Chapter 1
“-arry? Harry! ”
Harry Potter shot up from bed, hitting the floor on the farthest side of the room and leaping to his feet with his wand out and ready.
“Expelliarmus!”
There was a shriek of surprise as a wand flew into his, and Harry used the opportunity to grab his glasses from the nightstand and shove them on.
Bushy hair and a look of outrage greeted him, and he sighed in relief.
“Blimey Hermione!” he cried, “you scared the bloody crap out of me!”
“I scared you? You scared me!”
Harry opened his mouth to retort and paused, eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to get his surroundings into focus.
He looked back to his friend, who looked a few inches shorter and much, much less pregnant than the last time he’d seen her.
“Hermione,” he said as calmly as he could, “why do you look sixteen again?”
Hermione’s glare of outrage immediately shifted to confusion as she stalked to him, hand pressing to his forehead. “What do you mea—Harry…are you okay? Does your head still hurt?”
He gently pushed her hand away, frowning. “No. I mean—” he looked around, taking in his old dormitory, maybe there had been a mishap, maybe everything went terribly wrong and they shifted him to Hogwarts after his injury.
The brightest witches and wizards moved their hero to his old school dormitory rather than a hospital? Why yes, that sounds logical.
Harry flinched, hands clapping to his ears as he stared at shock at the shadowed figure by the window. It was large; towering over their four poster beds, cloaked in dark mist, as if even the rays of the sun repelled from it.
Merlin’s saggy left —
“Do you see that?” he asked, whirling around to face Hermione, who took an instinctive step back with wide, concerned eyes.
“See what?”
“The figure!” Harry shouted, “the voice!” He whirled back as the figure glided forwards, wand shifting to point at it instead.
She can’t see nor hear me, Master. That privilege is reserved for you, and you only.
“That thing! It-”
The figure disappeared, leaving a single tendril of darkness in its wake. Harry rubbed his fist against his eyes furiously, yet the figure was gone.
“What the hell was that?”
He caught a glimpse of the confusion on Hermione’s face and paused.
"You...have no idea what I'm talking about, right?"
She shook her head, lips pressed tight.
Clearly whatever this figure was, she couldn't see nor hear it.
Right, maybe it’s not the time to mention invisible creatures and voices. He could understand why she’d be scared; he’d only ever heard a voice because of one person before. The horcrux was gone, destroyed by Voldemort himself years prior, and it’d be impossible for it to be -- it’d make no sense for Voldemort to be alive.
The figure remained gone, but it’s voice echoed in his mind. You are correct. I am not Lord Voldemort. I am much more than human and flesh. I am the very thing human and flesh fea—
Harry closed his eyes, and used every ounce of will power to block the voice out. Surprisingly, it seemed to work, since the slow drawl immediately cut off, leaving his mind blissfully quiet.
“You know what? Maybe I did hit my head. Where’s Ron? What happened to the Death Eaters? Last thing I remember we located their headquarters and went to-” his voice trailed off at the tears in her eyes. "Hermione?"
“Is he awake yet?” A voice came from the doorway, and Harry sighed in relief at the sound of his other best mate - though it didn’t last long once he caught sight of him.
“Ron…” he said slowly, “what’s that on your face.”
Ron raised his brow. “A piercing?”
“A what?”
“Mate, are you sure you’re okay? How could you forget The Great Rebellion of Fifth Year?” I thought we would never be let out of the house again. Though I guess Sirius had a good laugh…”
We—? Harry’s hand shot up to touch his own brow, and sighed in relief when he felt the absence of jewelry.
Ron frowned, gently grabbing Harry’s hand and shifting it to his ears. His fingers brushed against something small, and distinctly metal.
Merlin, he had a hole in his ear.
Ron’s frown deepened, “Do you really not remember?” He glanced to the side, eyeing Hermione in an oh-so familiar ‘oh no something’s wrong with Harry what do we do’ way.
“Harry,” Hermione said gently after their silent conversation seemed to come to an end, “why don’t we take a trip to the infirmary? Madam Pomfrey can give you a look while we owl Sirius?”
Owl Sirius? Harry’s heart raced in his chest. There was something wrong. There was something seriously seriously wrong.
Hermione reached towards him - and he flinched back, avoiding her touch. What did the Death Eaters do to him? Were they messing with his mind? Was any of this even real or is he under some curse? Dead to the world and undergoing some mad, twisted shit…
“Harry?”
Harry shoved past the people wearing his friends' faces and ran. He needed someplace quiet, someplace safe where he could try and figure out what was going on. Standing with these two strangers that looked like his best mates wasn’t going to help him think.
He brushed past a student, ignoring the shouts behind him as he made his way to the common room.
There was a moment of silence as he skidded to a stop near the fireplace, sending a deck of cards flying.
“Oi! ” Seamus shouted, looking up to glare at him, “what gives!”
Harry gaped, eyes bouncing as he looked into the room full of the dead, young and alive once more. There was Fred, sat next to his brother and Lee Jordan, laughing as he gesticulated wildly, Lavender Brown was in the corner with Parvati, heads bowed together as they giggled over something. Colin Creevy’s head shot up and he gave Harry a wide, toothy grin as he waved.
This is impossible, Harry thought, this is some sick, twisted game.
Permission to speak, Master?
Harry let out another shout, hands clapping over his ears again. The few closest to him jerked at the sound and looked over in confusion.
“Mate?” Seamus said, “I’m not actually mad…are you okay? Wait—shouldn’t you be in the hospital wing?”
Harry let out another shout, hands still clapped over his ears, because he had no idea what to say.
“...Harry?” Dean prompted.
Harry blinked, and slowly lowered his hands. Maybe it’d be best to act normal. If this was some messed up simulation, perhaps it’d be best to act as if everything were alright in front of…witnesses.
“I’m okay,” he said, with as much fake cheer as he could muster, his eyes shot up to Ron and Hermione, speeding towards him, “I just...gotta go.”
He shot through the room, brushing his way past a few first years and out the portrait hole.
He had to get away. He had to find someplace safe-—
There was only one place he could hide and make sure no one found him until he got — whatever this was under control.
Harry ran down the corridor, and made his way to the seventh floor.
***
Harry wasn’t surprised to see that the Room of Requirement had shifted into the Gryffindor common room. Despite everything that’d happen in the 3 years between graduating from Hogwarts, the common room would forever remain a place of comfort for him.
He curled on an armchair by the fire, focusing on catching his breath after the rush of adrenaline. His eyes remained glued to the mirror he’d conjured.
He looked as he did in his sixth year; lanky but broadened from years of Quidditch, shorter than most of the boys in his year, and some of the girls too. His hair was longer than he’d kept it at this age, yet they were the same inexplicable wild curls as usual.
His skin was tanner, healthier than the sickly pale tinge it always seemed to be since Voldemort's resurrection ritual in his fourth year. His eyes brighter, oddly, no longer containing dark smudges of purple under them.
He flexed his hand, noting the absence of scars on - well any part of his body. He still had his lightning bolt scar, yet it seemed faded, like a regular injury and not the dark curse mark it’d been.
Oh, and he had holes in his ears - several of them. A part of him found them a little cool, another cringed at the sight.
Permission to speak, Master?
Harry flinched again.
And then there was the matter of the voice.
“Who are you?” he demanded, feeling stupid speaking out in the silence of the room. “What do you want from me?”
A sweeping sensation coursed through him, and the room darkened rapidly - like clouds covering every last source of light.
Between one blink and the next, the large cloaked figure was back.
Harry shot up to his feet.
“What are you?” he demanded again. “Why can’t anyone else see you?”
I am Death. The voice spoke in his mind, And you are my Master.
“You’re Death? What does that even mean?”
You have collected my Hallows and reunited them, the voice continued. In doing so you’ve given me my form once again, and gained me as yours to use. You are my Master. You are the Master of Death.
Suddenly, Harry felt cold. The same numbing fear he hadn’t felt in a while since the War ended.
“If you’re Death…” he said slowly, “then does that mean…does that mean I died? Am I in the afterlife?”
You are not. The figure crept closer, circling him. On June 13th, 2002 you infiltrated the remaining Death Eaters hideout with the rest of your team. At approximately 14:07 a rogue hit you with the Killing Curse. By 14:08 you were pronounced dead at the scene.
He felt as if someone had reached inside his ribcage and squeezed. His chest was tight, tight enough that he felt as if he could barely breathe. Suddenly lightheaded, he rocked back on his feet, and fell into his seat.
“So I died,” he croaked, “all those years of fighting, and I just…died. I was only 21.”
Humans die at 21. Death said, Your parents Lily and James Potter are proof of this. They die at 19, 15 or as young as 4. Some are never given the privilege of entering the world - they die before their first breath, before they could even open their eyes and catch a glimpse of the ones that’d brought them life. It is how Death works - there is no bias, no rule book or guide, it simply Is.
“How do I know this is real?” Harry demanded. “How do I know that this isn’t some twisted joke and I’m not captured in some rogue Death Eater’s basement?”
The figure sighed. A hand - thin, and spindly, not unlike the Dementors - reached forward and clasped him on the wrist.
Suddenly, Harry was no longer in the Room of Requirement, but at the King’s Cross Station. The same blank, white station he was 3 years ago when Voldemort had hit him with the killing curse.
“This is my domain,” Death said, its voice no longer in Harry’s mind, but a booming echo that surrounded them, “you’ve been brought here before, when you’d first faced true Death.”
Harry’s whirled around, half expecting Dumbledore to reappear with more cryptic words.
“He won’t come,” it said, “not this time. He has passed, I allowed his soul to rest.”
A part of Harry was glad to hear that, another ached at the thought of never seeing Dumbledore again - never speaking to him.
“Why not allow me to rest then?”
“I can. You are my Master. It is your decision whether to continue to rule, or pass by choice and allow the chance of another to gain control.”
But did Harry want to rest? Did he truly want for his soul to…move on? He thought of his parents, of Sirius and Remus and Dumbledore and all the others he’s loved and lost waiting.
“I should warn you,” Death continued, “that the Harry Potter whose body you inhibited has for all intents and purposes passed. He was on the verge of death with no hope to live merely a few minutes after your own passing. The reason you were brought to that world was because your souls and host were most compatible with one another. Your soul, the Master of Death, and the magic it houses healed this body. The other Harry Potter’s soul was merely not powerful enough to do so.”
“He died?” Harry cried, “wha--he seemed like a normal kid! How the hell did he die? Don’t tell me there’s a noseless freak running around in this world too!”
“There is no Lord Voldemort,” Death confirmed, “but there is a Dark Lord that haunts their Wizarding World. He has no connection to the Potters, besides the fact that James and Lily Potter also died fifteen years ago at the hands of his servant.”
Grindelwald. Harry shuddered, so it seemed that every version of him was destined to live during some war against a twisted Dark Lord, and lose parents to him. A part of him was a little relieved at the fact. How odd would it be, regaining parents yet seeing their faces and knowing that their true son had died? That he was some farce taking his place? Taking his life? He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle the emotional ache that it’d cause.
Yet - family. He had a family. Ron had mentioned Sirius, which Harry guessed would be an obvious answer, seeing as he was his Godfather and alluded to his partner. Perhaps this world’s Sirius never went to Azkaban. Perhaps he’d got to grow and live and fall in love with someone.
Perhaps this Harry had grown with the love and care he deserved.
“Then how did he die?”
“I cannot…disclose such information.”
What the— “I thought I was your Master!” he hated how the word felt in his mouth, “Your - er - boss or whatever. Why can’t you tell me?”
“If you chose to continue living in this world, then you must be able to uncover this yourself. It is impertinent that I don’t disclose information that may disrupt the timeline.”
“And you sticking me in this Harry’s body isn’t disrupting the timeline?”
Death shrugged, “I have full control regarding matters of Death, but I do not have control in regards to a world’s timeline. That is the law of Mother Magic and beyond me.”
Harry yanked his hand from Death’s grip, blinking rapidly when they reappeared in the Room of Requirement and collapsing his seat in the armchair once again. His head spun with the information. It seemed like he just couldn’t catch a break. Defeating a Dark Lord once (twice? Thrice? Five times? He lost bloody count) wasn’t enough, he had to somehow be pulled back into a teenaged version of himself in a whole new entire world, with an entirely new Dark Lord looming in the distance.
Fuck. He died. Ron and Hermione — he couldn’t even think of what they must be going through. He shoved the thought away.
“So what you’re saying,” Harry let out a long breath, “is that I either choose to die for good - leaving not only my original body, but this world’s Harry dead - or choose to stay, but have to live with the fact that this Harry may or may not have been murdered, and whoever it was just might try it again?”
A beat of silence. Then, almost reluctantly, Death nodded.
“And there’s absolutely no way for me to return to my original body?”
Another beat of silence, during which hope almost surged —
Death shook his head. “That body is no longer compatible with your soul. The second your soul and magic left, the shell of flesh was no longer the Master of Death. It’s not…habitable.”
As odd as it sounded, something burned at the thought. His body had been through so much - scars and tears and evidence of the battles he’d fought day after day. Now all of it was just…gone. Probably buried somewhere in Godric’s Hollow, next to his parents.
Mother, Father and Son, he thought wryly, preserved at the age of 21, forever. What a cruel and twisted move from Fate.
***
Harry stayed in the room, learning how to summon and block Death. It seemed that Death didn’t exactly live in his mind. It had free reign to appear as it wished, but Harry had the power to block it if he wanted to. He also had the power to summon and speak to it if he wished so.
He decided very quickly that he would utilize this as little as possible.
He also tried to dig up more on the Harry whose body he inhabited. Using the magic of the Room, he’d conjured up a few dozen Daily Prophets, and slowly put together a rough outline of Harry's life.
He’d manage to learn that James and Lily had died in a freak home-fire, caused by a jealous and vindictive Peter Pettigrew (once a rat, always a rat, Harry growled in anger) who seemed to fester a deep hatred for the marauders, his once friends who’d dumped him the second they learned of his nefarious tendencies and his new loyalty to Grindelwald’s cause.
Sirius Black was then put into Azkaban for 7 years for murdering him in righteous justice and Harry had been shipped off to the Dursley’s without another word, (thanks, Dumbledore). Neither Sirius nor Remus seemed to be aware of the fact of his survival until he showed up to Hogwarts at the ripe age of eleven, traumatized and battered as Harry had been in his own timeline.
Sirius - a few years out of Azkaban and re-establishing himself into society - demanded immediate and full custody of Harry, yet was thwarted by trials and laws and what not for several years before finally winning when Harry was fourteen. He’d supposedly been banned from so much as meeting Harry (who’d suddenly became an innocent child in desperate need of protection, despite very frequent, very loud protests claiming otherwise) in the years between, as he’d been labeled as a rogue wildcard not stable enough to be around children, with a “half-breed” werewolf friend that was sure to be a danger (Harry was not surprised to hear that this exact sentence was uttered by one Dolores Umbridge, her toad-like face and pink clothes blindingly horrid in the picture next to it).
Now Harry was in his sixth year, having finally gained a family and settling into what would have been the perfect life.
Before someone had taken that away from him.
Harry had let out another sigh, placing the most recent copy of the Prophet with any mention of him down and stretching, aching muscles protesting at the move. He waved his hand, throwing up a quick Tempus.
Three hours had passed; which meant it was probably time for him to return to his dormitory. If this world’s Hermione and Ron were anything like his own, they would be besides themselves with worry. Not to mention they’d likely alerted Sirius of his odd behavior.
Merlin. Sirius. Sirius was alive and well. He had someone to answer to. Someone that was responsible for him. He’d gotten that briefly in his own world - but even then the damage had been done. Thirteen years of solitude couldn’t be erased in mere weeks, and the time he’d had with Sirius had been so brief and so abrupt that he still did not adapt to the presence of a guardian.
Harry poked his head out, checking to see if there was anyone lingering in the halls. He wasn’t sure if the others knew about the room; if they did they’d probably come to check eventually once they couldn’t find him anywhere else, and he’d rather leave before they barged in. He gingerly made his way down the corridor, cursing himself for not grabbing the invisibility cloak on his way out - though realistically there was no time for him to do so.
Merlin, he wasn't even sure if he had his cloak.
He managed to get just past the library before he was discovered.
“Harry!” Hermione leapt onto him and grabbed his arm, her grip tight enough to hurt. “Where have you been!”
“I was jus-”
“It’s nearly time for dinner - you’ve been missing for hours! We’ve all been worried sick! Just a few more hours and Sirius said he’d come down to Hogwarts himself—”
That caused a jolt of panic to rush through him. “ Oh god, no please. I’m fine I was-”
Hermione continued as if she couldn’t hear him, “Does your head still hurt? Did you manage to hit it again this morning? I read somewhere that sometimes head injuries can cause memory lapses and you couldn’t even remember where you were. I asked Madam Pomfrey and she said —”
“Hermione!”
She came to a stuttering stop, then smiled apologetically, “Oh I’m sorry Harry, it’s just that the bludger hit you so hard and you went missing from the hospital wing and we were already worried sick! And then you ran from the dormitories and we couldn’t find you for hours and I was so certain that you were lying somewhere unconscious and injured and—”
“Wait,” Harry said, mind racing as he took in the information. Hit by a bludger? Was that how this Harry had died?
But an injury that bad should have killed him right away, on the field itself. If this world’s Harry was conscious long enough to get to the hospital wing, then healing potions would have already worked on keeping him alive. And this Harry was clearly healthy enough to leave.
Which meant it had to be after. Somewhere in the hours between the hospital wing and getting back to the dorm.
I’m guessing you wouldn’t be so generous and kind as to confirm my theory?
Generous or kind are not words I would choose to describe myself, Master. Perhaps Otherworldly, or Fearsome, or—
Harry very consciously threw up his mental shield, blocking the voice.
“My mind’s been all over the place,” he said slowly, latching onto the opportunity handed to him, “I think it’s because of the bludger. Memories are sort of … escaping,” at the sight of brimming tears on her face he quickly continued, “Madam Pomfrey said that’s normal!” he lied, “I went straight to her and she told me to give it a few and it’ll come back to me naturally.”
Hermione bit her lip and nodded, but the look of concern on her face didn’t fade. Something else flashed in her eyes; a hint of suspicion not unlike the times when she’d try to discern whether he and Ron truly had done their assignment, or if they were lying to her (they were).
Thankfully, it disappeared just as quickly, and she tightened her grip on his arm. “Let’s go back to the dormitories,” she said, “Ron’s been beside himself, he was with Fred and George searching everywhere. Ginny and Neville were asking around everyone but no one seemed to know where you were.”
Okay, so maybe they didn’t know about the Room of Requirement. This surprised him, but it also gave him some place to disappear when needed.
“Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly, patting her hand, “I just…panicked.”
Just before they could take another step, the door to the library opened, and a figure stepped out and into their path.
The boy was tall, looming over both Hermione and him. He had every piece of the uniform on and in place, green and silver accents glimmering and tailored to a lithe but strongly corded body.
Harry’s eyes trailed up and landed on his face.
Between one breath and next — before fear could even course through him, his wand was in his hand and pointed at the boy. Harry snarled, lips pulled back from his teeth, the other hand instinctively gripping Hermione closer to him, ignoring her cry of alarm.
“You! How — What the bloody hell are you doing here!”
Tom Marvolo Riddle - alive and barely a year older than Harry himself - stood before him, brow raised and Head Boy badge gleaming in the corridor light.