The Prelude to Everything

-o-

-September 29th 1891-

Azkaban. The very name of the prison was designed to instill fear deep in the marrow, yet for Percival Dumbledore, it was but a chilling inconvenience, an unpleasant living area. As the damp, salty air of the sea circled around him, he sat in the middle of his cell, staring at the bars. His eyes, having adjusted to the gloom over time, scanned the confines of his sparse surroundings – dark – with a rancid smell.

Unfortunately, Percival's presence in Azkaban was deserved. Despite the chains that bit into his wrists, his posture remained calm. Each link of iron that bound him seemed almost an affront, an underestimation of the man who had, until his imprisonment, been considered by many as perhaps the strongest wizard of his age (in fact, these chains were useless; he had accidentally broken them along with the prison bars with an untimely sneeze, having to repair it before the guards did their rounds).

The cell itself was small, the stone cold under his bare feet. Water dripped rhythmically from the ceiling and onto his head, the sound echoing off the walls, a constant reminder of his isolation. A single window, too high to reach and barred with thick iron, let in a steady stream of cool winter air.

Percival's days were punctuated by the distant cries of the dementors—those wretched guardians of the prison, their silent screams resonating with the despair of the inmates. Yet, Percival stood apart from his fellow prisoners. Where others saw their end, he saw only a pause. The dementors were afraid of him – too afraid to even approach his cell. His mere presence allowed him a wide berth from the ghastly guards.

. . .

From a young age, Percival was different from his peers. His exceptional intelligence set him apart, making him keenly aware of details others routinely overlooked. This intellect, however, was paired with a volatile temper – with a hint of unsatiable bloodthirst, something he generally kept under wraps.

Percival's life took a turn when his youngest child – his precious daughter, Ariana, became the victim of brutal sexual assault by three local muggles. The incident left Ariana traumatized, which only fueled Percival's fury. His love for his daughter was boundless and seeing her in such pain ignited his primal desire for blood.

Unable to restrain his anger, Percival took matters into his own hands. One morning, driven by a cold, calculated rage, he tracked down the three men responsible for assaulting his daughter. What followed was a horrifying display of magic. Percival used the Cruciatus Curse, known for its cruel ability to inflict unbearable pain, but he didn't stop there. He employed several other dark spells, each more terrifying than the last, pushing the boundaries of magical torture far beyond the infamous curse – leaving them and any unfortunate muggle and magical who might have accidentally simply performed the act of looking at the spells in a state far worse than death.

As he enacted his revenge, Percival's mind became clouded. His usual sharp intellect, capable of reason and logic beyond mortal means, was overwhelmed by a storm of bloodlust. He was so consumed by the need to make the perpetrators suffer that he failed to see the consequences of his actions. He crossed lines he had never intended to cross, and in doing so, broke the Statute of Secrecy – a fundamental law designed to conceal the existence of the magical world from muggle eyes, but he also broke the sanctity of his oath as the Guardian Mage – harming even innocents – albeit unintentionally – area of effect magic did not discriminate between friend or foe.

The breach did not go unnoticed. The International Wizards Council was quick to respond, sending their battle mages to him. Percival was arrested and faced severe charges for his use of forbidden magic and the breach of secrecy. As he stood trial, he realized he had two options: he could explain his motives in an attempt to justify his actions or remain silent and protect Ariana from further scrutiny and potential institutionalization.

After careful consideration, Percival chose to withhold the reasons behind his vengeance. He knew that revealing them would not only fail to lessen his punishment but might also lead to Ariana being taken away to St. Mungo's Asylum. That was something he couldn't accept. He kept his silence, choosing to have his daughter close and safe under the watchful eye of his wife rather than in the hands of the ministry.

Percival's actions unleashed a storm of public outrage that extended far beyond the confines of his family. The magical community at large was appalled by the brutality of his retribution against the muggles – and the innocents. In the eyes of many – including himself, his use of dark magic not only breached the Statute of Secrecy but also violated the moral principles that held their society together and the principles that defined their humanity. As news of his deeds spread, Percival's name became synonymous with an unforgivable transgression against Muggle and magical law.

The backlash was intense and immediate. Fellow wizards and witches, who once respected his intellectual prowess, began to associate it with the dark. The community's disdain was palpable, and his own sons, Albus and Aberforth, were not shielded from the growing animosity. While Albus, always the more composed and philosophical, tried to understand his father's motivations, Aberforth could scarcely conceal his disdain.

As Percival's story was dissected and debated, a particularly venomous rumour took root—that he was a Muggle-hater, perhaps even detesting Muggle-borns. This speculation was absurd to anyone who truly knew Percival. His wife, Kendra, was a Muggle-born, and their marriage had been built on a foundation of deep love and respect. Percival had cherished Kendra above any other, and his affection for her had never waned. The notion that he could harbour any resentment toward her kind was not only incorrect but painfully ironic.

The irony of the accusations against him did little to quell the public's fury. The magical community, already wary of any actions that might provoke Muggle attention, saw Percival's rampage as a threat to their security and anonymity. In their eyes, he had not only endangered their peace but had also brought disgrace upon the entire wizarding world. The severity of his crimes and the nature of the punishment meted out to him only served to reinforce the community's outrage. And within Azkaban, the only thing he hoped was that his wife, his beautiful Kendra, would be free from the hate.

Percival's demise was as controversial as his life. The circumstances surrounding his death echoed the dark irony that had haunted his final years. His existence, marked by brilliance and tragedy, ended not with a dramatic confrontation or a warrior's duel but with a quiet flicker—a single, silent spell that snuffed out his life while he slept. A fucking Avada Kedavra.

In the depths of Azkaban, Percival had plenty of time to contemplate his potential end. If given a choice, he might have envisioned a death as fierce and tumultuous as his life had been. Perhaps he would have chosen to meet his end in battle, fighting valiantly against impossible odds, his last moments marked by the raw, visceral reality of combat. He imagined a death where he would have been stabbed countless times until he would finally bleed out and die. He never imagined a death where he would be abruptly killed in the middle of the night by some random security patrol officer.

The reality, however, was far from this fantasy. The Avada Kedavra—the killing curse that struck without pain or struggle, leaving neither mark nor mess—was how he met his end. It was a death that many feared for its cold efficiency, but Percival despised it for its lack of honour. To die by such means, especially in his sleep, seemed to him an indignity, a final insult to a life spent battling.

It was puzzling that someone would kill him in such a manner. He was already confined for life in Azkaban. What threat could Percival possibly pose? What would killing him have even accomplished? Sure, he had enough power to level the prison and wipe it off the map utterly, but why would he want to escape? There was absolutely no reason for him to do so – escaping would only mean that the attention of the wizarding world would be drawn to his family even more than it would have currently been. Yet, someone decided it was necessary to eliminate him permanently. Sigh.

~LIMBO~

Floating in a void was the last thing Percival had expected after death. The tales and theories about the afterlife had always suggested something more—visions of deceased relatives, ethereal realms of either torment or bliss. Yet, here he was, suspended in nothingness, which was perhaps a reflection of the ambiguity of his life's actions. Was this nondescript state of existence his punishment? A consequence of the extreme measures he had taken to avenge his daughter, Ariana? It seemed both fitting and ironic, being condemned to an eternity of neither punishment nor peace.

He pondered the possibility that this could be a temporary staging area, a place before final judgment. Yet, as time seemed irrelevant and no change occurred, Percival's thoughts turned inward, replaying the final moments of his life and the series of events that led him here. His death had been humiliating; killed in his sleep by a simple killing curse. There was no honour in such an end, especially for a man of action like himself. It felt cheap, almost insultingly mundane for someone who had lived a life like his.

"Could've been worse," he mused to himself, his voice echoing slightly in the empty expanse. "At least I wasn't awake to see the face of my cowardly killer."

As if summoned by his words, a sudden darkness enveloped him, the void itself deepening into an oppressive black. Then, a voice, deep and resonant, vibrated through the nothingness, clawing at his very essence with its power. "It could have."

Percival's heart, or whatever semblance of it remained in this form, skipped. He mustered what he remembered of his bravery, his voice a mix of defiance and curiosity. "Who are you? What are you?"

The darkness seemed to laugh, a sound both chilling and genuinely amused. "I am what many fear and few see. I am Death."

"Death?" Percival echoed, skepticism threading through his confusion. In his current predicament, he saw no reason to doubt, yet the situation was absurd enough to question. "And you, knowing who I am, what do you want from me?"

"What I want is often irrelevant," the voice continued, the omnipresent tone sending shivers down Percival's non-corporeal spine. "You were killed by a prison guard, whose nephew was one of those you tormented. Revenge was his motive. But what I need from you, Percival Dumbledore, goes beyond your personal vendettas or my whims."

Percival processed this information, the identity of his killer now known, yet it was the least of his concerns. "What could Death possibly need from me that it can't accomplish itself?"

"You are unique," Death replied simply. "Among all the souls, your power and capability make you the ideal candidate for a task of great importance. Horcruxes, the abominations that they are, disrupt the natural order. They should not exist. I am constrained from interfering directly in mortal affairs, hence I need an agent. You will be my Avatar, the Master of Death in the mortal realm, tasked with destroying these Horcruxes and the one who created them."

"Horcruxes?" Percival was familiar, perhaps too familiar, with the dark artifacts. "And who is responsible for these?"

"A man named Tom Marvolo Riddle. But beware, this task is far from straightforward. He is a dark wizard who has meddled in rituals of old to strengthen himself beyond reasonable understanding, a vile and disgraceful existence that is an affront to me."

Percival's mind raced, piecing together the gravity of what was being asked. Yet, something within him relished the thought of engaging in such a critical, dangerous task. It was a chance to do something meaningful, albeit posthumously.

"You demand a lot, considering my current state," he retorted, his tone a mix of irritation and begrudging respect. "And what if I refuse?"

"Then you remain here, in this void, forever isolated," Death replied, its patience thinning. "Or worse, I could send you to the eternal fields of punishment."

The threat was clear, and Percival, despite his boldness, knew better than to test the limits of this being's patience. Yet, his nature did not allow him to fully bend. "And if I accept? What then?" he asked, his tone more measured.

"You will be returned to the mortal world, reborn to fulfill this task. Succeed, and you may find peace. Fail, and suffer consequences far beyond this current emptiness."

Percival took what felt like a deep breath if that were possible in this state. "Very well. I accept, not for fear of punishment, but for the chance to right the balance you claim is so dear."

"Very well," Death concluded, its voice now carrying a hint of approval. "Prepare yourself, Percival Dumbledore. Your journey is about to begin anew, but I know you will be up for the task."

As Percival contemplated the gravity of his new mission, his thoughts were interrupted by Death's continued exposition.

"There is another matter," Death intoned, its voice echoing ominously. "Your wife, Kendra, will join you in the mortal realm."

If Percival's heart still existed in this form, it might have leapt. "Kendra? But how will I recognize her?"

"She will be reborn as a girl named Daphne," Death revealed casually, as though mentioning a simple change of the weather. "However, she will retain no memories of her past life, not even of you."

The possibility of not being recognized by his own wife sent a pang through Percival. "How can she get her memories back?" he asked Death, a bit hopeful.

Death's reply was noncommittal. "The intricacies of human memory are delicate and unpredictable. She might never remember, and it's equally plausible that you two may not reunite as partners."

Percival bristled at the notion, his spirit inflamed by the idea of Kendra not being with him. "Like hell, I'd ever let that happen," he muttered under his breath, the idea unsettling him more than the prospect of battling a Dark Lord with Horcruxes.

"And you, Percival, will not return as you once were," Death continued, ignoring his discomfort. "You'll be given a new body, a new life. The powers you once wielded will be restricted initially. If even a fraction of your former strength were to manifest at your birth, the consequences could be catastrophic."

The enormity of the situation began to weigh heavily on him. "I understand," Percival replied slowly, processing the limitations. "My memories will remain intact?"

"Yes, your memories will be preserved. This will aid you in regaining your powers gradually as you grow. It's essential for maintaining the balance and ensuring you can complete your task without unintended destruction."

Death's pragmatic approach provided little comfort, but Percival understood the necessity. "Any more surprises?" he asked wryly, a hint of sarcasm lacing his tone.

"That will be all. Are there any final questions before your journey begins?" Death's voice hinted at the imminent conclusion of their conversation.

Percival's mind raced, but one question pressed above others. "What does she – what does Daphne look like? Will I know her when I see her?"

But Death chose not to answer, leaving the question hanging in the void as Percival felt his form beginning to dissolve, the essence of what he was scattering to be reformed anew. As Percival's consciousness began to dissolve, drawn irresistibly towards the new life awaiting him, the entity known as Death remained in the void. After Percival completely vanished, the sombre atmosphere of the infinite space shifted subtly. The entity, now alone, began to transform, revealing its true form.

She appeared as a young woman, no more than eighteen, with warm brown hair that cascaded in gentle waves over her shoulders. Her eyes, deep and brown, sparkled with an ancient wisdom belying her youthful appearance. She was dressed simply, in a long-sleeved white shirt and soft grey shorts, a stark contrast to the formidable presence she wielded as Death.

This was Ariana, not just an image or a disguise, but truly her—Death itself. In her true form, she exuded a serene grace, her expression filled with a tender resolve as she spoke softly to the void now emptied of Percival's presence.

"I'll watch over you, Papa," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm in the emptiness. "And I'll make sure you and Mama find each other in this life, too. It's my promise."

As she spoke, Ariana extended her hand, palm up, where a gentle glow began to emanate. Within the warm light, a new soul flickered into existence—serene and dormant. It was the soul of her mother, Kendra.

"Keep him safe, Mama," Ariana whispered to the slumbering soul, her voice laced with love. "And make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

With a final look at the glowing soul in her hand, Ariana gently closed her fingers, shielding it with her own divine essence. She then turned, her form beginning to fade, melting back into the shadows of the void. As she disappeared, a sense of peace filled the space, a promise made by Death herself to reunite a family torn apart by tragedy. In this new life, under her watchful guidance, they would have another chance. She'd make sure of it.

△ The Cloak

O The Stone of Resurrection

| The Elder Wand

Together they make, the Deathly Hallows!

DEATH WAITS FOR NO ONE

July 31st, 1980

The experience of being reborn was far more jarring than Percival had ever anticipated. As awareness crept back into his consciousness, he found himself enveloped in complete darkness. 'Oh god, why is it so tight in here?' The space around him was uncomfortably tight, pressing against him from all sides, and it was gradually becoming even more constricted. He tried to open his eyes—a simple act he had mastered long ago—but found that he couldn't. There was nothing to see but the blackness that surrounded him.

Minutes ticked by, or at least it felt like minutes in this strange, timeless place. Percival became increasingly aware of his predicament, and a profound realization struck him. It was as if a freight train had hit him, much like the one his Uncle Morpheus had once thrown him in front of—a test, albeit a reckless one, to see if he had magical abilities. The memory of surviving that ordeal, followed by his uncle's subsequent decade-long imprisonment in Azkaban for extreme child endangerment, flashed through his mind. Percival himself had spent the aftermath in St. Mungo's, recovering from numerous crushed bones and other severe injuries, while magically, his head, heart, and more private areas had remained protected.

As the space around him tightened further, an even more pressing concern dawned upon him. "Am I about to be born?" he thought incredulously. "Great Merlin's beard, I'm in the process of being born. This is... unsettling."

His thoughts wandered to the ironic nature of his situation. Throughout his previous life, whenever he engaged in a brawl, particularly the muggle ones, he'd often dive in feet first. And now, here he was, quite literally coming into the world in the same manner. A breech birth, no less. "I'm a breech baby," he realized with a mix of amusement and concern. "Poor woman. This is going to be rough for both of us."

The protective enchantments around him—a safeguard for both mother and child during magical births—were palpable. He could feel the magic, like a warm blanket, wrapping around him, ensuring no harm came to either party during the process. "Naturalization birth," he mused, his mind racing even as his new body resisted the confines of the birth canal. "Am I a boy or a girl? And why can't I feel anything... there?"

His contemplation was cut short as he felt a sudden movement, propelling him forward. The tightness gave way, and suddenly, there was a rush, a cold blast of air, and a blinding light that struck his closed eyelids. He was out. He was born. And immediately, he began to cry—the instinctive, powerful wail of a newborn.

A voice nearby announced his arrival. "He's here!" It was a joyous proclamation, one filled with relief and happiness.

"He!" Percival seized on the word. "I'm a boy!" His crying subsided slightly as he processed this new piece of information, feeling a pair of strong, secure arms wrap around him. He attempted to open his eyes again, only to be greeted by a harsh, glaring light. "Ah, fucking hell," he thought, wincing at the brightness.

"He's adorable!" a woman's voice cooed, filled with a warmth that melted Percival's emerging heart.

"Yes, he is," another voice agreed, this one hovering directly above him.

"Welcome little guy, my little Harry James Potter."

"Wait, what?" Percival's mind reeled. "Harry? Did she just call me, Percival Dumbledore, Harry? What kind of wizard name is Harry? How am I supposed to strike fear into the hearts of others with a name like that?"

He tried to articulate his displeasure, his small hands wriggling against the tight swaddle that confined him. "Fear me, puny wizards, for I am the great Harry!" he imagined saying in derision. "Couldn't they have chosen something more formidable? Like Hadrian, or better yet, Percival?"

"Look, Lily!" the man—James, he was now identified—exclaimed.

"What is it, James?" the woman replied, her voice tinged with curiosity.

"He's trying to get out! Hah! That's my little fawn, don't let anything confine you to a small space!"

Percival paused, his attempts to free himself momentarily halted. "Did this tosser just liken me to an animal?" His indignation fueled his struggles as he fought against the blanket. "Curse the person who wrapped this! Once I get my arms free, I'll strangle you with it!"

"Here, little fawn, let me get you out of that nasty blanket," James said soothingly as he began to unwrap the swaddle.

"Freedom!" Percival exulted internally. Using what he felt were superior cognitive skills, he managed to wriggle an arm free. Then, focusing all his newborn will, he forced himself to unclench his middle finger and raise it in the direction of the female voice, a gesture of defiance. "Take that! That's for giving me the name Harry!"

"Lily..." James started, a note of amusement in his voice. "Is he... Is he flipping you off?" Percival thought to himself that James was an alright guy in his books. He obviously could read the room.

"Don't be silly, James. He obviously wants to come to his mother," Lily responded, her tone exasperated yet fond.

"No, girl, I do not want to come to you!" Percival wanted to shout, but all he could do was flail helplessly as he was handed over to his new mother. He was not born yesterday; he knew what was to come next.

As Percival was nestled into his new mother's arms, his infant mind raced with conflicting instincts and the remnants of his adult consciousness. He wanted to protest, to demand some semblance of decorum. "Put a shirt on, woman!" he imagined shouting, horrified at the prospect of being breastfed. "Do not breastfeed me!" But despite his mental protests, his newborn body acted on its basic needs, instinctively latching onto her and beginning to suckle.

He closed his eyes, partly in resignation and partly in a futile attempt to block out the surreal nature of his experience. As he nursed, he sent a silent, desperate prayer to whatever forces might be listening—particularly to Death, who had orchestrated this bizarre reincarnation. "Please," he pleaded mentally, "wipe this memory from my mind when this is all over."

.

.

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And this, is how Percival Augustus Brian Dumbledore was once again born in the Mortal World.

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And as a newborn named Harry Potter!

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Elsewhere, Ariana winced, "Sorry Papa."

I rewrote my story, Death Waits for No One! Enjoy! You can find the old version on AO3. The whole death being Ariana was something I added on the fly in like chapter 60, but then I realized it made no sense - and at that point, I was already far ahead, so I decided to just rewrite everything before that.

Hope y'all like it. If interested, you can check out my other story, 'Eternity with You', which is a Naruto x Percy Jackson crossover. In other news, there is another story that I'm currently writing, it's a crossover of Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, in which Ariel Potter is the twin sister of Harry Potter (who died as a baby) - and has its timeline set back by around a decade (so born 1973). Essentially, she's Percy's mom. Give it a read when it comes out!