Harry Dies (or Does He?)
Harry has never, NEVER, felt this alone before.
When he lived with his aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon, his only thought was, “SURVIVE”.
When he came to Hogwarts, his only goal was to live up to his name, maybe pass his classes, but mostly to live up to what society deemed him to be; a beacon of light and hope. The wizarding world’s champion against the dark.
But when Sirius, Padfoot, his Snuffles, died because of him; because he went to the Department of Mysteries after seeing a false vision about his godfather… He didn’t know what to do.
He drifted along; never actually living, doing just the bare minimum to “survive.” His smile never reached his eyes. He barely talked to his friends, and agreed to whatever people told him to do instead of asking questions like before. His sister in all but blood, Hermione, had talked to him multiple times, but could never get anything other than “I’m okay.” and a “Don’t worry, I’m just tired.” from the young man.
When he and Voldemort stood in front of each other, for once in Harry’s life, he didn’t think of surviving. For once in his life, Harry decided that he was done being the saviour in everyone’s story.
For once in Harry’s life, he gave up.
Harry hated waking up. He never liked bright things until Sirius came into his life. He always felt that brightness always meant he would suffer after indulging. And wasn’t that just sad?
Every morning, if he didn’t prepare breakfast fast enough or satisfactory enough, he’d get beaten up by his uncle or his cousin.
Every day he wakes up in Hogwarts, he has to be careful unless he wants to be scorned and hated because he did something (talking to snakes brought the “ooh Potter is the next dark lord” talks, existing brought the “ooh Potter doesn’t like the fact Diggory took his fame and killed him inside the maze” talks, even if most of the student body realised that wasn’t true. Defying a useless teacher brought on the “ooh Saint Potter can’t stomach the fact that someone finally won’t listen to him” talks, even if Umbridge was genuinely a shitty teacher), and he was sick and tired of it.
But when Sirius came into his life, he suddenly felt like he didn’t mind the light as much. The way Sirius would glow and light up in happiness whenever he talked about the past, the way he lit up the room whenever he got to talk to Harry, and the way he would indulge the young man with a soft smile on his face whenever Harry asked the man to play wizard’s chess with him or ask him to tell him stories of him and his dad.
For once in Harry’s life, he left like he had something he always longed for: a family.
But he just had to fuck up, didn’t he?
Harry felt a singular tear roll down his eye as he blinked them open. His chest felt heavy with grief and guilt, even if it’s been two years since Sirius died. He sat up, scouting his surroundings to figure out where he was.
He was back in King’s Cross Station, but it looked different from the usual bustling train station. It was bathed in a bright light; like the walls were made out of a thin sheet of paper covering a bright light source. Everything was white; the walls, the floor, the rails, the benches.
Saying Harry was confused would be an understatement. He KNEW he died, he made sure of it when he was facing Voldemort. He didn’t fight the man, he even specifically dropped his wand so he wouldn’t accidentally fire a spell at the man in the event that his muscle memory would act up and accidentally save him again like it did multiple times when they were on the run and were hunting down Voldemort’s Horcruxes.
He stood up from the floor and walked towards a bench when he saw Dumbledore waving at him from the ticketing booth. He blinked in confusion, is this whitewashed King’s Cross where every dead person goes to? If so, where the hell were his parents? Where’s Cedric?
Where’s Sirius?
He shook his head and jogged towards the dead wizard, a smile on his lips. He practised smiling in front of a mirror in Grimmauld Place when he was asked by Hermione why she never saw him smiling a week before they were forced to be on the run. After that conversation, he stood inside Sirius’ room and locked himself in there, practising how to fake a smile. He never was great at faking it; his smile never reached his eyes, and everyone knew he was faking it. But at least no one bothered him about it again.
“Professor?” Harry muttered, blinking at Dumbledore. The old wizard looked better than he did before he died, his beard looking well-taken care of, his arms looking like they weren’t going to fall off his shoulders and looked normal, and his face looked less old. Just in general, Dumbledore looked younger and healthier than the last time Harry saw him.
Although, granted, the last time Harry saw the man was inside a casket.
Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled, a smile on his lips as he greeted the young man. “Harry, my boy. What are you doing here?” The wizard tilted his head slightly to the side as if to say “What are you doing in the afterlife?”
Harry shrugged, looking around the area again. “Is this the afterlife, sir? Where is everyone?” He asked, hoping the old man knew the answers to his questions. He was disappointed when Dumbledore shook his head. “Then what is this place, professor?” Harry frowned as he tried to make everything make sense in his head.
“This is your personal limbo, young one.” A booming voice answered, shaking the ground beneath the two wizards.
Dumbledore frowned, his eyes holding immense hatred that made Harry flinch, even if it wasn’t directed at him. “You promised me a moment to speak to Harry alone, Death. We had a deal.”
“Our deal was that I would let you speak to Magic’s Chosen, as long as you wouldn’t continue derailing him from what he was fated to do, Dumbledore. Which was the exact thing you were going to do if I didn’t make myself known any sooner.” The disembodied voice said, sounding both like a stern father and a disappointed mother at the same time.
Harry cringed, blinking at Dumbledore as he let the conversation happening in front of him sink in. What did the voice mean by Dumbledore derailing what he was fated to do?
“He would’ve killed Voldemort anyway, what difference would it make?” Dumbledore sneered, his stance looking like a defiant child. The thought made Harry snigger lightly, which went unnoticed by the older wizard.
“The difference is that the young boy wouldn’t have to go back to a life where he wouldn’t even survive another half a month more because you meddled with something you shouldn’t have.”
Meddled with something Dumbledore shouldn’t have? What was going on?
“Excuse me?” Harry spoke carefully. “But what are you talking about? What do you mean go back to a life where I wouldn’t even survive long in? What did Dumbledore meddle in that affected my life? How can a dead man affect my life that much?”
The voice didn’t reply for a couple of seconds before it laughed loudly, the train station shaking. Harry fell onto his bottom, while Dumbledore was whisked away into dust.
“Oh dear, I’ve never heard someone call a well-respected person just a ‘dead man’ in all my time as Death.” A man dressed in a black robe reminiscent of Snape’s teaching garment muttered as he wiped the tears from his eyes.
He had curly dark brown hair, an ivory complexion, and striking dark red eyes, brighter than Voldemort’s after his resurrection.
The being nodded at Harry and smiled. His smile reminded Harry of that kind, old woman he ran across in the supermarket when he was younger who helped him shop for his aunt’s family when she was sick and uncle Vernon was off at work. He seemed so comforting; like he would accept and love you despite all your sins. He had the same feeling of a mother’s embrace; like he would never leave you for being human and making mistakes.
His presence was what he imagined having a family felt.
This thought brought tears to his eyes, which Harry rubbed away as quickly as they came.
“Hello, young one. My name is Mors. But most associate me to the word ‘Death’.” The being spoke, his voice a deep baritone instead of the grating sound it sounded like earlier when Dumbledore was around.
Harry blinked at the deity not really sure what to say. “Uh, good day. My name is Harry Potter?” He replied, his sentence coming out as a question making him cringe. ‘Way to speak to a deity, Harry.’ He thought to himself.
The deity, Death, chuckled and nodded. “I know, young one. I’ve been watching you since your birth, it would be remiss of me to not know my sister’s champion’s name.”
“Excuse me?”
“My sister Hecate, the Goddess of Magic, and the triplets of Fate, The Parcae, have deemed you to be their Champion when you were born. You were sired by the family whom I had deemed to be my Champion back when the world was starting to find out that magic was real, and not a threat. But because of Dumbledore’s influence, your father never got to be the family head, never gotten the true heritage of the Potters, and died without knowing or upholding his duty as Death’s champion.” Mors frowned, his eyes twinkling sadly.
“Excuse me?” Harry repeated, feeling dumb because he barely understood whatever Mors told him. “Sorry, wait, okay. So your sisters, Hecate and the Parcae decided they both wanted me as their champion when I was born?” Mors nodded. “Okay, good, I understood that part. So, I was born into the family that you chose AGES AGO to be your champion? Like, not a singular person, you chose the WHOLE FAMILY?” Mors, once again, nodded his head. “Okay, but what does being chosen as a champion entail?” Mors smiled at Harry as he motioned for the young man to follow him.
The two walked to a bench and sat down, Mors folding his arms to his chest as he stared at the rails where trains went.
“Being a Deity does not mean that we’re above the laws of nature, Harry. Yes, we overlook certain parts of a mortal’s life, but that does not mean we are free to change and talk to mortals as we please. We can’t meddle too much in the mortal world, or else the universe might deem it unbalanced and just remove the world altogether. Now, deities need champions to do any meddling in the mortal world, because as deities, it's still our job to right the wrongs of our children. We are essentially the parents of the mortals.” Mors explained, his voice soft and slow as if he was talking to a first grader about colours and shapes.
Harry scrunched his nose in thought as he absorbed what Mors was saying. “Okay. But what does me getting born have to do with getting chosen by your sisters?”
“What do you know about Hecate and the Parcae, Harry?”
“Uh…”
“Oh. I see.”
Harry grimaced as he heard Mors’ sigh. “I’m sorry?” Harry supplied the deity who only shook his head at the teen.
“Not your fault it wasn’t taught to you.” Mors took a moment before speaking again. “Hecate, like me, oversees a certain area in a mortal’s life. For me, I oversee the Death of mortals. For Hecate, she oversees the use of Magic and the distribution of Magic within the mortals.” Harry nodded along. “But for the Parcae, they oversee the mortal’s fate. They know the start, the achievements, and the end of a mortal’s life. They tell me and Hecate when to reap, or when to give Magic to a mortal.”
“Okay?” Harry was still confused, granted it made a little more sense, but he still didn’t connect the reason why he was chosen as a champion of Magic herself and the Fates.
Mors blinked, looked at Harry, and let out an incredulous “What do you mean ‘Okay’?” The deity made vague gestures with his hands in shock and surprise. “Harry, being chosen as a champion of Magic means there’s something WRONG with your generation’s magic! ‘Okay?’ WHAT DO YOU MEAN-” Mors was fully losing it as Harry tried to understand his babbling.
Soon enough, a tall lady wearing a white satin dress materialised behind Mors, putting a hand on his shoulder as he gave up, his hands on his lap and a sigh on his lips. The lady’s lips twitched, her jet-black hair flowing in the air even if there was none. It was shimmering like it had stars stuck permanently onto it. Her skin was ivory, like Mors, except she had a healthy flush to her cheeks, unlike the deity of Death.
“Mors, brother, breathe. He was born in his generation, he wouldn’t know that the Magic itself is thinning.” The lady spoke, her voice warm despite the amusement colouring her tone.
“Sorry, what? What do you mean magic is thinning?” Harry was getting more confused as time went on, despite being in the immediate presence of two deities.
“My name is Hecate, young child, and I am the one most of you wizards call ‘Mother Magic’.” She smiled at Harry, while her hand carded through Mors’ hair. “Around the time Albus Dumbledore became Hogwarts’ headmaster, magic became unbalanced. The Dark Magic that balanced out the Light Magic became scarce, and when I went down and looked through the eyes of my champion, Pandora Lovegood, I realised that the old, senile fool had banned the use and practice of Dark Magic.”
The lady sighed, her eyes looking sad as she continued. ”It had infuriated me, and therefore I took away the gift of Magic from the mortals being born around that time. Thus, Magic itself thinned out. I realised my mistake too late, it was Dumbledore who banned the use of the magic, not everyone. But my champion was killed before I could even try and fix my mistake.” Hecate looked at Mors who smiled at her softly as if to convey that he understood what she felt. “Hence the amount of muggleborn witches and wizards being born into your generation. More and more squibs who were disowned and disinherited were giving birth to witches and wizards, but because of prejudice, they were bullied and left the wizarding world, choosing to forget all about magic if they could, instead of replenishing it.”
“Okay, but what does this have to do with me? Are you saying that my mother, who was a ‘muggleborn’ was born from a magical family’s squib line?” Harry asked, slowly piecing things together. He was still confused, but at the very least he finally had an idea why he was a ‘champion’.
“Yes, Harry. And because she married your father, who was born under a family who was already a champion of a different deity, we were sure you could handle being chosen as a champion yourself.” Hecate nodded, happy that Harry could understand. “Not everyone can be a deity’s champion, Harry. It does help that the Parcae had told me and Mors that you were destined for a good life. It all went horribly though when one of the Parcae sisters snipped the wrong thread of life and snipped off one Sirius Orion Black too soon.” She winced.
Harry felt like his ears were ringing. Sirius’ death was a mistake? He wasn’t supposed to have died back in the Department of Mysteries? Was he hearing this right? “Sorry, what?” Harry asked, his voice so soft and barely audible with shock.
“Harry, I need you to understand; we still make mistakes. And as unfair as that sounds because we’re deities, we still aren’t perfect. The three sisters who were assigned to oversee every mortal’s fate made a mistake and killed your godfather way too soon. And because of that, Mors had to reap you way too soon from a life where you were barely living.” Mors stood and let Hecate sit beside Harry, letting her pull the young teen into her arms. “And as selfish as this might sound, we also took you sooner than was planned because we realised you couldn’t do your job as our champion as you were. So we had asked from the higher Gods if we could right our wrongs and give you another chance.”
Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing; first, he heard that Sirius was killed by mistake, second, he was being talked shit for grieving and not being able to do his job as Magic’s champion, whatever that means, and now being told that he was being given another chance. Another chance to what, lose Sirius again? To lose his light in the dark?
Harry shook as he laughed, his own voice sounding harsh in his ears. He sounded like uncle Vernon when he tried to disobey him the first time when he was 7. “Excuse me? What makes you think that I-”
“Because you’d be with Sirius Black, son.” At that, Harry blinked. Hecate brushed away his tears and smiled at him guiltily. “To be honest, the only reason we had to ask the higher gods to give you another chance at life, was because we wouldn’t just thrust you back into your old life.”
“No, we would put you back into the world in the year 1975; your father’s fifth year at Hogwarts.” Mors grinned at Harry, although Harry could still see how sceptical he was that Harry would agree with them. Harry thought about it, he would lose his friends, his current family that he found with the Weasleys and the Order, but he already threw that away as soon as he dropped his wand in front of Voldemort.
If anything, he isn’t losing anything. He would meet his parents, James and Lily; he would be able to go back to Hogwarts and properly learn instead of having to secretly teach a bunch of students Defense himself in a hidden room at Hogwarts. He would be able to meet Sirius and be with him again.
And, oh wow, wasn’t that great?
But he wouldn’t be Sirius’ godson anymore, would he? He would be some random dude who learns with the guy at the same school. He wouldn’t even be his friend at all, would he? Because how would Harry ever try to become friends with someone like Sirius?
Sirius, who despite being jailed for 12 in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t do, still shone brightly like the sun. Who was brilliant and witty and absolutely, gut-wrenchingly stunning. And as bad as Harry felt for thinking that way for his godfather, he would be blind if he didn’t agree that Sirius was his awakening. He never really thought much about his preferences, having not much free time when a Dark Lord is on your heels every second of the day. But at one point in his life, he had dreams of a life where he could pursue someone with curly, dark chocolate hair, freckles on their cheeks, and the most striking storm-grey eyes.
And wasn’t he just describing his godfather then?
He knew deep down that it was fucked up, that he was a freak for wanting his godfather in a romantic way, and that most probably, it was trauma speaking, but could you blame him? Could you really blame him if Sirius was the only person who made him feel loved? Who made him feel safe even if they both knew that there was a high chance Harry could die the next day and they could do nothing about it? Could you really blame him if the memory of Sirius was made up mostly of pictures of a younger him with Harry’s parents that Harry found inside Sirius’ room in Grimmauld, instead of actual memories of them bonding as an uncle and a godson?
“Will you explain to me what I need to do as your champion?”
With that, the deities looked at each other and smiled.