Chapter 1
An old man with messy white hair can be seen tending to a kettle. He fumbles and digs for the tea he needs for the hour. He scoffs when he sees that the can is empty.
"Bugger," he says and puts the tin back in the cupboard. He sighs.
He taps his fingers on the counter. He really doesn't want to go to the local Alley. His aching bones just aren't feeling it today.
But needs must. He sighs again in exasperation. He walks towards the front door and takes his coat and his cane as he prepares for the trip. He taps his cane on the ground, clacking its base on the wooden floor. Suddenly, the kettle's fire goes off.
"Coulda burnt the shack down," he chuckles, showing his yellowing teeth, but still carries mischief in his eyes.
As he goes out of the door he thwacks his cane again. A gong-like sound is heard and the surrounding property is lit up in a surrounding dome of golden light.
Wards. His protections are as old as dirt as him, even.
"Hmmmm. I wonder…," he says as he weaves a stick from his pocket! A wand! He flourishes the wand and whispers an inaudible guttural chant to the air. And suddenly the dome disappears. He huffs in satisfaction and readies himself for travel. He opens the kissing gate of his property and makes for a certain spot in the area around.
POP!
There goes the Old Man.
In a blink, the Old Man appears out of nowhere! He arrives at an alleyway from a main road and goes outside to visit an old, grimy pub that sits like a sore thumb in a modern city with skyscrapers that shoots to the literal sky in its glory.
"In all my years, this shit pile still holds an impressive set of camouflaging wards in history," the Old Man muses. As he nears the pub, he stuck his wand to his face and puts up some kind of glamour charm to obscure it.
He limps with his cane towards the dirty pub and beholds its grimy glory as he opens the door. He nears the bar and surreptitiously greets the barmaid, Hannah or was it Delilah, an old woman that's been running this pub since he finished school, he thinks, but really doesn't remember. Afterwards, he goes out the back of the establishment and taps the sequence that shows another alleyway.
Diagon Alley.
"Place hasn't changed a bit. Damn," he exclaims. He's been alive for so long, even buildings start to blur from his memories. And goes his way to the tea shop he likes.
Teas and Tees. A shop that sells blends of teas and t-shirts for the mundane-raised (mundane? muggle?). He shakes his head and heads to the store at a brisk but careful pace. His leg is getting stiff from the cold.
"How can we help you today, sir?" said a rather excited store assistant. The Old Man looks around the store and grumbles in low tones.
"I'm sorry?" says the help.
"I said I need Jasmine and Black teas on the go. Put in on a tin, with a hundred packs," the Old Man grumbles again as he sits down in order to sit on a sofa near the till.
"Of course, sir. I'll ring you up!" says the clerk. The register dings and gurgles a receipt.
"Here you go sir, the receipt. Your total is 50 galleons, sir" says the clerk as he hands over the parchment.
The Old Man nods. "Give me your Ring slot, boy".
"Ring slot? Sir?" replied the cashier. He doesn't get what the Old Man was saying. He's fairly new here, as you can see.
"Young people these days! Yes! Where's your Ring Slot so that I can pay. I don't have a sack here to carry galleons, boy!" exclaimed the Old Man.
The clerk was shaken. 'Must be new here then', thinks the Old Man.
"Y-yes sir. At once!" says the clerk and goes to the office where their boss is handling his affairs.
"Sir, a customer wants to use the Ring slot. I don't know what that is, sir. I'm sorry for the bother," he whimpers.
"A Ring slot? Damn, must be an Olde one then. It's no bother, Harold, you can't know it yet since you're new but Ring Slots are used when Olde families need to pay their purchases even without coughing galleons like a normal person. You know… like a… what's it called in your Mundane terms?
"A credit/debit card sir?" a small realization comes to the young clerk.
"Yes, that's right! A credit card thing. But this one only goes to the Olde families and the elite if they can afford it from Gringotts." the owner replied to his clerk.
"Ah, so that's what the Old Man was talking about. Thank you sir for the explanation."
Both go to the till and watch as the Old Man browses to the shirts available to the store.
"Sir? I'm the owner and here to show you to our Ring slot. Please forgive my cashier for not knowing the procedures. We hope your continue your patronage to our little store." The owner graciously puts the Ring Slot out from the counter and presents it to the Old Man. It's an odd thing, the Ring Slot—a little wooden square box with an indentation in the middle. Runes can be seen around the box inlaid with gold, both serving a certain function and the status of the one that uses them.
The Old Man waves the apology. "It's no problem," he grunts and snaps his finger. Suddenly a ring appeared on his pinky finger. The clerk gasped, awed at the wandless magic displayed. He bumps his pinky finger on the indent of the Ring Slot. A few seconds later, the Ring Slot glows a golden color.
"Payment confirmed, sir," says the owner. "Allow us to package your purchase."
Both the clerk and owner hurried to package the tea that was purchased. They deliver the items to the Old Man shrunken, and ready to pocket.
"Thank you, lads." says the Old Man, happy with his purchase. 'Now I can boil some proper tea' he mentally thinks.
He exits the establishment, and the owner and the clerk sighs in relief.
Old man Potter
The sun was still up, but suddenly it grew cold. The pitter patter of a rainshower can be heard around the Old Man. He sighs but readies his mind for the apparition to come.
POP!
And appears in the same corner he disappeared from earlier. As clanks and clacks against the pavement towards the kissing gate, it suddenly became cold. Cold that became unnatural as he neared his little home.
'Damn!' the Old Man thinks, and walks faster towards his wards.
"Fuck!" he exclaims. He pushes himself to go faster and sighs as he reaches his porch. "What the hell!" he shouts at nobody.
"You can't just jump out like that! You know these old bones ain't what they used to be! Damn!" he says to the air.
He reaches for the door and enters his humble sitting room and looks around.
"Would you like tea?" he says to the air again. "Mmm…" he nods as if he received an answer.
Then, he ground his cane to the ground and suddenly cutlery and the kettle began to dance in the kitchen as they prepared a cuppa.
"Lazy…" the air seems to say.
"Ah, when you get to my age you get any excuse to be lazy like this" the Old Man laughs to the air.
"Come on then" the Old Man says as the kettle finishes boiling and the cups were steeped with tea.
"Ah" the Old Man said as he sat down on his comfortable chair.
"Death," he calls out to the air once more. The air in the sitting room suddenly wheezed as if the wind was being carried inside. Suddenly, a beautiful face emerged from a black form inside the room.
"Master of," Death said. Their voice sounds garbled and clear at the same time. An eerie silence followed after the greeting.
"How long has it been, old friend?" asks the Old Man. He feels all his age, suddenly.
"It has been 200 years, Master of," replied Death as they also sat down on the opposite seat.
The Old Man sighs. "Has it really been that long, old friend? Since you last visited me? God, I didn't even notice the time" replied the Old Man, the last in a whisper. He sips his tea with honey.
"You are tired, Harry Potter," Death stated.
Harry Potter. Ah, what a name that is. Synonymous with might, mind, and magic. The Boy-who-Lived, Man-Who-Conquered, Grand Sorcerer, Immortal. Titles given and earned all throughout his life. A life well-lived, if not for him living for two millennia since his birth—if not for the lives that he has missed and mourned over and over again. He barely remembers his wife and children, much more his grandsons.
A wizard brain can only take so much before they forget. Occlumency be damned. The Old Man Potter he is called now, where he was born and should have been raised—Godric's Hollow. A hermit in every word that lives in a rundown shack so that no one disturbs his dreamless sleep.
"Is it my time, old friend? Have you come for me, after all this time?" Old Man Potter pleaded. His eyes became misty, memories all rushing to his mind. The children he has raised, the people he felt pride in. Gone.
"No, Master of. You know this. Such is your fate, when you first held all the Hallows, all those millenia ago," Death affirmed, their voice with a hint of empathy.
Alas, such are the fates of Immortals. Born or even made, they are cursed with living until the universe decays into entropy.
"I have come for something else, Master of. I am in need of a favor" Death further states.
"A favor? Pray tell what favor this is now? Save the world? Another dark lord? The Deep has finally emerged? Have the Goblins been enraged? WHAT!" Potter finally shouts and finally sobs deeply.
"Haven't I earned my rest, old friend?!" he wails. "I've protected this world for thousands of years from threats I cannot fathom to imagine. The wizarding world has prospered in Avalon for a millennium now, safe from the Mundane. My sigils and runes! Countless! My magic is like an ocean, deep with knowledge none can surpass. What more do you want from me! Let me pass…"
He finally sat down. Tea cold from his outburst. And sighs. He grows weary of this conversation.
"Master of… Harry. There is nothing more that I want for you is rest. Rest from all of this monotony and knowledge that you will outlive the stars themselves. But I plead with you one last time, a favor." Death replied.
"Get on with it. Might as well rip off the band" Old Potter seethes his replies.
Death sighed, if they could sigh. "The Multiverse is in danger, Master of. And none of the Pantheon can do anything to stop it. The Ancient rules bind them, us, as we watch the vastness unravel. A Great Evil is waking. In another universe, a Voldemort from another universe has learned the Ancient Arts, but barely understands the consequences of his actions." Death reports.
Potter snorts. "A Voldemort? Why does it have to be him, of all people? Bastard couldn't be satisfied if you fed him the Darkhold," he laughs.
"Was it the Darkhold?" asked Harry.
"No. Thank the stars it wasn't the Darkhold. You locked that up better than we would have done, the Pantheon."
"Then why are you all scared? Surely a Harry Potter can stop him. You know how Fate gets when we interfere with her prophecies!" Harry asks dubiously.
"I know that, Master of. However, we forget that not everything was locked up during the Purge Wars. Few escaped and spread to the multiverse, singing their praises to rising Dark Lords for a portion of their power… And this one aims to take the Multiverse and unravel the threads of Time. This Voldemort sees power, but we see destruction of reality" Death pleaded. His voice becoming hoarse as he pushes out his fears to the most powerful wizard on Earth Prime.
The Old Man Potter's face was drained of color. He became pale with fear.
"Escaped? DAMN!" he shouted. "I thought the Order and I locked the Dimensional rifts to all Dimensions! A Harry Potter and even a Dumbledore cannot even beat this." he sighs again. He's been doing that lately.
It seems that Harry is taking this seriously at least. If this was just a Voldemort with delusions of grandeur, he wouldn't touch this. One flick and a rune is all it takes to destroy all the Voldermorts of the Multiverse. Yes, he has considered how to beat Voldemort in an efficient manner in just a few clicks of his staff for a thousand years now and he has gotten a kick out of it just because.
But now isn't the time for laughs. The Ancient Ones should not be trifled with. A few Ancient Words and reality is yours to play with. At the hands of Voldemort, while a local Dark Lord, a crazy, but intelligent bastard, can unravel the bits and pieces of reality with each iteration.
"What would you have me do, Death? Time travel and Cross-over? You know Chronos and Hermes would not allow such a thing," said Harry, with annoyance.
"That's the thing, Harry. The Pantheon has allowed a one time event should you agree to deal with this aberration. Your experience and knowledge of the Arcane and Ancient is needed to combat Nightmares beyond the mortal coil. Should you do it, a favor is owed…" replied Death, pleading in his tone. Death hasn't pleaded in all his years of existence. Immortals seldom cared what happens anymore, they are desensitized to events that are beyond and beneath them. Some would call Harry a God in the mortal realm, but is an existence that never ends such a blessing without the release of Death?
"A favor? What kind, then? Do not play games with me, Death. I've waded through plenty of manipulations in my life and I'm not scared to do something rash," threatens Harry Potter, having had enough.
Such a favor wouldn't go amiss among the Immortals of the Pantheon. They do it all the time; and some are returned with malicious intent. He's had to do battle with countless fools that dare to cater favor among the Immortals only to receive something they did not expect. Some just died, the lucky bastards.
"That's the thing, Harry. The Pantheon are willing to part with a favor that is free of any stipulations. Only if you deal with this problem can you be on your way and be repaid in full," Death stated. Surely, Harry would be tempted with such an offer?
"Make me mortal again," Harry demanded. By saying this he is naught but agreeing already.
"I'll see what I can do, Master of," replied Death. The power to make one mortal again is astronomical, such an undertaking could remake universes affected. But his pity for his Master also weighs them down. A lonely existence to a mortal mind is such a pitiful thing indeed.
Harry Potter nodded. The prospect of being mortal again might just have been the spark that made Potter the mighty figure that he is today and for all time and space. He can feel it in his bones, the adrenaline coursing once again.
Death follows up. "In the meantime, Master. Settle your affairs here in Midgard. Bring your trunk, your books. But no money, we can't have Gringotts angry at us again, do we?"
"Fine. I'll take the Potter fortune in that timeline instead. Can it be done?" said Harry.
"Of course, Master. Take guardianship of little Harry if you want. Train him to be the best. Train him as all the heroes you have trained in the last few centuries," Death replied.
"Very well, old friend," said Harry as he stood up. "We have a deal."