Chapter 3 - The Tale of Death
Hatching a dragon egg sounds more thrilling than it ends up being, for when the preparation is done and the black egg sits in a cauldron above the kitchen fireplace – chosen for being a generally warm and quiet area of the house – there isn't anything left to do besides staring at the flames tickling its leathery shell.
~Makes sleepy~ Hera hisses as she curls more tightly in his hair. ~Warm. Nicccce...~
~Don't forget our talk isn't done,~ Harry tells his pet, not willing to let his earlier lecture about how she'd once again attempted to remove the blindfold go so easily. Whether she ignores it or has fallen asleep, an answer is denied.
"Is something supposed to be happening?" Crouch asks, peering over Harry's shoulder. "Never seen a live dragon egg before..."
In the heat of the moment, Harry had forgotten some details about the process of hatching dragons – including how long it took. Scratching his forehead awkwardly, he muses: "I saw this one being born before, and am quite certain it didn't take very long, but thinking about it, it wasn't like a rabbit-out-of-the-hat trick either."
How had it happened last time? It's so long ago that the details are fuzzy, overshadowed by the problems Norbert had caused and the punishment that had followed. Not to even mention how the memories of his first life have started blurring any parts he has 'caught up' with. "We encountered Hagrid in the library, who acted so fishy that we went to his hut, where he revealed to have just gotten a dragon egg and started boiling it. Then one morning, I think he sent a note that it was hatching and we went to see it. We visited Hagrid all the time, it can't have been more than days in between..."
"Are you sure?" Hermione throws in, doubtful. "I read that depending on the species, the incubation time for dragons is anywhere between three and ten weeks."
Had they truly not seen Hagrid for that long? It certainly feels as if during his very first year at Hogwarts, they'd had gone over for tea at least once a week. "Voldemort, how long does a Norwegian-" Harry starts, expectantly turning his head to find the kitchen devoid of his fiancé. "Wait, where is he? Or Sirius, for that matter?"
Crouch gives an unhelpful shrug. "Neither showed a great deal of enthusiasm at your announcement. If this takes weeks, I can imagine why. As nothing seems to be happening for now, could I be excused so I can get on with my duties? The body clean-up is still waiting as I usually save that for after dinner to not spoil my appetite."
When Hermione struggles to control her expression at the casual mention of daily murder happening in the house, Harry throws the Death Eater a foul look. "Can you not? There's a child present."
Crouch has the decency to look guilty, likely unused to filtering his mouth about these topics. "My apologies, I thought she was your apprentice."
"She is. This isn't about teaching her skills or spells. It's about maybe not wanting to hear how the new place you're staying at is a glorified abattoir."
"To be fair, Harry," Hermione comments with a slightly shaky voice. "You're the one who convinced me that mass-murder is necessary to survive. As Voldemort is trying to find methods of effectively doing so by experimenting on Muggles and your tales about him didn't sound like he's the kind of man to have a healthy work-life balance, I had my suspicions about this house being the place that research happens in. That was before he specifically made the cellar off-limits. You don't need to start sheltering me just because you suddenly feel more like an adult since you took that ageing potion."
The accusation hits hard and unfortunately true. Before Voldemort's gift, Harry had felt like a child more often than he likes to admit. Because of that, he'd connected better with Hermione and so easily been able to entrust her with the same crazy adventures as they'd had the first time around as children. Now he's had a taste of being a true adult once more in mind and body, there is a disconnect. An urge to protect his friend from the harsh reality of life regardless of all he's done and said. A need to keep her out of the loop 'for her own good'.
This war is not for a kid to wage.
A realisation that comes about a year late, for he can't take back how he selfishly unloaded his burdens upon the girl's shoulders and expected her to save him. Putting Hermione back in a box and telling her not to worry about adult problems now he has others to rely on would be pure hypocrisy. It would make him no better than the other Dumbledore, who'd denied Harry information for being too young yet still expected him to act whenever convenient.
He's made his friend grow up faster than is healthy. Undoing that decision is only possible through magic and cruelty, for she would need to forget all that was revealed to her. He refuses to be that cruel.
"Harry?"
"You're right," he croaks, shame creeping in. "I dragged you into this mess in the first place. Hiding the extent of what is going on from you now is unreasonable. The truth is that as long as you remain at my side, you'll have to get used to death. Muggles are being killed underneath our feet as we speak. I was there today, saw his work... It impressed me more than it repulsed me, and I too killed today. I looked a child in their terrified eyes and cast the killing curse with my bare hands."
The impressed gasp that confession evokes reminds him that Crouch is still listening. "A wandless Killing curse?" The question drips with misplaced fascination. "I've never heard of such a thing!"
"You won't hear more, either," Harry harshly retorts. Then, with a whiff of magically-induced determination, he declares: "I wish to speak with my sister in private, now."
It's telling how used Crouch is to being ordered around, for the Death Eater appears more than happy to follow the command after a short, deep bow. "If there is anything else you or your family needs during your stay here, do not hesitate to ask," he offers with utmost respect before departing.
The crackling of burning logs fills the kitchen as they each wait for the other to break the silence. Hermione does not seem inclined to start, sitting cross-legged in front of the flames and taking the iron fireplace poker to listlessly prod at the cauldron that holds the Ridgeback egg.
Harry seats himself on a nearby stool and stalls time by sorting his thoughts, letting his gaze drift through the kitchen, wondering about the unfamiliar tools and dried herbs hanging on the walls. The Dursleys, for whom he'd often cooked, had not been experimental with their food preferences, bay leaf and nutmeg the most exotic herbs and spices bought for their household. At Grimmauld place, Kreacher kicks everyone out of the kitchen while cooking, so Harry hasn't had much opportunity to learn more in that regard. Voldemort clearly has a much broader repertoire. While every single one of the displayed plants is recognisable, Harry could name five potions to brew with them before able to cook a single dish with it that would taste halfway decent.
"Shouldn't you know what to say, or does not even liquid luck help you be less uneasy?" his sister finally speaks up.
He does wish that Felix would be the answer, especially because it had fuelled him to send Crouch away in the first place. Its inactivity right now is probably his own fault, since Harry cannot quite make up his mind about what goal he is trying to achieve here.
"You're the one who didn't reply to me before."
"I heard excuses, no apologies," she huffs, though her eyes are mischievous when she deems to look at him.
Apologies might be as good a place to start as anywhere. "I am sorry," he says, meaning it with all his heart. "I thought that filling you in on the talks I had with Voldemort before my dinner with him would have been enough, but that clearly wasn't the case. It was wrong of me not to involve you this time."
"Good, because dragging Lockhart to some old potion master to cheat him out of a vial of Felix Felicis and then running to Dumbledore to reveal future memories is such an absurd plan with so many loose ends that I'm concerned your Intended agreed to it. It was your idea, right? Not his? Because if he put you in harm's way with this insanity, I will take this fire iron and bash your Dark Lord over the head with it."
The vivid daydream of Hermione chasing Lord Voldemort with an iron rod through the halls of his own home is too hilarious to take entirely serious. To save his Intended the embarrassment of being chastised by a little girl, he grins: "Let's call it a joint effort, with the details devised by yours truly."
"So you're both disasters, then."
"He's my soulmate for a reason. I also may have gone off script and taunted Dumbledore more than I should have. In my defence, there were complications. Quite a few of them, in fact."
Hermione looks so small from where she sits, not helped in the least by her knees being drawn up to her chest and both arms wrapping around them. In great contrast, her dark eyes speak of knowledge far beyond her years. "The Hallows," she states, seeing right through him and refusing to let Harry stall. "One of your goals was to unite the Hallows, and now you have claimed the Elder wand..."
It's obvious that she won't rest until having heard the full story. Harry finds that he doesn't mind all too much like this, when it's just the two of them. It's when people get involved who put expectations on him – his godfathers wanting him to be good, or Voldemort wanting him to be great – that it becomes difficult to simply speak of his experiences without the pressing need to defend his every action. Hermione looks up to him regardless of what he says. It's simple information she wants, not an in-depth analysis of how it makes him feel.
It's a relief after having felt far too much, so much that it hurts. For the first time since Voldemort's resurrection, he's glad his Intended isn't in the room with them. The man has the distinct talent to make every conversation about them. Being able to speak of Death with a clear head and a lack of suggestions about how fate arranged all this to reunite Harry's soul with Voldemort's will do him some good.
"The Hallows, yes... In my old life, I owned all three, yet never did I physically unite these artefacts that made me the Master of Death. Back then, I believed Dumbledore's theories about the title only having a symbolic meaning. Yet when I found the first one here, there was a strange familiarity. One that originated from it, not myself, as if the Hallows themselves recognised me. I had a hunch, then, that I may have missed something. That theory was confirmed tonight."
Once more, he glances down at the ring that gleams on his hand.
"Wait," Hermione mutters as she follows his gaze. "That ring is one of the Hallows? I thought they were a cloak, a wand and a stone."
"Exactly, this stone," he clarifies, tapping on the black gem. "One of Voldemort's ancestors possessed the Resurrection stone and crafted a ring with it. By the time his grandfather inherited the piece, any meaning about it being more than a family heirloom showing significant ancestry had been lost to time."
Getting visibly impatient, the girl pushes: "Voldemort's ancestor? I am missing part of the story."
"Yes, that was deliberate," Harry admits with a deep sigh. "I have told you all of my secrets, 'Mione, but I am in no position to uncover all of his. This ring contains a Hallow, true. At the same time, it is an item of great importance to Voldemort for wholly different reasons, one he gave up any remaining ownership of when sliding it onto my finger today. Do not press me to betray his trust."
"I wouldn't. You know I wouldn't ask that of you," she defends.
"Not deliberately, no. That is why I'm making clear now that questions about this topic is off-limits. For my current tale, it also does not matter, for it is the Resurrection stone itself that is responsible for the very recent changes to my life, not the ring it is set in." Grasping the edge of his right sleeve, Harry pulls the fabric away to reveal what lies underneath: the fresh, golden scar and splotches of equally gilded blood surrounding it. "I united the Hallows today, Hermione, and walked away with this. A gift of Death."
"Death...? You make it sound as if there's some... some sort of creature that you've met." Her nervous chuckling as she worriedly eyes the scar is filled with disbelief. The reaction is better than the staunch refusal to open her mind that Hermione had shown towards Luna on multiple occasions. Once again, he is grateful that the girl he found in Wool's orphanage was already acutely aware that not all knowledge in the world has been written down or made accessible to the public. Which isn't to say that she'll believe blindly, but when it comes to this she thankfully won't have to. Like he'd once turned a night stand into a live pig to get his point across, so can he give a convincing demonstration now.
Harry rejects his previous idea of only calling Death again once the being has had some time to cool off. Time is incredibly subjective. For something that must have existed since the start of the universe, there will be no difference between now and two hours ago, yet looking at it from that point of view, centuries won't be long enough either. Harry thus hopes that the lack of Voldemort's presence will suffice to improve its mood.
"Watch and learn," he tells her while placing a finger on the scar. The being had said that any name associated with it would work as a summoning charm, but Harry always was a practical rather than a theatrical person. "Death!" he calls out, holding his breath afterwards. Does the room grow colder? Has the fire dimmed?
"So, it's going to be one of those relationships, won't it be?" A low voice hisses in his ear. Tensing up, Harry tries to keep himself under control, because reflexively sucker-punching Death itself in the face will surely not end well. Minimally turning his head, Harry observes the being that appeared behind him from the corners of his eyes. Death may as well have punched him, for all breath is knocked from his lungs when Harry is met with the handsome face of none other than Cedric Diggory, seventeen and pale, wearing the torn, smudged robes that had become the boy's burial garb.
A soft gasp and an uttered 'Diggory?' from his sister means there is no need to check whether she can see Death. The being had made a point during their last conversation to announce it would show itself to mortals solely on Harry's explicit wish, so he wonders if it knows why it has been summoned now.
"Not that face," Harry shakily utters, hostility rising at the sight.
"Don't you like the symbolism?" A row of sharp teeth shows in Cedric's mouth as lips pull away in a vicious smile. "You were too young to know me when your mother was felled by the killing curse, and you rudely blacked out before your own first victim succumbed to his burns. Quirrell," it adds in response to Harry's confusion.
"Voldemort killed Quirrell by leaving his body."
"His dying body. Credit where credit is due, Master. You killed at eleven, beating the record of your Intended by five whole years. Nevertheless, this did not touch your soul, as Dumbledore shielded you from the gruesome truth of that day. A pity. Only when your friend was killed in front of your eyes, were you ready to accept me as a part of reality."
Harry sees no value in Death's claim, unable to see Cedric in a different light than a painful reminder of his failures. "I said, not that face."
A blank expression that is vaguely threatening washes away the smile – a look that makes crystal clear it is an impostor wearing this body, for the real Cedric would never have given anyone such a look. "There are many faces you would like to see less, Master. Of that, you can be certain. If you abuse the power that shackles me for trivialities, I will be far more than the end. Your eternal life won't be worth living. Demand me to change my appearance and I will, but rest assured that it will be the first of a long tally of grudges I'll hold."
As Harry struggles to keep his cool, the voice of reason in the room asks the only right question:
"Why make the Hallows if they control you?"
Thank Merlin for Hermione.
Death doesn't move as far as Harry can see, not in a traditional sense. One moment, it occupies the stool behind him. The next, the grim figure looms over his best friend, no less threatening parading around as a Hogwarts student than it had been standing ten feet tall with monstrous claws and teeth. The kitchen darkens despite the fire merrily flickering, Death's voice thunderous as it says: "Make them? I am destruction, child, I do not create. Though I made the decision to gift humanity the Hallows as a reward, they were not made by me. How was I to know that those I trusted most forged alliances against me? That my brethren considered their newest toys with more fondness than the bonds they should have honoured? The Deathly Hallows were a game of the gods rigged against me that I was unaware was being played. Anyone who uses them to bind me..." Vitriol drips from the words as murderous eyes fall upon Harry, "…is no better than that treacherous lot."
"You already said you cannot help me kill," Harry reasons. "I don't know how you've been treated by anyone else who united the Hallows or by... by this brethren you speak of, but you assumed the worst, too. I did not know the power placed in my hands and I can live perfectly fine without keeping you on a leash. After our first conversation, I'd hoped to have your cooperation. I believed we established some sort of alliance when you reacted well to my offer to sacrifice this world in your name. Yet now I summoned you to ask the questions you already offered an answer to, you antagonise me by throwing Cedric's demise in my face?"
Death stills, an unnatural stiffness that makes it look like someone cut out a Muggle photograph and placed it in the middle of the room. Not a muscle twitches, not a hair moves. Unblinking eyes observe Harry dispassionately for minutes on end until the being speaks: "Humans of every age and place have tried to achieve conquering me in two ways: by prolonging their own life and by returning a semblance of the deceased to this plane of existence. This appearance, as well as my previous one, were a peace offering, Harry Potter. One you rudely denied."
A peace offering? How laughable. As if Death wearing the skin of his loved ones could ever be a comfort. Certainly not as such an obvious copy of the boy's last moment. "Then why... why make him appear like this?" Harry asks with disgust, gesturing to Cedric's dirty clothes, stained with mud and grass as a reminder of the graveyard in which he'd perished.
"The Cedric Diggory you knew entered my embrace like this. The one in this world lives. As for those in other dimensions who have passed away in a better condition, you haven't known them, so would not recognise their faces on me."
"Arrived where?" Hermione breathlessly asks, looking up at Death as if it is the most fascinating being she's ever seen. "Is there an afterlife? And- and can you see who dies when? Or will die? Time surely isn't linear for you, is it?"
"A boundless universe, yet not a single world in which you unite the Hallows, Hermione Granger... A true shame," Death rattles, reaching out to place a hand on chestnut curls. A flare of envy over this thing usurping Harry's position makes him slide off the stool and stride closer to his apprentice, standing firm on her other side to stare Death in its eyes even while it declares: "I grow bored of Potters and Voldemorts. Their innate disregard for all outside their own little lives is tiresome."
"I have many questions that don't involve myself!" Harry protests. It earns another unnervingly blank look that makes him want to count to ten. "Fine, fine. Anything I wanted to ask you tonight was about my life. I just think it's pragmatic to speak of matters that are helpful before we delve into the fabric of how the universe works for the sake of knowledge alone." Rubbing his forehead as he can feel a headache building from this brief talk, he adds: "Your chosen form felt like a taunt more than it was soothing, but I am sorry for assuming the worst and starting with demands, okay? Wasn't aware that was such a sore topic. Do you wish to... err... talk about it?"
Please say no, he internally thinks, for he has enough issues shared between him and a certain Dark Lord to cover multiple lifetimes without having a deity unload its troubles on him, too.
"To avoid further misunderstandings between us... you ought to see further than the boundaries of your limited mind. I will show you, Master: a glimpse of the event that caused a rift in the cosmos."
There is no warning, no fade to black or announcement. Harry is quite sure he hasn't even blinked before finding himself to stand on a crossroads in the middle of misty autumn woods. A chilling wind sweeps through cobweb-covered shrubbery, causing a lone blackbird to flee from the bushes with a shrill warning cry. It flies straight at, then through , Harry. He has landed in a memory, one of which its owner is nowhere to be found.
There is a shifting of light in the air, and although nothing physically manifests, Harry gets the sense of being alone no longer. "I am here. Why?" something whispers with the same frost on its breath as the wind.
A different voice answers, one coming from his own lips: "A creation defied me, bound a passed soul to a corpse. It intrigues and threatens. I have promised a reward, a wish granted for this feat. It asks for a way to hide from me, to be protected from death. It does not know it asked to rewrite fate with this. I thus come before you. Make an item that avoids situations that will kill it, while not granting protection when it isn't kept on its person, for it needs to die as all things do. Will you aid me in keeping my vow?"
The crossroads darken, five paths merging into three. Harry looks up and notices falling snowflakes. When he lowers his head, he can no longer make out the number of pathways, covered as they are in several inches of deep snow. "The last of three," the other being notes.
"Yes. They gave me what I needed. Will you?"
"I already did. This is the last time: do not make promises you alone cannot keep."
From the bushes, a line of spiders marches, similar to how a trail of baby acromantulas had once led Harry into the Forbidden forest. It looks no less grisly now as they beeline towards him. Harry cannot move an inch as the nimble animals crawl up his legs and shoulders before disappearing out of his line of sight, his back quickly becoming heavier as the spiders do what they do best: weaving.
There is something else, Harry's senses tingling unpleasantly as he believes to pick up on a third presence, yet it is fleeting, gone before he can fully register it. It is quickly forgotten as the other being distracts by saying: "Give the creation this cloak. It will change its fate to one who escapes death as long as it possesses this gift."
"I thank you."
"Do not."
The dismissing, almost warning tone reverberates in Harry's mind as he startles awake, back in the kitchen of Voldemort's house. Death is present still, standing in the same spot as before, wearing the same borrowed face.
Sputtering, Harry asks: "That- that was... Fate? Fate itself weaved the cloak of invisibility so you could give someone a reward?" His head spins from the revelation of not only Death being real, but multiple deity-like entities existing. Magic has to be one, too, he realises, and with Fate speaking of being the last of three that Death had asked for aid, there must be at least one more.
"My brethren created the Hallows at my request. The Peverell brothers had wished to humiliate me, their wishes all involving defying me further, be it through an unbeatable wand or a stone to bring loved ones back, so I sought to uphold my vow in a manner that would see them in my domain sooner rather than later. A wand so coveted other humans would take it with underhanded violence, a stone that returned the dead partially, a cloak that only protects when one is under it... I counted on greed, hopelessness and carelessness to catch these bounderish mages when they believed themselves untouchable. Alas, the others were angered by being involved in my vow and disagreed with my deception, scheming against me. Two thousand years later, I discovered their trickery, when the first mage united all Hallows and bound me. Moreover, I discovered that when united, their power combines to make the Master immortal, reversing my original purpose to spite me. They are well aware how I despise immortals."
"Two thousand years?" Hermione questions, eyes narrowed as if she is trying to catch a lie. "I've researched the Peverells as Harry told me all about the Hallows. They lived around the thirteenth century."
Death makes a rumbling noise that Harry finds impossible to put an emotion to. He grips his wand just in case it makes a threatening gesture towards his sister for the impudence of interrupting. However, Death calmly indulges: "Not all dimensions were created simultaneously, or equal. Master, the event you witnessed happened ninety-three million years ago, in a time and place where mages were a fascinating new creation, the first challenge to the natural order of life and death I'd come across. Their feat of invading my personal kingdom and dragging a soul back to their own plane to create the first Inferius felt worthy of a reward – as well as a means to ensure they could not defy me permanently."
"This is... a lot to take in," Harry admits, only not stepping away for some fresh air to protect his sister. Learning of different dimensions one could travel to was one thing. But this? Death and Fate and possibly Magic influencing these different worlds for millions of years, was much further than the tip of the iceberg he'd been living on. The thought of some versions of earth, even specific people, having lived long before the current dimension came into existence makes his mind whirl. "Wait, but... this happened once, right? A very long time ago, no less. Since you know my life in both this world and the last, there can't be multiple versions of you like there is of us humans. How come there's Hallows here, then?"
"The others conspired to create these gifts together. Fate weaved the cloak and distracted me in its finishing touches. As a result, their power exceeds that of any one of us. Called into existence with the ability to defy fate itself, to grant life, and to cast magic more powerful than any other wields, is it any wonder that they transcend time and space? They create themselves, now. In most worlds, they use belief to manifest into being and masquerade as lost artefacts to be hunted by the worthy. Other versions leave dying worlds by having themselves be summoned to a newer dimension."
It does sound plausible after all Harry had experienced. They hold a consciousness, an awareness of what happened to other versions of them. The Elder Wand had remembered dying when its master had snapped it in a different world. "What is with these?" Harry asks, holding up his ring. "Could you tell me more about its origins?"
Death appears to consider for a while whether to give an answer at all. "In this world, as well as most of its mirror dimensions, the Peverell brothers were inspired to invent the Hallows, crafting the items with earthly materials before reaching into different domains to imbue the right powers. That, and another dose of faith to make them reach the right potential."
Hermione practically vibrates at the explanation, giving off the sense that she'd raise the tips of her fingers in the air if this were class. "Mirror dimensions?"
"Experiments. One world is split into different dimensions at a certain point in time and influenced differently to observe the outcome. Some are favoured by one or more of us, others left abandoned. These dimensions head towards different futures due to their changed potential, despite the close resemblance or point of origin."
A horrible thought shoots through Harry, a gut feeling twisting his stomach. Whether imagination or not, it feels as if the hand with his soul mark burns, clear evidence of how this world is cherished by one of the gods. As opposed to...
"The wars," he croaks. "Muggles finding technology to counter magic and destroy us... Am I right in that Magic is one of your brethren?" he forces himself to question no matter how much the mere thoughts pains him. "Because if so, how could it let such a thing happen? What did we do to deserve being abandoned?!"
Cedric's cold hands slowly cradle Harry's face, the boy's eyes holding a strange shimmering light before shifting to pure black. "Master... you speak of 'we' when you should mean 'I'. You alone killed the most gifted wizard of your age and broke the Elder wand Magic had originally created. You ask what you did to deserve being left to fend for yourself? Magic abandoned your world on the second of May, 1998."
AN: Woops, that is going to take a bit for Harry to digest. I'm sure he'll cope with it in an incredibly healthy way, like usual.
Dragon egg note: after lots of maths, reading chunks of philosopher's stone again as well as cross-referencing with the timeline on hp-lexicon, it originally took hagrid approximately 5 weeks to hatch norbert from the day he put the egg in the fire. He put it in the fire on march 23 (on which day he also showed it to harry, ron & hermione), and it hatched at the end of april (though the hp lexicon timeline puts norbert hatching on the last day of the Easter holidays, which cannot be, as ron suggests to skip herbology on that same day so they must have had classes.) Around 5 weeks is plenty of time for Harry to hatch it here in the remaining summer holidays.
Notes on symbolism: crossroads are of course one of the most obvious signs of the paths of fate, but there is also symbolism to be found behind the cobwebs with spiders being fate-weavers in various mythologies, as well as in the blackbird, as listening to a singing blackbird was believed to transfer one to the otherworld / a higher plane of existence in druid legend. Additionally, depending on which legend and folklore version you want to believe, it can be either a good omen signalling coming positive changes, or a bad omen signalling coming death.
Thank you all for the lovely comments I have received on this story so far ^^
xx GeMerope