Chapter 1 - A Bloody Beginning

Present

The Great Hall was alive with light and laughter, the flicker of pumpkin lanterns casting long, playful shadows across walls steeped in centuries of magic. The students of Hogwarts sat clustered around their house tables, chattering, pointing, reveling in the splendour of the Triwizard Tournament. Hermione Granger, ever vigilant even amidst the cheer, noticed how the enchanted ceiling swirled ominously—storm clouds black as ink, rolling as if disturbed by something more than the late autumn wind.

Dumbledore stood at the podium, a picture of benevolent calm. His voice was warm and rich as mulled wine, guiding the room through the final announcements. Hermione was not fooled by the twinkle in his eyes; she saw the weight behind them, the tension in his shoulders as he held the students' collective excitement in careful balance.

The Goblet of Fire burned blue-white before him, its flickering flames alive, nearly sentient. One by one, the champions were called.

"Fleur Delacour."

The Beauxbatons witch rose gracefully, her silvery hair shimmering in the torchlight. Polite applause filled the hall, punctuated by some enthusiastic cheers.

"Victor Krum."

The Durmstrang champion nodded with grim purpose, his name greeted by a roar from the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables alike. Hermione joined in, her clapping measured, though her eyes darted to Ron, whose face was almost comically red.

"Cedric Diggory."

Hufflepuff erupted into cheers, their house pride swelling to fill every corner of the room. Cedric stood, radiant and golden, the perfect champion.

Dumbledore paused, his voice trailing off as he scanned the room. "These three champions..."

And then the Goblet flickered. Blue flames leapt high once more, twisting unnaturally, and spat out a fourth slip of parchment. A collective gasp rippled through the hall like a stone dropped into a still pond.

Dumbledore's brows furrowed as he reached out, plucking the parchment from the air with his long, nimble fingers. He read it aloud, his voice quieter now, hesitant. "Harry Potter."

The name hung in the air, impossible and absurd, like a half-forgotten memory dredged up from a dream. Hermione's brow furrowed. Harry Potter? That name was a relic, something whispered in bedtime stories about the Boy Who Lived, the vanquisher of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But no one knew him. He was a ghost of legend, a name on a chocolate frog card, a myth. He didn't exist.

And yet—

The torches dimmed as the shadows thickened unnaturally, pooling like ink around the Goblet. Hermione's hand shot to her wand, but the hall had fallen deathly silent. The Goblet's flames flickered, casting a wavering green light as something emerged from the shadows.

It wasn't walking, not exactly. It moved—a fluid, gliding motion, as though the stones themselves bent to carry it forward. The figure was tall, draped in robes of black that absorbed the light, the fabric rippling like smoke. Its face was pale, too pale, almost luminous against the darkness, and Hermione's breath caught. It wasn't the face of a child. It was angular, sharp, beautiful in a way that felt wrong, like a sculpture made by hands that didn't quite understand humanity.

The figure came to a halt before the Goblet, bowing with a precise, inhuman grace. The silence in the hall deepened, pressing on Hermione's ears like a weight. The air was thick with something unnameable—an ancient, cold power that made her skin crawl. She could see its chest rise and fall, but there was something off about the rhythm, something not quite alive.

Dumbledore stepped forward, his usual warmth replaced with an unreadable gravity. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but sharp enough to cut through the tension. "Harry Potter?"

The figure straightened. Its face was blank, almost serene, but then its lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. The teeth were too white, too sharp, predatory in a way that set off every alarm in Hermione's mind. And then there were the eyes—unmistakably green, the green of freshly struck Killing Curses. They burned with a cold, calculating light that seemed to pierce through the veil of the hall, looking straight at Dumbledore.

The figure didn't answer. It didn't need to. That smile, those eyes—they knew.

Hermione's hand trembled against her wand. Her rational mind screamed at her to run, to hide, to stop looking. But she couldn't. The figure held her gaze like a spell, something primal and irresistible. It radiated power, yes, but there was something else—a sense of inevitability, like staring into the heart of a storm you know will destroy everything in its path.

The shadows it cast weren't natural. They flickered and warped, shifting against the stone like living things. For a brief moment, she thought she saw faces in the dark, twisted and anguished, their mouths open in silent screams. Her stomach churned, but she couldn't look away.

The figure turned then, its gliding motion carrying it toward Dumbledore. Fleur Delacour flinched as it passed, her hand tightening around her wand. Viktor Krum stiffened, his brow furrowed, his dark eyes tracking the movement. Cedric looked pale, his jaw clenched as though the sheer presence of the figure was pressing down on him.

It stopped again, directly in front of the headmaster. Its head tilted, an almost curious gesture. And then it spoke.

"Headmaster." The voice was low, smooth, but there was something beneath it—something hollow, like the echo of a wind howling through an open grave.

Dumbledore's lips parted, and for the first time Hermione could remember, the great wizard looked uncertain. His gaze met the figure's, and the room seemed to hold its breath.

"Harry Potter?" he asked again, this time softer, the words carrying the weight of disbelief.

The smile returned, slow and deliberate, and this time it reached the figure's eyes. They glowed brighter, a terrible green flame in the dim hall. The shadows at its feet deepened, curling around the hem of its robes like living things.

The figure leaned forward slightly, and for a moment, the hall seemed frozen, every eye locked on that impossible smile.

"Yes," it said, and the single word was a dagger, cold and final.

Hermione's breath hitched. She felt the world shift, as though the floor beneath her feet wasn't quite solid anymore. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard the first flicker of whispers breaking the silence.

But all she could see were those green eyes. And all she could think, irrational and desperate, was: What is he?

The figure stepped back, bowing once more, its every motion a study in eerie elegance. The Great Hall remained silent, the air heavy with the unspoken weight of the moment. Dumbledore's hand tightened on the podium, his knuckles white, but he didn't speak again. He couldn't.

And then, as if waking from a dream, the hall erupted into chaos.

But Hermione sat frozen, her eyes fixed on the figure, her heart pounding with a mix of terror and fascination. She couldn't shake the feeling that whatever had just stepped into their world, it wasn't just Harry Potter.

It was something far worse.

The figure stood, its head tilted once more in what might have been mockery or respect. It glided toward the line of champions, taking its place beside them as though it had always belonged there.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Past

Harry stands in line, his skinny arms pressed tight to his sides, trying to make himself smaller, invisible. His glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, but he doesn't dare push them up. His palms are damp, his knees trembling in the scratchy, too-short trousers that Uncle Vernon tossed his way last month with a sneer. The other boys shuffle nervously beside him, their fear thick and silent. The air is alive with it, buzzing like an electric wire.

Ahead, Dudley Dursley lounges with his gang—Piers Polkiss, Malcolm, and Gordon—stocky boys with smirks as wide as their shoulders. The rope in their hands is thick and frayed, its edges stained with dirt from countless days of torment. The game is a ritual now. Not a game, really; Harry knows there are no winners.

Dudley points a chubby finger, his piggy eyes gleaming. "You lot. Line up." His voice is heavy, assured. The voice of a boy who knows the world belongs to him.

The three of them—the scrawniest of the scrawny, the lowest of the low—shuffle forward. Harry doesn't know the other two boys well, just their names whispered in classrooms and scrawled on desks: Tommy with the chipped tooth, and Neil with the too-big ears. They don't look at each other. Looking might make it real.

The rules are simple. Jump the rope until you stumble. The first to fall loses. Losing means… well, they all know what it means.

The rope starts to turn, slapping the ground with rhythmic menace. Harry's heart pounds in time with it. He steps forward, legs trembling as the rope arcs again and again. His feet lift, a desperate, automatic motion. He jumps. The rhythm isn't steady—it's deliberately too fast, too slow, jerking with the sadistic glee of the boys on the ends. The slap of the rope against the pavement is a countdown, every jump a second closer to something inevitable.

Beside him, Tommy jumps, too. His chipped tooth catches the light as he gasps for breath. Harry doesn't see the moment Tommy falters, but he feels it—the sharp bump of a shoulder against his own. It's just enough. His foot catches on the rope, his ankle twists, and suddenly he's on the ground.

Laughter erupts, sharp and cruel. "It's the freak's turn today," Dudley crows, his voice like gravel.

The game is over now. Harry knows what comes next.

Tommy and Neil dart off without a word, their skinny legs carrying them to the edge of the playground where they'll stand as lookouts, faces turned away. Not complicit, not innocent either. Just trying to survive.

The rope falls slack, and the boys advance. Dudley, massive and lumbering, leads the pack. Piers flanks him, a ratty grin splitting his face. Harry curls into himself, his hands pressed to his ribs, his glasses askew. Maybe if he's small enough, they'll lose interest.

But no. They're grinning now. Enjoying this.

He doesn't think. He moves.

He bolts, legs pumping, arms scrabbling against the pavement as he scrambles to his feet. He makes it three steps before a hand snatches the collar of his shirt, jerking him backwards. The fabric chokes him, tight and cruel, and then the world tips sideways as he's slammed to the ground.

They're on him. Fists and knees and elbows, the rope used as a whip. He bites his lip hard enough to taste copper, his ears ringing with the sound of their laughter. It hurts. It always hurts, but he bites down, hard, as if swallowing the pain will keep them from seeing it.

Somewhere beyond the haze of kicks and punches, the lookout boys are shouting, signalling the approach of a teacher or a passerby. The beating stops abruptly, like a spell broken. Harry is left on the ground, bruised and gasping, as the gang scatters, their laughter fading into the distance.

Harry lay on the cracked pavement, the rough concrete biting into his cheek. His chest heaved, each breath scraping like glass against his ribs. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, thick and metallic on his tongue, pooling where the split in his lip still stung. His glasses lay smashed beside him, a spiderweb of fractured lenses, useless now. He didn't reach for them.

The pain should have been overwhelming. It should have consumed him, drowned him in its sharp edges and hot surges. But it didn't. Not entirely.

Instead, Harry's fingers curled weakly against the ground, pressing into the dirt. His body was battered, but his mind… his mind was racing. A feverish pulse of thoughts, sharp as knives, brighter than the afternoon sun overhead.

He stared at nothing, his gaze unfocused but burning with a strange, dark intensity. It wasn't just anger, though anger was there, seething beneath the surface. It wasn't just fear, though his chest was tight with it, his heart pounding its frantic rhythm. No, it was something more. Something deeper. Something wrong.

#-#-#-#-#-#

The cupboard was a prison, yes, but it was also a sanctuary. Harry lay curled on the thin mattress, his body aching, his teeth still sticky with his own blood. The air was thick, stale, pressing against his skin like the weight of a stone. Darkness pooled around him, absolute, but he didn't fear it. Darkness couldn't hurt him—not the way other things could.

His mind was loud, though, a cacophony of thoughts he didn't yet have words for. Anger. Hunger. Desperation. The feelings roiled inside him, alien and immense, like a storm trapped in a glass jar. His small fists clenched at the blankets as though holding tighter could keep it all from spilling out.

But it was spilling out. He could feel it, a strange energy unfurling in his chest, coiling low in his belly. It was hot and cold all at once, a pulse of something ancient, something raw. It wasn't normal, he knew that much. Normal boys didn't have this. Whatever this was.

Harry sat up suddenly, his breaths coming fast. The storm inside him surged, seeking release, demanding it. He squeezed his eyes shut, focused, though he didn't know what he was focusing on. There was no name for it, no instruction, only the feeling—a sharp, aching need. His fingers twitched, his whole body tense with the effort of holding it in, shaping it into something.

And then: click.

The sound broke through the silence like the crack of distant thunder. Harry's eyes flew open. The lock on the cupboard door had undone itself. He didn't think. He didn't even hesitate. He pushed the door open and crawled out into the dark hallway beyond.

The house was silent, heavy with the breathing of its sleeping occupants. Harry moved without thought, his feet silent against the creaking floorboards. Something guided him, something deeper than instinct. The energy within him still burned, but it had found a direction now, a purpose. It propelled him forward, into the kitchen.

The knife was Aunt Petunia's sharpest. It caught the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the window, its edge gleaming like a silver thread. Harry stared at it for a long moment, his small hand trembling as he reached out. The handle was cold, heavy. It felt too big for him, too real, but he gripped it tightly.

He didn't know why. He only knew that he couldn't stop.

The stairs stretched upward like the spine of some great beast, and Harry climbed them with deliberate slowness, the knife held firmly in his hand. The house seemed larger now, the shadows deeper, every creak and whisper amplified. The storm inside him was quieter, but it hadn't gone away. It was waiting. Watching.

He pushed open the door to Dudley's room.

The room was a shrine to excess, filled with toys and gadgets and a bed far too large for the boy who sprawled across it. Dudley lay on his back, his mouth slightly open, his cheeks ruddy and full even in sleep. He snored softly, the sound grating and wet, the noise of a boy who had never known hunger, never known fear.

Harry stared. For a moment, the storm stilled. He watched Dudley's chest rise and fall, the faint wheeze of breath escaping his lips. He should have felt something—guilt, pity, shame—but there was only the void. Deep. Black. Endless.

The knife felt warm in his hand now, though it hadn't been before.

What happened next was a blur, a cacophony of sounds and movement that Harry's mind couldn't fully process. There was shouting, distant and muffled. The slam of a door, the thud of heavy footsteps. The world tilted, dark shapes flooding the room, voices sharp and jagged, cutting through the haze.

And then pain. Pain like fire, sharp and all-consuming, snapping Harry back into his body. He gasped, his vision swimming as something struck him again and again, each blow driving the air from his lungs. The storm inside him surged, wild and chaotic, but this time it couldn't escape. It churned and raged, feeding on his agony, growing larger with every strike.

But Harry laughed.

It wasn't a child's laugh. It was low and broken, something raw and guttural, spilling from his throat like a song he didn't know he knew. He laughed until his sides ached, until the world blurred at the edges, until the storm finally shattered, and the darkness took him.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Harry woke to darkness, the kind that felt alive. It pressed against him, heavier than anything he'd ever known, choking and suffocating. His chest heaved, but no air came—just the taste of earth, gritty and cold on his tongue. He tried to move, but his body didn't respond. Every muscle screamed, every bone ached, but the realisation came slower than the pain.

He was buried.

The thought hit him like a curse, sending his heart into a frantic, erratic rhythm. His breath—or what little of it he could manage—came in shallow, desperate gasps, dragging in more soil than air. His hands twitched uselessly against the weight of the dirt, packed tight around his fragile frame. He tried to kick, to claw, to scream, but the earth held him firm, indifferent to his panic.

Harry's mind spun, wild and spiralling. The storm inside him stirred again, rising from wherever it had coiled after the blackness took him. It wasn't just panic now; it was anger. Deep, roiling anger, raw and primal, surging in his chest like fire.

The earth cracked. Not with sound—there was no sound here—but with feeling. Harry felt the pressure shift, the weight around him trembling. That strange energy inside him, the gothic, shadowy thing he didn't understand, flared to life. It clawed its way out of him, a silent scream turned inward, and the ground responded.

It erupted.

The earth above him exploded outward, soil and stones scattering like shrapnel into the empty night. Cold air rushed in, sharp and biting against his bloodied face. Harry gasped, choking on freedom, his body wracked with pain but alive, undeniably alive.

He lay there for a moment, the world spinning around him, his limbs too broken to carry him forward. His bones screamed with every twitch, every attempt to move, but still, he dragged himself forward. His fingers clawed at the loose soil, his elbows digging into the ground. Blood oozed from his wounds, warm against the cold dirt caking his skin.

Each movement sent shocks of agony through his small, battered frame, but Harry didn't stop. He couldn't. The storm inside him wouldn't let him. It howled now, louder than the pain, louder than the fear, louder than the dark.

He crawled, inch by agonising inch, his breath hitching in gasps that came out more like laughter.

When he finally reached the surface, the moonlight caught him. It spilled over his tiny, dirt-covered form, illuminating the streaks of blood on his face, the wild gleam in his green eyes. His glasses were gone; his vision was blurred, but that didn't matter. He didn't need to see.

He was alive.

The smile came then, unbidden, curling his split lips despite the pain. It wasn't a child's smile. It wasn't innocent, wasn't soft. It was feral, sharp-edged, and gleaming in the pale light.

Harry Potter laughed—a low, broken sound that echoed across the empty yard—and crawled forward, leaving behind the grave the world had tried to bury him in.

Something in him had broken. Something darker had risen to take its place.

And it was hungry.

The world around him was still trembling, the air heavy with the raw scent of overturned earth. Harry's breath came in shallow gasps, the laughter fading into ragged silence as he lay in the dirt, his small, broken body slick with blood and soil. The moonlight washed over him in cold silver waves, but the shadows seemed deeper now, darker, as if the light dared not reach too far.

Then he felt it—a shift in the air, subtle at first, like a ripple in a still pond. The darkness around him seemed to condense, pulling inward, growing heavier, more deliberate. Something was coming.

She stepped out of the shadows without a sound, her movements smooth and fluid, like smoke made flesh. The moonlight caught on the fabric of her suit, and for a moment, Harry thought it was woven from the same shadows that surrounded her. It fit her like a second skin, sharp-edged and immaculate, every seam precise.

Her face was a study in contrasts—skin dark as midnight, smooth and ageless, with sharp cheekbones and a broad, proud nose. But it was her eyes that froze Harry in place. They were black. Not the kind of black he knew from ink or soot, but a deep, endless void that swallowed the light. Looking into them felt like falling, like being dragged into a place where no sound, no breath, no life could follow.

The figure knelt slowly, gracefully, bringing herself down to his level. Her movements were measured, almost reverent, but there was no warmth in them. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over him, taking in every broken, bloodied inch of him with an unreadable expression.

Harry stared back, his body still trembling, his breath shallow. He should have been afraid. He was afraid, but it was a strange kind of fear, one that made his chest tighten and his limbs freeze, even as something deep inside him—something old and unnameable—stirred in recognition.

The figure's lips parted, and her voice emerged, low and smooth, like the whisper of wind through a crypt. "Who are you?"

The question wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It carried weight, pressing against Harry like the dirt had just moments before. Her eyes stayed locked on his, the void within them pulling at him, demanding an answer he wasn't sure he had.

Harry blinked, his head spinning, the storm inside him roiling again, more fiercely now. He wanted to look away, to shrink back, but he couldn't. Her presence held him there, pinned like a moth to glass.

"I…" His voice cracked, barely audible, and he swallowed hard. "I don't know."

The figure's head tilted again, a small, almost imperceptible motion. Her expression didn't change, but there was something in the way she regarded him—a flicker of interest, of something sharp and hungry, though her face remained still as stone.

"No," she said, her voice soft but certain, like the toll of a distant bell. "You don't."

She reached out then, her fingers long and slender, her skin smooth and dark as polished obsidian. She didn't touch him—not yet. Her hand hovered just above his, close enough for him to feel the chill radiating from her. The air between them seemed to hum, heavy with something that Harry couldn't name but knew, instinctively, to fear.

"You could know," she said, the words falling like stones into the quiet. "If you wanted to."

Harry stared up at her, his small body broken and bloodied, but something in him refused to yield. The storm inside him raged, coiling tighter, threatening to spill over again. He didn't understand what she meant, not fully, but her words crawled under his skin, lodging there like shards of glass.

The figure didn't move, didn't blink. Her eyes, those endless black voids, held him in place, unrelenting.

"This world," she murmured, her voice almost gentle now, though it carried a weight that made Harry's chest ache. "It doesn't know what to do with you, does it?"

Harry didn't answer. He couldn't. But the slight curl of her lips told him she didn't need him to.

"It will try to bury you again," she said. Her voice was quiet, but her words cut deeper than any blade. "Again and again. Until you learn what you are."

She leaned closer then, her face filling his vision, her presence overwhelming. "And when you do…" she whispered, her voice soft and chilling, "they won't be able to bury you at all."

Harry's trembling hand clawed weakly at the dirt, his voice cracking as he rasped up at her, "Who… who are you?"

The figure tilted her head slightly, her void-like eyes catching the faint shimmer of moonlight. Her expression remained still, unreadable, as if she were deciding whether to answer. Then, she smiled—a slow, deliberate curl of her lips that sent a chill racing down Harry's spine.

"I am Death," she said simply, her voice low and resonant, like the toll of a great, distant bell. "I came here to take you."

Harry's breath hitched, his broken body instinctively recoiling, though there was nowhere to go. She knelt again, leaning closer, her pitch-black eyes consuming him entirely.

"But I cannot," she continued, her tone almost apologetic, though it lacked any true warmth. "Fate has woven you into its plans, and for now, you are required to live. Until those plans are fulfilled, I am bound by the threads of destiny to wait."

Harry stared at her, his chest tightening as her words settled over him like a shroud. "So I can't die?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

The smile widened, sharp and knowing. "Of course you can. And you will. But not today." She rose gracefully, the hem of her immaculate suit brushing against the dirt. "I'm feeling generous," she added. "Candidates for my avatar get one free pass."

She began to turn, her movements slow and deliberate, but Harry's voice stopped her.

"I tried to kill my cousin today."

Her head tilted again, curiosity flickering briefly across her otherwise impassive face.

Harry coughed, a wet, rasping sound, and laughed, though his body screamed with pain. "I tried to kill him, and I failed. My uncle beat me and left me here to die. But here I am." His laughter grew louder, harsher, though it was more broken than joyous. "How do I… not die? How do you do it?"

Death regarded him for a long moment, her expression inscrutable. Finally, she said, "I do not kill. I collect. I take only what is already mine."

Harry grinned, the motion sharp and feral despite the blood caking his face. "Then I want to bring death," he said, his voice trembling with something far beyond fear. "Spread it. End them. All of them."

Her gaze darkened—if such a thing was possible—and she took a step closer. Her presence loomed over him, vast and overwhelming, and yet her voice, when she spoke, was quiet. "You could be so much more for me. But not as you are."

Harry frowned, his head tilting weakly. "What do you mean?"

"You carry the magic of wizards within you," she said, her tone almost disdainful. "The magic of life, of creation. It is antithetical to me. To become mine, you must forgo that magic. Let it go, entirely."

He blinked, processing her words, and then gave a small, shaky laugh. "Take it," he said, his voice breaking with a mix of desperation and defiance. "Take it for good. Rip it out of me. Give me you instead."

Death studied him, her void-like eyes narrowing slightly. Then, slowly, she smiled again. "Very well," she said, her voice like silk over steel. "Your deal is accepted."

Harry felt it the moment she moved—not her hands, not her body, but something deeper, something vast and incomprehensible that reached into him. It wasn't a touch. It was a force, intangible and irresistible, coiling around the storm within him.

The storm that had always been there, wild and furious, barely understood but undeniably his, began to rise, clawing at his insides. It didn't want to go. It fought, tearing at him as it was dragged upward, piece by agonising piece.

Harry screamed, his voice ragged and raw, his chest heaving as if his very lungs were being ripped out. His veins burned with liquid fire, his body arching against the dirt as the magic was wrenched from him. It came in great torrents, surging upward in waves of light that spilt out of his mouth, his eyes, his very skin.

And then it was gone.

The absence was immediate and total, a silence so profound it felt deafening. Harry collapsed back into the dirt, his chest heaving, his body trembling. He felt hollow, like a marionette with its strings cut, the pieces of himself he had always known now ripped away.

But then he felt it—the well.

It was deep and endless, a vast reservoir of something dark and sticky that pulsed in time with his own heartbeat. It wasn't bright like the storm had been. It didn't burn or crackle. It oozed. It slithered. It filled the hollow spaces left behind by his stolen magic with something colder, heavier, wrong.

Harry exhaled shakily, his hands trembling as he reached inward, brushing against the edge of it. The power recoiled, shuddering like a living thing, but it didn't fight him. It waited, patient and implacable, and when he reached for it again, it responded.

It felt vile, sickening, utterly unnatural—and Harry loved it.

The corners of his bloodied mouth curled upward, the beginnings of a grin that didn't belong on a boy's face. His body still ached, his ribs screaming with every breath, but the pain was distant now, drowned beneath the thrill of this new power.

Death watched him, her smile faint but satisfied.

Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, trembling as his battered body protested every pain began to dull, not with relief, but with something darker. The well spilt into his broken limbs like a slick, viscous oil, thick and wrong. It clung to him, heavy and cold, and wherever it touched, his injuries began to change. The sharp edges of fractured bones softened, knitting together with unnatural precision. Torn skin drew itself closed, the wounds sealing over with a faint, blackened sheen before fading entirely.

The sensation was grotesque. His flesh felt too tight, his muscles crawling as if alive, as if something else were inside them, reshaping him from the inside out. His ribs shifted back into place with a wet, grinding sound that made his stomach churn, but the well didn't stop. It filled him, spread through him, repairing what had been broken with a kind of mocking efficiency as if it revelled in its work.

Harry sat up fully now, his movements slow but steady, the last of the pain receding into an eerie, unsettling stillness. He looked down at his hands, once bloodied and trembling, now whole again, though they didn't feel like his own. His skin was clean, pale in the moonlight, but he could still feel the power beneath it—a sickly, crawling thing that oozed and pulsed just beneath the surface.

He raised his gaze to meet hers, and his green eyes gleamed—not with fear, not with pain, but with something feral, something wild. The grin that stretched across his face was small at first, faint and cautious, but it grew, slow and sharp and unrelenting.

The well had left its mark, not just on his body, but on everything he was. And he loved it.

Death turned, her form dissolving into the shadows once more, leaving Harry alone beneath the cold, indifferent moonlight.

But he was no longer afraid of the dark.