Juxtaposition

“Hello, Harry Potter.” A foreign voice said, making the hairs on Harry’s arms stand up.
Harry’s eyes snapped open, but he still couldn’t see anything. Everything was black, void of any colour, or light.
“Who’s there?” Harry yelled, putting his fists out, ready to protect himself, as he was still wandless.
Harry shivered, his head and neck twitching.
“Who’s there!” He asked louder, turning around.
He shivered again and felt himself getting colder. He tugged his sleeves down, trying to cover his wrists more from the cold feeling.
“I am the embodiment of Death.” The voice said again.
Harry’s heart raced as he continued to look around, which still proved to be useless.
“Merlin, I’m dreaming.” Harry sighed, unbelieving he was conversing with Death itself.
“You are not.”
“Fuck this. Let me wake up from this weird dream.” Harry demanded, pinching himself.
“I can assure you that this is one hundred percent real, Harry Potter.” Death confirmed in an eerily calm voice.
“Why am I here? How am I here? How are YOU here?” Harry rambled, all of his words jumbled up slightly.
“Why, you’re nosy, aren’t you?”
“I prefer the word curious, actually.” Harry corrected, emphasising the word curious.
“Sure. To answer your questions: you are in my realm, the Grey Zone, a place between life and death. You are here because I brought you here, and I am here because you summoned me, even if you were oblivious to it.” Death answered coolly.
“I still don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. I forgot how tiring it is to deal with you humans.” If Death had a body right now, Harry was sure it would’ve rolled its eyes.
Harry huffed in response, “For a supposed divine being, you are kinda rude.”
“Hush, mortal. You are the Master of Death. That is why I am here, and that is why you are here. When you defeated Tom Marvolo Riddle, or as others called him, Voldemort, you won the Elder wand, which made you the Master of Death.”
“Huh.” Was all Harry said,
“Is that all you have to say? After I just told you that you are practically immortal?” Death deadpanned. Deadpanned.
Harry laughed at his own joke, even if it was just in his head.
“Fuck, I don’t want to be immortal! Are you the reason why I’m in 1942?”
“Yes and no. You see, I was… distracted. I was putting Voldemort into the afterlife, and since he split his soul 7 times, it was rather difficult.”
“And? How does that equal me time travelling?”
“One of my grim reapers, my servants, decided to take my scythe, which, mind you, is an all-powerful object, and decided to try to help you. They had a soft spot for you. But, somehow, they managed to send you back in time.”
“Merlin,” Harry sighed, breathlessly.
“There is a way to get back to your original time, but-”

“Master Peverell has returned!”
The voice from the void faded away, and suddenly, Harry found himself back in the Peverell Estate. The darkness had given way to the warm, dimly lit room.

Startled, Harry jumped to his feet and glanced around. The grandeur of the room remained, the soft glow from the chandelier above casting long shadows.

“Master Peverell?” A small figure in a weathered and worn pillowcase-like garment appeared at the door.
Harry squinted, trying to remember what just happened.
He was talking to Death, and Death was about to tell him how to get back to his own time, but then the house elf woke him up. “Yes. That’s it.” Harry thought.
“What?” Harry asked, more harsh than he was trying to be.
“I am truly sorry, Master Peverell.” The house elf apologised, looking truly embarrassed.
“It’s fine.” He dismissed, but still annoyed, “What’s your name?”
“My name is Mourir, Master Peverell,” the house-elf replied with a slight bow.
Harry noticed the mixture of curiosity and deference in Mourir’s demeanour. He remembered the encounters he’d had with other house-elves, especially Dobby, and appreciated their unique blend of loyalty and inquisitiveness.
“Mourir, no need to be so formal. You don’t have to call me ‘Master Peverell’ all the time. Just Harry is fine,” Harry said with a friendly smile, before yawning.
Mourir’s large ears wiggled in delight. “Thank you, Harry, sir. How may I assist you today?”
Harry’s irritation from the interrupted conversation with Death was beginning to dissipate. He realised that the house-elf was just doing his job. “It’s alright, Mourir. I was just having a strange conversation with… well, I don’t even know who. But never mind that for now. You were going to tell me something?”
“Yes, of course! I was making you breakfast! Come and eats.”
Harry smiled awkwardly and walked downstairs to the kitchen with Mourir.

As Harry stepped into the dining area, he felt a surge of unease spread throughout his mind. There was a large plate of croissants in the middle of the table, all of them looking perfect and golden. He reluctantly sat down at the table, carefully grabbing the top croissant.
Although Mourir looked happy that Harry was eating the croissants, Harry couldn’t share the same feeling. He felt nervous that he was going to choke on all of the bits flaking off, and that he wasn’t really hungry to begin with.
After finishing the food - which only ended up being one croissant - he felt a little better at the fact that Mourir was grinning from ear to ear.

Harry ventured down to the library, which looked out onto the gardens. He sat down softly onto the settee and opened one of the books he borrowed from the Peverell vault. The old yet pristine pages in the book were easy to flip, and Harry began to read, “Death: The Eternal Entity".
Harry had never really enjoyed reading, that was more Hermione’s thing. But, since this was a completely different situation, he felt it was more than necessary to read as much as he could, to try to gain as much information as he could. He felt he owed it to Hermione to at least try.

He cracked open the book, staring at the introduction:
“In the ethereal realms of existence, where the essence of time is but a wisp of starlight, there dwells a mysterious, enigmatic entity—Death. An aurora of existence, ineffable and enigmatical, it traverses the cosmic tapestry with the elegance of an obsidian wraith. In its wake, shadows dance a macabre ballet, and echoes of forgotten echoes whisper like zephyrs through the labyrinthine corridors of eternity.
Death is not the terminus of the symphony; it is the resplendent note that bridges the worlds. Its touch, vellichor caressed by the aurora borealis, orchestrates the inevitable cessation of mortal melodies. Here, amidst the interstitial spaces where silence hums with secrets,
Death, such a feared entity, should not be feared at all, but rather understood as the ultimate companion in the narrative of life.”

Harry turned more pages,
“Summoning Death takes not from the body, but the soul. One must look deep inside themselves before even thinking about attempting such a dangerous task. To call to Death is a wish not many understand, and yet they continue anyway. It is a journey into the very core of one’s being, where all secrets are laid bare, and every unspoken desire stands exposed.
For those who dare to traverse the boundary between life and eternity, they must know that the price they pay is a piece of themselves. A fragment of their soul is offered as a toll to the sentinel of existence. One must be prepared to confront their own darkness and wrestle with it in the presence of Death.
The ritual, shrouded in mystic rites and profound incantations, is not for the faint of heart. The seeker stands at the crossroads of existence, between the realms of the living and the departed. They beckon Death, and even after such feats, Death does not always listen. The consequences are not to be underestimated, for the bond created in that moment reverberates throughout time.”

Harry looked up from the book, thoroughly overwhelmed. He set it down on the table in front of him and folded a small piece of paper to slip between the pages, marking his progress.
Harry leaned back on the serre and sighed.
“I wish you were here Hermione,” He whispered to no-one but himself. He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, making himself small.
His new reality was now hitting him like a brick. Of course, he knew he was in 1942, and alone, but he only now realised he was completely and utterly alone. He didn't exist.

He felt tears slowly falling down his cheeks, and his reflexes kicked in, immediately wiping his tears away and schooling his expression.
He knew better than to cry. It was a waste of time, and he had things to be doing.

As he got up to walk to the floo, he noticed something moving in the garden. Turning around quickly, he opened the tall French double doors and slipped out, trying to locate the moving thing again.

He held his breath, trying to be even quieter. As he got closer, he noticed it was a snake. A boomslang.

“Shit,” Harry whispered to himself, slowly taking a step back.
“A speaker?” A medium pitched voice hissed, and Harry looked around, trying to locate the source.
“I have not heard a speaker in years,” It hissed again, and Harry’s gaze focused back on the snake. Which was speaking to him.
“
Harry reeled in shock.
He didn’t know he still spoke Parseltongue. He assumed that when Voldemort killed him the second time, he would’ve lost the ability, along with the horcrux.
“I suppose I am.” Now that Harry was focusing on his words, he did notice the slight hissing coming out of his voice.
“Let me stay with you. Speaker.” The snake hissed again, and Harry was still surprised he could understand. Maybe since he had gotten the House of Black on his inheritance, the genes were making him go crazy.

But, as Harry looked at the snake longer, he realised this was very much real and he definitely wasn’t imagining voices in his head. Harry crouched on the grass, eyeing the snake curiously. It was unusual enough to encounter a speaking snake, but the fact that he could still understand Parseltongue after Voldemort's final defeat was baffling.
“I don’t have any of the required things to have a snake,” Harry shrugged, feeling a little bit bad for the snake.
“Any food?” It hissed again, and Harry realised he didn’t even know the snake's name, or gender.
“What’s your name?” Harry asked, slightly less scared of the snake now.
“No food?”
“Yes. I will get you food. What’s your name?” Harry assured.
“I do not have a name.”
“Can I give you a name?”
“If you wish.”
“How about, Anakin?”
Harry had liked the name Anakin from the day Dudley forced Petunia and Vernon to take him to watch the Star Wars movies.
He loved the character, Anakin Skywalker too, even if he was Darth Vader.
“That sounds… cool.” The snake, Anakin, hissed.
“Okay, Anakin, I’ll go get you food. What do you eat?”
“I am a magical snake. Anything.”

Harry stood up and walked back into the house and into the kitchen. The fridge was quite different from the ones in the 1990s, and he was still adjusting to not having modern technology.
After not finding anything, he sighed and turned around, only to see Anakin perched on the countertop.
“What are you doing?” Harry asked, walking up to the boomslang.
“Is it not obvious?” Anakin hissed back.
Why did Harry always choose unnaturally sassy animals?
“Mourir,” Harry said.
A loud crack echoed through the room, and Mourir appeared, making Anakin jump.
“Could you find some food for Anakin, the snake?” Harry asked, not understanding why Mourir looked confused after he spoke.
“You are still speaking Parseltongue.” Anakin said, as if he was stating the obvious.
Oh.
“Sorry, Mourir.” Harry said, focusing on now speaking English,
“What did you say before?”
“Oh, I asked if you could get some food for my snake, Anakin.”
Mourir quickly apologised for not hearing and popped away, going to fetch some food.
“After you eat, do you want me to help you find your home?”
“I am at home. Here”
“I guess I can buy you some stuff, I am going shopping today.”
Another loud crack boomed throughout the room and Mourir followed, presenting some snake food.
Mourir eagerly handed it to Harry, who put it on the counter, ready for Anakin to eat.
“I’m gonna go to Diagon Alley after Anakin finishes eating.” Harry said, watching Anakin eat.
Anakin was a jet-black snake with bright green eyes, much like Harry’s. He was just over one metre long, and Harry guessed was still growing, as most snakes do.
“Okay, sir.” Mourir smiled widely.

Harry looked down at Anakin, who was staring back at him. He grabbed the snake and headed over to the floo while Anakin was wrapping himself around Harry’s left arm and sliding just behind his neck.

Harry stepped into the fireplace, his left arm holding Anakin securely, and spoke the name of the destination, "Diagon Alley." Green flames engulfed him, and with a whooshing sound, he was off, hurtling through the network of interconnected fireplaces once more. Despite his previous disorienting experience with the floo network, he was beginning to get the hang of it.
As the flames subsided, Harry stumbled out of the fireplace and into the familiar setting of the Leaky Cauldron. Walking through, he nodded to the bartender who looked quite curious.

Anakin slithered around his arm, seemingly curious about the bustling alley. Harry patted the snake gently.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley, Anakin," he whispered to the snake. "Let's get you some essentials and maybe a few treats."

The Magical Menagerie was a large, whimsical building tucked away in Diagon Alley. Its façade was a riot of colours, with enchanting murals that seemed to come to life as children and adults alike gazed upon them. The shop's exterior featured animated images of magical creatures prancing, flying, and occasionally winking at passersby.

The moment Harry stepped inside, he was greeted by a cacophony of sounds, a mix of squawks, growls, and soft hoots. The shop was divided into sections, each dedicated to a different category of magical creatures. Vividly coloured birds fluttered in gilded cages, while reptilian creatures basked under heat lamps. Glass tanks housed a variety of magical insects, their iridescent wings shimmering in the ambient light.

Harry made his way to the snake section, where he hoped to find suitable items for Anakin. Snakes, from boas to vipers, were housed in decorative terrariums. Each tank was customised to provide the ideal environment for its occupant, with temperature-regulating charms and enchanted plants. It was in this section that Harry found Anakin's new home, a secure and comfortable terrarium, complete with a cozy, heated rock.

While browsing through various shops, he couldn’t help but linger near a journal that caught his attention. It would be useful to jot down his ideas, and then mark whether they didn’t work.

Harry ended up buying it, and while smiling, he continued down Diagon Alley.

Next, Harry had to go buy himself a wand.
He knew that if he went to Ollivanders, he would get his original wand, but what about when the Harry Potter in this timeline was born? Would he not get a wand?
Maybe he could leave it to Mourir, and get him to deliver it back to Ollivander, for future Harry.

Harry knew that there was a possibility of him being invited to Hogwarts, though he was sure professors would be confused as to why he only now showed up on the magical register, so he would need a wand.

As Harry walked down the alley, he carelessly knocked into something, “Sorry,” He blurted out, unsure if he actually hit a person or just an object.
“Idiot.” Anakin whispered, and Harry rolled his eyes.
He looked up and breathed a sigh of relief as he realised he hadn’t bumped into a person

He kept walking until he finally spotted Ollivanders, which looked empty.
“Hello?” Harry called out as he made his way deeper into the shop. The bell above the door jingled softly in response, but no one emerged to assist him. His footsteps echoed on the polished wooden floor as he wandered down one of the narrow aisles.
Then, a voice from the shadows caught him off guard. “Welcome to Ollivanders, my dear boy. How can I assist you today?”
Harry turned toward the voice and saw a figure emerging from the dimly lit corner of the shop. It was Mr. Ollivander, the aged and enigmatic wandmaker himself, though he did look younger than when Harry met him at 11. His silver hair and bright, pale eyes seemed almost otherworldly as he studied Harry.
“Hello, sir,” He replied, “I would like to buy a wand,”
“Ah, of course.” Ollivander said before running off to another aisle, in search of Harry’s wand.

After many wrong wands, Harry finally spoke, “I think I know what wand. 11 inches, made from holly, and a Phoenix feather core.”
“Curious, very curious.” Ollivander pondered, staring at Harry.
Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the man’s theatrics.
“What was your name again?” He asked before walking off to retrieve the wand.
“Hadrian Peverell,” Harry said after a beat of silence, trying to remember his new name, “Also, what’s curious?”
“Normally, the wand chooses the wizard, but it seems in your case, the wizard chooses the wand.” Ollivander explained. He appeared from one of the back aisles and handed the box containing Harry’s wand to him.
Immediately, Harry felt the connection, even without taking it from its box.

Even after returning home, setting up Anakin’s special enclosure, and having dinner, Harry still felt that connection to his wand. He wasn’t sure why: it had never felt like this before he time travelled.
But, everything was going well, so Harry ignored it.
He opened another book, one about the Peverell family. He tried reading it but saw it was all in French.
“Mourir,” Harry called, bracing himself for the loud crack.
“Sir?”
“Is the origin of my last name, Peverell, French?”
“Yes it is. The family originated in France, but there were also Peverells in England.”
“Brilliant.”
Harry kept reading the book to the best of his ability, often asking Mourir to translate it.
The pages were interesting, but Harry immediately refocused when he saw a list of spells on the page.
There were more than 20, none of which he had heard of before.
“Vita illusio” Harry muttered, pointing his wand. This spell was supposed to create a life-like illusion, and Harry immediately thought of Hermione and Ron.
Much to Harry’s surprise the spell worked, Ron and Hermione appeared.

Harry couldn’t believe his eyes. It was as if Ron and Hermione had truly materialised in the room. He could see their expressions, their familiar grins, and the way Hermione’s eyes sparkled with intelligence. Yet, he knew this was an illusion.
“Harry! It’s great to see you again!” Ron exclaimed, reaching out to give him a hearty pat on the back. Harry felt the pressure of Ron’s hand on his shoulder, even though he knew it was all a magical illusion.
Harry felt tears welling in his eyes and quickly picked up the book again, trying to find the counter spell. Of course, it was nice to see Hermione and Ron, but he missed them a lot, and this was just making him feel worse. Having them right there, but just out of reach, and knowing they weren’t real.
“Terminus illusio,” He whispered again, pointing his wand at Hermione and Ron.
Harry’s best friends disappeared instantly, leaving Harry on his own once again. He wiped away the water pooling in his eyes and sat back down, looking at more spells. He recited a few in his head, trying to memorise them.

Pulling up his duvet, Harry easily fell asleep.

The Chamber was vast and cavernous, extending underneath the school for ages, most not explored by anyone since Salazar Slytherin had first built it.
The light provided by the phosphorescent fungi was dim, and the atmosphere was damp and cool, and the air was heavy with an otherworldly hush.

The striking statue of Salazar Slytherin loomed over him, also reminding him of the last time he was in here, the time he fought the basilisk.

Harry rubbed his temples, his head now aching.

The Chamber felt different this time, more sinister and oppressive. The snake motifs on the walls seemed to writhe and come to life, and the runes etched into the stone appeared to shift and twist as if whispering malevolent secrets. The serpent-carved statue of Slytherin now had an even more malevolent gleam in its eyes, and Harry could have sworn he heard it hiss.

As he walked deeper into the Chamber, the sense of unease intensified. The familiar chill of the underground surrounded him, and the ground felt unnaturally slippery beneath his feet. The walls seemed to close in, and the shadows took on eerie, shifting shapes.

The basilisk’s colossal skin lay before him, but it was no longer just a remnant of the past. It twitched and writhed, and Harry knew that something was terribly wrong. His heart raced as he turned to leave, but the exit seemed to recede further into the darkness.

Then, a haunting whisper filled the Chamber, sending shivers down Harry’s spine. He couldn’t make out the words, but the voice sounded ancient and malevolent.

As he stumbled backward, he realised he was not alone. Tom Riddle, young and menacing, materialised before him, his gaze filled with malice. Harry tried to summon his wand, but it was as if his magic had deserted him. Tom Riddle advanced, his laughter echoing through the Chamber.

In a desperate attempt to escape, Harry turned and ran. But his legs felt like lead, and his heart pounded in his chest. He knew he was being pursued. Just as he thought he might reach the exit, Tom Riddle’s hand closed around his throat. Harry gasped for breath, but the grip tightened.

With a cruel smile, Tom Riddle whispered, “Avada Kedavra.” Green light erupted from his wand, and Harry’s vision blurred as he fell to the ground.

Gasping, Harry awoke in his bed, drenched in sweat. He grabbed his wand, which was planted under his pillow and headed to the kitchen, in search of a cold glass of water.
His hands slightly trembled as he held the glass to his mouth, and he placed the glass back down gently before he dropped it.

Harry yawned as he began to think about what to do: he could go to Hogwarts, maybe keep an eye on Riddle while he researched time travel in the massive library, or maybe leave Dumbledore a note saying that he should watch Tom Riddle and not let him go down the wrong path.
Theoretically, either would work, but practically? He had no idea.
If it didn’t work, there was always just killing Tom.