1
The grounds of Hogwarts showed damage unlike ever before. All around the partly destroyed castle, wizards and other magical creatures stumbled. Some wailed in sorrow, while others stood silent.
Close to the Black Lake, four people stood. Three on one side; young and beaten down, on the other, a wizened old man.
“Harry, my boy—”
“I am not your boy, Dumbledore,” the young, messy black haired boy replied.
“You must understand—"
“Yeah, we know, the greater good,” the lanky red-head finished.
“Whose greater good, Headmaster?” The young lady asked, even in her anger there is respect.
The hair with messy black hair was none other than Harry Potter, recently upgraded from Boy-Who-Lived status to Man-Who-Conquered, with the death of Voldemort. The year before he would have been happy, stunned, but happy to see his previous mentor alive. But the year before he had still been slightly oblivious and hopeful that the distrust he had started to feel for the headmaster was unwarranted.
Dumbledore, a man who had apparently faked his death somehow, began to speak, but suddenly a loud pop sounded and the twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes faded.
“You’re… you’re dead,” the former headmaster muttered. Harry did not turn around. He was so tired, he did not think he could handle any more surprises. Silently his two best friends closed ranks beside him, before a voice he’d never heard before spoke.
“Wizards who do not stay dead seem to be a theme here in Britain.” The voice was American and deep, gravely with a hint of anger underneath it.
“I did what I deemed to be the correct decision,” Dumbledore argued.
The American behind Harry scoffed. “You did what you wanted, because you are so used to everyone deferring to you, and Mr. Potter had started to show signs of opening his eyes. Of seeing you for who you are.” Harry snorted and ignored the look Hermione gave him.
“What do you know, Percival? How are you even here? The last time I saw you was—”
“1919,” the man responded.
“No. It was 1925, I remember.”
“In 1919, during the deepest part of winter, Gellert Grindelwald captured me and he stole my place. The fact that you, a man so close to that dark lord, did not notice when he began playing at being me is preposterous.”
“So it wasn’t the first time then,” Harry muttered.
“Harry, you must—”
“No!” Harry yelled. “There is no more, ‘I must.’ I did what was expected of me, I defeated Riddle. I am done.”
“My boy— “ Dumbledore started again, forever thinking that he could push everyone to do what he wanted.
“My entire family trusted you, Dumbkefuck, and you nearly got my brother and my dad killed. You did get Harry killed.” Ron glared at the older wizard. “If Harry, my best mate, is done. Then he is done. And if you keep pushing, well… we learned a whole lot while we were on the run.”
“There isn’t anything we would do for Harry, Headmaster,” Hermione added. Across from them, Dumbledore looked confused. Footsteps carried Harry’s first vision of the visitor. He was not much taller than Harry himself, though probably in his 30’s. His hair and eyes were both dark and he was dressed much like the poncy purebloods did. When he caught Harry’s gaze, he winked.
“Back to your question, Albus. I am here for Harry.”
“Bah. You know nothing of him, or myself,” Dumbledore countered.
“Oh, no. I know everything,” Percival answered. “I’ve had Harry Potter’s entire life, and all the corresponding actions done to him, implanted into my head.” Harry’s jaw dropped. “It appears that he is favored, highly so. And the higher beings who favor him are quite unimpressed with you.”
“You know not what you speak of.” Anger began to roll out of the former headmaster.
“Higher beings,” Hermione muttered low, but not so low that Harry missed it.
“Mione?”
“Higher bearings, he said. Sorry, Percival was it?” she asked. The American man nodded. “Master of Death, Harry. Remember? Riddle was looking for the wand but you already had the cloak and the ring, and when you disarmed Malfoy…”
Harry looked down at the wand in his hand. Missing his Holly wand was a visceral reaction he’d tried his best to ignore. The elder wand in his hand though, he’d considered snapping it. Its history was bloody and he didn’t want to be the master of anything.
“I’m the Master of Death?” Harry asked.
“Yes,” Percival answered. “And when I met him after I died in the prison Grindelwald left me in, he sent me to you. I am to be yours. Your shield, your sword, your friend. And I was sent to you now, because as unhappy as Death is with how you were treated, Fate is even unhappier.”
“You speak no truth, Graves,” Dumbledore spat.
“I speak nothing but the truth, you lying prick. A faked prophecy in order to get rid of your failed protege? Another orphan left to be beaten and abused because it worked in your favor to have a child who thought you were their savior? You’ve been fucking around with things that are above you, Albus Dumbledore, and your reckoning is here.”