The Door Between Worlds
The Veil whispered to him.
It wasn’t a sound exactly, more like a feeling pressing against his skin, threading through his bones. The archway before him pulsed, the tattered fabric shivering like a living thing, its edges curling and shifting in an unseen wind. The voices—soft, insistent—echoed in the space between spaces, calling to him, reaching for him.
"Come, Harry..."
The Reaper stood beside him, cloaked in shadows, watching in silence. His presence was neither hurried nor forceful; he simply waited.
Harry’s pulse hammered in his ears. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. And yet, the weight of it—the chill in the air, the breathless stillness—felt more solid than anything he had ever known.
The hospital. His parents. His memories.
What was real? What was the dream?
"You must choose," the Reaper said, his voice smooth as smoke. "You cannot linger between worlds forever."
Harry’s mouth was dry.
"If I go through," he began, his voice hoarse, "what happens?"
"You move forward. You become what you were meant to be."
The answer sent a shudder down his spine. He had heard those words before, hadn’t he? In another place, in another time. "Neither can live while the other survives." The prophecy had always seemed like a riddle, a puzzle waiting to be solved. But what if it had never meant what he thought?
What if Voldemort—his enemy, his nightmare—had never been real at all?
"What happens if I stay?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
The Reaper tilted his head slightly. "Then you remain in the dream."
Harry swallowed hard. The dream.
The life he had built, the friendships, the battles, the triumphs—they weren’t real? He could still hear Hermione’s voice in his head, the way she huffed in exasperation when he didn’t do his homework. He could still see Ron’s lopsided grin after a chess match, still feel the warmth of Hagrid’s bear-like hug.
How could it all be a lie?
"Why should I believe you?" Harry asked, his voice sharper now. "How do I know you’re telling the truth? Maybe this is the illusion. Maybe the hospital, my parents—it’s just another trick. Maybe you’re trying to lead me somewhere I don’t want to go."
The Reaper regarded him for a long moment. "Would you like to see for yourself?"
Before Harry could answer, the world shifted.
The Veil vanished. The shadows peeled away like paper burning at the edges. And suddenly, Harry was standing in a place he knew too well.
Hogwarts.
Or at least, the shell of it.
The Great Hall stretched around him, empty and silent, the enchanted ceiling nothing more than a void of swirling mist. The long wooden tables were gone, the flickering torches snuffed out. Everything was dull, lifeless, frozen in time.
A terrible wrongness settled in his chest.
Hogwarts had never been quiet like this. It had always breathed—with laughter, with magic, with the hum of thousands of students moving through its halls. Now it felt… hollow.
"This is your world," the Reaper said behind him. "A construct of your mind, bound by the limits of your imagination. And it is falling apart."
Harry turned sharply. "No. That’s not true. This place is real. I remember it—"
"Then find them."
The challenge hung in the air between them.
Harry swallowed, his throat tight. Ron. Hermione. Dumbledore. He knew them better than anyone. If this place was real, they had to be here.
"Hermione!" he called. His voice echoed through the empty hall. "Ron!"
Silence.
He turned toward the entrance of the Great Hall and ran, his feet hitting the stone floor, breath coming faster. He burst into the corridors, but they were just as empty. The paintings on the walls were still, their inhabitants missing. The suits of armor stood frozen in place, their visors lowered.
No moving staircases. No shifting shadows. No voices.
He ran to Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady’s portrait was there, but her canvas was blank, the edges of the painting fraying like unraveling fabric.
"This isn’t real," Harry whispered. "This can’t be real."
He turned, sprinting through the halls, past classrooms, past the library, past the place where Nearly Headless Nick had once floated. All of it—lifeless.
And then he reached his dormitory.
The door creaked as he pushed it open.
Inside, there was only one bed.
His.
The others—Ron's, Seamus’s, Dean’s, Neville’s—were gone. Not just empty, but erased, as if they had never been there at all.
Harry stumbled back. No. No, no, no—
The Reaper’s voice was gentle this time. "They were never real, Harry. They were only reflections, shadows of a story you told yourself."
Harry shook his head. "That’s not true. I know them. I know their voices, their laughter, their—"
"Tell me one thing," the Reaper interrupted, stepping closer. "Where was Hermione born?"
Harry opened his mouth—Croydon. No, Devon. Wait… was it Manchester?
His heart pounded. He didn’t know.
"Ron’s middle name?"
Easy. Bilius. No… was it?
His breathing turned shallow.
"What is Hagrid’s mother’s name?"
Fridwulfa, his mind supplied, but even as he thought it, the name felt distant, hazy. Like something half-remembered from a book he had read long ago.
The Reaper said nothing.
Harry felt his legs weaken, his body sinking onto the edge of the single bed. The weight of it was unbearable. His hands trembled in his lap.
"They weren’t real."
The words barely left his lips.
The Reaper knelt before him, placing a cold hand on his shoulder. "No, Harry. But your parents are. And they are waiting for you."
A sob broke from his throat, unbidden and raw.
He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to believe it. But the evidence was there, staring him in the face.
Hogwarts was empty.
His friends were gone.
And somewhere, in a hospital room, his real mother was still holding his hand.
"Come with me," the Reaper said. "It is time to go home."
Harry clenched his fists.
The door between worlds was closing. He had to choose.
And he had never been more afraid in his life.