tya's whimsies

Harry Potter is dead, and then he isn’t.

Well.

It’s rather more complicated than that.

Harry Potter sacrifices himself to save the British Wizarding Enclave.

(He'll go down in his country's history books as having saved the world. It's not quite right, but it makes them feel good. A homegrown world saviour is neat, and now they have three. Merlin, Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter. They can brag about it, and forget what they did to those saviours while they still lived.)

Harry saved them all, but he’s not quite sure the onlookers would have understood that's what he did. After all, he can picture the confusion of his peers when he walked up to Voldemort and let himself get hit in the chest with the Killing curse without even defending himself. He supposes they’d think him a martyr, who had given up the fight so that they would be safe. Hah. As if Voldemort planned to keep his promise.

His friends must have pulled through after his death. He has to think Voldemort is mortal once more, or it will be harder to find peace. Surely someone will find the courage to off him, right? He puts his bets on Ron, to be honest. Everyone always underestimated his best friend.

That’s not his problem anymore though, innit? The living can sort themselves out. He did his part.

His current issue is that he’s being nagged by the ghost of Dumbledore. Even in death, the old man prefers doing mental gymnastics over giving him straight answers. To be frank, Harry does not care anymore. Though he does raise an eyebrow when his former Headmaster tries to convince him he should go back and finish what he started.

Harry actually considers it, but he’s really bloody tired. He died for these people, did he have to live for them too? The only thing he’d ever wanted was a family, and Sirius had been snatched away from him a bare minute after he’d entertained the idea of keeping him.

“I’ll take the train, thanks,” he says after a beat of silence. “And I’ll take him with me,” he adds as an afterthought, pointing at the rather pathetic looking soul fragment of his worst enemy.

As he bends to pick up the ugly baby, Dumbledore vanishes to be replaced by a cloaked figure ominously staring at him. The skeletal hands rather give away the identity of this new arrival.

Harry presses Tiny Tom closer to his chest, and inclines his head. “Death,” he greets.

“Master,” rattles the entity. “Are you ready for your next great adventure?” it says, holding out a bony hand.

Harry looks down at it, then at the creature weakly struggling against him.

“I suppose I am,” he says as he takes the hand offered to him. Death leads him towards the train at a tranquil pace. “Say, what does it entail, being the Master of Death? Do I get a VIP entry into the afterlife?”

The being cackles. “No. But you get extra privileges in your next incarnation. You’ll keep your memories, for one. I even made it familiar for you, in the shape of an alternate reality to the one you just lived. You’ll have to let go of your prejudice, unlearn some of your assumptions. All in all, a good experience.”

Harry stops in his tracks.

“Er, my next what?”

“Did you not consider reincarnation as an option?” asks Death curiously. “Or did you give no thought at all to what would become of you after you die?”

The soul shard makes a gurgling sound that seems almost incredulous. Harry glares at it. Of course Voldemort thought of what happens during one’s death, he literally named himself after his own fear of it.

“The latter, I guess,” admits Harry. “And, er, how many times am I supposed to– do this?”

He’s already dreading the answer. He’d just said earlier he was tired, hadn’t he. He doesn't think it's fair that he has to do it again, and keeping his memories sounds more like a curse than a blessing.

“What does it matter? You won’t remember the incarnation after this one, unless you’re foolish enough to gather my Hallows again.”

Harry conceded the point. He pointed to the creature in his arms.

“Is he coming as well?”

Death hums. “If you wish. I can understand the impulse to keep him with you. He’s been part of you for longer than you’ve been apart, after all."

"Er," says Harry. "No. If you can take him off my hands and promise he won't suffer, like, eternal damnation, then he's all yours."

He's not actually eager to carry the murderer of his parents around. It was just the right thing to do when there was no other option, that's all.

Death makes an amused sound. "Give him to me, then. I'll reunite him with his other pieces, and make sure he expunges some of the bad karma he's accumulated. He'll have a long road ahead, but it's better than remaining in limbo, I suppose."

Harry hesitates before sighing and handing the Horcrux to Death. The being holds it delicately. Once they arrive, Death turns to him and lightly bows. The gesture is only a little mocking.

"Farewell, Master. And onward.”

Harry does not have time to ask what he meant by that. One second he is facing the train, the next he is pushed inside of it. The door closes behind him before he can even react. He faintly hears the Express ready itself to leave.

Harry walks around to choose a compartment. It's not hard; no one is there. It's a bit disappointing, if he's honest. He’d hoped to chat with his fellow dearly departed, hear a few stories. But the windows in his compartment show the moments after his death, and he is vindicated to find that things had resolved without him being needed. Neville had killed the snake as instructed, Hermione and Ron had connected the dots about the Horcrux within him, and Malfoy of all people had taken the leap and offed the asshole himself, which makes Harry cringe. He would have preferred Ron. Britain doesn't need a Malfoy to be the Man-Who-Conquered. His head's inflated enough as it is. This reminds Harry that he had taken the boy's wand with him when he died. That is weird to think about. This and his own broken wand are the only possessions he is taking into the next life. That's... definitely something.

Anyway. Voldemort was dead and everyone who’d fought on Harry’s side benefited from the magical protection he’d given them when he played the martyr. It sure helped dispatch the last Death Eaters. A pretty neat ending, if he did say so himself.

He should have known his next great adventure wouldn’t go so smoothly.

Harry is now a baby. Squalling, smelly, and with very little control of his limbs. He’s taken care of by a house elf, which says a lot about the kind of family he’s been reborn in. He’s quite content letting himself drift; after everything, he deserves a little rest. And infant life isn’t exactly exciting.

He does make note of his surroundings, though. Some things stand out.

Dobby is there, for one. He changes Harry's diapers, feeds and burps him at regular times. It gives him a good enough guess of whose family he's been reborn into. He’s been somehow doomed to live through the same era. Not the same year, he suspects, but close enough. The war is still raging, and he wonders if a baby will still put an end to it. Is this the same world he's lived in, and if it is, will he meet himself at Hogwarts? How discomforting.

Lucius Malfoy, his new father, visits often. His long silver blond hair hangs in Harry's grasping distance as the man bends down to look at the baby nestled inside a crib enchanted to look like a cloud. He caresses baby Harry's cheek, his moon grey eyes warm and bright as he gazes upon him.

"My love, my light, my Hadrian. We are named after Emperors, my son," he croons. "And we will be greater than they ever were."

Harry pulls his hair to see what he'll do. The man only chuckles and gives him a soft toy to paw at and stop the toddler from tearing out some blond strands. He cannot resist the temptation to pull at the man's sleeve and uncover the Dark Mark when he gets the chance. He does not expect the deep look of shame on Lucius' face at the act. The man doesn't say anything about it, however. He only detangles Harry's grip from his robe and hides the Mark from view before tutting and saying that Hadrian should pay attention to what he holds onto.

"I don't know if the Mark's magic seeps into the ambient air, what if he absorbs some of... that and gets sick from it?" he then frets before calling Dobby and asking him to care for Hadrian while he does some research.

In the years preceding the birth of Draco Malfoy, Hadrian sees only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy is not one of them, which clues the boy pretty early on to the fact that he is probably a bastard child. She is mentioned by Dobby as the Madame, and he seems to fear her as much as he does Lucius. His only visitors are his father, Dobby, a woman named Lysithea, and a man named Thorfinn who appears to be her husband. Hadrian recognises the latter as Rowle, a Death Eater he faced in his former life, and does not know what to think of the realisation that the man is both his godfather and a first cousin of his father.

Voldemort made Draco torture his own close relative, he thinks grimly, remembering the punishment Rowle received for losing him during the Horcrux hunt. His wife Lysithea bears the Mark too, and Hadrian learns that she's originally a Lestrange. Probably a more distant cousin of Rodolphus and Rabastan. Incidentally, she's his godmother. Hadrian supposes he's facing some of his father's best friends.

He is still not quite able to separate this new life from the one he grew up in. The name came easy, it's close enough to his old one and Lucius says it with so much love Hadrian can't help but enjoy it. Every time he is held in his father's arms, Hadrian feels himself changing. The core parts of what made him Harry Potter are still there, but the veneer of red and gold is slowly scratched away. What's left is a raw, tired martyr who only yearns for the home and love he's been denied. He soaks up Lucius Malfoy's devotion and thinks he would do anything for this man.

When Draco is born, things change.

Hadrian hears the argument that occurs when Lucius insists on introducing him to the baby. He's old enough by then to wander where he shouldn't, and Dobby isn't always there to monitor him.

It seems that Narcissa only agreed to Hadrian's presence in the Manor if she did not have to see him. She wants him to remain confined to his own floor, far away from her, and thinks the Heir of the House should not be subjected to his bastard older brother whose presence is a threat to his inheritance.

She then exhales harshly and asks a question that has been on the tip of Hadrian's tongue for a long time, "why will you not tell me who his mother was? We didn't promise love to each other, but we've been betrothed for fifteen years, Lucius. I thought we had a partnership. Trust. I could see myself loving you. But then you bring home that child a month after our wedding and expect me to accept it? You made me Madame Malfoy! The agreement between our two families promised the Heir of your House would have Black blood, and your bastard threatens this very truth. You insult me and my House by doing this, and you don't even have the decency of naming your mistress?"

Lucius clenches his jaw and looks away. Narcissa seems to see something Hadrian didn't on his face, because she softens and comes closer to him. "What are you not telling me?"

Hadrian sees his father draw his shoulders up, poised to defend himself. But then he deflates and weakly says, "he's my sister's son."

Narcissa blinks. Hadrian's heart is in his throat.

"Your... sister? You don't have a sister."

"I don't. Not anymore." He pauses, and sits down on the couch of the sitting room they've been arguing in. "Her name was Cordelia."

Lucius' wife seems to understand something Hadrian doesn't, because she follows her husband on the couch and places a sympathetic hand on his. "What did Abraxas do to her?"

Abraxas Malfoy never visited his son's bastard, so Hadrian never met him. He always knew when he was coming to the Manor however, because Dobby would then be Hadrian's only company and Lucius always came out of it exhausted, the same as he was when it was his turn to host Voldemort and the active duty Death Eaters. Knowing this doesn't help him get the whole picture. Hadrian wracks his brain to try and understand what Narcissa might have understood that he doesn't. And then it dawns on him.

Cordelia Malfoy was a squib.

"The floor Hadrian lives in now used to be hers. The confinement wards you tried to convince me to reactivate were once used to keep her in so she wouldn't shame the family."

Narcissa brings a hand to her mouth, horror and guilt twisting her features.

"She was my older sister, and I loved her. When her letter didn't come... I begged Father to not abandon her. He used her as a way to ensure my compliance after this. I had to be the perfect heir, or she would suffer the consequences."

He pauses. Licks his lips.

"That's how he convinced you to take the Mark," realises Narcissa softly. "You said you didn't have the stomach for all this violence, I thought— never mind that. What happened, Lucius?"

"I did everything I was told," says Lucius, his voice distant, as if he didn't hear her. "I let that filthy man into our home, funded his cause, hosted his parties. I swayed dozens of Hogwarts graduates to his ranks, even reached out to my contacts in Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and established a Death Eater network on the continent. Father asked me to be of use to the cause, and I did that and more."

"Lucius," presses his wife. Hadrian's... uncle returns to reality in slow increments.

"At the last gala, the one Bellatrix asked us to organise to celebrate her birthday. Someone broke into the wards," he says matter-of-factly.

"Who?" urges Narcissa, her eyes dark. She looks more like Bellatrix than she ever did, thinks Hadrian, then shakes his head. No. She looks like Sirius after he caught Wormtail. Wild, mad, and promising vengeance.

"I don't know. But Cordelia... she was. She—" He can't bring himself to say it. "Whoever did it... they destroyed my sister, Narcissa, you must understand. She survived long enough to give me Hadrian, but she didn't make it a day longer. She died in my arms."

Narcissa embraces him.

"She couldn't be healed?"

Lucius shudders. "The curse placed on her didn't allow it. It was... my sister was butchered. I had to treat her the muggle way." He shudders. "I couldn't do anything."

This must be an alternate universe, thinks Hadrian faintly. It can't be anything else. Or did this happen in Harry Potter's world, and Lucius Malfoy, without a memento of his sister to remember her by, had hardened his heart and convinced himself that Cordelia hadn't existed? There would have been a sign if that was the case, surely.

This thought only distracts him for so long. Then the truth sits bitter at the crux of his chest. He is an orphan twice over. His mother suffered a whole life of abuse before dying in childbirth. His biological father, monster that he is, is a dead man walking.

His existence must be cursed. There is no other explanation.

A window cracks, then it explodes. Then another. Above him, the ceiling cracks. He sways.

"Hadrian?" exclaims Lucius in confusion before rushing to him, his cane pointing at the windows and materialising a shield while Narcissa casts a mending charm on the damage Hadrian has done.

A whimper sounds out. Ah, thinks Hadrian. The noise must have awoken the baby. Draco. His cousin, not his brother. Or maybe both? Lucius always treated him like a son. Maybe this doesn't change everything, he thinks as his father-uncle holds him in his arms and wipes the tears from his eyes, whispering assurances to him as he does.

A year later, a girl named Rose Potter — huh, he hadn't expected that — is proffered as having triumphed over the Dark Lord who killed her parents. Lucius cries of relief when he finds out, his adopted son as only witness. Hadrian swears he'll rend Voldemort's bones from his body and make a throne out of them for his father to sit on. He wishes he could kill Abraxas Malfoy too, but Narcissa is seemingly taking care of that. Hadrian and her have an understanding now. They'll protect Lucius and Draco at all costs.

And the man who hurt Cordelia Malfoy will pay.