A/N: Hi! Welcome to my first ever fanfic, the story of a dimension-travelling Harry Potter, you may also know him by his official title Hadrian James Peverell, Master of Death. The plot revolves around our protagonist traveling across the bridge of realities by the request of Death. Basically, Harry acts as a Fix-It for various realities, some about to collapse others on the path to do so. This first story in a series of many has Harry travel to a reality where it's 1942, Grindelwald and Hitler are on a rampage and it is his task is to stop them and prevent the rise of Dark Lady Emily Merope Riddle. He's in for more than he bargained for. Rated M. Expect No-Slash and AU. Follow! Favourite! Review!

Also, Harry Potter and all other associated content are owned by J.K Rowling. I don't own anything, neither do hope I to do so in the future.


Chapter I: A Traveller Past the Veil

The similarities shared by Kings Cross Station and the In-Between were uncanny. Or maybe it was just Harry's subconscious imagining it as such. Kings Cross Station after all had the doorway to Platform 9, the place where he had set off on his first 'great adventure'. As the grey-cloaked figure floated in front of him ominously, his thoughts shifted to their first meeting.

Flashback

Getting access to the Potter Family Grimoire had proven to be difficult especially since the goblins hated his guts. Kingsley's promise of paying full repatriations had helped a long way, he knew why they broke in after all. Then when he had finally put on the Potter Family Ring and taken up his Lordship, the Resurrection Stone had shown up on his other hand as a ring, to his immense surprise. The Goblins had then told him that the Peverell Vault had activated after six centuries, last being open on the day of Iolanthe Peverell's marriage night in 1366. The night the dreaded Peverell family had finally disappeared as a main line. Harry Potter had shrugged and carted off to Vault 17. Doing the impossible, was his life profession after all. The vault had been mostly empty except for some old family wands, centuries old blackmail and some artefacts. The only thing to catch his fancy were a Thestral leather whip, which Harry could feel had some kind of imbued elemental magic, fire or lightning probably and a suit of armour that was absurdly thin yet had enough enchantment to face down everything weaker than Avada Kedavra. The family grimoire which was also in the vault, had insane protections he figured since it required thirteen drops of blood dropped on each corner of the pentagram at the top, something his fingertips had suffered for. The pentagram also had a central impression for the Lord's Ring which unlocked the grimoire. But opening it was another experience. Probably the strangest of his life, and this was considering he had died and come back to life. The Family Magic had literally flown into him. He remembered seeing the goblins scramble away as he had started to float in the air, eyes glowing green and his magic flaring as if a furnace. Knowledge of spells so arcane they had been lost to time, rituals forgotten for centuries, wards so powerful they were completely undetectable.

The magic of those that came before had come to him. The Elder Wand, buried in Godric's Hollow in a place known to none but him appeared in his hand in a dazzling golden light. The cloak left back at Grimmauld, swirling behind him in a silvery haze. He was the Master of Death.

Finally, the family totem had appeared. The Thestral. A creature seen only by those that had seen Death, up close and in person. And who better than he to know of Death. It had walked up to him, grey and bursting with light. A ghostly patronus of sorts. It had nuzzled his face before dissipating as he fell on his knees. The grimoire in front of him now just blank parchment. It had served its purpose, provided the knowledge it held. Harry had felt the grey magic twisting inside him. The incantations of spells, curses and wards he had never even heard of let alone known on the tip of his tongue. When he had left, the goblins had looked at him as if he was a vial of the most potent and deadly poison known to magical kind. At the gates of Gringotts, the branch manager Goldfinger himself had shown up and congratulated "Lord Hadrian James Peverell" for becoming the first man in seven centuries to take up the Peverell Headship and hoped that he would continue doing good business with Gringotts and forget past enmities. Arse-lickers.That night, he had his first trance. His pupils had become black as he felt his very soul transcend to a different plane. He appeared back at the white Kings Cross-like place but this time instead of Dumbledore, a grey Dementor had stood. His first instinct had been to cast a Patronus, completely forgetting that he was in the depths of his own mind. Surprisingly, a silver patronus had burst out of his hand but instead of Prongs, it was a Thestral. The Patronus had charged at the grey Dementor before stopping and bursting apart into a cloud that was absorbed by it. Harry was scared beyond his wits before the grey figure had before him had burst into a hoarse laughter. The sound had made cold seep into his very bones. The figure had then floated up to him and said, " Come Peverell, there is much to discuss ." And so, they had talked in visions and trances that continued for a month. The history of the magical world, tales of the greatest mages,even the Peverell family and magics. That was until his last one. The figure having given him so much knowledge had become a sort of friend...no... a companion. It had said that this was their last walk together and Harry needed to perform a task for him afterwards. Harry had obliged and went along with it, since he felt an inane sense of power from the grey cloak. It was so knowledgeable as well. The figure had then explained that it was Death. He had thought the notion absurd until he remembered the ominous foreboding the figure had wrought within him and the fate of his Patronus. Death had then gone on to explain how the 'cloaked one' had been his tool before and what the duties came with the wielder of the Hallows. Unimaginable power. Death's own power. But at a cost. The cost of mortal life. Servitude to Death, by willing or not. As long as he wielded the Hallows, he was a tool of its will. His bounty hunter. The equalizer. Harry assumed that the 'cloaked one' was Ignotus Peverell, and when he had asked about the fact that Ignotus was dead, Death had replied, "So are you, Peverell." . Harry had cried in indignation, until he felt the cold threating to drown him once more. Death had then said, "My giving is no gift, Peverell. The three that came before dared evoke me. My name they held! Those that came before dared pit me against Magic.The Hallows are mine and so are any that wield them. You carry the accursed blood Peverell and have united them all and so you shall pay. The cloaked one passed beyond for he settled his debt. One thousand worlds he gave. One thousand souls, one thousand Hallows. AS SHALL YOU! ONE HUNDRED WORLDS! ONE HUNDRED HALLOWS! PAY YOU SHALL OR BE CURSED TO WALK THE BRANCHES FOREVER. BEYOND TIME! BEYOND FATE!" .

It was at this moment Harry realised how much he had truly and utterly fucked up. The hallows had never meant to be united. Maybe that's why Ignotus had hidden them. To prevent another Peverell from ever becoming the fuckin' Master of Death like himself. Dumbledore, as always, had screwed him over. This time for eternity.

Or whatever this hundred world crap was. As far as he understood, he probably had travel to some alternate dimension or something and fight a Dark Lord or two then unite the Hallows and give them to Death. Wonderful. Maybe that's why the prophecy had happened.Fighting Dark Lords was the family business, even beyond the constraints of space-time. Which meant that he was stuck. He, as far as he could guess, had to travel to different versions of his own reality and find whatever Dark Lord was trying to kick people's Krups, bury his ass, steal a stick, a stone and a scrap of cloth then come back here. Do it a hundred times and finally die. Huh. Death then said,

"You have understood quickly, Peverell. You must destroy those that dare upset the balance and you must bring to me what is rightfully mine.Settle the debt and walk freelying into the Nether. Or, be cursed to haunt this place forever" .

Flashback End

And that was how he had ended up here. His ninety-fifth claiming. Five more and he could finally rest. He had fallen in love so many times, died so many times and simply failed in others. At first, whenever he succeeded, Death would immediately pull him back. But after his tenth claiming, which he had done without failing once before, Death the horrible creature that it was had taken pity on him for some reason.

If and when he succeeded, Death would offer him the chance to stay. Stay with those that he had come to love. And afterwards, his soul would return while the mortal body continued to do what it had been doing. He had felt such love and yet so much more heartbreak. After every claiming, his memories would fade allowing only those that he had to begin with to remain. Yet the pain and joy within his soul lingered. Death himself had told him so. For once Dumbledore had been right, love really was an astounding magic.

"Peverell, five from a hundred you have given, five more you must. Pay your debt and pass. Go forth once more and bring back what is mine." Death drawled out to him, as he felt the chill of the immortal's magic pass over him. It didn't matter how many times he felt it, or even used it, the magic terrified him. It crawled over his skin, grinding past the warmth, freezing his body, soul and magic. Death was a fickle friend after all. The train that waited at the platform shimmered. It was time to go.

Go to another dimension, kill a misguided dark magus, claim the poor bugger's soul then find and unite Death's play-toys. Maybe fall in love in love with a girl on the way and have a family. Finally die and forget everything about the wife and kids. Easy. Kill Unite Repeat. Harry stepped off the platform and into the awaiting train with ease, as Death still stared at him from the platform, floating weightlessly as his silvery-grey cloak fluttered around him. The train started to move forward and Death vanished in the blink of an eye. Harry closed his eyes and felt himself travel across the bridge of realities.


July 13, 13:13

The Veil of Death

Basement of Peverell Manor

The polished arch in the Rotunda Mortem deep below the Fidelsanguis-charmed Peverell Manor started to shake vigorously, as it prepared for the arrival of the Master. The duty of every true-born Peverell who chose to construct the family manor was that the manor must always have an accessible Veil. It was the rite of passage for the manor.

As Ignatius Peverell had had discovered at very high cost and pain, the family wards especially the Fidelsanguis charm refused to be anchored to anything other than Veil Arch. The Fidelsanguis charm, a part of the family magic was a blood-based version of the obscure Fidelius charm, which allowed the charm to be held in blood, meaning only those of Peverell blood would ever be able to know the secret. To circumvent problems with travel a person knowing the secret could accompany others or provide a freely given blood charm for allowing magical travel. The family also had the strictest family oath among all others. None who carried the Peverell name and magic could ever swear a total oath of allegiance or secrecy. The powerful magic negated all attempts at scrying, prophesy or coerced oaths. And, those who married into the family and chose to carry the name, were blood-adopted and put under the same blood oaths. None could ever break a Peverell. Those who chose to betray the oaths were immediately killed by the blood magic. The Peverell had been the most feared family in all of Britannia for a reason. The Blacks were tame as Aberforth Dumbledore's goats compared to them. The ambient magic of the chamber lying dormant for eight centuries arose as it started to funnel around the Veil of Death. The Master was about to arrive at last.

Meanwhile, The Department for The Regulation of Underage Magic was in a frenzy. Every single detection device was ringing itself crazy but spewed out no location. It was as if every witch and wizard in Great Britain was performing accidental magic at the same time. All the ringing was putting Department Head Alexandra Bagnold under immense pressure. The Minister of Magic Leonard Spencer-Moon himself had paid her a visit at told her to put a rest to the incessant ringing. People were working. Merlin, even the Unspeakables on the lowest of levels, were having problems from the sound. The weather was also acting weird, it was if a massive magical thunderstorm had appeared out of nowhere. Kent was noticing heavy rain and thunder while it had started to snow in London. Snow on a July afternoon, when the morning had been dazzlingly sunny. The muggles were perplexed, as well. Their meteorologists were saying it could be a solar flare or the like, while warmongers spewed it as a German hoax and conspiracy theorists had started mongering that the world was ending at last.

In London, a fifteen-year old girl was sitting on her bed in St. Wools Orphanage, watching the snow fall outside lightly. Emily Merope Riddle knew it was a magical occurrence. It had to be. Her senses were telling her that. Deep inside, something was whispering to her that this was happening because of something in the magical world. She thought it might be a ritual. It could be even be Gellert Grindelwald. She had heard all about Grindelwald and his campaign. Rosier kept her well updated since his cousin Vinda was one of his top lieutenants. It might be that the ritual he was doing was meant to weaken the Magical Detection Net since his Irish invasion had been pushed back. Possibly by siphoning off magic, a small passage could be created, which would be all he would need since just two of his lieutenants inside the ministry could disable the thing in its entirety. Emily had been studying warding for the past year in her pursuit for Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets. The portrait of Salazar Slytherin in one of the hallways had informed her of such when inquired in Parseltongue. Since then she had been studying relentlessly to locate the presence of the wards the chamber had on it. She had detected a faint magical ward signature near the seventh-floor corridor which was a dead end, but otherwise she was hopeless. Though the portrait had informed her that the beast of Slytherin was a female basilisk. It would be a fitting companion for her once she rose to power. The queen of serpents for the queen of the magical world. As her thoughts revolved around the Chamber, miles away the Veil below Peverell Manor had finally absorbed enough ambient magical energy as it started to glow. The blood runes etched on the arch around it were shining in crimson light bathing the room with a basking glow of death. Finally, the veil split open and Lord Hadrian James Peverell walked out in a sixteen-year old body, his whip strapped to waist, the armour of Charlus Peverell hugging his lean body. He was 5'11, his striking green eyes were glowing with power, the Peverell coat-of-arms was etched in silver onto his chest right above his heart. The mark of his servitude. The wand carved with elderberries was strapped firmly in his holster and the golden Resurrection Stone ring which marked his position as Head of House gleamed as the Cloak of Invisibility shimmered silver beyond his shoulders. He looked at himself and let out a happy cry. Death had given him his equipment this time.

In Marseille, one Gellert Grindelwald was performing the Entrail-Expelling Curse the counter-curse over and over on a turn coat, when the pure- white wand in his hand, the fabled Deathstick became absurdly hot leading him into dropping it. The wand had felt the waves of power. The magic of the true Peverell. The Master of Death was here and the wand sung for him. He would come soon, very soon…

Near the village of Little Hangleton, Morfin Gaunt, Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Gaunt who was a proud pureblood to himself but an inbred bastard to most around him, was sitting in a dilapidated shack as he looked at his Head of House ring, admiring the Peverell coat-of-arms. Yes, he was proud of his heritage, so pure and mighty. Pity the wench had run off back then, she would have been a nice vessel for the next of the great Gaunts, even if the bitch couldn't do magic to save her life. As he mused to himself, the stone on his finger became absurdly hot, melting the ring and his finger with it. Morfin screamed as the stone dropped to the floor. The magic had touched it. The magic of the true Peverell. The Master had arrived and he was coming soon. Very soon…

Charlus Potter, Head of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter had just taken off the family cloak, when it started to shimmer and glow as he was bathed in a silver light. The Master's magic had touched upon it. He was coming, at last.


There, that's it for the first chapter. Please do enjoy and review! Constructive criticism is appreciated. Flamers are treated with extreme prejudice. 'Silencio!' and 'Petrificus Totalus' straight to the face. Also, I couldn't resist the corny Bond joke.

2591 words excluding A/N.