It doesn't matter to me how many summers I live to return: this one summer we have entered eternity.*


Escaping from Limbo is like taking a big jump from the top of a building, except that instead of crashing to the ground with a splash of morbid gore, you fall face first and eat the pavement. Well, better that than reliving his birth. That was an experience that Harry doesn't want to recall … never. Not. Ever.

Totally disoriented by his new living status, Harry flipped over and laid on his back, looking up at the sky to try to regain some control over his body. His body ached and his heart was a hummingbird in his ribcage. According to him, flesh was overrated, but it was not like any others can praise the benefits of being a soul… Maybe the ghosts at Hogwarts could relate? Like the old man he was in mind, Harry clung to a wall to slowly get up … and immediately fell back down.

"Gravity… right, I forget that."

The temperature plummeted suddenly as dramatically as Harry felt the effects of gravity. "Good landing I see," Death teased.

"Being alive sucks."

Arms were wrapped around Harry's middle, a cold embrace which eased his sore muscles. Death helped him to his feet as if he weighed as much as a feather. That was at this exact moment that Harry noted the huge size difference between him and Death.

"I am alive. I'm a kid..." After glancing around, Harry added, "And the war is coming! Just what I needed," he grumbled as he snatched a poster spreading information about military recruitment.

From the bottom of the alley where he was standing, Harry could see a rather normal street—no houses destroyed or piles of rubble. A few details gave him a clue that he was in a time before the 90s, the one he expected to find himself in : just few cars circulated together with army trucks, the clothes of the pedestrian women were far longer, and men wore suits or stained overalls.

War, old buildings… Definitely London, if he trusted the cockney accent of the arguing couple a few floors above him.

"You're an orphan too," Death informed, "the descendant of the illegitimate squib son of Iolanthe Peverell. Your parents have been killed a few days ago after a German raid at Colchester."

Harry rubbed a tired hand against his face—he discovered there, a pair of glasses. "German?"

"A minor change caused by the butterfly effect. The timeline is still trying to accustom itself to our presence... The war has just started, a year ahead of what you have known."

It took a long time for Harry to recollect his memories from when he had attended muggle school. It was even harder to recall his History lessons dealing with World War II—they were stuck between Binn's boring lessons about Goblin Rebellions and quotes from 'Hogwart: A History', all compacted in a messy drawer tagged 'First Life / DON'T TOUCH.'

"We're in 1938." Death laughed, enjoying the misery of their friend. They would suddenly stop laughing and turn their head several times, as if they had heard a noise and were looking for its source. "I guess it's almost time."

The figure of Death was suddenly enfolded in the same mist they used to retrieve their scythe.

Being on Earth again permitted Harry to feel the prickles of magic around him. A buzz of electricity on his knuckles, the aftertaste of happiness in the back of his throat, an ecstatic shudder along his spine—

Unable to resist the temptation, Harry whispered the incantation like a prayer, " Lumos. "

A little ball of light appeared in his young, dirty hands. The tiny glow of his spell dancing like the morning's first ray of sunlight. Magic.

"It has been a long time since I've seen you smile like that," Death hummed with a different voice—relatively human.

Harry dismissed his spell to look at Death and his grin widened. He had already witnessed several times the mischievous pleasure his friend took in borrowing different faces to roam the land of the living. This time, his friend had taken on the appearance of a middle-aged man wearing a British military uniform. The visor of his kepi created enough shadows to conceal his face. As tall as he was in his skeletal form, Death bent down to be at Harry's eye level.

"We'd better go or we're gonna miss it."

"Miss what?"

"You'll see."


Wool Orphanage was more sinister than a closed coffin. With its narrow and elongated shape, the building made Harry feel claustrophobic. He hadn't gone inside yet, but it felt as if he was already six feet underground—and Harry spoke from experience, he knew perfectly what it was like to be buried alive.

Death opened the screeching exterior gate. The noise upset a flock of crows that roamed on the playground. They immediately flew away, cursing the two immortals under their croaks. Harry felt like he was attending his own burial when he had only been alive for a few minutes.

"Even purgatory is more welcoming," Harry grumbled under his breath.

Death's grip on his hand grew more comforting as he tried to muffle a laugh. "Really? Personally, I like it here."

"How surprising…"

After they crossed the playground, Death pushed the front door to enter the orphanage, when a smooth voice came closer behind them: "here to visit a resident too?"

White noise crashed against Harry's ears drums. Sharply, he turned to see with his own eyes a flagrantly younger version of Dumbledore wearing a flamboyant plum velvet suit. His jaw dropped wide open and, like a bullet, fury rose. Wild. Hot. With lava in his taste buds and fire in his blood, Harry was ready to—

Death brutally pulled him closer. Harry's face was tackled against his stomach. Death's body was deathly solid, like a rock (or, much more likely, like rigor mortis). Maybe Harry's nose was broken? That would explain why tears bloomed behind his eyelids.

"No, to drop a new one," Death explained curtly at Dumbledore, with a false dullness.

Harry could feel two holes digging at the back of his skull. The blazing gaze of the current Transfiguration teacher pinned him in place.

All this was a stupid idea , thought Harry. He ground his teeth to remain as calm as possible and regained control over his magic: it wouldn't be possible to pass his magic off as accidental if it was a Fiendfyre aimed at Dumbledore.

Without any further words, Death led Harry inside, squeezed against his side. The hall was even gloomier than the exterior. There was an uncomfortable echo of footsteps and hushed laughter of children. If Harry hadn't just come out of Limbo, he could have sworn this place was where people went after they died.

Nevertheless, there was something else there. In this muggle building, there was a humming buzz of gentle magic. Harry felt it like a distant pool of tenderness, almost too distant to be really perceptible. It reminded him of something, but, before he could put a finger on it, a grim woman stood in their path.

"Who are you?" she asked with a high-pitched voice and acid breath.

"Mrs. Cole!" Dumbledore greeted, bypassing widely Death to extend his hand. "Professor Dumbledore. We exchanged some letters about one of the children you are hosting."

The matron made a noise in her throat, obviously displeased to meet a man, who probably in her muggle opinion, looked at best like an eccentric or at worst a ringmaster. She focused her gaze on Death, then glanced at Harry. Even with a proper face, mortals can't keep their eyes on Death too long, noted Harry. And they can't stand at his side, either. Mrs. Cole and Dumbledore stayed more than a meter apart from him. Yes, Death was apparently a good repellent charm.

The immortal being let out a low laugh. ' I heard that, ' he whispered into Harry's thoughts.

Then he pulled something from one of the pockets of his khaki jacket. He presented a piece of paper — Harry assumed it was a letter — to the matron so she could take it. "He was the last survivor. Your establishment was the nearest with enough room."

"Harry?" Mrs. Cole asked with a disgusted hint in her voice. "Boy, we cannot use a nickname for your identity papers. Sirs? Follow me to my office."

As the three of them followed the matron, another staff member passed by the hallway. Mrs. Cole called her, and hushed her closer to whisper: "Martha, make sure room 27 is ready to receive another resident."

If Harry could trust the way Martha's face suddenly blanched, that was not a good sign. But the woman said nothing and hurried upstairs. Dumbledore noticed the strange attitude too, his blue eyes were sharp as a cold dagger. They had not even specks of a twinkle.

Once they arrived at the office, Mrs. Cole pointed Dumbledore to a chair outside, silently asking him to wait. Harry could bet that this was just a tactic to make Death leave faster.

The interview began with helping herself to a large glass of gin. Well, now Harry knows the origins of her acid breath. All that was missing was a smoking cigarette to add a little bit of mist to this graveyard. Death ruffled Harry's hair, as if asking him to keep quiet.

"Can we be brief?" Death demanded impatiently. "The kid doesn't remember much, and I was the one who found him there. Let me sign any papers needed so I can take my leave."

It wasn't like souls would move on their own, Harry thought. Death patted Harry's head again, his chuckle muted.

Mrs. Cole gave a short nod, already busy with her typewriter. Harry suspected that Death had used some kind of Confundus Charm, or that his immortal aura was doing miracles. Maybe not enough, though…

"Harry… Harry? Humm, Harry is not a name."

"That's the one he gave me," Death replied.

"He can speak, can't he? Answer me, boy."

For an instant, Harry felt like it was him under the Confundus influence. His mouth opened and closed without uttering a word, flabbergasted. How could 'Harry' be such a shocking name? He hoped Lily and James weren't here to hear that. And being called 'boy'. Petunia would be so happy to hear that… Could he be considered lucky if Mrs. Cole hadn't called him "freak" yet? Maybe Harry could taunt the matron by saying that he answered when called Master?

The keyboard of the typing machine rattled as Mrs. Cole tapped on it. Each key pressed more firmly. Tap-tap-tap . A hammer banging the last nail on Harry's coffin.

Cling! Harry was pretty sure that the sound of the typewriter sounded just like the first note of Chopin's Sonata: The Funeral March.

"Here! Everything is clear now," Mrs. Cole said, a Cheshire grin on her lips. "Welcome at Wool's Orphanage, Henry."

The drunken harpy handed a paper to Harry, who took it in a daze. His old name erased meticulously behind a brand new one. Obviously, Fate kept him as her personal chew toy. Death didn't say anything, just brushed Harry's cheek gently.

"It is a generous gift!" Mrs. Cole explained. "You will thank me later if a family lands an eye on you … even if I don't think it will ever happen. Not a really cute face you have, too many scars. And that's only if they get over your skin color."

She had already stolen his name, Harry can't let her be any meaner than that. In a feat of pure white-hot anger, his magic unleashed: her glass of gin exploded. Alcohol spreading on her desk and face.

It was not enough for Harry, so he aimed his magic at her typewriter. The machine splashed ink like a furious octopus. The mortuary bell rang like a church bell on a Sunday morning. CLING! CLING! CLING!

Between the cacophony of the bell, Death's hysterical giggles, and Mrs. Cole's hissing curses, the door banging against the wall could have gone almost unnoticed.

Two burning holes pierced the back of Harry's skull, but he did not immediately turn around to confirm his hunch that Dumbledore had just stormed into the office. He preferred to stare at Mrs. Cole as he replayed the latest events in his mind. Far from being stupid, Harry suspected that Dumbledore would not hesitate to scratch the surface of his mind to get the reason for the chaos in the office. Without context, Dumbledore could antagonize Harry, which would only get him into trouble. So, to clear his name, Harry swiveled in his chair and deliberately met Dumbledore's blue eyes, proving that he had only acted in self-defense. Dumbledore's tight smile was what Harry needed to jump off his chair and retreat near Death, who stood up too.

Mrs. Cole wiped the ink off her face with a tissue, a loaded glare full of hate targeted at Harry. "Be comfortable. I think you will be here for a long time."

Fuck it! Harry swore he's gonna leave this hellhole—and… well, take Voldemort with him.

He doesn't talk about the soon-to-be murderer, but the child who had never knew another place to live than this one. Barely a hour here and Harry had already developed a strange sympathy for the future Dark Lord. It was not a surprise that the guy became obsessed with death if he lived his childhood in a casket and returned to his burial each summer.