A whisper to loud, hiding in plain sight.
Harry’s hand slammed against the marble wall of the Peverell vault, breath hitching as the echo of the prophecy faded from the air. The words still twisted in his head, looping like a cursed record he couldn’t stop.
It wasn’t supposed to be heard.
He pressed his back to the cold stone, dingers digging into his scalp as if he could physically pull the tension from his mind.
“Shit,” Harry muttered barely above a whisper. His heart pounded hard enough to feel it in his throat. “Shit, shit , shit-“
He pushed off the wall and started pacing, boots scuffing against the ancient floor of the vault. The torches lining the chamber flickered uneasily, shadows lurching with each uneven step he took.
It was supposed to be just for me.
His magic roiled beneath his skin, prickling like static, dangerous and volatile. He could feel it leaking out in sharp pulses. The weight of his temper alone made the nearest torch sputter violently, as if fearing for its life.
“Why did it have to echo?” Harry growled, dragging both hands down his face. He could feel the heat rising behind his eyes - anger, frustration, and the gnawing dread that followed him ever since he became Master of Death.
And now, Dumbledore heard it. Grindlewald probably did too, wherever the hell he was. Tom - of course Tom - wouldn’t miss a whisper about Death if it came wrapped in gold tied with a bloody bow.
Harry forced himself to breathe, thinking of Neville. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Steady. Think.
It wasn’t like they knew who the prophecy was about. At least, not yet.
But they would look.
They would always look.
“Can’t have that, can we?” Harry muttered bitterly. His hand clenched into a fist at his side, nails biting into his palm. No one’s prying into this. Not Dumbledore. Not Grindlewald. Not Riddle.
And especially not some overeager Ministry idiot convinced they were the Chosen one reborn.
Harry stopped pacing abruptly, narrowing his eyes as his brain started connecting threads.
There was one way to make sure no one found him.
He needed to disappear- properly this time. No traces. No hints. Just another face in the crowd.
A bitter smirk tugged at his lips as the idea fully took root.
“Guess it’s time to go back to school,” he said, voice laced with sardonic amusement.
It wasn’t like he could stay hidden forever. That would only make people more suspicious. No, he needed to stay close - right under their noses. Somewhere so obvious it became laughable to question it.
And what better cover than the one subject wizards couldn’t give less of a damn about?
Muggle Studies.
Harry let out a low, almost delirious chuckle.
It was ridiculous.
It was fun.
It was perfect.
No one would suspect the Muggle Studies professor, rambling about the danger of muggles and magical theory, to be the literal Master of Death.
“Harry Evans,” he mused out loud, testing the name on his tongue. It felt strange, using his mothers maiden name. Familiar in some ways, but far enough from his past.
He’d need paperwork. Credentials. A whole fabricated history. Nothing too fancy, just believable.
Harry exhaled sharply, then raised his hand, palm outward. The magic surged effortlessly, responding to his intent without hesitation.
In a flicker of Dark ink and parchment, the necessary documents began to assemble midair, conjured by sheer force of will. Professor Harry Evans. Muggle Studies. Transfer from a nonexistent school somewhere across the continent.
He almost felt guilty for how easy it was. Almost.
The last piece - a signature- etched itself onto the paper with an elegant flourish.
There.
Harry grabbed the documents, shaking his head as he glanced over the fake credentials.
“This is either the smartest thing I’ve done,” he muttered, tucking them away into his coat, “Or the absolute dumbest.”
Either way. He was committed now.