Chapter 1
“Fate stitched their souls together with the thread of prophecy and the needle of blasphemy"
When Lord Voldemort—born as Tom Marvolo Riddle—closed his crimson eyes after casting the fatal Avada Kedavra, he had fully expected oblivion. The spell had rebounded, just as it had all those years ago, but this time, there were no Horcruxes left to anchor him. He had died. Again. And this time, he believed it was final.
But death, it seemed, had other plans.
Instead of the void, he opened his eyes to a blindingly white office. The walls were pristine and featureless, the air tinged with something ancient and otherworldly. A desk stood before him, and seated behind it—calmly, regally, almost smugly—was the last person he’d seen before his demise.
Harriet Potter.
The Girl-Who-Lived. The Savior of the Wizarding World. The Golden Girl of Gryffindor.
And now… Mistress of Death.
Her green eyes—so much like Lily’s, and yet nothing like them at all—gleamed with something dark and electric. There was no kindness in them now. No youthful innocence. No naïve hope.
Just power. Cold and commanding.
Tom blinked once, trying to speak, but before a single word escaped him, another presence materialized beside him.
Gellert Grindelwald.
He looked only mildly surprised, as though death were a long-awaited guest he had finally welcomed. His pale blue eyes studied the room, the girl, and then Tom himself, calculating as ever. The former Dark Lord, once cast down by Albus Dumbledore, had arrived in death's domain just as lost—and just as bound—as Tom Riddle.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Harriet rose slowly from her seat, the soft rustle of her black robes echoing in the unnatural stillness. Her lips curled into a smile—wolfish, knowing, laced with something ancient and ominous.
“Well,” she purred, her voice as smooth as silk and sharp as broken glass, “isn’t this a delightful little reunion?”
Neither man answered.
She stepped around the desk, boots clicking softly on the floor, her gaze flickering between the two infamous dark wizards who had, at different times, tried to conquer the world she had saved.
“Gellert Grindelwald,” she drawled, her tone almost affectionate. “And Tom Marvolo Riddle. Two of the greatest minds of your time. Two who sought mastery over death… only to be brought low by it.”
She stopped in front of them, tilting her head. “And now, you belong to me.”
Tom sneered, old habits hard to kill even in death. “What is this?” he hissed. “Some purgatory conjured by your imagination, Potter?”
“Oh, this is no imagination,” Harriet replied, her smile widening. “This is the truth. You died. And you didn’t pass on. Because Death has claimed you. And Death, as it happens… obeys me.”
Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The Hallows…”
She nodded once. “I am their master. Not in name, but in soul. I have walked through the veil and returned. I have wielded the wand, possessed the stone, and worn the cloak. I have known Death—and he has known me.”
Tom opened his mouth to retort, but Harriet cut him off with a glance that silenced even the great Lord Voldemort.
“You both had your chance at domination,” she said coolly. “You failed. You were brilliant, yes. Powerful. Visionaries in your own right. But you lacked the one thing that mattered most.”
“And what is that?” Gellert asked, his voice quiet but firm.
Harriet leaned in, eyes burning with a fire neither man could look away from.
“Purpose.”
Somewhere deep within the twisting halls of Hogwarts, a forgotten classroom lay bathed in shadows. Dust hung heavy in the air, and cobwebs lined the windows like forgotten lace. Inside, Professor Sybill Trelawney sat hunched over a crystal ball, the scent of sherry thick on her breath. Her shawl hung lopsided from her bony shoulders, her teacup long abandoned.
Then, suddenly, she sat bolt upright. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and her voice—no longer her own—boomed with chilling clarity:
“Demise is upon us as the Three shall come to play.
Death will befall those that cross their way.
Death’s Mistress shall take her due,
As the Triad shall rise anew.
The world’s salvation or its final fall
Will hinge upon the Mistress’s call.
True friends shall be found, enemies slain,
And from the wreckage, Love shall bloom again.
Amidst chaos, fate shall sway—
And darkened hearts shall light the way…”
The prophecy echoed off the walls, reverberating like a thunderclap. Then, silence.
Trelawney collapsed back into her chair, breathing heavily, eyes wide but unseeing.
Back in the white chamber, Harriet moved between her two former enemies, her posture regal, her presence undeniable. A woman no longer tethered to the ideals of a dying world.
“You both sought immortality,” she said, glancing at Tom. “You tore your soul apart to cling to life.”
Then to Gellert: “And you sought to remake the world, to raise the wizarding kind to power, at any cost.”
She stepped back, arms spread wide as if presenting a grand design. “Now you will do both. You are not dead—not entirely. Death has granted me a gift. A moment. A possibility.”
The two men stared at her, the weight of her words slowly sinking in.
“I have chosen to rewrite the game,” Harriet whispered. “I am not your enemy anymore. Nor your savior. I am your anchor.”
She smiled again—dark, amused, and undeniably triumphant.
“And together, we will change everything.”
From somewhere far beyond, the veil rippled. The line between life and death blurred, and fate shifted course.
The Mistress of Death had made her choice.
And her chosen… were monsters.