When Harry woke up again, all the pain he was feeling moments ago was gone. He was no stranger to pain. He knew the feeling inside out. He was familiar with the pain of physical injuries. He knew the pain of being under the cruciatus. He knew the pain of seeing your loved ones dying in front of your eyes. Mental or Physical, Harry knew pain. But the pain he had felt was not one he ever wanted to feel again. Be it mere instinct or his inner slytherin's self preservation skills finally kicking in, he just knew he would never be able to survive that gut wrenching agony ever again. It had felt like his very soul was being ripped apart.
He stirred between consciousness and the never ending void of peace that still seemed to linger at the edges of his vision, his senses sluggish but growing steadily with every passing moment. The air around him felt still, eerily so, thick with shadows that, for a second, almost seemed to be breathing. His eyes roamed around through the area with as much precision as they could manage, and although Harry could feel that he remembered the place, it didn't really seem to be from a pleasant memory.
He was laying in front of the Veil. The Veil of death. It shimmered steadily, a faint glow emitting from its depths, its surface rippling as if it was pure light floating like a liquid. But he wasn't in the Department of Mysteries. He would vouch for that observation with a blind eye. No. There was something different. Something different with the magic that surrounded him. It felt suffocating. So- pushing.
He pushed himself to his feet unsteadily, and for a fleeting moment the cold beneath his palms felt alive, as if the very ground was rejecting his presence there. He wasn't really feeling comfortable enough to want to stay either.
"You're awake."
The voice that filled that silence was deep, and it seemed to fill in the silence perfectly. It was something that belonged there.
Harry wasn't a fool. And his time on the run hadn't exactly helped with the paranoia that Crouch-turned-Moody had all but drilled in all their heads. His head snapped up with lightning speed from where the voice had come through, but when he rummaged through his clothes he came to a dreadful conclusion. He didn't have his wand on him. He was unarmed. The fact did little to calm his already fraying nerves that were turning worse with each second that went by, the suffocating magic of his surroundings seeming pressing on him as if trying to cease his very existence, rejecting whatever it was it seemed to find in him.
"Let's go to a better place, Master. You cannot stay here. You do not belong here."
Harry hesitated, the voice's words ricocheting in his skull. 'Master', it had called him. But the title felt foreign, misplaced—as though it was meant for someone else entirely. He wasn't a person fond of titles. His whole life had been dictated with titles at every turn he had come across, titles that raised expectations, titles that always seemed to demand something of him. It did not matter if he was already so quaint. It did not matter that sometimes he felt so empty, that he had nothing to give anymore.
The space around him seemed to constrict, pressing against him with invisible weight. The faint rippling glow of the veil reflected in his glasses, but even its light couldn't cut through the oppressive darkness. He could feel the pressure of the magic on his skin. It felt so- cold. Chilling to his very bones.
"Who… who are you? What is this place?"
His voice came out further unsteady, cutting so barely above a whisper.
The voice emerged again, smooth and deep, as though woven into the very fabric of the air itself. It wasn't cruel by any means. But it wasn't kind either. If anything, it felt empty. Devoid of any warmth or expression.
"I am what comes for all. What waits at the end of every road, however long. But you, Master, you were never supposed to see me here. Not now. Not like this."
Harry took an unsteady step back, the cold seeping through his shoes. He couldn't tell if it was the ground or his own blood running icy. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.
The shadows around the veil began to twist, as if alive, curling like ink dropped into water. Harry's breathing quickened. For every question he tried to form, ten more clamored for space in his mind. He knew what the voice was. But he didn't want to admit it. The existence felt like a curse on his tongue, as if it was being dipped in acid and covered in boils. He did not want to admit he knew. He didn't want to acknowledge it.
"I—I don't understand. What do you mean, Master? Why me? Why am I here?"
His voice felt so dimmed in the never ending void. So, so desperate.
The voice chuckled softly, sending shivers down Harry's spine. The veil flared brighter for a moment, illuminating the faint outline of what could have been a figure—yet wasn't. The edges of it blurred and rippled, as though too ethereal to exist entirely.
"You ask why. Yet, in the marrow of your bones, you already know."
The voice took a short pause as if savouring its next words. Harry didn't like feeling so exposed. It felt as if he was laid bare in the course of mere seconds. He really didn't like it.
"You stand beyond the veil, in my domain. Though not entirely. You are alive, yet dead. A paradox wrapped in flesh and soul. You should have unraveled. You should have faded into nothingness. And yet, here you are."
Harry's knees threatened to buckle. His mind was reeling. He clenched his fists as though bracing for some brunt force that was about to knock him out. He didn't like it one bit. He didn't like being different. He didn't like being abnormal. And yet everything around him seemed so determined. So, fixed up, on settling him alone, on placing him away from everyone else.
"What do I have in me? Why me?"
Harry felt like he was back to being a child. A small petulant child. He didn't want it. He never wanted it. Why him? Why? He felt like he was whining. Standing in front of something so inevitable, getting thrusted into positions people would kill for. But why him?
Death paused, oh yeah, Death, the only deity, the only entity, its presence looming closer. Though unseen, its voice felt more intimate now, as though whispered directly into Harry's mind.
"Because you are mine. My Chosen. Bound to me by forces older than this world, older than the stars themselves. Yet you cannot remain here. My domain does not welcome the living, and you… well, you refuse to die properly."
"You are immortal, Master. Your soul cannot splinter, cannot fade, cannot rest. And so, you disrupt the balance of all things. Even now, the veil strains under your weight."
Harry trembled, stepping backward instinctively, though the space around him felt infinite. He dared ask the question burning in his mind since the very start of his realisation.
"Master of Death? What- does it mean? What am I supposed to do?"
Master of Death. Even in his wildest dreams, he had never imagined it. How would he? Even in those dreams it had felt so ominous. So unnecessarily big. How do you master Death? Something so inevitable? So unrelenting?
Death laughed— laughed. But it seemed so- soft, almost indulgent, like a parent amused by a child's curiosity.
"What you are supposed to do, Master, is unravel. But you resist that, as you resist everything. You walk paths not meant for mortals. You wield the Hallows not merely as tools, but as extensions of yourself. You've accepted me. My existence. My very crux. You're not afraid of me. You embraced me."
There was a pause. Harry felt like he needed more than that to stomach what was being given to him.
"You come from the Peverell blood, Master. The blood of a family who once had swore their undying loyalty to me. Swore allegiance to my very being. Only a true Peverell can master the Hallows. And you not only carry the blood of Ignotus Peverell, the one of the three brothers who had once been most dear to me, but all three of them. You can wield the powers of the Hallows like no one before. Your role has a purpose, rest assured. But it's not something I can relay to you now. Not yet. You are fragile, for now. But you will not remain so forever. Not with the Hallows bound to your will."
Harry felt his heart pounding, his pulse roaring in his ears. The noise seemed to vibrate through the space surrounding him, vanquishing the eerie silence of the void. It felt darker now. The shadows seemed colder. He forced himself to steady his breathing, sorting through the boggling amount of questions that seemed to thread through his brain.
"What happened? To the world? The one I left? I died- right?"
Harry looked towards the rough estimate of what he calculated of the deity's position. It felt so insignificant. The details that were being spouted on him seemed so much more important, but he couldn't just leave the thought alone. He had to know. He had to know that all of it was not for nothing. That the wretched soul of Tom Marvolo Riddle was finally gone from the mortal terrain. That he was not just being a fool when he had jumped in front of the killing curse in hopes that the monster of the man he had become would become mortal and finally die.
"You- didn't die. Not exactly. You cannot die, Master. You're immortal. And even when your soul is ripped off your body, you cannot remain in the realm of the dead. The afterlife is not for you."
His breath hitched. How does one take that information well? He decided he had more pressing matters to attend. He can wallow in his self pity later.
"What about my world? What about Voldemort?"
The voice had paused as if taking a breath, as if uncertain of what to say, what to speak.
"Nothing remains. No bones to bury. No souls to mourn. Just silence. Everything burned. Everyone—burned. Voldemort is gone, yes. But so is everything else."
He felt shaken. There was nothing left? What did that mean? How can there be nothing left?
"You're lying- there- there must be something- someone-"
"I do not lie, Master. If there was something left, I would have collected it. But I did not. There is nothing. Nothing's left."
Nothing left. Harry felt pathetic. He was mourning the loss of a world that was no longer present, no longer existed. He wouldn't go there again. He wouldn't see anyone again. The magic of his surroundings rippled, as if it had acquired its own pulse. As if it beated, like a live heart. The veil seemed to be flickering more violently, waves of light rippling towards him as though protesting his continued presence. Death's voice sharpened.
"You cannot remain here. You cannot remain in my domain for any long. Your path lies elsewhere, in another world. Another time. The deities have calculated it so. Yet even they faltered in their precision. They did not see your bond. They did not anticipate the fracture."
"Bond? What Bond?"
It was true. Harry was confused beyond recognition. It felt too much. Too much information. Too much knowledge without having any time given to process it. Bond? What did that mean now?
"You were not meant to die."
"Not yet. Not like that. Even those who meddle in fate did not see the bond. Not the deities. Not the forces beyond them."
"Draco's end was your end. But something else intervened. You were meant to cross alone. Yet you will not."
Draco? Bond? Harry's mind was reeling. His mind could barely process the words. Where was it all going?
"I don't understand. What do you mean?"
He noticed how he hadn't spoken more than just phrases for so long. But how does one speak when their mind is in a whirlwind of so many thoughts, so many questions?
Soft laughter echoed through the halls, the space seemingly curling at the edges of its existence through the sound.
"That's the question, isn't it? You see, Master, you two share an unusual bond. You and Draco. It was something unexpected. Not even me and my siblings- the deities- had ever expected something like that. It exists through magic so old it precedes even my own existence. It doesn't follow any laws. It isn't restricted. Not by time. Not by spaces or dimensions. When his soul left the mortal plane, when I collected it, I did not expect the bond. I did not know your own soul would splinter in search of its counterpart. Your magic tried to keep it together, to keep your soul tethered, but it yearned for its partner. You two cannot stay separate. Your very souls are intertwined in a way no one else has ever seen before."
When Harry didn't speak anything, Death continued.
"You need to go, Master. The realm of the dead is not for you. And I cannot come into the mortal realm untethered. We will meet again, rest assured. You cannot run away from me even if you want to, just as I cannot stay away from you. You can restore me in your world. You can restore the old ways, but that will take time."
The veil was now flickering furiously. Harry didn't know what to say. He could only listen as he was given orders by the deity who sounded so- bemused and yet so unnaturally fond. Fond of him.
"You will arrive at a time before you knew yourself. 1986. Time has unraveled itself to grant you this—this respite."
"But nothing is fixed. Fate is malleable. Magic shifts. If you are careful, the world will mold itself as intended."
"If you are reckless… everything will burn once more."
"What am I supposed to do? Where am I going? What is my purpose?"
He knew he was blabbering. But he needed answers. He was tired of diving blindly into everything thrown at him.
"You seek clarity where there is none. You will learn what you must, when you must. For now? Go to Gringotts. The goblins know more than they let on."
The voice was filled with a dark amusement. But the entity seemed to fray at the edges.
"You will not be alone, master. You will have friends and people with you who have travelled the dimensions being tethered to you. They will be with you there. I do not know exactly how many there are, nor do I know who they are. This was work of forces that exist beyond me. I cannot vouch for it. You will know when you see them. And then? You will understand. "
"You will reach this world in the morning of Samhain, 1986. This time is given to you from us as a time to recuperate. Remember, all these people and you, you all have your own counterparts that belong to this world still there. There will be two of all of you. I cannot transfer you into your original bodies unless I am able to reach the mortal world for longer periods of time. You will have to work in a way so you do not disturb the original workings of the world."
"So there would be a younger me who will still be what- six? And he's staying at Privet Drive?"
"Yes, Master."
"I cannot just leave him there, then. I don't care how the world changes. I cannot leave a child there knowing exactly how he's being treated!"
"You can do whatever you want, Master. Just make sure whatever you do, you do it so that that old man cannot find out. He has always made our jobs harder. He literally thinks he's above us somehow."
"Dumbledore?" Harry squeaked out. It wasn't that hard to believe but still disbelieving that even a deity was so crass with the old headmaster.
"He has a really bad streak with us, Master. My siblings loathe him. Magic wishes everyday that she had permission to just strip him off his magic. The man doesn't deserve it."
That seemed too much to Harry. He was left speechless.
"You will arrive at Iola Castle when you go from here. It's a Peverell property. You are now Lord Peverell. Use your identity to do what you must."
Lord Peverell? What in hell? Harry had questions, a lot of them, but the space around him was continuously tightening, as if forcing this interaction to end.
"Remember. Your bond with him would make you confused a lot, Master. It is almost… anomalous. Even those who play with destiny cannot define it. Souls do not tangle in this way- not human souls. It was not meant to be. Yet it is."
A beat seemed to pulse through the air.
"He was your end. But perhaps… he is also your beginning."
The air around them was beginning to thin down. The world felt pressing down on him as Death's presence was beginning to flicker.
The entity's final words vibrated through his body, curling like whispers around his mind.
"We will meet again soon enough."
"And next time? You will not leave with just questions, Master."
And then the silence was back. The eerily still atmosphere seemed to crowd on him, the edges of his vision blackening. And voluntarily or not, the world around him ceased to exist and he felt himself succumbing to the pull of unconsciousness.
The pull of unconsciousness faded slowly, leaving Harry in a haze, his senses slowly clawing their way back to the surface. He groaned quietly, pressing a hand into the damp earth beneath him as his vision blurred and sharpened in intervals. The chill of the early morning air bit at his skin, sharp and unforgiving, and the scent of rain-soaked grass mingled with something… old. Timeless.
He blinked, and the towering form of a Castle came into view. Its ancient silhouette loomed against the faint light creeping through the edges of the horizon, bathed in shifting mist. The ground stretched vast around it, desolate yet brimming with an eerie kind of energy—magic, alive and pulsing, running through the earth like veins.
Slowly, Harry sat up, his body sore, as though the very act of existing had torn him apart and stitched him back together. His breath formed small clouds in the frigid air as he took in his surroundings, his mind still frayed from Death's lingering words.
He had so many questions. Too many. And yet, he was here, thrust forward into this world—expected to understand, expected to act, expected to become… something.
The cold gnawed at his skin, pulling him from his thoughts as he rose unsteadily to his feet. He staggered slightly but pressed on, letting his gaze wander toward the castle. The shifting mist made it hard to focus, but something about the place felt—heavy. As though it was watching him, silently waiting for him to move.
His mind churned, grasping at fleeting strands of thought. He thought of the title Death had called him with. Master of Death. He thought of the world he'd left behind, now nothing but ashes and silence. He thought of Draco.
The bond.
Harry frowned, his hands curling instinctively into fists at his sides. What did it mean? Why did Death sound so certain, so unyielding, yet so unsure all at once? Souls tangled together—his and Draco's—bound by forces beyond understanding, beyond time, beyond dimensions. It felt so ridiculous. They were not bonded. They could not be bonded. They were literally each other's arch nemesis. But the proof was staring him in his face wasn't it?
A sound cracked through the air, sharp and violent.
Harry's thoughts were shattered as he whipped his head around, instinctively reaching for a wand that wasn't there. The space beside him warped, the edges of the mist tearing apart like fabric, rippling with unnatural energy. The stillness of the morning was obliterated as a figure fell forward, colliding with the ground in a heap.
Ron. Ron? RON?
"Bloody hell—" Ron groaned, pushing himself up onto his elbows, his voice rough and disoriented.
Before Harry could even process the sight, the air twisted again, and another figure landed beside Ron with a sharp gasp.
Hermione.
Harry's chest tightened, relief and confusion crashing into him at the same time. His lips parted as he moved instinctively toward them, but before he could take more than a step, another crack split the atmosphere.
Draco.
Harry froze. He wasn't breathing. His mind lagged behind reality as Draco Malfoy—a person he'd watched die—appeared before him, collapsing onto the damp grass with trembling fingers.His pale hair clung to his forehead, and his sharp gaze cut through Harry like glass the moment their eyes met.
The world spun.
Before Harry could force his limbs to respond, the space around him tore apart again. The arrivals came faster now, one after another, too quick for his mind to keep up.
Luna, a serene smile adorning her face even as she looked quite in pain while she laid down.
Neville, wide-eyed and pale, his hands shaking slightly as he took in the scene.
Susan and Hannah, clutching each other for balance.
Greengrass, Zabini, Nott, Davis, their expressions unreadable as they scanned their surroundings. Harry knew the slytherins at face value but was just as blank about them as they were about him probably. He didn't understand their role. Why were they here?
The air pulsed, heavier than before. Another sharp crack filled Harry's ears, and when he turned—his heart nearly stopped.
Snape.
Harry's breath hitched. His body refused to move as the man he'd hated, respected, mourned stood in front of him, his dark robes billowing faintly in the morning breeze. For a moment, neither spoke, and Harry could see the faint confusion that tinted the man's expression as he raised his eyebrows, taking in the scene in front of him.
The space rippled again.
Harry's heart clenched as Sirius appeared, disoriented but alive—whole—followed immediately by Remus, his amber eyes scanning the mist with calculated precision.
Harry wanted to move. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. But the air pulsed one last time, and the final figure arrived.
A boy.
He looked young, his dark hair neatly combed, his sharp features eerily familiar—but Harry didn't recognize him. The boy stood stiffly, silent, his piercing grey eyes scanning the group. For a fleeting moment, Harry thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in the boy's expression, but it was gone too quickly to confirm.
Harry stared at him, at all of them, his mind unable to catch up to the impossibility surrounding him.
No one spoke. The morning mist swirled quietly around them, but the silence was crushing. Everyone stared at one another, their expressions a kaleidoscope of shock, confusion, disbelief.
Harry's throat felt dry as the same thought echoed in his mind and, judging by the looks on their faces, everyone else's, too:
What the fuck.