Disclaimer—I don't own and definitely do not make money from this. This is a hobby.
IMPORTANT NOTE: Leave canon outside, will you? It's not going to help you here. I'm going to messing with almost everything. Also, I will try to use actual wizarding names and people, but I will be making up some people who most likely don't exist in canon. (You'll understand this later.) Also, I am trying to make this an original as this idea can be, but there might be some similarities with similar stories (not intentional, though). Hope you enjoy!
Side note: Every chapter will be at least three thousand words and I will be updating every five to seven days. I will be able to keep up this schedule because currently, I have four chapters complete and the fifth chapter already started. So believe when I say I should be able to stick to it.
CHAPTER ONE
In the flickering light of a candle, Harry Potter's body loomed over a trail of dead bodies as he searched for a brief proof of remaining life. He wanted with the Elder wand in his right hand for a raising chest, fluttering eyelids, or a breathy plea for undeserved mercy. His heartbeat raged in his eardrums like the beating of a time bomb, ticking away the remaining time he had left before someone noticed what had occurred in the depths of the ministry. But Harry's eyes never strayed from the corpses, needing the absolute confirmation of their deaths. He could touch them for such an answer, yes, but gagged at the thought of touching his once-capturers, instead willing to wait. An indefinite number of minutes passed and not once did the bodies move.
Harry exhaled, washing away the tension that had made its home in his body for the duration of his imprisonment. However, gone were his steady hands and in their place were the shakiness of a newborn lamb. He could hardly keep his grip on his wand as his mind swirled with questions that he wasn't sure that he could answer and information that he could had difficultly processing.
What was he going to do?
He, the Boy Who Lived and the Chosen One, had actually murdered not one person but instead multiple people.
To make it worse, those people had been Unspeakables and that information only made Azkaban more likely.
But even if he managed to avoid being convicted of these murders, it would not matter. If not those dead Unspeakables, there would be more like them chasing after him like one would go after a goose that had a habit of birthing golden eggs. After all, Harry Potter was now an excellent test subject. Between surviving the killing curse and the tattoo upon his left shoulder blade, he would find no shortage of witches and wizards who dabbled in experimentation.
He would never have the chance for peace.
A bitter laugh broke through Harry's chapped lips. Even if no one desired to cut him open to see what made him tick, peace was never an option for a person like him. He could swear that he had been marked by Fate herself to drown in a constant wave of tribulation and life-threatening challenges. So what did it matter anymore?
Take away that he had been captured and forced to undergo such things he wished to never speak of.
Take away the fact that he had just murdered several people, however justified.
Take away that Harry clearly could not trust the minister and his group of advisees of purebloods and whoever had been deemed as "trustworthy" and "honest." They had complete authority over the Unspeakables and had actually been down here in this hellhole to see the results, providing proof that the Unspeakables had acted alone.
Take away the gloomy future of a fugitive that awaited him the moment he walked out of the ministry.
What was left? Love had come and gone from Harry's life swiftly like a summer storm. All that he could claim to be friends and family had either fallen at the hands of the enemy or succumbed to death in the middle of nowhere in a hidden safe house. Whatever children that Harry could have or the life he managed to build brick by brick were nothing but ashes in the wind. There was no glittering future on the edge of the horizon for Harry Potter. No, what awaited instead was a storm of hardship and suffering that he didn't have the strength or courage to bear.
There was no silver lining in this storm. No happiness, or at least no happiness that would end without some form pain. For how could he make a life on the run?
So if Harry Potter held no future, then what exactly was the point of running? What would he be able to gain if he survived like he had always struggled to do? In Harry's eyes, there was nothing and no reason to continue onward fighting as he always had. He was tired now, the war with Voldemort having drained him of such energy. He was alone once again, but there was no half giant to open the door to bring him a dazzling new world.
There was only death.
Harry tugged his shaggy hair with his free hand, clenching his teeth not from pain, but sizzling anger. Oh, if only Death would welcome him into the fold of the deceased. However, it seemed that it was not an option for dear old Harry. Nothing had granted him that escape during his time down in the dark hallways of the inner ministry.
Absolutely nothing.
It was not for the lack of trying either. Between what the Unspeakables had attempted on Harry and what Harry himself had tried to accomplish, there was not a thing that could cease his heartbeat. Harry seemed to be built to survive everything that would have killed another human being.
And he hated it. He was forced to remain on this earth, unable to reunite with his loved ones. It was cruel and Harry didn't know what he had done to warrant such a curse. Was it because he failed to put an end to Voldemort sooner? Was it because of the blood of the fallen on his hands? What else could it be?
A voice echoed in his mind. "You gathered three items. Don't you remember?"
Harry spun on his heels, his wand sparking with anxious energy. His mouth fell open at the sight before him. A dementor-like being hovered over the floor, its eyes akin to dim candlelight and shadows behind it shuddering. The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood on end, but for the life of him, he couldn't find it in himself to fire a spell. There was something familiar about the being as disturbing as that sounded. Other than how its appearance was akin to a dementor, of course. There was something else that Harry recognized, something that he could feel in its aura, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
"I suppose it matters not. You still completed the task even if you do not recall."
Harry licked his lips, momentarily wondering if he perhaps had gone mad before he responded. "What task?"
The shadowy being's face moved in such a way that Harry wondered if it was grinning. "The Hallows, the Deathly Hallows, Death's Three Items, the Items of Three, Gifts of Death, and whatever mortals are calling in this age. You collected them and were deemed worthy of being the Master of Death. Though I have seen that you do not like the gift."
Dots connected and Harry understood who the being must be, but that was not what important to him at the moment. He could try to process that little tidbit later on when he wasn't filled with bitterness and rage at an immortal being.
"No, I don't," Harry spat, forgetting his caution in the heat of the moment. "And it's not a gift. It's a curse."
"That's what they all say, but then something happens and suddenly they're grateful for my gift. I am certain the same will happen to you."
"I doubt it."
Death paused for a moment, seemingly allowing Harry to wallow before speaking again. "So you say, but that is not why I am here. I have come to offer you something that a great deal of mortals will never experience truly."
"If it's taking back the Hallows, they're all yours. I don't want them," Harry said, hoping against hope that Death would lift his curse and allow Harry a reprieve.
"No."
Harry grimaced and turned his gaze away from Death. "Then I'm not interested. I'm done being an errand boy."
"Actually, Harry Potter, that is exactly what I have come to give you," Death whispered in Harry's mind. "You might liken my offer to something being offered to you on a silver platter."
That caught Harry's attention and more importantly, his curiosity which was something that had always led him down dangerous paths despite common sense. It was the bait that Death had known would work with his chosen master and draw him in.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, his caution returning in full force, but unable to stop himself from continuing the conversation.
Again, Death appeared as though he was trying to smile. "Freedom. That is what I offer. Freedom in another place, another world where you would not be bound by a prophecy or the manipulations of an old man. Freedom in its purest form."
As much as Harry could appreciate the gesture, that was not what he wanted. He didn't want to continue living even in a different world with a fresh start. He just wanted to rejoin his loved ones in death and rest in peace. So what good was a brand new life?
"No thanks," he rejected. "I don't see the point."
"The point? You can begin with a new identity and actually live, Harry Potter. You could finish your schooling and find yourself again. The point is the opportunity."
"But I don't want opportunity!" Harry shouted, his hands clenched. "Don't you get it? I just . . I just don't want to live anymore!"
"But—"
"I don't care!" he interrupted, a storm raging in his veins. "If it's not death or lifting this curse, then I don't care. I don't want whatever else you're trying to give me."
Harry's voice bounced off the walls and faded, leaving them in silence with the exception of Harry's angry panting. Death did not leave or strike him down as Harry half-expected him to, but instead let the silence rest between, seemingly content to let Harry have a tantrum.
Harry closed his eyes, suddenly tired and drained. Hadn't he wished for peace? Hadn't he cursed the fact that he would spend his life on the run? Even if he yearned for death, shouldn't he take Death's offer? However, the gesture was empty because Harry would remain alone and that's not what he wanted. Even his new life could not cure his loneliness.
"So you don't want to be alone anymore?" Death questioned, reading his master's mind as easily as one would read a newspaper. "Is that why you want to die?"
"Partly," Harry confessed. "Everyone I have ever loved is dead and now with more people after me, I don't think I could ever connect to another person like I had with them. I could never build a life like the one I once had."
"So dying is your answer."
Harry's shoulders sagged. "Yes."
"But that is simply not true," Death said. "You can build a life greater than the one you once had if only you accept."
"But how can I trust you? How can I know that I will be happy in this other world?" Harry pressed.
"You cannot know for certain because even I do not know what you will do, Harry Potter. You could go, but later on decide it was not worth it. Or you could give it all you had and make a life that you could have never had here. It all depends on you, your happiness and misfortune because even I cannot control your actions. As for trusting my word, can you not sense the truth in what I say? I chose you and therefore will not lie as mortals do. Is that not enough?"
Harry soaked in Death's words, weighing his options. He could stay here and survive much like his godfather had, running until he made a wrong move. Or he could have faith in Death and start anew, having a life that perhaps would be more peaceful than his current one. After Death had spoken, Harry found himself leaning towards taking his offer, but there was something that he felt had to be addressed before accepting.
"What if I'm not happy there? What if I find no happiness to no fault of my own? What if my life turns out to be like this one? What then, Death?"
"Then I will end it. That I promise you." Death's voice was hollow as before, but with a hint of sadness dwelt there.
"Really?"
"Truly."
". . . Then I accept," Harry said softly, granting Death permission before he thought the better of it.
"As you wish," Death replied and reached forward, his dark skeleton fingers touching Harry's forehead before pressing them against the sides of his head.
"What—"
"Live well, Harry Potter. Forget not who you were, but instead grow from him . . . And find your peace. You deserve it."
And with a flicker of Death's candlelight eyes, Harry disappeared from the wizarding world without a trace of magic or any other kind of evidence else to suggest what occurred in that torture chamber deep within the ministry.
"Death, you did not tell him," a voice murmured in the mind of Death, originating from a being of pure light in the vague form of a human.
"He did not ask nor will it harm him. It will not affect his new life unless he forces himself right into the situation. So why tell him?" Death responded, still staring at where his master once stood.
"But it changes not the price he will pay, Death," Fate said, steel in her voice. "He will have to fulfill his side of the bargain."
"He will."
Fate scoffed. "How exactly? You did not tell him what he must do in order to be given a place in an alternate universe. If he does not do what I demand—"
"You haven't demanded enough of him already? Someone is getting greedy," Death interrupted, a protective note to his words. "That duty belongs to another in the new world, Lady Fate. Do not push that upon my master. He has done enough."
"Do not make me the villain here, Death," Fate said sharply. "And do not make it sound as though I want him to do everything. He simply must lend his hand in the war. No more, no less. I am not suggesting that he must perform as he did here."
"He has done enough."
Fate's form of pure light wavered in the mist of Death's darkness. "I agree, but it does not change the payment. Be glad for some must pay with more than extending help to those who need it."
"And that world's savior is not enough? You have so little faith?"
". . . I fear that without this world's Harry Potter's help . . . the war may . . ."
"Lady Fate?"
"Things did not go as I planned, Death. That is why Harry Potter must help no matter how little."
Death scoffed, any stirrings of pity and concern evaporating. "You mean you messed up and now you wish to have my master fix it. Tell me, Lady Fate, what is so wrong with your other chosen one?"
"He is not like what I intended. That is the problem," Fate confessed painfully, sourness tainting her voice. "Well, he is part of the issue at hand. His villain also went against what I planned and that started a string of . . . complications to put it lightly. Now the destiny of that world is askew and may very likely fall into oblivion."
"And you think that my master, this world's Harry Potter, will fix this? With just simple help? You know as well as I do that my master could fulfill your requirements with the bare minimum and that may not affect this new world's future."
"I know that," Fate admitted. "But I am willing to bet that he will not stand on the sidelines once he realizes what's at stake."
"You are willing to gamble the fate of another world on the fact that my master has a hero complex? Ha!" Death barked. "How foolish. This world's war has changed him greatly. I would not put all of your hope on him."
"No, Death, you are the fool. This Harry Potter is a hero down to his DNA and that will not change with a mere war and months of captivity," Fate argued.
"Ah, Lady Fate, if only that were true."
A/N—Published 7-9-17.