A/N: This is my take on the classic MoD Harry. This story is dedicated to one of my closest friends Jordan, thanks for encouraging me to write this.
Harry Potter lived a full life, longer than most, though the world had expected no less from its Chosen One. After the dust of the final battle settled, he married Ginny Weasley, as everyone always knew he would. They built a home, busy and bright, filled with laughter and broomsticks and the smell of butterbeer simmering on rainy days. Their three children James Sirius, Albus Severus, and Lily Luna filled their days with life and mischief and wonder. James Sirius, bold and brash, was every inch his namesake, sorted into Gryffindor before the Sorting Hat barely touched his head. He became a professional Quidditch player for the Chudley Cannons, helping restore the once-laughed-at team to a decade of glory. Later, he married Amelia Corner, a sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed witch who kept him laughing and on his toes and they raised three children as wild and golden as the sun. Lily Luna, fierce and brilliant, wore her Gryffindor colors with pride. She joined the Department of Mysteries after Hogwarts, a quiet rebellion against expectation and after years of chasing the unknown, she married Callum Wood, son of Oliver Wood, a Quidditch legend in his own right. Their partnership was a storm and a song, built on daring and dreams. And then there was Albus Severus. Albus, who had carried the weight of two great names and none of their certainties. Sorted into Slytherin, as Harry had quietly hoped he would choose for himself, he found in Scorpius Malfoy not just a friend, but a future.
Years later, in the dappled gardens of Malfoy Manor, under twining arches of silver and green,
Albus Severus Potter and Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy married, their hands twined as easily as their hearts. Harry cried harder than he had at his own wedding, his heart nearly bursting with pride and love and hope. Grandchildren followed, a tumble of laughter and mischief, dark-haired and golden, fierce and clever, a new generation spinning their own legends in the halls of Hogwarts. Harry lived to see them all — first steps, first spells, first letters to Hogwarts. He told them bedtime stories of a boy who lived under the stairs and grew up to be something more than a hero. And when the world had spun enough, when he had given all the love a heart could give, on the morning of his one hundred and fiftieth birthday, Harry Potter, boy who lived, legend, father, grandfather, closed his eyes in his favorite chair by the sea, and slipped quietly into sleep.
The first thing Harry felt was warmth. Not the heat of a spell, but the old, deep warmth of a story waiting to be told. When he opened his eyes, he stood in a place beyond places, a vast endless plane of soft light, humming like a heartbeat. Before him stood a figure. Cloaked in shifting shadows, faceless yet familiar, as if the idea of it had lived in the corner of his mind forever. "Harry Potter," it said, voice low and slow, like the tolling of a faraway bell. "Come. Sit with me."
A chair appeared, simple, wooden, worn smooth by hands long forgotten. Another faced it across a small table. Harry hesitated only a moment before sitting down, feeling no fear. Death sat across from him, folding its long fingers together atop another. For a long moment, they simply regarded one another. Two old soldiers, meeting after a long campaign. Finally, Death spoke. "You are wondering why you are here. Why you did not pass beyond as others do." Harry nodded. "Then let me tell you a story," Death said, and there was something almost fond in its voice, "A story you think you know, but do not truly understand." The air around them shimmered and scenes began to form. A river, dark and swift. Three brothers standing at its edge. Bridges spun from magic, gleaming in the moonlight. "Once, there were three brothers," Death said, the story unfolding in the air like smoke, "You know their names: Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell. Clever men. Proud men. They sought to cheat me, to cross where others would fall." Harry watched as Antioch demanded power, Cadmus yearned for lost love, Ignotus sought to escape. The Hallows formed in their hands. The Wand, the Stone, the Cloak. "But the Hallows were never meant as gifts," Death said, voice low, grave. "They were tests. The Wand to test pride. The Stone to test grief. The Cloak to test fear. Only one of the brothers passed." Harry watched as Antioch fell to murder, Cadmus to sorrow. Only Ignotus lived well, lived wisely, and finally greeted Death as an old friend. "Ignotus understood. He passed the test, not because he fled me, but because he respected me. And so his bloodline was marked. A promise written in the marrow of his descendants." The scene shifted; generations rising and falling, the Hallows lost, found, lost again. "Many have sought the Hallows," Death said. "Some found one. Some found two. But only one of the bloodline could gather them all and remain uncorrupted by them." The images slowed. A boy with a lightning scar. A wand of elder wood. A stone dropped in a forest. A cloak draped over young shoulders. "You, Harry Potter," Death said, voice softening, "child of Lily Evans, blood of Ignotus Peverell, you brought them together. You faced death not with pride, not with greed, not with fear, but with acceptance." Harry swallowed, feeling the weight of it — the years, the choices, the cost. "And so," Death said, sitting back, "you have mastered death. Not to rule over it. Not to defeat it. But to walk beside it, as was always meant. This mastery reveals itself only after the first life is lived. Only after the soul has proven itself ready. You are not the first," Death added, almost idly. "Others have passed the test across the ages. You are not alone, though you will not meet them yet."
Harry exhaled slowly, the truth settling into his bones."And now?" he asked.
Death tilted its head, as if smiling. "Now, you begin again. Each life will build upon the last. Each death will deepen your mastery. On your eleventh birthday in every new life, your memories will awaken. Each thread weaving the tapestry you are destined to complete." The air shifted. The world folded inward and Harry fell, not with fear, but with the quiet, thrilling certainty of a soul beginning its true journey. He fell into darkness. Into possibility. Into the many lives of H. Potter.