ARC ONE: Death and Rebirth

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Of the death of Harry Potter, and his graves

Godric's Hollow Graveyard, over the planes, one month before Harry Potter's death

For another world to have our favourite hero, he had, first, to die. Though Godric's Hollow remained but a faint impression of what it should, Harry Potter dispended a great portion of his magic to preserve the resting place of his mother and father; and later of the uncountable graves of Longbottoms, Grangers, Weasleys: all of their headstones marred by his heartfelt and sorrowful scrawls, with phrases attempting to preserve a semblance of what they once were in these decaying and fraying frames of stone.

Lest he forget what they sacrificed for; lest he forget that Voldemort had yet to die …

… for neither can live while the other survives.

O, how sorrowful it was that Professor Dumbledore died so suddenly; how terrible that Hermione or Luna or Ron couldn't help him see what he had to do earlier.

He doubted, however, that if they understood it truly they would tell him.

For neither can live while the other survives.

Harry had to die.

Harry looked towards his parents' graves, at the phrase that seemed to be taunting him more and more these days.

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

Harry had never been one to read the Bible. The Dursleys hadn't usually bothered to take him to the Church when he was little. There were some episodes he remembered some priests inquiring about his well-being. The first one was Anglican, the other was Catholic, but nothing seemed to come after that.

Only when he was an adult, did he finally understand that Uncle Vernon didn't just simply have a managerial job of some kind. He often wondered what made those priests go away–or for that matter, the many kind muggles who tried to help him every once in a while.

But even the Dursleys had perished in Voldemort's madness now. Barely anyone still lived, after all.

Which made the task in front of him even more of a mysterious puzzle.

After all, who would bury Harry in his grave?

He'd made it right next to his parents. He felt he deserved it, at least–a final moment where they could be together. He had managed to recover a King James Bible somewhere and had taken to reading some parts of it. He supposed that if he was raised into the faith, perhaps he would get more use out of it, but he couldn't.

He endeavoured to try, nonetheless; and one particular book captured his attention–that was the First Epistle to the Corinthians, in which he found the phrase of his parents' headstone.

"The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death."
— 1 Corinthians 15:26

Perhaps something greater above was trying to show him something. Or perhaps the solitude was getting to him. Isolated from its context, two phrases struck a chord on his soul, and he made sure to mark them on his headstone.

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"
— 1 Corinthians 15:55

He knew it right then and there–he finally found a way to defeat Voldemort. To think that it only took this many decades and the desolation of the world … it was humiliating, it was tragic.

He had to defeat Death, only as it meant to be defeated. Harry Potter was born a mortal creature, doomed to die. Harry Potter was a mortal creature, blessed to die, and to live.

It was sorrowful that in his times, the great snake that was Voldemort coiled itself around the joyful and whimsical world of magic.

But here was only one problem.

Being the Master of Death was never more fitting, as he lorded over only the shrivel of the Earth.

Harry Potter stood on one of the most protected places in the world, that graveyard moulding him just as much as he'd moulded it–be it by his labour, by his inaction or by his failures.

Harry Potter stood there, his feet bare upon dewy grass and rotting soil, with only a nondescript cloak upon his body, like a blanket that hid him from the world with the minimal flicker of his magic.

In his right hand, no matter his efforts to break or to throw it away, always appeared a knotted rough-looking and long wand.

In his digits there was a decrepit-looking ring of wood, stone and gold that stank of misery and death.

In the ground near him a silver ruby-encrusted sword stood like a shining cross in that ocean of graves, a beacon of hope amongst those objects of disaster.

But the most remarkable thing on him was his face–a gaunt, pale, dirtied thing.

However battered it was, there was nonetheless no sign of age, no scars barring that of the lightning on his forehead. It showed the signs of thirst, as evidenced by the sunken orbits and the dryness of the skin; it showed hunger as well, evident in the hollow cheeks and the clinging of the skin to his sharp bone structure.

But even those signs seemed more fit to grace his visage with an eerie-like expression than properly being the consequences of decay–they seemed mere taunts to Harry in his long years, promises of a withering that had forsaken him, forcing him to endure.

After all, he couldn't age anymore.

And worst of all: Harry Potter couldn't die.

Not since those damn thrice-cursed trio of relics came to him: the stone, the cloak, the wand.

He had become the Master of Death; or even Death properly–he reeked of it, after all.

Whatever arcane art or secret tome that he had managed to uncover in his long fight for what remained of the light, had been moot to relieve him of his nightmare. Not even the Sword of Gryffindor, the only thing that tethered him to memories of a time before it all, managed to put him out of his misery–he was ashamed to admit he'd tried, but the sword just passed through him, as if he wasn't there.

And he felt like it–that he didn't belong there anymore.

He felt that he deserved rest, at last. He had seen much, he had done much, he regretted much–there should be an end to suffering. Perhaps that's why he'd turned to those religious books–a last resort of a sort.

But he hadn't his rest.

He was cursed to survive in a dead world.

But an end was near–he just had to have the courage to seize it.

The tale of Harry Potter had finally an end on a fateful Halloween night. Harry grasped Voldemort quite firmly, as the pair drifted away from life, the ruby-encrusted word impaling both of their hearts.

There was much to tell about the challenges: of the Horcruxes, of the sacrifices made by Harry's friends, of the joyful short period of his life that he'd worked his Occlumency in full to never forget about, of his regrets, of old books and tomes, of graves and gardens, of his life and death.

But for this to be a worthy enterprise, we shall know Harī-sama as he appeared to us: bit by bit, word by word, smile by smile, and he should be able to enchant you too.

For beneath the thrice-cursed veneer of Death he'd become, endured him: Harry, just Harry.

Or Harī, as our world saw it fit to call him.

But you should call him for what you better know him, be it Hari, or Harī, or even Harry–though that one is a bit of a mouthful for those of us who don't speak English very well. Just know that it is just Harry we are talking about.

Harry Potter died on a cold October, decades into a withering life he'd been forced to endure, and his soul had not gone on to meet that of his loved ones.

"How cruel! Drawn by the spectre of death, he left his birthplace and went far away to the east, and now he is just dust on the wayside. Must he be just dirt for travellers to kick! Poor Umewaka won't reach the next life. What a pitiful fate. Such a cruel memorial!"
— Lady Hanjo in Chikamatsu Monzaemon's Twins at the Sumida River

The lands on the borders of Hi no Kuni, or the Land of Fire, closest to the Uzu no Kuni, or the Land of Whirpools; or Nami no Kuni, the Land of Waves, as those inhabitants of Hi no Kuni saw more fit to call it

Harī came to life upon his grave, and mortality ill-suited him, for he'd almost forgot how it felt being so afraid. It seemed Death or whatever otherworldly entity saw fit to chuck him into his next great adventure had an absolutely morbid sense of humour.

He was born again in the middle–or just after depending on who you asked–of an attack by an yet unknown entity. Shinobi from the closest nations had promptly answered the call, and became immediately entangled in Harry's life–and what a life that would be.

It was a chaotic one already from the start!

He would also wonder how he came to be on this place, for many years to come. What meticulous entity would go through the trouble of recreating a more-or-less-the-same replica of his body and imbuing it with his soul? Or was he simply de-aged and chucked across the universe? Or … was there something even more sinister behind it all?

These answers he would either never have or only discover near to his final death.

Enough of that, however–because for the moment Harry got to live.

But, o boy, was that almost a near miss!

On the side of a rarely-used road that went by close to her house, a forlorn woman gazed at a most peculiar sight, that certainly wasn't there before the attack on the lands near their village.

There was a headstone, and a small mound of different-coloured soil. The sight was deeply unsettling to the woman, especially since those shinobi with the whirl-thing on their headbands explained who they suspected were the people behind the attack. She wondered if she should call them to take a look at the thing–it certainly looked … unnatural to her.

But something tugged at her heartstrings–something irrational, something not-quite-herself. And those plucked strings begot the first chord of a great story.

Oh, there was also a silver, ruby-encrusted big sword right above it, too–just thought I should mention it. Maybe that tugged her curiosity, I'd wager. I'm told girls like pretty and shiny things like this: precious rings, colourful things, legendary mythical fairy-like swords and what have you.

Anyways, she went close to it in her investigations.

Her scream tore through the air not long after.