Chapter 10 – Fearsome
Harry does not wish to talk about the murders in Little Whinging. Not with his partner, not with his sister, not even with Death itself. It's the closing of a chapter he never wants to speak of again. That isn't to say that the kills itself are easily brushed off, as if having had no impact at all. Morals aside, Harry knows wilful murder rips the soul. Nowadays, he disagrees with the description of it being 'the supreme act of evil' since witnessing many an act far more horrifying, but he recognises that the damage it does to the soul is a reality, not an abstract concept made up to scare people into following the law.
He'd always attempted to take the high road in any situation other than self-defence during his previous life - surprisingly difficult in the hostile environments he'd survived. Unlearning that attitude takes effort. Mentally preparing himself for the possibility of war and the role he must take on to drive Muggles to extinction took as much work as learning how to protect his sanity from devolving further each time he cuts a person down.
Nonetheless, he manages. The first confrontation with the reality of murder in this house and letting the killing curse take a prisoner had troubled him despite actively asking for it. After the 'Dursley incident', he is much calmer about these deeds. It's such a mundane part of his Intended's life that Harry no longer has qualms discussing how to discard of someone even when that person stands mere feet away, still breathing – a regular occurrence now he is so involved in Voldemort's work.
It is made more difficult by his holly wand fundamentally refusing to produce a single emerald spark whenever it is pointed at another person with the intent to kill. Ironic, as Avada Kedavra is by far the least cruel spell to use for this purpose. The problem can't be a lack of conviction or hatred for Muggles, for Harry has plenty of both to spare.
The Elder wand has no such qualms, obeying its master's every whim. A wave of green lights up the room with nary a thought whenever Harry wishes it.
No longer feeling discomfort when plotting death with someone as like-minded as Voldemort or Barty, however, does not at all prepare him for when only a few days later, someone visits who refuses to indulge in Harry's wish to clam up.
"Harrison, did you kill Petunia and Vernon Dursley?"
These were not the first words he'd expected to come out of his godfather's mouth during their long-awaited reunion. Nor had he imagined Severus would bluntly discuss such heavy topics here and now, considering he'd insisted on getting some quality time with both of his children. Hermione, who'd just settled into one of the armchairs of the cozy sitting room in Voldemort's manor, sits up straighter at the question, brown eyes widening a fraction as they seek him out.
He lets a questioning gaze glide from his sister to Severus, the latter nonchalantly arching an eyebrow, carefully choosing punctuated words to chide with: ''I hardly believe you are in a position to use Hermione's delicate youthfulness as an excuse to abstain from disagreeable topics by this point. Sirius told me what literature you encourage her to read… not to mention how you involved her in those grand plans for Muggles long before you told us about any of it.'' When Harry still warily stays silent, unsure how to approach this topic, his godfather sighs, staring down a hooked nose as he reaches for the freshly brewed tea and pours three cups. "I did not ask to discuss the morality of it,'' he assures. ''I merely question your strategy. Most serial killers are caught over fatal early mistakes, such as targeting people living close by, or whom they have ties to. Dumbledore's first reaction to the news of the Dursleys' deaths was jumping to the conclusion that you or Voldemort could be behind it. This isn't scrutiny you can use."
Dumbledore… Of course he would have heard about the 'incident' and expressed concerns about Harry's involvement. That should have been accounted for. Somehow, there'd been a glimmer of hope that if he were to forget about it, so would anyone else. What exactly has Severus been told? Will Dudley come up? Is Severus aware there's something foul about Harry's tale now his cousin died years too early, or was the minor detail of being raised together into adulthood something that had gone under in the flood of information he'd given Sev about the other world?
As Harry wants to avoid speaking of the Dursleys altogether, the logical reply would be to lie. Doing so feels far too much like a slap in the face to his godfather's kindness. Severus taking the role of a double spy warrants more honesty than that.
"I know," he thus admits. "I told Voldemort the same when he brought me there. Unfortunately, there were too many emotions involved to simply leave. The Dursleys were some of the worst magic-hating Muggles this world had had the misfortune of knowing. They did… unspeakable things,'' he whispers, the shiver that runs down his spine more for Dudley than himself. Harry swallows heavily, unable to confide in that discovery. No need to push Severus' nose on the inconsistency between Harry's past and the current timeline of events. ''Due to some unforeseen circumstances, I needed to kill someone who hadn't been condemned to die yet. As a sort of poetic justice, Voldemort picked my family due to the grief they caused me.''
''I had hoped that a lifetime with us would have dulled the pain they caused when you were a child.'' Severus softly speaks. His hands are louder, knuckles pressed so white that the porcelain cup might shatter. ''Not to mention they will have had no guilt of it. I've seen your memories of the war, Harrison. I know why you strive for a world in which Muggles do not exist. Yet to seek out specific ones as punishment for crimes they have not committed is… strange.'' It's crystal clear that Severus disapproves, but before Harry can pitch a defence, Hermione pipes up:
''I think they deserved it.'' Wrath washes over the girl's face like a visible shadow. ''Them not remembering means nothing. They would have locked Harry up and starved him just the same if he'd ended up on their doorstep. Worse: Harry, you told me how awful it felt to be restricted in such a young body. How exhausted and vulnerable you were all the time. Imagine being unable to do anything against their abuse while fully aware of everything going on?''
Harry hadn't even considered that. More problematic: should Dudley and Harry both have shown an aptitude for magic, how would that have changed the situation? He could see Petunia clinging to the opportunity of having a scapegoat who might have infected Dudley instead of directing all shame and jealousy at her own child… Or, alternatively, Vernon would simply have tried to pummel both of them with equal measure.
''Most likely, I'd have ended up killing them much earlier,'' he mutters to the floor. ''Which would definitely have been more suspicious than what happened now.''
Severus hums thoughtfully. His fingers have released their iron hold since Hermione spoke up in heated defence of these murders. ''Nevertheless, your current actions may suffice to raise uncomfortable questions, give rise to theories… Dumbledore already believes you a Seer. If he realises the truth of your nature, he may actually have a case with the Ministry.''
''Possible, but Voldemort argued that the Headmaster's suspicion can only work in our favour at the moment. He's been dealing with Dumbledore for longer than either of us, so I am going to trust his word on it. It's done now, besides. There's hardly a point to going in circles of what if's. As for the future, I do value your advice. Nothing similar will happen again, promise. I was hardly in personal contact with many Muggles during my lives, so I don't have enough of a grudge against specific targets to kill them for more than protecting mages. Most are faceless enemies to me. A threat to magic, nothing more."
"You seemed to remember some of their faces with enough clarity to identify them in the memories you gave Dumbledore. The three Muggles who took your godchild..."
Harry shivers at the reminder. Yes, those three faces are burned into his mind. How could they not be? If he were to stumble across these Muggles and recognise them at any point, he will not be able to hold back. He doesn't mention this, for it seems that Severus isn't really here to discuss murder strategies. He knows that pensive, troubled look all too well. "Teddy," he whispers, taking a sip of tea. "His name was Teddy."
There must have been something in his voice that gave away the endless abyss of sadness the name evokes, for Hera – who'd been resting in the lowered hood of Harry's robes– stirs and slithers across his shoulders and into his hair in the same moment that Hermione gets up to tiptoe over to silently press herself against his side. Since they're roughly the same size right now, the chair has plenty of room. It's an odd feeling, as if Harry half-expected to be taller.
"Did you ever find him again, after...?" she asks, a question that seems to have been on Severus' mind too, for he leans forward in anticipation of the answer.
Silently, Harry shakes his head. "Don't know what happened to him. Most likely, they tried to integrate Teddy into a Muggle family before bringing him to a camp when he was too much trouble. The Muggles thought it merciful to adopt magical kids for re-education, but living in a cancellation field was torture for any mage, let alone someone with an inherent magical ability. Teddy was a Metamorphmagus, see. His hair turned all sorts of colours right after birth, I was told. Changing his body in every which way was as natural to that kid as breathing. Not only did the Muggles hurt Teddy, they cut off his air supply. I struggle to see how they'd have been able to integrate him the way some other children supposedly were. I blame myself for letting him down in so many ways. Had I not waited so long with fleeing, had I been able to fulfil Teddy's request, or find him in the years after... Useless regrets, for I can no longer save him."
"Aren't you already on the path of saving him? Isn't your goal to create a safe world for mages? If you succeed, he gets to grow up in peace this time."
As kind as Severus' words are, there's no solace to be found in them. Not with Remus having moved abroad a few years ago to find work opportunities in countries with less restrictive laws on werewolves. It's only now Harry knows Umbridge sits at the helm of the Ministry that he realises those laws are likely more oppressive than they used to be. With the werewolf citing his condition to be the cause of always having had a hard time finding employment, Harry had overlooked the move as just another detail differing without an obvious cause, apart from Harry himself taking up so much time of Remus' remaining friends. In either case, a miracle would need to happen for Remus and Tonks to come together in this universe. Should he push to make it happen?
"He'll never be my Teddy," he settles on saying. "I'm not close to his parents this time, nor do I think I ever will be, now I surround myself with dark mages. There might someday be a kid who looks like him, who has the same abilities or hobbies or smile, but it won't be my godson. I failed my Teddy, and I have to live with that."
Hermione's hand clenches tightly around his own. Even as she doesn't verbalise it, the message is loud and clear: You didn't fail everyone. You saved me. He clings to that lifeline, intertwining their fingers.
"What about Sirius or I? Do you have those same thoughts about us?"
It's a loaded question that takes more consideration to answer than Harry likes to admit. "Partially," he concludes. "I didn't grow up with you last time. Sirius was in Azkaban for most of it, and you were just one of my teachers at Hogwarts, one who was very lonely and bitter about having lost his best friend with no remaining network of support. Neither of you are the same people I met during my last life, plus we have a vastly different relationship here. You are the only one whom I'd consider my Severus. And I want to save you and Siri more than anything."
His emotional declaration completes their bundle, Severus joining them to wrap his children in the warmest hug Harry has ever received from the usually so stoic man. It's more welcome than the following whispered plea about moving back into Grimmauld place, which Harry guiltily declines. "I'll visit lots now Dumbledore is no longer allowed to contact me, but I like it here, Sev. As much as it happened out of convenience, sharing a home with my soul mate has been wonderful so far. I'm not ready to give that up."
Already, Harry cannot fathom why he had wanted to wait in the first place. The house that hums with Voldemort's magic has grown on him fast, every nook and cranny emitting a familiar aura that makes it so easy to live and breathe here. Despite having barely stepped foot in each room once, it's as if the floors have been worn by him over many years.
"You weren't supposed to grow up and move out at eleven."
Harry chuckles. "Liar, you were prepping me for boarding school. Hardly a difference."
"I live at that boarding school! That is quite the difference!" The words of protest lose some of their weight due to the smile they're said with as Severus sits back on his heels, half-kneeling in front of the chair. Fondly, Harry reaches out once more. His Severus, indeed. One who looks at him with pride and joy, who'd walk through fire to see Harry happy. So different from the embittered man filled with petty spite who is but a vague memory.
''You'll have your hands full with Hermione at Hogwarts, surely,'' Harry jokes to break the following silence, fondly looking at his sister, whose eyes sparkle mischievously.
Severus notices it too. ''Merlin help you if you come up with another scheme to impersonate a giant monster,'' he warns, pulling his strictest teacher-face. Hermione does not verbally reply, though the way she reaches up to Harry's hair and starts patting Hera speaks enough volumes for Severus to grumble under his breath about brewing trouble.
Returning to his armchair, Severus quietly sits and observes the room, as if unwilling to move along with his day, searching for more to speak of so their meeting won't end so soon. Finally, the man clears his throat. ''Since you mentioned Dumbledore... there's something we need to discuss before I return home. I must soon inform the Headmaster of my failure or success in convincing you to ignore your 'visions' and come back to the light. He will not employ me as a spy for long if I uncover no information at all, yet it cannot be damning enough to serve as a definite testimony of the Dark Lord's return. I assume you wish to have some say in the story I spin.''
Sobering up quickly at the mention of the meddling Headmaster, Harry nods along. ''True, which means you can neither have personally seen him nor gotten a confession out of me. Hmm, that is quite a precarious position to be in…''
''Can't you simply tell him that Harry is acting suspicious?'' Hermione suggests. ''Say, Harry disappearing for days on end by pretending to go to friend's places and you discovering he lied about where he was?''
Severus does not look convinced, telling Harry: ''Playing into the suspicion so much would shatter Dumbledore's dreams about redemption early. Whether that is a wise course of action…'' he trails off.
Harry considers it for a moment, though finds himself agreeing with Hermione's approach. ''While true, it will bait Dumbledore into making further calls to action to the Ministry, the very thing that he is currently under fire for. It's that which will cost him any official power. Besides, going the route of my redemption is too dangerous. He would demand to speak to me in person again if so, as well as need to be shown trust by receiving an account on Voldemort's moves so far. I'm not going to play along with such a game. The only other option would be my sticking to the story I gave the press and showing no suspicious signs at all. Which, as you just pointed out, would render you useless as a spy. As I'd like to receive news on his actions, especially if he decides to revive the Order of the Phoenix, I'd prefer if you feed him snippets of my odd behaviour, pretending that you just cannot catch me red-handed for now.''
''I'll be able to stave off further action from his side for a while with that,'' Severus muses. ''It's not unfeasible that I cannot single-handedly uncover your motives in the remaining weeks, after which I will be at Hogwarts and you at home. Sirius being ever the optimist is also a plausible excuse for why he wouldn't want to hear the slightest whisper of Dumbledore's theories without hard proof to back up those claims.''
Having Severus in his corner like this is much appreciated, more than he knows how to properly express. ''Sev... are you really okay with all of this?'' he asks with concern. ''Spying for me, helping me achieve a goal I know you don't share...''
''It was I who made this decision, Harrison,'' the other sternly says. ''I cannot claim that I wholly agree with your actions or plans, but I understand your motivations. Why you do not believe in compromises. Stuck between two difficult choices, I can only rely on the judgement of those I love to decide how I wish to move forward.''
Rely on Harry's judgement? He grimaces without thinking, mind circling back to the consequences of all the choices he's made. Somehow, they often ended up in spiralling into something worse. The most recent discovery of his cousin's fate is a heavy anchor of which the chain has wrapped itself in a stranglehold around his heart.
''I know that look,'' Severus calls him out on it. ''What is bothering you so?''
He cannot form the words, terrified to lose the given trust when the last layer of his lie will be peeled away with it. Severus had just shown to not agree with punishing the Dursleys for deeds they'd not committed in this life. It cements Harry's belief that his godfather only goes along with scrubbing the earth clean of Muggles as long as he believes this to be a fact that already happened and will happen the same way through fixed fate. Pointing out the slightest difference not caused by Harry's direct actions can collapse the fragile castle of playing cards like a small gust of wind.
It's different than with Hermione, who knew from the start and was moulded by Harry's teachings. It is different from Voldemort, too, who has no scruples about slaughter and is tied to Harry's very soul - and even with his Intended, Harry had hesitated for almost a year before admitting to the altered timelines, confessing under pressure.
''Hermione, you drag it out of him,'' Severus requests when receiving no reply for far too long, lips pressed in a thin line as he stiffly stands. He doesn't look angry, but the disappointment in bottomless pits is so much worse. ''I believed us to be past secrecy. I would give my life for you, Harrison. I hope you appreciate that when the time comes.''
''That time won't come,'' he retorts with a whisper, once Severus' back is already turned. His godfather halts for a second in acknowledgment, then swiftly leaves with a swish of long robes.
''Dimensional secrets?'' Hermione inquires once rhythmic footsteps have long faded, and Harry releases a long, suffering sigh, burying his face in his hands. Not even Hera inquisitively moving to boop her snout against his fingertips eases the knot that has formed in his stomach.
''It's not something I want to talk about.''
''In an 'I'll healthily cope with this myself' way or 'I'll have a breakdown or two about this when it gets too much' way? You don't have to face everything yourself, you know that.''
Harry's glare fails to intimidate her, which may have something to do with Hermione having made herself comfortable, half-hanging over him in a hug. ''The latter way,'' he sourly admits, then relents: ''I told you I had a cousin, didn't I?''
''The one who used to bully you,'' his sister recalls with a furrowed brow that disappears after she's taken a minute to puzzle together the information of the prior conversation, as she usually tends to do. ''Oh- Severus only mentioned your Aunt and Uncle. Was your cousin not home? Or- or not born in this world?''
''Either would have been far kinder than the truth.'' Closing his eyes, Harry pictures the hallway of Privet Drive. An entire house devoid of the boy who'd once upon a time filled it with unreasonable demands and violence. ''I went in with the intention to kill my cousin too, then discovered I should have protected him… and was years too late to do so. They'd beaten me to it, my aunt and uncle. Dudley was born a wizard here, and I never knew… I avoided my family so thoroughly that another mage paid the price for it. And it's- it's something I genuinely don't even know how to feel about, because I wanted to take his life as well up until when my aunt started spewing nonsense about the evils of magic. About how happy she was that he'd died when my uncle beat him as a punishment for showing accidental magic. What they did to their own child was vile, no question about it. I'm just… guilty about how my choices led to it and thoroughly confused about… I'm not even sure how to explain the confusion,'' he rants, frustrated.
''You wanted to kill him for being a Muggle, they killed him for having magic,'' Hermione points out, sounding frighteningly unfazed. ''Of course it would confuse you to so suddenly have a role reversal.''
''But it's different!'' he bursts out, twisting away from Hermione's grip, standing up to pace the length of the lush carpet. ''I'm eliminating a threat that I know will bring about a war, whereas they killed their own kid for being different! They never honestly believed that mages would overtake the country, or murder them, or do anything besides being something strange that disrupted their little world view about normalcy. They weren't afraid of me when they locked me in or denied food, they thought they could make me conform with brute force. They didn't really care I was a wizard as long as I didn't show it. I am not- I'm not like them!''
''No, you're not,'' Hermione agrees, cocking her head. ''But you're not fully convinced of that yourself, are you?''
The words are as disarming as any weapon. Helplessly, he looks towards her for guidance, this girl who is so much braver and smarter than he. ''What can I do to convince myself? I can rationalise that my path is right, and buried deeper are thoughts on how it's not my fault that I can't possibly know every change and consequence. Yet in moments like these, it's so hard to see clearly, to not be steered by feelings of utter dread, guilt, grief…''
''I don't think it's about any of those feelings, really'' she ponders, eyes pensively narrowed as she looks him over. ''I've seen you every day at Hogwarts: you're at your best when in control, over your own life or others. Think of when you went around playing Lockhart like a fiddle, or when you approached Quirrell for the first time to let your Intended know what's what. Then in moments you told me about when you felt bad, you complained about losing grip as memories became less reliable. It's only when your plans go awry or your control over the situation slips that you flail. When Voldemort pulled away, when Death played its awful games… now when facing the Dursleys didn't turn out as you expected it to…''
Harry tenses, uncomfortable at the mention of his servant. Her words thread the dangerous waters of truths he is afraid to face. ''Honestly, I'm not sure if I am suited as Master of Death with how little control I have over it,'' he confesses, something akin shame creeping up on him. ''Every conversation we've had, I've been ill-equipped to handle, I was so far out of my comfort zone that I… well, flail, in your words. It's made worse by how Voldemort insists I tame Death somehow. He seems to take pride in this title I received by nothing more than stupid curiosity.''
''I am with Voldemort on this. You know, it's really frustrating to believe in someone who won't believe in themselves,'' she throws at his feet, sitting straighter in the armchair as she practically stares him down. ''Where is the Harry who snuck into Wool's and confunded Muggles to teach me I can bend the world to my whims? Where has the Harry gone who was so confident about being right that he had a backup plan for every snag and walked right up to the Dark Lord with threats and bargains? I know he's in there. It's been mere weeks since your greatest victories. Damn it, Harry, you're an immortal time traveller who will save our world. You can make anyone shake in their boots when you set your mind to it. So do it. Become fearsome enough that Death itself will look up to you!''
Harry would like to say it isn't in his nature to be like that. He'd always taken what life threw his way and adapted to it best he could. The more he thinks about it, the less convinced he becomes that this is still true. The first time around, certainly. A pro at playing the underdog, he'd relied on luck and improvisation. That no longer applies to how he lives in this world: always clinging onto the knowledge of the future, trying to use that to spin every situation in his favour.
Uncertainty was what had shaken him most in recent years, which had unnoticeably grown into – as Hermione so astutely pointed out – fear of losing his hold over any situation. Most of the panic he'd felt ultimately came down to control over his own fate, as well as the nagging discomfort that sneaked up the fewer reliable memories remained. In contrast, he remembers the absolute thrill of wrapping Fudge around his finger, the glee he felt when all his plans surrounding Lockhart fell into place, the satisfaction of wrapping his fingers around the Philosopher's Stone...
(The fury that had encompassed him when hurling a Cruciatus curse at Lockhart had been electrifying. Petunia's contorted face as she drowned from his spell had brought such elation... Rarely had he carried so much raw power. Intoxicating. He wants more.)
''Did Voldemort put you up to this?'' he asks with a wry smile. ''Become fearsome sounds like something he'd say.''
''As if I'd let him lord over me. No, this is purely my own opinion.'' She crosses the distance, taking his hands in hers. It's less a gesture of comfort than it has purpose, for Hermione taps on his engagement ring. Or better said, on the Resurrection Stone. ''You never called anyone back to the land of the living.''
He's can't quite follow where she is going with this. ''And?''
''Is that about control, too? Are you afraid of what Death will say or do to you when using the tools that binds it? It did mention not being fond of those who call the dead back.''
It sounds like a dare. Yet for once, his sister shot in the dark and missed. ''It's not that. I genuinely don't see a point in using this to 'resurrect' anyone. It doesn't really return people to life, you know. It calls forth an echo that is marginally more solid than a ghost, and only visible to the stone's owner. I used it in my last life to seek comfort in my loved ones right before I died. Here, I have no dead loved ones whom I wish to see. When I first gained possession of this Hallow, I briefly speculated whether to call for my parents, then decided it'd be selfish to drag them to the world of the living again when I know I must let go. As for anyone else... I don't think they'd be interested enough in seeing what has become of me to disturb their rest, even if it's possible to make the dead of my world appear here.''
The only one he is truly itching to see again is Teddy, but Harry refuses to try calling out to his godson. Seeing his spirit would be a final confirmation. Harry prefers to dream of the slim possibility that somewhere, somehow, Teddy had managed to cling onto life up until the moment Harry had crossed over to another world.
''There's someone you could call now. Wouldn't you like to hear what your cousin has to say about your guilt? Can't be worse than the thoughts in your head.''
Harry reels at the suggestion. Calling for Dudley? They'd not even known each other in this life. ''My cousin died when he was seven, and has no clue who I am. I'm extremely sceptical about my ability to have a productive conversation about family matters involving his own death and my issues with it.''
''Seven isn't too bad,'' she protests. ''I was reading Charles Dickens and Roald Dahl when I was five. It's not like your cousin was a baby who can't talk.''
''Dudley is an exception on one end of a spectrum where you stand at the other end,'' Harry states matter-of-factly. ''He had trouble reading by the time we finished elementary school. Having received magic here doesn't mean he was gifted with sudden intellect.''
''Maybe not… it was just an idea…'' Hermione's enthusiasm deflates at the rebuttals.
''I know,'' he sighs, studying the black stone on his engagement ring. The Peverell coat of arms is difficult to see, only visible when it catches the light at the right angle. How would he even go about turning it over as he had last time, set in the ring as the Hallow is? And would he be able to call for Dudley, whom he'd never seen before? Or would this magic try to reach out to the soul of Dudley Dursley of another world, another time? It can be assumed that Dudley was still alive when Harry travelled back… would that matter? How does time apply in these cases?
The light flickers, a shadow obscures the ring, making the symbol of the Deathly Hallows blend in with the rest of the cut stone.
''Master.''
When Harry's gaze slowly lifts to the creature looming over him – the very picture of the embodiment of death today, deep cowl and flowing robes that end in wispy strands included – it settles not on the being itself, but the limp form of a child that rests in Death's arms.
''You wished for this one?''
Harry can't deny it. Subconscious as it may have been, the flood of relief when laying eyes on Dudley is too strong to claim he hadn't uttered a silent wish. That it's being granted so readily feels like a trap. Keeping Hermione's words in mind, he resolutely shoves that doubt aside, for being meek and wary in the face of this deity would be a step in the wrong direction. ''I didn't realise you would tag along but… hey,'' he greets, squaring his shoulders. ''And- hi, Dudley.''
The boy is quite unrecognisable. Stick-thin for one, skin much less rosy-tinted as it ought to be, wearing a simple black robe of all things. It erases most of the resemblance to Harry's memories of either Dudley himself or of the 'trophy wall' which had held pictures of his cousin's childhood achievements that Harry had had to polish often enough to know what Dudley should look like at age seven. If not for this child's straw-blonde hair pressed flat to the skull or watery blue eyes that currently stare into nothingness, Death might have brought any other boy before Harry.
The apparition – less than the living, more than the dead – blinks as if waking from a deep sleep, then violently jerks when faced with the inhuman form in whose arms he lies. Dudley scrambles, curses, and falls to the floor with barely an impact, form unburdened by flesh. And yet, the boy is solid enough to actually land on the carpet instead of sinking through it as a ghost might. It resembles how Diary-Tom had been able to hold a wand without possessing a real body.
Dudley seems to be the same age as when he'd died - unlike the resurrected forms of Remus and Sirius that Harry had seen once - and no bruises or blood stain the paled skin. Nothing to indicate a cause of death.
''That's Dudley?'' Hermione mutters, wide-eyed, and Harry snaps his attention back to her. When last using the Resurrection Stone, minutes before heading into the Forbidden Forest to die, Sirius had reassured him that no-one else would be able to see the summoned souls.
''He's visible to you?''
''She sees him as she sees me,'' Death explains, silently having moved a few paces towards the girl to rest large, clawed hands on top of her shoulders. ''There are very few humans who can claim to have my favour. This one captures my interests. I will bargain with Fate for your future,'' he tells Hermione, leaning in. ''The roads are forked… copious opportunities to solidify the most positive outcome. As of now, you may die at twenty-four, seventy-six, fifty-three, a hundred-and-thirty, sixteen-''
''Stop,'' Harry sharpy commands, cold anger settling in his stomach when colour drains from his sister's face. ''I appreciate your… bargaining offer, so go ahead with that as you like, but do so without telling Hermione of all the times she could die. I don't like prophecies.''
''Your lives have been defined by prophecies.''
''Exactly.''
''My brethren will dislike hearing that… Ah, speaking of, Fate was terribly sour about the chaotic passing of this one's parents – a sight to behold. They spent fractions of eons in thousands of dimensions changing timelines of human wars in retribution to reduce the number of victims I could claim.''
It's unclear whether Death is angered or boasting, so Harry errs on the side of caution with a meaningless comment of ''That's nice,'' before turning towards Dudley, who hasn't made a peep since worming out of Death's hold. (Off to the side, his sister cautiously whispers something to the imposing being about Fate's interference, capturing Death's attention). Trying to keep his voice low and friendly, Harry approaches his cousin while saying: ''Hello… I realise you might be a bit confused right now, so let's introduce ourselves. I'm Harry, Harry Potter. I'm the one who… called you here.''
''I know that,'' the boy sneers. And damn if Dudley- now not only blond but also pale, skinny and disdainful - doesn't look like Draco Malfoy's twin right now. ''Everyone knows that!'' Then, almost comically, Dudley freezes up and slaps a hand over his mouth as if wishing to press the words back in - a gesture Harry knows all too well from all the times he'd talked back to Vernon and Petunia in the heat of the moment. Something that had rarely ended well.
''I'm not going to hurt you,'' Harry reassures. An absolute truth, for how would one go about harming a memory of something already dead? ''You don't have to fear speaking up. Or- or asking questions.''
The instant that permission is given, the fright practically melts away, Dudley falling over himself to say: ''You can do magic! You're my family! You killed mum and dad! You… you…'' he stutters, almost swallowing his tongue in enthusiasm. ''You're from… another time?'' He appears utterly bewildered about that last fact, forehead scrunching as if thinking extremely hard about it will make that make sense.
Maybe Harry should have anticipated Dudley being aware of what went down. When using the Stone for the first time, none of the summoned had been surprised or questioned where they were. They'd known he was about to face Voldemort, of his decision to become a sacrifice. Talked him through it with reassurances…
''I travelled to this time so that people like your parents won't win,'' he summarises his quest so a young kid can understand. ''I'm sorry I was too late to save you.''
Dudley shrugs, shockingly uncaring. ''Didn't like home anymore and school was always stupid. Hey, I really liked how much blood came out of dad,'' he grins. ''You gave it to them good. If I'd have grown up learning how to cast magic, I bet you that I would have made them pay too and given them so much pain.''
Harry looks down in baffled wonder at the bragging child. Merlin, Dudley would have been an utter terror at Hogwarts. Maybe it shouldn't come as such a surprise: this was a kid who'd without fail demanded to see the goriest films, whose main reason for taking up boxing had been the chance to hurt others, and who'd raged endlessly when discovering that toy guns shot tiny plastic pellets instead of real bullets. Although much of that violence had been cultivated by Vernon, Dudley had possessed a mean streak early on… Having been at the other end of abuse only appears to have fuelled it, bloodthirst neatly disguised as vengeance.
''You and Voldemort could have been childhood best friends if you'd been born a few decades earlier,'' Harry remarks with a touch of humour. Without thinking about it, he caresses the soul mark on the back of his hand, a proudly displayed vibrant splash of red against tan skin. Its magic hums pleasantly as if the mark has a life of its own. For all the stubbornness about not needing to justify himself when wishing to call Death alone, Harry suddenly craves to have his Intended here, at his side.
''I don't have one of those,'' Dudley complains, interrupting the ponderings on whether to search for Voldemort before a decision is made. Had the boy been alive, Harry is sure that thundercloud-expression would be set in a reddening face. ''Why not?'' the boy loudly demands to know.
Something about the attitude feels strange to Harry, who'd never dared take such a tone until well into his teenage years and mostly free from the Dursleys. On one hand, Dudley displayed some of the same self-preserving instincts off the bat, but on the other, his cousin still very much behaves like the spoiled-rotten kid used to the world revolving around him.
''Dudley… when did you first cast magic?''
''I dunno. A year ago? So what? Answer me!''
One year before being murdered, Dudley would have been six years old… Which meant six years of being coddled, treated like a prince and taught to get his way. The boy would have started school already, quickly become the biggest bully on the playground... only for all of that power to suddenly have been ripped away. When encouraged to be on top for the majority of his lifetime by the same people who'd then squashed him down, is it any wonder that Dudley is such a mess of mixed signals?
The petulant demand is quite adorable now it comes from a harmless child. Besides, there's hardly value in trying to teach a ghost new manners, so Harry humours his cousin: ''Only half of mages are born with their mark. The rest needs to wait until their significant other is born. If you did not have one by the time you died, your soul mate will not have been born yet…'' Which is a tragedy in and of itself, for does this mean there's someone out there who bears a mark of a person they'll never be able to meet?
''Incorrect.'' Raising his eyebrows at the tone, Harry glances over to the being who might hold answers about the workings of soul magic that no human being possesses, only to find that the hooded spectre has been replaced by the image of Collin Creevey. Similar to the being's imitations of Cedric and Harry's mum, the resemblance is uncannily perfect with an aura of wrongness. ''If you like imitating the dead so much, maybe pick someone who hasn't been felled by the Killing Curse,'' he suggests on a whim, for though Collin's clothes are dirty from the battle in which he'd fallen, and a few scrapes mark his face from where debris might have hurt him, he looks far too alive for Death to wear this face as a mask.
Collin smiles too widely in answer, enough of a warning to despair over having made a mistake. Harry refuses to fall into despair again, instead taking the smile as a cue to steel himself for whatever twisted test the being wishes to crush his will with now. Bones creak and grow, skin pales to ash, and drops of blood audibly splash on the coffee table as it spurts out of the mangled throat of none other than Snape.
Funnily enough, Death's brief expression of glee – which suits Snape perfectly and brings back many unpleasant memories – is wiped away not by Harry, but Hermione, who backs away with a horrified gasp and a mumbled ''No- no!''
Striding towards his friend, Harry grasps her tightly, whispering as he embraces her: ''It's not Severus. This is not someone you know, not really.''
''But it's his face-'' she chokes, unable to look away. The pool of blood grows at the dead man's feet, spreading over the carpet without being soaked in.
''It's an illusion, just another costume-''
''It's more than that! It's… this happened, didn't it? He was… about the same age as…? Merlin, and that wound- he was killed by-'' she chokes, breathing uneven and violent.
At seeing someone else be this affected by Death's antics, someone he loves, Harry snaps. Instead of breaking, it resembles the feeling of something snapping into place, like a bent spine finally straightening. Guiding his sister's face into the crook of his neck so she no longer faces the gruelling sight, the Master of Death addresses his servant:
''I've had enough,'' he speaks, voice lower than he thought possible in the body of a child. ''You may call yourself by the names people gave their gods, from Hel to Maweth, but so far you've not lived up to those myths. All you've shown is childish resentment. A being of cataclysmic power that chooses to spend its time toying with creatures far below it? Is pettiness your legacy? Humans were not the ones who chained you, Death. If you want anyone to suffer for the hand your brethren dealt you, punch up, not down.'' Harry lets out a hiss, baring teeth in anger over his sister's shoulder. ''I've tried being careful, patient, taken your insults and malice without lashing back and held out hope of working together after you showed a few glimpses of cooperation. I've made clear that I had no intention of abusing the power my title grants over you. Yet now you come into my house uninvited and choose the offensive once again? Consider me beyond insulted.''
The flow of fake blood stops, dissolves into wisps as if never having existed. The face of Severus Snape remains, coal eyes meeting Harry's furious gaze. ''So- have I angered you enough to show me your true colours, Harry Potter?'' the being whispers with a sardonic smile. ''What will you do now that I have gone too far? Order me around like a will-less slave to do your dirty work? Drag me down and hurt me?'' it rasps, suddenly up so close that the pale, hooked nose is inches away from Harry's. ''Keep me from enjoying peace in yet another world?''
There's madness swirling in black depths – shocking in its familiarity. He'd seen it in a dragon that'd had its freedom robbed and learned to expect strikes. In mighty witches and wizards as they were forced into shackles and robbed of magic. In a spoilt child who'd been made to believe he were the main character, only to be betrayed by those who were supposed to give unconditional love. In the mirror image of an unloved child who'd been shown a glimpse of a beautiful world that was taken away again and again by pain, grief, and the unjust decisions of others…
Harry shifts his hold on a still shaking Hermione, tightening one arm so he can reach out with the other, sleeve falling away to reveal the shimmering golden scar of Death. When pressing a palm to the being's sallow cheek, his fingers almost freeze, but Harry refuses to pull away. ''The other Masters of Death sound insufferable,'' he mutters, lifting a corner of his lips when Snape's shoulders slump in an incredibly human gesture. ''I want your respect, not blind obedience. I'd like to know more about the workings of death, how to use the Hallows and how to best reach my goal of eradicating Muggles, but will not drag it out of you by force. And deep down, you already know that, don't you? Why else come to me when I haven't called you? You've spoken of wanting to stay away from human affairs as we're such an insufferable species, yet this is your second uninvited appearance in what must be the blink of an eye for an eternal being such as yourself. I'm not out to disturb your peace… in return, please don't make a sport out of disturbing mine at every opportunity?''
Death does not reply verbally, taking a step back as its body morphs back to the far less off-putting spectral form. As soon as the face of Snape has vanished, Harry feels it is safe enough to nudge Hermione, whispering words of courage in her ear until she stops trembling and reluctantly frees herself, opting to curl up in an armchair a safe distance away. She seems much less inclined to approach her newest 'friend' again, and Harry debates whether to give the girl an excuse to put further space between herself and Death by asking her to fetch Voldemort – Merlin knows she won't agree to leave Harry alone here if not for a useful purpose. Unfortunately, he has not kept track of the Dark Lord's schedule, who tends to spend much time in the prisoner wing and cellars where Hermione cannot enter, so the excuse would be far too flimsy and perhaps not even yield results.
Silver shimmers in the corner of his eyes, appearing to be a trick of the light until supple fabric winds itself around Harry's shoulders. ''You ought to have this back,'' Death speaks. It's difficult to make out emotion in its gravelly voice, but Harry knows a peace offering when seeing one.
''Thank you. Now, if you don't mind-''
''I'm still waiting for my answer!" Casting one glance at Dudley, Harry fears the boy is about to explode, so full of rage is he. Right, the question of the missing soul mark…
Careful to not sound too demanding, he asks: ''Death? Would you explain?''
''Upon birth in this world, Dudley Dursley was fated to die at no older than nine. Any possible road led to an early demise. Why Fate spun such a short thread for this one or why Magic gifted her powers, I cannot say. Possibly, neither were deliberate decisions, like I do not have my hand in every death that takes place. Most paths simply happen as a result of the accumulation of choices made. Yet all soul bonds are woven individually, and Magic does not bestow marks on those who should die before having the possibility to meet their Intended.''
''That's UNFAIR!'' Dudley screams, fists balled as if he's about to punch someone.
''My siblings are not known for fairness, no. You humans have a saying that is peculiarly true: Life isn't fair. He really isn't. Even this-'' Death points towards the Resurrection Stone. ''- is an injustice. An object created to forcefully reconstruct the dead, make them believe to be half-alive when all they are is displaced souls and minds dressed up in a thin layer of source magic to give shape. More perverse than what Magi Mortem can achieve by drawing power from my moons… This is truly only a small part of your cousin, Master. His body, magic and life are all missing. The mind he uses has been torn away from the whole it started to meld with. I would like to take it back to my realm.''
Dudley does not appear inclined to leave, shaking his head wildly. ''I'm FINE!'' he yells. ''I don't want to go back! Who cares about peace?''
Harry ignores the tantrum, not exactly wanting the kid to haunt this manor forever. However, Death returning Dudley will likely mean the end to this conversation, and there are still far too many questions to ask, so he holds back from agreeing with either of them for now.
''Do you know if there were any possible timelines where I would have gone to the Dursleys instead of convinced Sirius and Snape to take me in? If so, shouldn't Dudley have lived much longer?''
''Ahhh, you are learning to ask the interesting questions. There were two paths involving you being sent away. In one, your cousin died when your temper eradicated the entire family. You would never learn he was a wizard. In the other, you discovered his abilities and took blame for any accidents, stalling the timeframe before his parents caught on. During his ninth birthday party, Dudley had an uncontrollable and public outburst of magic when receiving too few presents.''
''And I couldn't take the blame, always being excluded from those parties,'' Harry mutters, somehow comforted by that his interference might have led to the longest lifespan mentioned. ''Surely, the Ministry would have wiped everyone's memories?''
''Of bystanders. Not of the parents. Dudley Dursley would have died again by their doing.''
''I hate them,'' the child hisses nastily. ''I hate them so much. If I could hurt them more I would.''
Harry is about to say 'they're dead now', but how much of a comfort is that to someone who has also crossed over? ''Would you like to meet their other murderer?'' he asks instead, an idea inspired by the enthusiasm the boy had shown about the violent deaths. As hoped, Dudley perks up at that suggestion.
''Can I?'' the boy eagerly asks in the same moment that Death declares: ''I will not show myself to him.''
That statement makes Harry pause and regard the being, while recalling an earlier proclamation of having grown tired of Potters and Voldemorts. Knowing his fiancé, Harry has no illusions about who the cruellest Masters of Death are. However, this is one thing he does not wish to budge on. There's no contest between whom to spare the feelings of. His Intended will always win.
''He fears you enough when being able to see you,'' Harry reasons. ''I'll not put him at a disadvantage. I've no clue how many other versions of Voldemort you have seen and dislike - Hell, I only knew one other and hated his guts for most of my life, so I understand where you're coming from - but this one is wonderful and mine and I expect anyone in my vicinity to treat Voldemort with appropriate respect. Showing yourself is the bare minimum.''
''How sweet of you, my angel,'' a self-satisfied voice sounds from behind, and Harry's face heats up faster than a metal ladle in a boiling cauldron when realising who has silently entered the room. The only disadvantage to living in a house so drenched in Voldemort's presence is that the changes in their soul bond from proximity are incredibly subtle until reaching the point of physical touch.
''Hi-'' Harry croaks out when, upon whipping around, he's met with the most stunning sight: pale limbs draped in fabric that shimmers like a dark oil spill, complimented by a pearlescent, almost sheer outer robe and the light that catches on the moving scales of two snakes that adorn the Dark Lord. Manasa is an onyx necklace wrapped loosely around Voldemort's throat, whereas Nagini curls up around the man's feet. Feeling entirely inadequate to stand beside this absolute vision, Harry subconsciously tries to mess up his hair, only to have his fingers playfully snapped at by Hera.
''Rest assured that I can handle myself perfectly well, dear. Unlike everyone here, I see,'' the older wizard assesses, crimson gaze resting on Harry's sister, who has silently watched the ongoing conversation since choosing to put some space between herself and Death. ''Hermione, there are calming draughts in the nearest bathroom on the first floor,'' he begins, then stills when she looks up with unblinking eyes, a clear invitation to one of the greatest Legilimens of their time ''Ah- you may also use the Floo in my study to leave for Grimmauld Place. I've no doubt that your guardians will welcome you. Harry is in good hands now- and darling, if I see a single ounce of self-reproach, I will cast the Imperius curse on you again to calm you down.''
Though getting the hint, there's honestly no space in his mind for guilt over not being able to take proper care of Hermione's distress, so flooded are Harry's thoughts with sheer admiration. Voldemort had walked into a room containing his greatest fear in invisible form, only to thoroughly command the space within seconds. If uncertainty is a monstrous beast, the Dark Lord just leashed it and pulled harshly on the reins. Becoming fearsome does not sound like a terribly difficult goal, considering he has the best mentor to learn from. Where Harry is a storm, Voldemort is a deadly hurricane, one who will be plenty motivated to corrupt his soul mate further, to show how to seize control and harden one's heart, if Harry were only to ask for it.
To survive the future and take up the mantle bestowed upon him by the Hallows... he will ask for it.
It is time to leave uncertainty in the dust.
''Well, then…'' Voldemort speaks up once they're one person less. Long fingers find Harry's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly as the wizard both mentally and physically backs him up. None of that reassurance finds its way into his wrathful voice when icily declaring: ''I would wish you a good afternoon, Death, but I fear we have a score to settle. You have hurt someone dear to me, and as much as Harry will let you get away with it, I will not. Whether or not you show yourself hardly matters. I will burn this house down if need be to return the pain you cause my Intended.''
Just maybe, having a possessive, vengeful fiancé be a part of this conversation is not a good idea after all…