All creative and publishing rights, characters, and pre-existing plotlines belong to J.K. Rowling. I own none of this. This story is simply my take on what would have happened had the concept "Master of Death" been real. Enjoy and please review! There will be weekly updates every Saturday by 4pm EST.
Chapter 1: Fred
The first time Harry awoke after the battle, he felt pain. Dull, aching, pain radiated throughout his entire body, but nowhere stronger than in his chest. Without looking, Harry knew that Tom Riddle's Killing Curse had left a deep bruise over his heart. Faintly, Harry recalled Hagrid's words to him long ago: "That ain't no ordinary cut on your forehead, Harry. A mark like that only comes from being touched by a curse…and an evil curse, at that." Suddenly, Harry wondered whether the bruise on his chest might indicate the presence of something more sinister…another scar, perhaps? Maybe a lightning bolt now pierced the oval shape left by Slytherin's locket?
Harry sighed and realized that, for the moment, he did not want to know.
There was a shuffle and the sound of moving sheets, as Harry noticed Ron and Hermione across the room. Following the battle, all three friends stumbled up the steps to the Seventh-Year Dormitory, where Kreacher served them a platter of sandwiches and pumpkin juice. Ron and Hermione had pushed two four poster beds together, and now held one another close, resting more soundly than they had in months. Smiling to himself, Harry closed his eyes, unwilling to give up his temporary peace.
Once he awoke, there would be reality to face. There would be people to console, answers to give, and dead to bury. Everyone would demand to know where he'd been for the past ten months, what he and his friends had done, and why they had not returned earlier. For the Chosen One, who had rid the world of such monstrous and mysterious evil, there would be insatiable curiosity.
Yet, few would realize how far Tom Riddle had pushed the boundaries of Dark magic. Harry would not tell them. He would never publicly relive, in any depth of detail, the horrors they had faced. The annals of history would never record exactly how close Riddle had come to victory. In Harry's opinion, the last thing they needed was to inform the public and create a guide for the next psychotic bloke who tried to take over. And now that Harry had survived the Killing Curse twice, he would pay an even higher price for his secrets and his fame.
Harry's temple throbbed and he suddenly became aware of dust plastered on his eyelids. He was coated in a fine stone powder, courtesy of the crumbling Hogwarts walls. Groaning, he tried to ignore it…just a little longer, he thought. He began to hear faint movements from the floors below and wondered who had made their way into Gryffindor Tower. Probably the Weasleys, he realized, with a pang of guilt. Fred. Remus. Tonks. Colin Creevey. Countless others.
They were all dead, and here he was dreading his own fame.
What would he say to their families? To their loved ones? Harry knew they had all volunteered to fight, but he had brought the battle to Hogwarts. Killing Tom Riddle had been Harry's responsibility. Hadn't Dumbledore always meant Harry to be the final sacrifice that would save others? He had, but Harry hadn't been able to do it on his own. He'd needed Ron, Hermione, and every one of the students, teachers, villagers, and Order members who'd put their lives on the line. He'd needed help.
"Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."
Harry chuckled bitterly, remembering when Dumbledore spoke those words to him in his second year. This isn't what Dumbledore had wanted. He always fought to protect the students and teachers of Hogwarts, even when it meant putting his life and personal reputation on the line. Too many people had died helping Harry fight Voldemort and now, he felt the guilt settle in his stomach like a stone. Still, the Dumbledore in Harry's vision of King's Cross had been proud of him. Dumbledore had always been proud of Harry and his ability to love. And that had to mean something.
"You alright, mate? I can tell when you're not sleeping," Ron called.
Harry opened his eyes, taking in the scarlet curtains, held back on the beams of his four-poster.
"I'm fine. Why are you awake?"
"I couldn't sleep anymore."
Upon closer inspection, Harry realized that like him, Ron was covered in rubble. Inside the comfortable dormitory, they all looked horribly out of place. They were unkempt and wearing travel-worn muggle clothing. Harry hadn't noticed earlier, but all three of them looked as though they had bathed in a mixture of Fiendfyre soot and stone dust from the castle. Scrapes and bruises covered every inch of exposed skin. While Hermione's Essence of Dittany had healed some of the burns from the Gringotts break-in, each bore patches of rough and irritated skin that hurt more than they would admit. Harry touched the side of his face and felt dried blood.
"Me neither," Harry sighed, "I just don't want to go down, yet."
Ron nodded his understanding.
"What do we do now? Now that he's…now that Riddle's gone. It doesn't feel over."
"I-I don't know, mate. I reckon we just…carry-on?"
Ron looked stoically ahead, wordlessly taking in Harry's answer. Though his shoulders relaxed, there was a gray tinge to Ron's blue eyes that Harry had not noticed before. His lips were dry and crusted, his jaw set in a hard line. He looked older somehow, and exhausted. The weight of loss in Ron's expression was palpable. Harry looked away.
There was sudden thundering of feet up the stairs and Harry jumped. Someone had made their way onto the Sixth-Year landing of the boys' dormitory.
"Ron? Ron? You'll never believe it!" Someone—Harry thought it was Lee Jordan, though he couldn't be sure—yelled up the stairs, "Ron!"
Ron bolted upright, Hermione sliding off his chest.
"Out of my way, Jordan!" called Professor McGonagall in her Scottish accent, "The Weasleys just left for the Great Hall. Go on and be with your friends. I'll explain everything to…to Mr. Weasley and the others. This is a delicate subject."
Harry sat up curiously.
"But he needs to know! Fred is alive—"
"Mr. Jordan," Professor McGonagall interrupted, "I quite understand the gravity of this situation. However, we do not have all the answers and Harry and the others need rest. We cannot shock them with something like this now. It could be dangerous for their health—"
"But—"
"Please, Jordan," Professor McGonagall tried again, not unkindly, "This has been a terrible shock for all of us. Go on and follow the Weasleys to the Great Hall."
Harry looked over at Ron, whose eyes were wide with panic. One of Ron's arms still rested haphazardly around Hermione, whose brown eyes watched him with a light that was, for once, perplexed.
"Professor McGonagall!" Harry called, getting swiftly to his feet, and running out the dormitory door, "Professor McGonagall!"
Harry barreled past Kreacher, who stood sentry outside the door, and found Professor McGonagall with one foot on the staircase below. Her eyes were wide under the brim of her pointed witch's hat, and she had one hand on the banister, as though about to come upstairs. Professor McGonagall appraised Harry carefully and then, as if to restore some semblance of order, straightened her spectacles.
"Potter, I see you've overheard our conversation—"
"Where's Fred?" Harry demanded.
Professor McGonagall closed her eyes.
"He is alive," she said.
Ron, who had followed Harry out of the dormitory, made to scramble downstairs at once.
"Wait! Please, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall called, "There is much you do not know. You may go and join your family in the Great Hall in a moment. But, first, may I have a word with you? With all three of you?"
Ron looked longingly down the stairs, and then back from McGonagall to Harry. Harry stood, stunned into silence, while Hermione joined him on the landing.
"What do you mean, Professor?" Hermione asked.
"Please," McGonagall began to walk up the stairs, "Join me in the dormitory. We can talk here."
Hesitantly, Ron followed the others back upstairs. Harry, Ron, and Hermione took seats beside one another on an unused bed. Hermione rubbed her eyes tiredly. Professor McGonagall stood across from them, her thin lips bracing for what she had to say.
"What happened—" Ron started.
"You heard correctly, Mr. Weasley, your brother, Fred, is alive."
"But how—" began Harry.
"Please, Harry, let me finish. Fred Weasley seems to have…awoken…over time. We have no way to explain it. Madam Pomfrey assessed him herself. He was gone. I just don't understand it! But not long ago, George Weasley stated that he could hear Fred breathing. Of course, well…" Professor McGonagall looked at Ron a little ashamedly, "we thought it wasn't true. We thought it was just the natural progression of grief."
"Unfortunately, Madam Pomfrey was a little distracted…so many patients to attend to, you understand. Mr. Jordan tried to console George and set the situation right, but then Fred started snoring. He awoke some twenty minutes ago. Madam Pomfrey and the rest of your family are with him now."
"But…but he was killed!" Hermione yelped, her face a mask of disbelief, "That's not possible!"
"He was killed, Ms. Granger. But, apparently, that's not the case anymore. According to Madam Pomfrey, he seems to have made, more or less, a full recovery."
Harry thought of the gut-wrenching moment he'd seen Fred blasted to death by the castle wall. He'd seen the way Fred's glassy eyes stared at nothing, and helped Percy carry Fred's lifeless body away from the battle. Professor McGonagall wasn't making any sense. Wizards had magical blood, it was true, but he'd never heard of anyone coming back from the brink of death. Well, no one except himself.
"How…" Hermione started, her rational mind desperately striving to make sense of the situation, "how do you know he wasn't in a…a coma, or something?"
"Because" Professor McGonagall answered, her eyes soft, "he's not the only one. Remus and Nymphadora Lupin have woken up, too."