Chapter 2 - Second Rung of the Ladder

"Well met, Harry Potter. Do you fear Death?"

It was, Harry'd thought, a rather strange question to be asking a 14 year old. Then again, perhaps it was just his 'Harry Potter' luck. Surely nobody else had such vivid dreams about impossible things when they were knocked unconscious.

You seem to have hit your head rather hard on nothing to think I'm a figment of your overactive imagination, Mister Potter.

Harry agreed with his imaginary figment. Though he firmly believed it still was just a figment. What else would a tall, pale, stick-thin figure wearing coat-tails and carrying a dragon-head staff possibly be, after all!? Well, either that, or he was watching a very nonsensical play of some sort. But then, the Dursleys were never the sort to make the effort to go the theater, so that couldn't be it, he mused, one eye on his imagination, which seemed to look quite amused.

For being lyrically challenged, you do seem to have quite the sense of showmanship. You did quite well during this Tournament.

So that was it. This ... er, person ... must have been among the audience and at some point, Harry must have seen him and remembered this absurd appearance enough to turn it into some crazy apparition slash imaginary creation. Come to think of it, how had he been knocked out in the first place?

Finally, the right question.

Ignoring the strange presence in his head, Harry thought about his past year. He'd been participating in the Tri-Wizard Tournament and he could remember the first two tasks. Which made it probable that he'd been injured somehow in the third task and would therefore be in the hospital wing. Though none of Madame Pomfrey's treatments had ever made him hallucinate before.

Your internal monologue is mildly entertaining, but we don't have much time.

The cold, skeletal hand that touched his temple startled the young soul of the late Harry Potter, but it served to clear the fog of his thoughts and allowed him to focus on his most recent memories. It didn't take long.

"Voldemort killed me!"

Yes.

"I-I'm dead!"

As a doorpost.

"But how can I be dead?"

And clearly in shock.

Green eyes narrowed in anger. "Just who the hell are you?"

I'm Death. I'd have thought that was obvious. And please don't ask me about my robe and scythe. Because, seriously, that went out of fashion worlds ago. And just because I'm Death, doesn't mean I can't choose to dress well. Just because death is all about gloom and doom to you people, doesn't mean its all gloom and doom to me. This is after all my party. However, I can't really have you here quite this soon. So...

And while Soul-Harry just sort of floated there, mouth agape and a bit amused at the sight of Death ranting, the entity reached out and grasped him about the neck, immobilizing him while he thrust his fingers right into the lad's scar. Harry screamed in pain; his head felt like it was being split open, and technically that couldn't even happen anymore. Even with his high pain tolerance, this was something beyond the farthest reaches of his pain threshold. And so he fought to free himself of the pain and of the vice he was bound by. But Death paid him not a whit of attention. Then another high-pitched scream could be heard, and it seemed to be coming from Harry's head. This shocked the boy so much that he stopped his wild thrashing; though his face was creased with pain and he couldn't stop twitching.

In that moment, Death pulled out his hand from the scar and with a loud ripping sound, something black, oily and dripping tar came into view. Harry shrank away from it, looking at it with disgust as Death held it between thumb and forefinger, away from his clothes.

"What is that thing?! And how did you pull it from my scar?"

That is a part of Voldemort's soul, child. It was embedded in you when you defeated him as a babe. Your people call this thing a Horcrux and it means that the owner of the soul is still anchored to the living world. Without the complete soul to cross over, no being can die.

"So that thing is the reason why Voldemort came back to life just now?"

Yes, and no.

"Huh?"

Eloquent. He has many more of these Horcruxes and used just one of them to be resurrected in the graveyard. Another you vanquished when you 'killed' the diary in your second year.

The young soul digested this new information for a few seconds. "Okay, but can I move on now? That thing is out of me, and I'm nice and dead and ready to meet my family."

Sadly, no. And the being actually did look regretful. As you are the child of prophecy, you must help me to collect all the Soul Shards of this Voldemort character, whose real name, incidentally is Tom Riddle, and send them on to me. Then you will be free.

Harry was silent for a long while. Or what may have been a long while. Time has no meaning in the afterlife. "What prophecy do you mean?" he asked eventually.

Death looked distinctly unamused. A child of prophecy not knowing his own prophecy! The world has changed indeed. Very well, since I cannot send you back ignorant of your fate, I shall tell you.

And so followed another recitation of the prophecy that altered the destinies of a young boy's life forever. Not to mention, landed him the unenviable position and responsibilities of being Death's very own sniffer dog, rooting out Voldemort's Horcruxes to stab with an envenomed sword and post off to Death. But the story's getting ahead of itself.

Considering that Voldemort had just offed me in the graveyard, coming back to life would just make everyone scream to the high heavens. Instead, Death told me, he'd placed my body into a state of deep stasis, and that when my soul was refitted in it, my magic would be able to determine when it felt safe to wake my body up again. And since the loss of the soul-shard meant that I could finally use all of my own magic, though I could no longer speak to snakes – which really is a pretty neat skill – Death gave me a few gifts.

First he tilted my head back, had me open my mouth and then blew into it. Strangely enough, it tasted leafy, like fresh grass or mint. While I was shaking my head through that weirdness, he plunged his cold, skeletal hands right into my chest, fiddling around with something. Having felt those hands in my head not moments ago, this left me feeling rather numb. I tried asking what he was doing, but the entity just told me to enjoy his gift when the time came. Well, I know now that Death has a really sick sense of humour.

The next gift came in the form of a head tap. Switching on what inherently should have been mine, he said. After that, he produced a pair of blades from his coat pockets, black as the mad, swirling pools of his eyes, and bright as a moonless midnight sky.

These are on loan. Together they are your strongest offense and defense. They will become whatever you need, and you can never lose them. In the end, bring Voldemort down with these and he will never rise again.

"You know, I haven't even agreed to do any of this."

No, you haven't. But you will do it. Goodbye Harry Potter. May you have a good life.

Yeah, Death has a twisted sense of humour.

But back to the story. I was abruptly shunted back into my body, my soul surrounded by living flesh and blood. Almost immediately, my senses were assaulted by scents and sounds. I was thankful my eyes were still closed.

I took a breath.

The sounds around me descended into silence. Then it erupted into pandemonium.

"Harry!" "I saw him breathe!" "He's awake!" "He's alive!" "Harry! Can you hear us?"

And then a new voice. Sharp, strident, concerned. "Get back at once, all of you. Do you want to smother him before he's even had a chance to breathe properly? Out at once, I say. And not one of you is to come back in until I say so. Now, OUT!"

Thank Merlin for Madame Pomfrey.

And suddenly she was right beside him. "Now, Mr. Potter. Right mess this is, and none of your own making either, this time. Press my hand if you can hear me." He lightly pressed the calloused hand that was holding his own and heard the gusty sigh.

"That is good to know, Mr. Potter. Now I'm going to cast a diagnostic charm." He felt a swirl of magic pass through him and the Medi-witch hummed. "Your vitals look good. Much better than the soulless shell you were registering as earlier. Your magic also seems to be returning and rebuilding at a steady rate. All good signs."

She came closer to him and took hold of his upper arm. "I'm going to cast a mild levitation charm on you now, and help you sit up. You do need to eat something."

Levitating him slightly, the Medi-witch helped him sit upright him the bed, and made him comfy with a nest of pillows. Then she called a house-elf to bring some broth, which she proceeded to feed him herself. Once he had finished, she dimmed the lights, set the wireless set on his bedside table and tuned it to a station with light music, before retreating to her office for a drink.

It had been a rough week, waiting to see if there was any change in the still form of the young lad who'd been sent back after the final Tri-Wizard task, singed with spell-fire, pale and unmoving, clutching the Tri-Wizard trophy in one hand and his wand in the other. Everyone had thought he was dead, but Dumbledore, though bowed with grief, had seen that the body was surrounded by a powerful stasis charm. So he'd called for Madam Pomfrey and had Harry's immobile form moved to the Infirmary.

And now, finally, that gentle soul, the school Healer, could rest.

In his bed, Harry took his time opening his eyes, getting them used to light and stimulus again. That was until a heavy object landed in his lap, startling his eyes open. Almost immediately, however, and with unerring accuracy, a pair of bright green orbs settled on a familiar shape, just as he was forced to raise his arms to catch an armful of hysterically sobbing house-elf.

"Master Harry is back! Master has returned! Dobby is so sorry Master! Dobby could not go to you when you were taken away by nasty shiny cup. Dobby has let down Master and Dobby will punish himself! But Dobby is so happy that Master has come back!"

Harry patted the distraught elf lightly on his back, letting the poor fellow cry himself out, until eventually, Dobby gradually fell silent. Shifting slightly, Harry saw that the elf was asleep, and tucked him into bed under the covers. It was only when he turned to the bedside table where Madam Pomfrey always kept his glasses that he realised that his vision was perfectly clear without them.

Hurrying to the Infirmary bathrooms, careful not to be too loud, he made a beeline for the closest mirror, where he received a shock.

Not only was his vision fixed, but he'd gained both height and weight, along with a natural, healthy colour in his skin. His hair was longer now though and the weight settled what used to pass for a bird's nest on the top of his head. So far so good.

Though he did wonder what other 'gifts' Death had given him.

Oh yeah, he was now the Boy-Who-Lived-to-see-Death-and-land-an-insane-job-hunting-Horcruxes! The work was dangerous but promised exotic travel locales and huge benefits, like living to see his 100th birthday if he was successful. It apparently also came with the side-effects of being as healthy as a horse, getting 20/20 vision, and growing to a decent height. It was better than he'd imagined. Though he hadn't yet seen the fine print.

Harry made his way out to his bed, looking around at how everything seemed so much better to his enhanced sight. Colours and shapes were sharper and it seemed like his other senses had gained a boost as well. He couldn't wait to test his limits, but thought it better to remain safely here for the time being. He really didn't want to face the crowd that was no doubt waiting right outside the Infirmary doors.

When he bumped into something, he looked down at the bed to see Dobby sleeping. But he now noticed something he hadn't before; there was a missive clutched in the elf's bony hand. Slowly and carefully, Harry twisted and drew the parchment free to find himself looking at a letter from Gringotts. Wondering which part of his insane luck was acting up now, he opened it.

Mr. Potter,

As an esteemed Vault Holder, we find it incumbent upon ourselves to inform you of your new status as an adult in the magical world since your entry and acceptance into the Tri-Wizard Tournament last year.

As such, you are now eligible to take up the Lordship of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter at your earliest opportunity. We have also been approached by Sirius Black for a ritual involving yourself. There are additionally, several other matters of an urgent nature that we wish you discuss with you.

Should you wish to arrive immediately, this letter will act as a portkey and bring you to the offices of Senior Teller Griphook, who will escort you further. The activation password is 'Maturity'.

We look forward to further collaborations of a mutually beneficial nature.

May your gold grow and your path prove victorious.

Shatterbone.

Potter Accounts Manager.

Ragnok.

Chairman of Gringotts.

There wasn't really a choice. A second later the Infirmary was void of any human presence while a house-elf slumbered on, an unnoticed smile on his face.