another same day, as so many others before. He supposed it was a little over dramatic, but he felt it cathartic for his eternally youthful old heart. He was just turning to climb down off his favorite cliff edge and make himself some cereal, when his foot caught on a loose slippery stone, and with a tumble, Harry Potter fell forward into the breath taking coldness.
Within the space of a minute, maybe two, there was nothing more, and nothing less then a tragic youthful figure who was torn apart in the jagged embrace of the mountains. A frozen abstract of twisted limbs and red frozen tableau of some unknown tragedy.
A figure at some point appeared, perched on the tip of a jagged thorn of half frozen stone that was currently the only brace for the long dead body impaled upon it. Bone white toes sticking out from the hem of flowing dark robes, wiggled in absent delight at the texture.
"How utterly boring," a voice uttered under the dark abyss that was its cowl, great brittle wings rose from the fold of the tall figure spreading out and stretching, giving a brief flap, "could you be anymore dramatic?" the figure sighed, leaning on a long scythe the colour of aged bone.
The broken body didn't answer of course, through that was likely because the skull was completely shattered and the jaw sat somewhere in a birds nest some where, extra support for the little eggs.
Instead the figure turned its gaze to the agonizingly bright spot of formless soul buzzing in depression and rage not to far from its old housing.
"Must you sulk so?" The figure sighed, furling its wings, "it is rather unbecoming for the Master of Death."
The soul, if one could ascribe any sort of silly descriptions such as sound to the no longer living, would have been growling at the speaker.
"My, such a pleasant Master I find myself with," he sighed dryly, reaching out long sharp fingers and plucked the stubborn soul, invisible to all but Death itself of course. The long serpentine neck stretched upward and considered the scenery with distaste. It was so appropriately desolate. Dramatics indeed.
The being eventually allowed itself to rise into the air with a lazy sweep of wings until nothing but clouds flourished around it.
"Now," the darkness under the hood hummed, and turned glowing pits of blank whiteness on the caged soul in its hands, "You have been a troublesome creature. Flirting, intentionally or not, for my hand over your inconsequential little existence. I was amused sometimes, irritated others, even flattered here and there I admit, such a suitor you have been!" Death crooned, stroking the soul, which shivered in its grasp, amusing Death further, "But you grew boring after I took the last of your loved ones, my how you howled." Death's amusement faded.
"You have sat like a lump since your first resurrection, and you have had over a hundred years to be interesting again, but no you refused! And you got worse as time past, wallowing in the remnants of your paltry mortality like some nostalgic entrapped idiot! You refuse to take advantage of my favor!"
Death gripped the soul angrily, the existence in its clutches wreathed in pain.
Death relaxed its grip and sighed, reclining on a nearby storm cloud, "I suppose I can only blame myself, I returned you at your choice back to life, true, but I could have just sent you back into another world, another existence, another time. My mistake when you are such a tiny wisp yet of existence, you weren't given a chance to be interesting when surrounded by the trappings of your old mortality. Yes, I have been lax with my poor little master."
Death, as much as death could be interpreted as doing such, grinned, "But again we find ourselves in a conundrum. You have refused to return to your body, though admittedly it is a bit of a mess, nor have you tried to at least decently haunt someone or other. But you can't remain without a body for long. It is the price of being the Master of Death, whether willingly or no, so I think I will do what I should have done, oh yes, no more mistakes this time!...Mmm so entertaining you will be!" Death crowd whirling the soul around like a newly received puppy, which the soul didn't appreciate at all.
"Such language!" Death cackled, "well, no matter, I can tell you're excited!" if souls could manage incredulous deadpan, it would have been exuding it right then.
"Now lets see..." Death hummed, idly bouncing the soul on a slight definition of a knee, then a sort of elbow and a sort of foot, until Death had quite a delightful game of soul hackey-sack going as it thought.
"Well, I just can't have you flinging yourself off the next high surface once you're reconstituted and yet again refuse to continue on over and over...So a few adjustments need to be made, oh yes. No more choice in resurrection for you!" Death chortled, its master was going to be so deliciously enraged! It should have thought of this earlier! Oh well, spilt life-force secretions and all that.
Nodding to itself, it finished its idle game, gathering its master's soul close, and collapsed in on itself like a dying star and vanishing.
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A/N: One of the things that gives me joy as a Trekker (or any other fan of particular name) is the creative fan works from all artistic avenues. So at the end of my chap updates, I will put a recommendation of whatever I come across that I find interesting.
Recommendation: "Data & Picard" by Pogo on Youtube.