A/N: A shorter chapter, just finishing up the prologue before the main story starts fully.
Prologue Pt.2 – A Deal With Death
The world was silent, mourning its fallen heroes. The scent of blood and smoke clung to the air, thick and suffocating. The broken towers of Hogwarts loomed around him, their once-grand spires now jagged ruins against the stormy sky. The wind howled through the shattered stone, whispering through the emptiness that surrounded him.
There were no bodies. No corpses of friends or enemies. The battlefield was nothing but dust and ash, the remnants of a power beyond comprehension. His power.
Harry stood at the centre of it all, the weight of what he had done pressing down on him. The raw magic that had exploded from him in the final moment of battle had left nothing behind—nothing but Ginny.
She was the only remnant of the battle that had consumed everything else. Her body was untouched, not turned to ash like the others, not erased by the power that had torn through the battlefield. Her hair, once vibrant, was streaked with dust, but her face was unmarred. Peaceful. Too peaceful.
He staggered forward, dropping to his knees beside her still form. His hands trembled as he reached for her, fingers brushing the fabric of her robes, torn but intact. He cradled her in his arms, his breath hitching in his throat as he searched for any sign of life. There was none.
A shuddering exhale left his lips as he realized just how empty the world felt. Everyone he had known. All of his friends. Dead.
The Death Eaters, Voldemort—all reduced to nothingness, their very essence consumed by the storm of magic he had unleashed.
His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, brushing away a smudge of dirt, but there was no warmth. No breath. No flutter of her heartbeat beneath his fingers. She was gone.
A strangled noise tore from his throat, something between a sob and a breathless whisper of denial. Her body had survived the storm of his power, but not the battle before it. She had fought, like always, until the very end. She had been all that had remained of his humanity in a world that had been wiped clean of everything else.
Hogwarts itself, the home he had fought so hard to protect, was little more than a tomb. Towers crumbled; stone blackened by the force of his power. The sky above was dark, heavy with unnatural stillness as if the very world had stopped breathing. The castle, once a beacon of hope and sanctuary, stood shattered, its walls cracked and its halls silent.
Harry forced himself to look past Ginny, past the ruin, past the devastation. There was nothing. Not a single soul remained. No echo of footsteps, no distant murmur of voices, no hint that life had ever existed here at all. The weight of it pressed against him, suffocating, crushing.
He had won. He had lost. He had destroyed everything.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to wake up, for this to be some twisted nightmare. But when he opened them again, the scene remained unchanged. He could still feel the rough fabric of Ginny's robes beneath his fingers, the strands of her hair tangled against his palm.
For years, he had fought. For years, he had endured loss, pain, and suffering, always pushing forward because he had no other choice. He had carried the weight of prophecy, the burden of being the one who had to end it all. And now, it was over. It was finally over.
But at what cost?
His body ached, his magic drained, his very soul hollowed out by the destruction he had wrought. He had never wanted this power. He had never sought it. Yet it had answered his call in the moment of his greatest need, and it had taken everything.
His fingers curled into the fabric of Ginny's robes, gripping tightly as if somehow, holding on could change reality. As if somehow, she might wake up, and this nightmare would end. But her body remained still, unyielding in his arms. The silence around them stretched on, an endless void where life had once thrived.
His vision blurred. His grip on reality wavered. He could feel the pull of something deeper, heavier than exhaustion. A final surrender. It would be so easy to just… let go. To give in to the darkness pressing at the edges of his consciousness. To slip away, to follow her, to leave this broken world behind.
He had spent his whole life fighting. Was this truly the end? Could he truly let go?
He let go of Ginny's lifeless form, his fingers brushing against hers one last time.
Then, everything went black.
The darkness was absolute.
For a moment—perhaps an eternity—Harry felt weightless, suspended in the void. There was no sound, no pain, no sense of his own body. Just the vast emptiness stretching in all directions. He had thought death would bring peace, an end to all things, but instead, it was simply... nothing.
Then, like a single drop of ink spilt into water, something stirred. A whisper of movement, a shift in the darkness. The air around him grew heavy with an ancient power, one unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was not magic as he had known it—it was older, deeper, woven into the very fabric of existence.
A soft, echoing sound filled the void, not quite footsteps but something more profound as if the world itself recognized the presence that now approached. Slowly, the darkness began to recede, giving way to a vast hall of shadows and flickering silver light. Tall, imposing pillars stretched endlessly into the unseen heights, each etched with runes that pulsed like fading embers.
At the heart of the hall stood four figures.
The first was cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath a hood, yet Harry felt its gaze—ancient and knowing—boring into him. The very air around this figure shimmered with quiet authority as if the space itself bent to his will. Death.
The other three figures were unlike him. They stood tall and proud, clad in robes from a bygone era, their features eerily familiar. One bore a strong, regal presence, his beard neatly trimmed, his expression unreadable. The second was younger, with a sharper gaze and an intensity that reminded Harry of his own defiance. The third remained at the back, hidden from sight.
He knew who they were before a single word was spoken.
"The Peverell brothers," he murmured, his voice oddly steady despite the unreal nature of his surroundings.
The elder of the two—Antioch—tilted his chin in acknowledgement. "You know of us," he observed, his voice deep, carrying the weight of time itself.
Harry nodded slowly, glancing between them. "Your story was told to me long ago. You wielded the Hallows." His eyes flicked toward the hooded figure. "Or at least, that's how the tale goes."
"Stories change," the second brother, Cadmus, said, his sharp features twisting with something between amusement and regret. "Reality is rarely as simple as wizards would have it."
Harry turned back to Death, his heartbeat steady, his mind racing. "And you," he said, "you're the one who gave them the Hallows."
Death did not move, but his presence seemed to grow heavier. When he spoke, his voice was neither cruel nor kind. It simply was.
"I did not give them," Death corrected. "They were claimed."
Harry frowned. "Claimed?"
The third brother, Ignotus, finally stepped forward, his expression far softer than his siblings. There was something unnervingly familiar about him, something in his sharp green eyes that mirrored Harry's own. "The Hallows are not gifts," he explained, his voice patient. "They are burdens. Choices. Each of us sought them for different reasons—power, love, protection—but none of us truly understood what we had taken."
Antioch let out a short, humourless laugh. "I sought to be unbeatable in battle, and I died for my arrogance. Cadmus wished to see his beloved once more, but he could not bear the agony of what he had summoned."
Ignotus' gaze remained steady. "And I chose to hide. To live. To pass my burden on, so that another might carry it instead."
Harry swallowed, understanding dawning within him. "Me."
A slow nod. "You."
Death spoke again, the finality of his tone sending a shiver down Harry's spine. "You have done what no other has. The Hallows are yours in full. And so, you stand here as my chosen."
Harry felt the weight of their words settle deep within him. The Hallows had been tied to him for years, their influence shaping his fate long before he had even known their names. And now, he stood before the very beings who had first wielded them, in the presence of Death itself.
Yet, for all the power in the room, for all the weight of history pressing down upon him, one truth remained.
Ginny was gone.
Ron. Hermione. Everyone.
His hands clenched into fists. "Why am I here? Where am I?" he asked, his voice quiet, but firm.
Death did not answer immediately. Instead, he lifted a hand—long, skeletal fingers stretching outward. The flickering silver light around them pulsed, shifting into visions of the world Harry had left behind. The ruined castle. The empty battlefield. The sky, heavy with mourning.
"You are in the World Between. Between life and death, between time. Moreover, you are here," Death finally said, "because there is yet more to understand."
The shadows deepened, swirling like ink spilt into water, shifting and reforming into new shapes. Harry stood firm, his eyes locked onto Death's hidden visage, feeling the weight of the moment press against his chest.
"You have walked a path unlike any other," Death intoned, his voice resonating through the vast hall. "You have wielded power beyond comprehension, shaped by pain, loss, and destiny. And now, the cycle nears its end."
Ignotus stepped forward, his expression unreadable but his presence strangely familiar. "We three were once chosen by Death, granted his favour, and entrusted with his gifts," he said, glancing at his brothers before returning his gaze to Harry. "But we defied him, believing ourselves above the fate that binds all mortals. For our arrogance, we serve our penance, bound to this hall, existing in neither life nor true death."
Antioch scoffed, crossing his arms. "We thought we could wield death, but no such thing can be mastered. We sought power, we sought to control fate itself, but in the end, we were mere men playing with forces beyond our understanding."
Cadmus's gaze bore into Harry, sharp and knowing. "And now, Death has chosen another. You."
Harry swallowed. "Chosen for what?"
Death's presence seemed to grow heavier, pressing against the space itself. "You are not the Master of Death. No such thing exists. But you are Death's Chosen."
Harry frowned. "And what does that mean?"
Ignotus regarded him with quiet understanding. "It means you carry the burden of knowledge, of balance. Your magic is not from the Hallows but from our bloodline itself. The Peverell family was always bound to Death, its magic entwined with forces beyond mortal comprehension. This is your inheritance, not the wand, not the cloak, not the stone—but the power that runs in your veins."
Antioch's expression darkened slightly. "It also means you are bound to Death's will, whether you acknowledge it or not. There will always be a price."
Harry exhaled, his mind racing. "And what now?"
Death gestured, and the flickering silver light reformed, showing a vision of a world untouched by the war he had known. A time before Voldemort, before prophecies, before the chaos that had shaped his life. The Hogwarts of old loomed before him, a castle that had not yet been stained by the darkness he had fought against.
"You have a choice," it said, voice like still water over stone. "To remain here, where nothing remains… or to walk another path."
"You offer… mercy?" he rasped, his voice feeling strange to his ears.
"No," Death replied. "Purpose."
It stepped closer, and the void bent around its presence.
"You have proven power, yes. But more than that — resolve. You did not flee. You did not beg. You ended the war, Harry Potter. Even when it cost you everything."
"Tom Riddle sought to cheat me. He failed."
A long pause.
"You ask what you have been chosen for?"
The shadows coiled tighter, and the darkness began to listen.
"You have united the Deathly Hallows, Harry Potter. The tale would have you believe that this would make you the Master of Death. I have no master, Harry Potter. I am inevitable. And you… are my chosen for there is much more yet to do."
Harry took a deep breath and stepped forward.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Acceptance echoed through the silent hall like a breath held for centuries finally released.
The air around him shifted — the shadows deepened, coalescing into smoke that slithered across the floor, circling his feet like curious serpents. The three brothers watched him with expressions that were not quite approval, but something weightier.
Death raised a hand.
The hall trembled.
Stone dissolved into mist, and the space between time opened wide.
Harry found himself standing in a ring of four obsidian monoliths, etched with runes that pulsed like slow heartbeats. The sky above was a swirling canvas of void and starlight, infinite and ancient.
At the centre of the circle, a shallow pool of ink-like water mirrored the stars above. Death stood behind it. The three brothers flanked either side.
"This is not a gift," Death said. "It is a claiming."
Antioch stepped forward first, a blade of shadow appearing in his hand.
"The blood of the Veilborn Shadow runs through our line," he said. "We were not mere wielders of the Hallows. We became something else. Anchors. Vessels. Keepers of boundary magic."
He pressed the blade to Harry's palm. It did not cut flesh. Instead, it drew magic — shadow bleeding out like smoke, curling in reverence.
Cadmus followed, holding out a silver phial. Within it swirled something that looked like starlight drowned in ink.
"Memory," he said. "The grief of a thousand Peverells. Our line is bound to Death not by conquest, but by loss. This is your tether."
He poured the contents over Harry's hand. It sank into his skin like a whisper.
Ignotus was last. He stepped forward, holding only a raven feather — black, iridescent, pulsing faintly with power.
"And this," he said, "is your guide."
The feather rose into the air of its own accord, twisting, folding, forming the shape of a bird.
A low, echoing caw filled the void.
Out of the mist and starlight came a raven. Her feathers were like flowing ink, her eyes bottomless grey. She landed before Harry and stared up at him.
"Nyx," Ignotus said. "The first of us had a raven to guide him through the realm of shadows. So shall you."
The bird stepped forward and touched her beak to Harry's chest.
A sharp burn bloomed on his ribs.
He gasped, falling to one knee as magic surged through him — ancient, cold, endless.
Smoke poured from his skin, wreathed around his shoulders and limbs. Symbols burned into existence around him — runes older than Hogwarts, older than Britain. They flared once, then vanished.
When he rose, his eyes glowed faintly with shadow.
He was no longer Harry James Potter.
He was Harry Ignotus Peverell.
He was the last Veilborn.
He was Death's Chosen.
"As with all ancient Family Magic, you will have access to four unique powers," began Ignotus once Harry had got to his feet.
"The first is the Hallows," continued Antioch. "These have been claimed by you and you have been deemed worthy. The wand will act as an extension of your will. It will amplify your magic beyond what any other could experience but it is not infallible. You can be killed. You are not immortal."
Harry nodded slowly as he retrieved the wand and looked down at it. Its shape was of a skeletal finger, black as pitch with runes carved into ivory at the end of the handle. It was cold to the touch but oddly reassuring.
"The stone has been replaced into the Peverell Family ring and will serve as the Lord's Ring should you need to use it for verification. It will be hidden from those you do not wish to see it, and its power of recalling shades from the dead will remain, but be warned," said Cadmus, a look of sorrow on his face. "But they are merely shades. You have lost as much as any alive. Do not dwell on the dead, Harry. Dwell on the living."
The final words echoed inside Harry's memory as he recalled the words of his old headmaster: "Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living. And most of all those who live without love."
"And finally, the cloak." Said the figure of Ignotus. "In the time you are going back to, the cloak belongs to your ancestors. They have honoured my memory well and deserve to keep it. The power of the cloak therefore will be imbued into your very soul, allowing you its powers at will. While hidden, you will not be detected by any means and will be hidden from sight completely."
Harry nodded, taking all of the information in.
"The second of the family powers is linked to Nyx. She will serve as your guide and companion. She will be your eyes in the sky, your watcher and protector. Care for her and she will do the same for you." Said Cadmus. "As part of the ritual, her likeness will be etched onto your body where her spirit will reside until you have need of her."
Harry took a deep breath, trying to remember all of the information he was being given.
"The next two powers are specifically drawn from the power of the Veilborn. Inside an old house of mine, you will find a Codex on our Family Magic. It will explain all you need to know about the last two powers."
Harry hesitated, then asked, "And what about my possessions? The things that tied me to who I was?"
Ignotus tilted his head. "You mean your artefacts? Your father's map? The watch given to you on your 17th birthday?"
Harry nodded, solemnly. "Yes. The Marauder's Map, Ginny's necklace, my watch… they mean something to me. I don't want to leave them behind."
Death regarded him in silence before answering. "Objects of sentiment hold power beyond mere magic. They are bound to the will of those who cherish them. If you wish, they will follow you, just as the Hallows shall. But be warned, they, too, will be part of your new fate. They will remain, altered to fit the world you step into, but still yours."
Antioch added, "There will be traces of your past self in them, but they will change with you. Their nature will not remain entirely the same. Are you prepared for that?"
Harry let out a slow breath, relieved but wary. At least he would not be entirely without connection to what he had lost. "I understand."
He turned back to Death, his heart steady. "I'm ready."
Death inclined his head. "Then take my hand… Harry Peverell and begin again."
Harry hesitated only a moment before stepping forward and grasping Death's outstretched hand.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
And yet, within that darkness, there was something else. A pulse of power, a shift in reality itself. The sensation of being unmade and remade, of something ancient stirring within him. The whispers of magic far older than wands, older than spells. The magic of Death and the legacy of those who once stood at his side.
He felt it settle into his bones, twisting and reshaping him. His body, his mind, his very essence aligned to something beyond mortal understanding.
Time unravelled around him, the very fabric of existence bending to his passage. He caught fleeting glimpses of moments he had never lived—echoes of battles yet to come, faces both familiar and unknown watching him through the veil of time.
And then, silence.
A deep breath. A new beginning.
The present was gone. The past awaited. The future was going to change.
A/N: Next Chapter will be published next week.