Privet Drive was the same.
Neat, pristine, silent.
Like it was trying to hide the rot beneath.
Harry stepped through the front door, and before he could even breathe, a meaty hand slammed into his chest, shoving him backward into the wall.
The impact rattled through his ribs, sharp and sudden, knocking the air from his lungs.
Vernon Dursley stood over him, eyes dark with something cruel.
"Well, boy," Vernon sneered, voice thick with satisfaction. "We're going to fix that attitude of yours."
Harry said nothing.
Didn't fight.
Because he knew.
Knew that Death was there. Watching.
And Death could not interfere.
Not yet.
So Harry took it.
Took the first strike. The second. The hard crack of a belt against his back, the sharp sting of knuckles against his jaw. The weight of the blows, the punishment Vernon had been promised he could give.
Dumbledore's words had been clear.
Discipline is necessary, Mr. Dursley. Do what must be done.
And Vernon obeyed.
Again. And again. And again.
Until Harry Potter—The Boy Who Lived, heir to an ancient legacy, Death's own chosen—collapsed onto the floor, bloodied and silent.
And Death?
Death seethed.
Because this was not how the world was supposed to be.
This was not what belonged to them.
But rules were rules.
And Death could only wait.
For now.
Three Months Later
Theo was furious.
Three months.
Three months of silence.
His letters—unanswered.
His inquiries—met with shrugs and ignorance.
Even his father—who normally ignored anything unrelated to politics or business—had told him to drop it.
But Theo would not drop it.
Because something was wrong.
And no one else seemed to care.
Theo paced his bedroom, fingers twitching at his sides. Harry should have written. He would have written. But instead, there was nothing.
Silence.
A void where his Harry should have been.
And Theo hated it.
Hated the uncertainty.
Hated the feeling that something was missing.
Then—
The candles in the room flickered. The shadows stretched.
Theo froze.
Because something was here.
Something cold. Something ancient.
And when he turned, he saw it.
Not a man. Not a creature.
A shadow.
Dark and shifting, whispering at the edges of reality.
And then—
"You have waited too long, little heir."
Theo's blood turned to ice.
Because the voice—it wasn't human.
It wasn't magic as he knew it.
It was something older.
Something that should not be speaking to him at all.
Theo clenched his fists. "Where is he?"
The air shook.
And Death—for there was no other name for it—sighed.
"Broken. Beaten. Stolen from me."
Theo felt something shatter inside him.
"Fix it," Theo growled, eyes dark, furious. "Bring him back."
The shadow loomed closer, wrapping around him like smoke.
"I already have."
Theo's heart stopped.
And then—
The room went silent.
The shadow was gone.
And Theo knew—
Harry wasn't just missing.
Harry had been dying.
And someone was going to pay for it.