Seeking to improve the quality of the story and its comprehension while maintaining consistency and accuracy, I will gradually replace the chapters with their edited versions. Since English is not my native language, you may have encountered many inconsistencies and errors, which is why I undertook the titanic task of thoroughly reviewing and editing.

Nothing in the story has been changed, only perhaps some names and details that do not affect the narrative.

Thank you for reading and for keeping this story among your favorites or alerts.

++CHAPTER EDITED++

Chapter I: Death' Mission.

He approached the cavern entrance with a growing sense of unease, every step taken with deliberate caution. The atmosphere hung thick with an unnatural heaviness, the air itself seeming to pulse with malevolent energy. The moonlight, barely piercing through the cloud cover, offered no aid, leaving the landscape veiled in shadow. The dense undergrowth around him whispered with movement, the sensation of being watched growing ever more intense, as though a predator, unseen but ever-present, was poised to strike at any moment. The silence, oppressive and suffocating, was broken only by the occasional hum of insects and the unnerving sound of "something" tearing into its prey in the distance.

His mind, seasoned by years of studying the darkest of magics, confirmed that he had indeed found the place he sought. Gripping his wand tighter, he muttered a spell under his breath, and a faint, flickering light began to glow from a lightning bolt-shaped tattoo on his forearm. With an instinctive movement, he summoned a creature to assist him: a spectral dog, its form materializing beside him like an ethereal shadow. "Are you ready, my friend?" he whispered. The dog responded with an eager wag of its tail.

Without hesitation, the dog bounded forward, its keen nose working swiftly as it sniffed through the underbrush, its every sense tuned to the unseen dangers around them. The air seemed to crackle with anticipation. After a few tense moments, the dog let out a low growl, its fur bristling with sudden alarm. It darted into the cavern's mouth, barking sharply, its voice echoing through the dark. Trusting in the creature's instincts, the wizard followed, his steps measured and deliberate.

The moment he crossed the threshold into the cavern, the world seemed to shift. The air grew colder, thick with the stench of decay, and the darkness pressed in on him like a living entity. He raised his wand, sending a beam of light slicing through the void—but even the light seemed weak, struggling to push back the oppressive shadows. As he moved further, he felt something vital slipping away, as though the very essence of the place sought to drain him of his strength. His pulse quickened, and a sudden realization gripped him with cold certainty: his dog, his loyal companion, had vanished.

Frozen in place, he scanned the cavern, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes were drawn to strange, faintly glowing runes etched into the stone beneath his feet. The patterns, foreign but familiar, flickered in his memory. They were Nahuatl glyphs, and he recognized them from his studies—a spell of binding, designed to trap the unwary. A ripple of unease coursed through him, but his mind was sharp, unfazed by the challenge. He could deal with this.

Whispering an incantation in Latin, he invoked his second tattoo, the one on the back of his hand, which glowed with a soft but powerful light. The spell unraveled, the runes dimming and fading as if they had never been. He stepped forward, unharmed, but the feeling of dread only deepened.

The passage narrowed as he advanced, the air growing thick with malevolence. The light from his wand, though steady, could not pierce the overwhelming darkness that coiled tighter around him with every step. And then, out of the blackness, a voice—a cold, disembodied voice that seemed to come from all directions—echoed through the cavern.

"Abandon your crusade," the voice intoned, its tone low and sinister. "The answers you seek cannot be found here. You will meet only death, and your soul shall be bound forever."

A surge of fear gripped him, an alien sensation that made his stomach churn. For a moment, his confidence faltered. He, a master of dark arts, one who had communed with spirits and manipulated forces far beyond the understanding of most wizards, had never known fear like this. How could such a simple voice unsettle him so?

But he quickly steadied his breath. Since his youth, he had been drawn to the forbidden, an outcast from the world of "light" magic. His path had set him apart, and he had embraced that isolation. Yet, in the face of this, he realized he was on the brink of something much more powerful, far beyond anything he had ever dared to imagine.

The journey that had led him here, to this forsaken place beneath the ancient pyramid, was more than just a personal quest. It was professional necessity, a culmination of years of research and study. He had not come all this way to turn back now. With renewed resolve, he flicked his wand, causing the faint light to flare brighter, pushing back the encroaching darkness. As the shadows receded, he saw before him the yawning void of an immense canyon. The ground dropped away into nothingness, and across the chasm, an imposing stone arch loomed—its carvings intricate and foreign.

The glyphs etched into the archway were unmistakably Nahuatl, the language of the Mexica. The inscription was clear: "Whoever crosses this bridge must cast aside their humanity and embrace darkness as their companion for the journey."

The myths, the stories from the locals of Teotihuacán—those scattered whispers that had drawn him here—were no mere fables. They spoke of a hidden passage beneath the Pyramid of the Moon, a sacred site said to lead to a cave where one could commune with Mictlantecuhtli, the Mexica god of death. This was no ordinary place, and he was no ordinary seeker. This was a place of ancient power, and he knew it was more than a mere tomb. This was a portal, an entrance to something far greater.

Local villagers, long accustomed to the legends that surrounded the pyramid, had warned of the trials that guarded access to this cave. Some claimed that the attempts to reach the site had caused travelers to lose themselves—disoriented, confused, their senses warped by enchantments beyond comprehension. He suspected that the passage itself was protected by potent magics, designed to repel intruders or twist their minds with the same tricks as Confundus charms.

But he had already planned for this. He had used every resource at his disposal, including the peculiar allowances given by Mexico's decentralized magical system, where the balance between magic and mundane life was preserved by subtle, yet powerful means. Unlike the tightly controlled magical communities of Great Britain or the United States, Mexico's magic thrived in the shadows, wrapped in myths that protected it from prying eyes.

With a final glance at the archway, the wizard steeled himself for what lay ahead. The trials, the darkness, the gods themselves—it was all part of the journey. He had come for answers. And he would not be deterred. Not now. Not ever.

Checking his wrist, he confirmed the lightning bolt tattoo still glowed faintly, its light steady and reassuring. But the one on his neck pulsed with an eerie intensity, its glow faintly flickering like the heartbeat of something ancient and unsettling. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. With measured determination, he stepped through the stone archway. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the light from his wand flickered and then extinguished completely, plunging him into impenetrable darkness.

Frantically, he muttered the incantation to summon his light again, but nothing happened. Panic began to creep in as he tried another spell—a fire charms this time—but it was met with a chilling silence. Magic had abandoned him. His breath caught in his throat as the weight of his helplessness settled over him. He was alone in the dark, surrounded by an unnatural stillness that felt as if it were alive, suffocating him. The coldness of the darkness was all-encompassing, and an unbearable fear began to creep over him, its icy fingers grasping at every part of his being.

The air itself was alive, exhaling slowly and deliberately, as if the cave were a breathing entity. Each gust of chill wind brushed against his face like the calculating touch of a predator assessing its prey, its invisible eyes watching his every move. The unsettling sensation gnawed at his nerves, and the terror that had begun to claw at him from within spread outward. He was paralyzed with fear—rooted to the spot, unable to move. The realization that he had entered alone, with no way out and no way to defend himself, flooded his thoughts.

His mind spiraled with panic, but then, like a shadow looming in his memory, the warning of the indigenous elder surfaced words that had haunted him ever since that fateful conversation.

"The lands of Mictlan are forbidden, even to the ancient Mexica priests who once performed their sacred rituals at the cave's entrance."

A cold shiver ran down his spine as those words echoed in his mind. The elder's cryptic warning had always felt like a shadow waiting to strike, but now it seemed more real, more tangible than ever before. He could feel the weight of it pressing in on him, suffocating his thoughts.

"Oh, tlacatecoloh, I know your intentions," the elder's voice seemed to reverberate in the darkness, as if the very air around him had absorbed the words. "But even you must understand that the lands of Mictlantecuhtli, Lord of the Dead, are sacred and forbidden to mortals—even to the protégés of Tezcatlipoca."

The term "tlacatecoloh" had been unfamiliar at the time, its meaning veiled in mystery. He had raised an eyebrow in confusion, but the elder had gone on, undeterred.

"Tlacatecoloh?" he had repeated, his curiosity piqued. The elder's mention of Tezcatlipoca, the powerful Mexica god, had stirred something deep within him. Tezcatlipoca was known to be revered by ancient wizards and priests, a protector, a patron of those who walked the darker paths. It was no wonder that the elder had invoked his name.

The elder had continued, his voice steady and unflinching, as if he had seen the future unfold before him: "Always seeking what should not be sought, trying to answer questions better left unasked. In our culture, a tlacatecoloh is a sorcerer who delves into the darkness, a practitioner of evil magic."

The words had stung him then, but he had resisted the urge to argue. "I'm not a dark wizard," he had replied, his voice edged with indignation, but also a hint of doubt that he couldn't quite shake.

The elder's piercing gaze had locked onto him. "What would you call a wizard who draws his power from darkness? By my interpretation, young man, you practice dark magic. Necromancy. A cursed art, condemned in every culture, buried in the annals of ancient civilizations." His tone had been sharp, yet measured, like a judge delivering a final verdict.

His heart had quickened at the accusation, but he had countered defensively, "Necromancy is misunderstood. While it may involve the supernatural, it is no more inherently evil than any other branch of magic—"

The elder had cut him off, his words sharp as a blade. "I don't seek justifications. To me, tlacatecoloh are what they are—those who use the shadows for their gain, often at a cost to others. I do not judge you; I'm merely a humble shaman who heals with herbs and prayers. Yet even I have dabbled in the unconventional, as all seekers of knowledge must." His expression had softened, and Harry, still uneasy, had nodded in acknowledgment.

"The cave…" Harry had ventured, his voice barely a whisper, uncertain whether he wanted the answer.

"A myth," the elder had said, his tone final. "A legend. If it exists, it is not meant for mortals or wizards. Mictlan grounds are sacred. Even those well-versed in death and the supernatural cannot claim it as theirs."

"Thank you," Harry had replied, though the unease lingered, a knot in his stomach that refused to loosen.

As he turned to leave, the elder had stopped him with one final, cryptic remark. "If you enter that place, remember this: snakes understand only snakes. Not by choice, but by their nature." His voice had held an ominous weight, and the sinister smile that had accompanied it stayed with Harry, haunting him long after he had departed.

Now, standing in the darkness, those words resounded louder than ever. The cavern seemed to pulse with a life of its own, as though it were assessing him, waiting to see if he would heed the warnings. Would he be the one to enter the forbidden realm of Mictlan, or would he be swallowed by the shadows, like those who came before him? The choice was his, but as he felt the oppressive weight of the cave pressing down on him, he wondered if he had already made it without realizing.

He had finally understood the cryptic message. With a surge of newfound resolve, he pronounced the Lumos spell in Nahuatl. To his astonishment, light exploded from his wand, casting a warm glow that illuminated the immediate area. His earlier fear dissolved like mist in sunlight, replaced by an overwhelming sense of excitement. The path ahead was now clear, and with steady determination, he pressed on, leaving behind the shadows of doubt.

The journey proved more challenging than he had expected. The narrow, uneven trail wound its way through the jagged rocky walls of the mountain, forcing him to be cautious with each step. Darkness clung to him like a heavy cloak, the light from his wand barely cutting through the gloom, leaving the vast expanse of the cave surrounding him almost indistinguishable. The air was damp and cold, and the silence oppressive, broken only by the soft echo of his own footsteps. His senses were on edge, each step heavier than the last, but still, he moved forward.

Eventually, he reached a river, its black waters indistinguishable from the surrounding dark. The stillness of the water unnerved him, as though it reflected the deathly quiet that enveloped him. He paused for a moment, contemplating the next move. There was no turning back now.

With a flick of his wand, he conjured a small boat. It materialized on the river's surface, rocking gently. Without hesitation, he climbed aboard, feeling the weight of the decision, he had made. As the boat began to drift across the river, an eerie calmness washed over him. The current was so gentle that it almost felt as though the river itself was guiding him, offering no resistance. The fear that had gripped him earlier, of facing some unknown trial like the one at the bridge, faded into nothingness. The journey across the river was uneventful, and he stepped ashore on the opposite side, feeling momentarily reassured.

But that sense of calm quickly dissipated as he continued walking on the new path. It was even narrower than the one before, forcing him to walk more carefully to avoid slipping. The air around him thickened with moisture, and a dense fog began to creep in, swirling in the dim light like something alive, something malevolent.

"Harry, my baby," a soft female voice broke the silence, freezing him in his tracks.

His heart skipped a beat, and a wave of unease flooded his chest. "Who's there?" he called out, his voice trembling slightly. The light from his wand flickered, casting long, distorted shadows, but it revealed nothing beyond the immediate area.

"Harry, my boy," a male voice followed, unmistakably the voice of his father.

He stood motionless, his breath shallow, each beat of his heart echoing in his ears. The voices—his long-dead parents—resonated in the dark, pulling at the fragile threads of his emotions. For a moment, he was back in his childhood home, comforted by their presence. But as the seconds stretched on, a deep unease began to settle in. His wand remained raised, the light cutting through the darkness, but it failed to reveal the source of the voices. Instead, a nauseating stench filled the air, a rot that seemed to rise from the very depths of the cave, wrapping around him like a physical presence. His dread intensified.

The atmosphere pressed in around him, heavy and suffocating. The sensation of breath—an unnatural, cold exhalation—was back, but now it seemed closer. Too close. It was as if the cave itself were alive, breathing on him, watching him. For the first time in years, he felt utterly vulnerable, powerless against the force that was closing in on him. He cursed himself for letting fear take root.

This was no ordinary adventure. It was a test far beyond any of the investigations into the Dark Arts he had conducted in the past. He reminded himself of the purpose that had driven him here: he hadn't come to practice dark magic, but to understand it. To prove that magic itself was neutral, not inherently good, or evil. It was the intent of the wizard that determined its nature. Magic was not a force of absolutes.

Yet there was no denying his personal connection to necromantic magic. It had always been the core of his studies; the reason he had spent years unraveling the secrets of death and the supernatural. This obsession, this desire to understand what others feared, had led him to this point.

His journey to Mexico had begun with a fateful discovery in Madrid. While searching through ancient texts on magical genealogy, he had unearthed an old pamphlet tucked within the pages of a dusty tome. It was a fragmented, mysterious reference to horcruxes—objects imbued with fragments of a wizard's soul through forbidden rituals. To Harry, these dark objects were not instruments of immortality but crude attempts to simulate it. The lack of detailed literature on the subject only deepened his resolve to uncover their secrets.

The pamphlet had guided him to a diary held in the Vatican Archives, a relic of the Spanish Inquisition. Written by Fray Servando, a Catholic friar, the diary chronicled the discovery of a cave in Mexico after the Spanish conquest. According to Fray Servando, the cave was a place "far from God," a cursed realm that had been sealed away to prevent its darkness from spreading.

The diary had been lightly guarded, quite different from the expected security. Harry had bypassed the Swiss Guards with ease and delved into its contents. The friar's writings spoke of the cave in two ways: for Muggles, it was a site of unspeakable evil, a shrine to death and the demonic. For those well-versed in magic, it was a sanctuary for Mexica priests, seers, and sorcerers who had embraced the dark arts, particularly rituals that drew power from death.

Within the cave, Fray Servando claimed, was a chamber containing ancient codices and papyri. These texts detailed practices so sinister that even the friar had fled in terror. He described the chamber as a place of malevolent power—a place that made one tremble merely by breathing its air. Most chilling of all, the friar wrote that he had heard the voices of his deceased relatives, urging him to abandon his quest.

It was this chamber, steeped in legend and dread, that Harry now sought. With each step deeper into the cave, he knew he was getting closer to the truths hidden within its dark depths. But the voices, the oppressive presence, and the stark isolation reminded him that this was no mere test of courage. He was walking a thin line between discovery and doom, and the cave knew it.

He immediately recognized the place: a pair of enormous stones stood like shelves, scattered with parchments and papyri in disarray, a dusty heap that suggested years of neglect. The yellowish hue of the materials made it clear that they were crafted from the skin of some animal, though the precise nature of their origin was unclear. At the back of the room, a towering stone statue of Mictlantecuhtli, the Mexica god of the underworld and lord of the dead, loomed in all his terrifying glory. Beneath the statue was a space for offerings, but it was the line of runes etched into the floor beneath it that caught his attention. The glowing symbols formed an unmistakable barrier—one that prevented passage beyond the statue. What lay beyond that boundary was a mystery, but it was not a mystery he intended to explore.

"There's no doubt that a tlacatecoloh determined to fulfill his wishes is persistent," a voice suddenly broke through the silence, startling him.

"Canek," he said, his voice tinged with surprise.

"Welcome to the Vault," the man replied, his tone calm, yet heavy with the weight of the moment.

"You always knew I would find this place. That's why you warned me," Harry said, his gaze falling on the gray-haired man walking toward him with measured caution. Canek was dressed in traditional indigenous attire, an embodiment of his heritage, a stark contrast to the surroundings.

"My duty is to protect the Vault until my journey through the nine regions of Mictlan becomes inevitable," Canek responded, his voice carrying an air of finality. "That is, only if Mictlantecuhtli allows me to…"

"To reach Mictlan, one must die naturally. I'm familiar with the concept of death in Mexica culture, Canek," Harry interrupted, his mind racing. "The question is: Did I find this place by chance or is it part of a plot?" he asked, his tone serious, a hint of suspicion creeping into his words.

"You are a very smart tlacatecoloh," Canek said with a slight nod of approval. "If you've come this far, if you've found this sacred place—just as holy as any Spanish temple in the lands of my ancestors—then it has not been by chance." He paused, his eyes meeting Harry's. "It is because I allowed it. The stories of the valley people, the versions of the elders, the legend of the portal… all of it," he said firmly, the weight of his words settling between them.

"Why?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued, though unease still lingered in the back of his mind.

"Because that's how it was foretold by the ancient prophecies," Canek answered matter-of-factly. "As I said, nothing here is a coincidence, Mr. Potter. You may not know it, but Mictlantecuhtli has a keen interest in you. I don't know the reasons, but the Lord of the Dead is curious about why a British wizard—specifically you—would seek his texts and his secrets."

"Interest in me?" Harry asked, his voice full of disbelief. In all his years of research, he had never encountered anything like this.

"The gods have always been capricious," Canek replied calmly, his gaze distant, as if recalling long-forgotten truths. "When they want something, they simply take it. When they wish to bless mortals with gifts, they do so. But for some strange reason, their whims or designs always have a particular end—sometimes soon, sometimes much later. Thirty years ago, Mictlantecuhtli revealed to me that on New Year's Eve in 2010, a white man from the Old World would come seeking answers to a great question. That man, a practitioner of the arts of the dead, must find those answers. According to the prophecy, the crusade he would undertake would be pleasing to the gods—specifically to Mictlantecuhtli," Canek finished, his tone grave.

"My mission is to collect and document information, to preserve knowledge so it's not lost, so others can understand that necromancy, though an extremely dark art, is often misunderstood," Harry stated firmly, his voice unwavering.

"Your mission, Mr. Potter, may not yet have been revealed to you, but the gods don't work that way. They don't act just to preserve knowledge, as you suggest—that's what we, the elders, are for," Canek replied. "There is always something more. Something mysterious will soon or eventually appear, and that will be the true reason the gods have either cursed or blessed you."

"Necromancy is a forbidden art—even for the Mexica. The arts linked to Mictlantecuhtli, and the Underworld are forbidden," Canek continued. "For years, the tlacatecoloh most distant from the gods' laws have tried to practice them, and in the end, it always leads to the same result: destruction, death, tragedy, and horror. The Dark Arts are like an ancient serpent, whose venom is slow, but deadly—sometimes instant."

"Maybe," Harry said cautiously, "but magic—old magic—shouldn't be classified as dark or light, but gray. There's no such thing as…"

"You're a dark wizard, Mr. Potter," Canek interrupted him sharply. "Denying it is absurd." His gaze was unflinching, as though the matter was beyond question. "But, as I said before, my job isn't to judge you. I use the same practices you do," he added, his tone unexpectedly softening.

"But…" Harry insisted, determined to clarify.

"You're interesting, Mr. Potter," Canek suddenly shifted his tone, his eyes glowing a deep red. "Very interesting indeed."

"Canek?" Harry asked, his voice filled with confusion. The torches flickered and dimmed, and the chilling sensation returned.

"This mortal is clever with his words, that's why I chose him," Canek said, his voice darkening. "But in the end, he's excessively redundant and boring. So, to get the job done properly, it's best to do it yourself." A wave of terror washed over Harry as he began to feel an overwhelming dread creeping up his spine. "Oh, Mr. Potter, don't be such a scaredy-cat. Someone like you? Please, you're insulting me by acting like that."

"You are…," Harry stammered, struggling to make sense of the situation.

"I have many names. I'm represented by different gods across various cultures," Canek continued, his voice cold and powerful, "but ultimately, I am who I am, and you know me very well. After all, you use me to empower your spells sometimes. Don't be so naïve."

"So, Death itself came to speak with me," Harry said, finally regaining some composure, though fear still clawed at him from the inside.

"You're here because I wanted you to be," Canek replied darkly. "Everything—from your casual encounter with that damned priest's diary to this very moment—has been by my design. And a foolish mortal like you can't question that." His voice became terrifyingly ominous. "Are we clear, Mr. Potter?" Then, his voice softened, shifting to an almost mocking tone.

"But someone as busy as you wouldn't have taken the time to craft an elaborate scheme just for pleasure," Harry said, his voice firm despite the fear gnawing at him. Canek smiled knowingly.

"That's Mr. Potter I know," Canek said. "Well, yes, I'm busy. Every day, someone dies. But just for the pleasure of talking to you? No one will die while I'm here."

"I'm honored, then," Harry said, the sarcasm evident in his voice.

"My foolish sister, Fate, is a meddling woman who loves to create schemes without considering the consequences," Canek said, his voice growing serious. "For that, all the other deities and I have many problems dealing with her disastrous results."

"So?" Harry asked, intrigued despite himself.

"Thirty years ago, my dear sister created a plot like no other, manipulating situations to send the timeline down a different path from the one originally agreed upon by all of us," Canek continued. "Imagine our surprise when Harry Potter wasn't the child destined to restore balance in the world, but a chubby boy named Longbottom."

"I don't understand," Harry said, completely confused.

"Thirty years ago, a disgusting wizard named Lord Voldemort insulted me, spat on me, and dared to claim victory over me," Canek said, his fury rising. "So, we devised a simple plan: A seer would deliver a prophecy that pointed toward you, leading Voldemort to attack you, sealing his fate and causing his defeat. Everything went according to plan—until my stupid sister decided to save you by blocking your magical abilities to protect you. Voldemort, considering you a squib, moved on to the other child, and history was set."

"And I was raised by my grandmother Euphemia in Bulgaria after my parents were killed in a Death Eater raid during Voldemort's early reign," Harry said, his voice full of realization. Canek nodded.

"Correct, Mr. Potter," he replied. "We couldn't interfere directly with mortal affairs because of the free will you mortals possess. So, the only thing we could do was wait. However, I had a few tricks up my sleeve, and Time lost a bet. I caught a glimpse of the future, which led me to understand the profession you would pursue. It wasn't difficult to keep an eye on you once you chose the arts of death as your specialty."

"So, everything with Canek and Mexico?" Harry asked, trying to connect the dots.

"Yes, it was a scheme I orchestrated to lead you here," Canek admitted. "It was the only way."

"Canek speaks of a mission for me?" Harry asked, the weight of the words sinking in.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. Your path was made clear when we, and I specifically, kept Fate busy with others, leaving you to be forgotten," Death said, its voice cold and final. "We need to fix everything, because things are on the verge of collapsing across the universe. The balance between good and evil, magic and the mundane, is in danger. Without a savior…"

"I can't be a savior. Neville was," Harry interrupted, the memories of his long-suppressed guilt resurfacing.

"Neville Longbottom is not the savior the magical world needs," Death said firmly. "Maybe he was strong and smart, but he lacks the qualities needed for a crusade like this. Lord Voldemort was a mere problem thirty years ago. But with the light side still waiting for a death Albus Dumbledore to act, Voldemort is now the greatest threat to the entire magical world."

"Yeah, I know that" Harry muttered.

"But not everything you do was designed by me or any deity," Death continued, its voice serious. "You still have free will, and you are now the best person to solve Voldemort's problem." Death's tone was unwavering. "You understand what magic truly is—its very essence. Not dark spells, nor light enchantments, but magic based on intention. You are a wizard who walks in the shadows with the sole purpose of spreading your philosophy and theory without fear. And that, Mr. Potter, is why you are the solution."

"I don't know whether to feel offended, flattered, or lucky," Harry said finally, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. "So, forgetting all this plot, you—Death—came to tell me I'm the hope of everyone to…" He started laughing, a mixture of disbelief and frustration.

Death snapped its fingers, and Harry immediately began choking, his breath constricting in his throat.

"Don't forget who you are, mortal," Death's voice snapped, furious. Harry clutched at his throat in panic, his wand slipping from his hand as he struggled for air. Meanwhile, Death—through Canek—laughed darkly.

"It's so simple for me, so very simple indeed," Canek said. Another snap of the fingers, and Harry collapsed to the ground, coughing violently.

"Sorry," Harry gasped between coughs.

"I couldn't tell you exactly how you would do it or what your full mission was," Canek said, his voice returning to normal. "But the main goal is to defeat Voldemort." He paused, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "You're a Potter and a Peverell," he winked at the mention of the surname. "Maybe Voldemort has Britain at his feet, but you're smart and cunning. You understand the dark arts as well as he does, and you have extensive knowledge of magic and wizarding cultures from around the world. You can use that to tip the balance in your favor."

With those words, the torches flared back to life, and Canek returned to his usual self.

"Welcome back, Canek," Harry said, his voice steadier now.

"This place will be destroyed, Mr. Potter," Canek said, his tone oddly final. Suddenly, everything on the shelves began to shrink, transforming into shimmering coins. "My mission is now complete, so I must die here." Every coin collected itself into a chest that Canek held.

"I'm not going to save you," Harry said, his voice steady. "Because now I understand your words about gods and their designs. Thanks for everything." He grabbed the bag, his hand brushing Canek's, and the man nodded in acknowledgment.

Canek gestured toward the statue at the far end of the room. Harry immediately retrieved his wand from the ground and ran, hearing explosions in the distance as he crossed the line of runes. The moment he passed through, he found himself at Canek's house. Everything was over, but his mind still whirled with questions.

Meanwhile, in Britain, the situation was growing increasingly dire. The resistance, now led by Neville Longbottom, who had turned Hogwarts Castle into their operations base, was teetering on the brink of collapse. Lord Voldemort was winning every day, and the resistance seemed powerless to stop him.

"We lost the group leading the operation from Manchester, Professor," an overweight man reported to a portrait hanging on the wall. "Susan Bones sent a letter saying that she and a few others managed to escape to the safe house by the beach."

"We must remain calm, Mr. Longbottom," Albus Dumbledore's voice emanated from the portrait. "Yes, we have lost another battle, but Tom has not achieved complete victory. His goal was to eliminate the Bones faction permanently, thereby gaining more control over the Wizengamot light faction, which, though weak, still serves as a barrier to his atrocities."

"But the consequences are devastating," Neville replied, his voice heavy with grief. "Seamus Finnigan died there."

Dumbledore sighed deeply. Neville was a good leader, but his emotions often clouded his judgment. "I know, Mr. Longbottom. Every loss is tragic, but remember, these sacrifices are for a noble cause."

Despite the defeat of Lord Voldemort at the hands of Neville Longbottom, and the prophecy that marked him as the "chosen child," the Dark Lord had recovered within a month of his fall. Using a strategy unlike any before, he began eliminating key members of light families, Ministry officials, Wizengamot representatives, and anyone who could have stopped him from taking control of Britain's magical government. By the end of 1981, one of his loyal followers was appointed Minister, and every key position of power was filled by his supporters, establishing a new regime.

However, Voldemort's plan had its flaws. It wasn't easy to overthrow an entire government. Despite his control over the government through his puppets, Voldemort couldn't pass laws without the full backing of the Wizengamot, which he couldn't entirely overrule due to the ancient magic protecting it. Furthermore, there were many actions he couldn't take due to the bureaucracy, magic, and international laws that held sway. On the Muggle side, Voldemort's influence was even more limited. He could cause chaos, but he couldn't control them. The Muggles responded aggressively to transgressions, unlike the wizards, and sometimes the Death Eaters found themselves facing the consequences of meddling with them. A bullet could be just as lethal as a spell, and a grenade could wreak as much destruction as a Reducto curse. In the end, Voldemort kept his distance from Muggles, only creating problems for the sake of chaos.

"I spoke with Mr. Scrimgeour last week," Neville said, leaning back in an ornate chair behind a large desk. "He said we need to move our war room to a different location. Hogwarts has become a large wizarding community. We can't continue the war here; the consequences would be catastrophic."

"We cannot abandon this place, Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore responded. "The walls, the grounds, and every inch of this castle provide us with an unparalleled security network. If we relocate, the coordination of protecting it would be enormous, and we would be unable to focus our efforts on our mission."

"Professor, I must remind you that my role as leader is on the verge of becoming irrelevant," Neville said, his frustration evident. "Some are beginning to lose faith in our cause. We need to act quickly and decisively. We should consider a plan to eliminate some of Voldemort's puppets."

"We are not like them, Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore replied firmly. "I understand that things seem bleak, but we must remember that good is always the right path."

"Susan Bones suggested trying to win over neutral members again," Neville said, his face showing growing frustration. "Maybe we could seek international allies, like the Germans or the Italians."

"Involving more people will only lead to more conflicts," Dumbledore replied. "Too many voices cloud the mind. We cannot target neutral families. We've discussed this before, Mr. Longbottom. Please, review the plan to recover the records we need to verify if my theories hold true."

"Yes, Professor," Neville replied, his words more to placate Dumbledore than out of true conviction.

Far across the ocean, Harry Potter sat in the waiting area for his flight to Paris at Mexico City International Airport. His thoughts were racing as he prepared for the mission assigned to him by Death. Two days had passed since the incident in the cave, and the events still felt almost impossible to grasp. Why him? He had always been content traveling from place to place, investigating, documenting, and gathering information about the Dark Arts. But now, being drawn into a war he had tried to avoid? That was never part of his plan.

However, Canek had been right about one thing: the preservation and protection of information was an old man's job, not his. The truth was, Harry wasn't as innocent as he had led Canek to believe. He had been involved in numerous battles around the world, sometimes working for ministries across the magical world to solve mysterious cases, conduct complex investigations, and even take on missions—sometimes even assassinations. He was a freelance wizard with a particular interest in studying the Dark Arts and necromancy. But the reality was, he was a grey wizard—someone who did what was necessary, whether it involved eliminating Muggle delegates or wizarding representatives for ministries, private clients, or solving murder cases. Canek had been right: Harry was far from innocent.

"Hello, miss," he said in perfect Spanish, addressing the beautiful woman behind the desk. "I need to change my flight."

"Yes, Mister Potter," she replied. "Where would you like to go?"

"I was on the Paris flight at noon, but I need to get on a flight to London as soon as possible. My card can cover all the costs," Harry said charmingly. The woman nodded.

"Wait a moment," she said. "You're in luck, Mr. Potter. There's a flight boarding now at Gate 15. If you hurry, you might still catch it. I'll take care of everything through my radio."

"You're an angel," Harry said with a wink, before hurrying off.

Ironically, a Muggle vomiting at the gate caused a brief delay in boarding. Harry looked up, thinking that such an obvious coincidence could only be Death's doing. The woman at the gate nodded when he explained the situation, guiding him to his first-class seat. "Feel free to call me if you need anything," she said as he settled in.

"Even if it's a blowjob?" Harry asked, his grin wide. The woman's cheeks immediately flushed.

"For you, handsome, maybe," she replied, winking as she walked away.

Once on the flight, Harry's first task upon arriving in London would be to visit Gringotts and take control of the Potter family affairs. He'd have plenty of paperwork to sign, so a nap would be much appreciated. He remembered the last time he had been to London—or anywhere in Britain. He was three years old, still under the care of his grandmother Euphemia. The visit was brief, limited to a few select places. Since then, he had never chosen to visit or work in England. To him, England represented the death of his parents and the home of their killer. It hadn't meant much to him—until now.

His story was simple: when his parents were murdered thirty years ago, his grandmother had gained custody of him. After sorting out some difficulties, she moved to Sofia, Bulgaria, where she raised him. Thus, Harry was part Bulgarian and part English. Living in Bulgaria meant one thing for his magical education: he attended Durmstrang. One thing led to another, and by the time he graduated with honors, the Potter wealth was at his disposal, shaping him into who he was today. It hadn't been easy, but it had been straightforward. His time at Durmstrang had exposed him to the Dark Arts, and the training there, combined with courses from various darker institutions around the world, made him the mercenary he was. Living in the Muggle world had its benefits too. He was both a wizard and a Muggle. He held a degree in finance and had received military training.

As the flight stretched on, Harry leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He was lost in thought when a voice interrupted his moment of calm.

"So, tell me, do you offer such services to other passengers?" he asked the woman now approaching him.

"No, you're the lucky one," she replied with a playful smile, and Harry's mind drifted again, momentarily easing his worries about the cave, Death, and his return to Britain. Everything seemed to fade as he gave in to the fleeting relief of the present.

When Harry arrived in London, a number tucked in his pants pocket, he realized that his once-free life would now be different. Checking his watch and seeing that he was on time, he took a cab and told the driver to head to King's Cross Station. He had a visit to make.