Cause they say that misery likes company

Harry Potter considered himself to be a lot of things. And in the tapestry of identities that Harry Potter wove, one thread stood out starkly: weariness. Were it not for his unyielding resolve in his youth, he might have surrendered to the embrace of despair long ago. Yet his commitment to his loved ones, his refusal to abandon them in the face of adversity, anchored him to a path he often found himself questioning.

He was simply so tired. He was exhausted . 

Honestly had he not been such a stubborn arse back in his day, Harry would have probably killed himself ages ago. Only he wasn’t one to leave his friends and family behind. He wouldn’t be able to handle simply tossing his responsibilities onto some other poor soul and making a break for it. 

At just twenty-two, Harry bore the heavy cloak of exhaustion, woven from the fibers of loss and solitude. The echoes of war reverberated through his being, leaving behind scars that time struggled to erase. The weight of burying companions, of witnessing the fracture of families, pressed upon his heart with an almost unbearable heaviness.

Sometimes he wondered. He wondered why on earth he hadn’t just moved away to France or Bulgaria or even Egypt when he could’ve. It would have made his life much simpler to live.  

He was so young still and yet, Harry was more exhausted than ever. He was also mostly alone. The wars had had catastrophic effects on the wixen population and he had lost more people than he was capable of emotionally processing. 

Burying loved ones with your own two hands got real old, real fast. As in it hadn’t been enough that he’d lost his biological parents and the only parent he had ever known, but the family he found. The one he made through blood sweat and tears had been taken from him. Ripped from his bleeding fingers. 

From the tenderest of ages, Harry had been acquainted with the bitter sting of loss. Orphaned before he could even grasp the world around him, he found solace in the embrace of a surrogate family, only to see it shattered by the cruel hands of fate. The once-vibrant Weasley clan, his bastion of hope in tumultuous times, now existed only as fragments of memories, scattered like leaves in the wind.

The Weasley clan was gone. The only one who had remained was a non-functioning George Weasley who only survived his suicidal thoughts due to one Angelina Johnson. However, Harry barely saw either of them anymore. The memories they brought up were too much for him and too much for George. It was depressing how the only person he cared about in this world couldn’t bear to glance at him either.

George Weasley, the lone Weasley survivor, clung to the tattered remnants of his former self, his spirit buoyed by the love of Angelina Johnson. 

In a world haunted by the spectres of the past, Harry Potter stood as a solitary figure, grappling with the weight of his existence, yearning for respite yet finding it elusive.

Harry curled a brow at the owl that slammed unceremoniously into his kitchen window, a familiar sight that never failed to bring a wistful smile to his lips. His lips quirk up a bit as the owl hops over, a bit disoriented as usual, pecking at his fingers in search for a snack. 

“Hello Errol,” Harry greeted the bird softly, his voice carrying a touch of nostalgia. Harry gazes at the owl George had all but thrown at him because it reminded the redhead too much of Percy and too much of Ron and too much of Molly Weasley. It reminded Harry of them too, hence the piercing stabs in his chest at the moment, but it would’ve hurt him much more if he’d given up Errol’s care into the arms of a stranger. 

Ron would have had his head at the very notion, if he’d been around to do it.

Errol's delivery included a missive from George, which Harry barely glanced at, and a scolding letter from Angelina, chiding him for his lack of correspondence. Then there was Luna's letter, informing him of her impending wedding to one Rolf Scammander, and expecting him to show up. Rolf was a good lad. A bloody hell of a beast when it came to warding and care of magical creatures -a testimony to his father and his Wuror mother. 

Harry couldn't help but feel a swell of affection for Luna, a kindred spirit in a world weighed down by darkness. Her gentle soul and unwavering loyalty were a rare thing indeed in this day and age of the wizarding world.

He would lay down his life for Luna without hesitation. But the thought of attending a wedding was not something he was very keen on doing considering he was very depressed and intended on staying that way for the foreseeable future. Depression weighed heavily upon him, a relentless companion that robbed him of most of his smiles. 

He could not for the life of him sleep properly. Nightmares haunted his dreams, each one a cruel reminder of the losses he'd suffered. And as a result, Harry preferred the solitude of wakefulness, shielding himself from the horrors that lurked in the darkness of his mind. He only got around three hours of sleep before the nightmares took hold. Harry was usually awake by then anyways. He preferred to not see the various ways all of his loved ones died every single night thankyouverymuch. 

Harry glanced at the Daily Prophet wondering why he was still subscribed to such a dingy, dodgy, dishonest newspaper when he remembered that no he was not subscribed to them at all. He just got their paper for free now considering he was still - Harry leans to check the head-title of the paper and scowls- the Man-who-conquered. 

The newspaper was a grim reminder of the notoriety he couldn't shake, despite his fervent wishes to the contrary

How he despised that moniker, a constant echo of his past, a label that tethered him to a legacy he never asked for. The name always made his eyes flicker to the source of his anguish. And when his eyes glanced at the soul mark on the inside of his left forearm, it also made him glance at his sleeve. The tattoos he had gotten over the course of the war. One tattoo for every life lost. Eventually the tattoos had become one too many for the number of people he had lost and his tattoo artist had gotten fed up and finally designed a proper sleeve for him integrating the many symbols and drawings he’d had done previously. 

The intricate tapestry of tattoos, each one a tribute to those who had fallen in the war, formed a mosaic of grief and remembrance, a burden Harry carried with a solemn reverence. It was a proper work of art in his opinion and he could never look at his left arm properly without tearing up. He preferred sleeves now. But the constant reminder of his loved ones, forever ingrained in his skin was comforting in a way Harry would never be able to explain.  

There was yet another letter from Kingsley tucked into the side of the newspaper and Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes good-naturally. It was probably another attempt at getting him to take up the Head Auror position which the man had been pestering him about for ages. The Minister's persistence was admirable, but Harry had grown weary of the battles, weary of the endless cycle of violence and loss. Perhaps it didn’t help that Harry had led several armies into battle against Voldemort and had come out victorious more often than not. 

However, Harry was done fighting. He hated it, if he was being honest with himself. Harry was tired of losing people. He was tired of killing and he was just simply tired. There wasn’t much Harry really wanted to do anymore. 

He’d become a war general at fifteen and it was still something he begrudged the universe for turning him into. 

He was a child , and he had been thrust into a role he never sought—a commander in a war that demanded everything from him. And though he had emerged victorious in the bitter end, the scars ran deep, both seen and unseen. The skills honed in the crucible of conflict were now burdens he carried, reminders of a past he longed to leave behind.

Harry yearned for peace, for a respite from the ceaseless turmoil that had defined his existence. But the universe seemed intent on keeping him tethered to a destiny he had never chosen. And as he glanced once more at the newspaper, at the headlines that branded him as a conqueror, he couldn't help but feel the weight of resentment settle upon his shoulders.

Harry let out a soft, resigned sigh as he set aside the stack of letters, his movements gentle and deliberate. With a sense of quiet determination, he made his way to the kitchen, mindful of the needs of Ron's aging owl, Errol. He moved quietly and quickly, getting some water and food for the owl. Though the absence of his beloved Hedwig still panged at his heart, he found solace in caring for his friend's faithful companion. And besides, taking care of his best friend’s owl for him in his absence was something he was willing to do for his brother-in-arms. If Augusta had wanted him to take Trevor off of her as well, he’d most probably also have a toad. Harry knew he would have accepted without hesitation.

He plopped on his couch, a bottle of firewhiskey in his hands. He sank into the couch’s familiar embrace, the bottle cradled in his hands like a lifeline. It was a ritual he had come to rely on, a temporary reprieve from the weight of his burdens. The amber liquid offered fleeting respite from the ache in his soul, numbing the pain that threatened to overwhelm him.

Drinking himself into oblivion was one of his coping methods. He didn’t mind if he woke up in a ghastly state tomorrow as long as today’s aches faded fast and quick. It didn’t help that today was the anniversary of his parent’s death and the anniversary of the end of the war. What a cosmic joke that had been in his opinion. That the day it all started had been the day it all ended as well. 

He couldn’t even count the number of friends he had lost on this day as well. Well no- he could. He counted each one in his mind over and over again, nails gripping at his left arm in a desperate attempt to forget. 

Harry turns his head to the side, trying to get more alcohol and almost has an aneurism right then and there, leaping sideways off his couch in his utter shock. 

The unexpected sight sends shockwaves through his weary soul, jolting him from his reverie with a sudden, visceral force.

The Resurrection Stone, a relic he had believed to be obliterated beyond repair, lay before him on the edge of his couch, nestled on a crimson silk handkerchief that seemed to pulse with an ominous energy. Harry felt a surge of revulsion, an instinctual desire to rid himself of the cursed object that threatened to unravel his fragile peace. Harry very suddenly wanted to burn the whole couch.

The temptation to unleash Fiendfyre, to obliterate the stone and its sinister presence once and for all, tugged at the edges of his consciousness. Casting Fiendfyre would probably be too much even though every cell in his body was screaming to blast the bloody thing.  Instead, he clenched his fists, his resolve steeling against the urge to succumb to his fury at the sight of the bloody stone.

He’d ended up destroying all three of the Hallows. Even the one that was his- the only one he had ever wanted, and the only one of them he’d longed to keep. But he knew it was safer to rid the world of the ancient artefacts. 

Harry had used the Elder wand to destroy the stone and burn the cloak. He’d then snapped said wand in half and chucked one of the pieces in the Chamber of Secrets and the other inside of that bloody inferi infested horcrux cave. He despised the place but even he had to admit the defences were top notch when he added an anti house-elf apparition ward. 

As he paced away from the couch, his mind awash with memories of battles long past, a sense of weariness settled upon him like a heavy cloak. "I refuse to be drawn back into this," He mutters to himself, the words a mantra against the encroaching chaos. "I am too old for this. Too old."

“I don’t know about old, but you certainly have made your opinion on my tools quite clear,” Her voice a haunting melody in the quiet of his home. 

He pauses in bafflement. There was a cloaked woman in his house, who had come out of actual nowhere, and Harry was confounded on why on earth she looked so offended. 

Her form ethereal and enigmatic. Her dark locks cascaded like a waterfall of shadows, her eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light. Despite her stillness, there was a palpable energy that surrounded her, a presence that sent shivers down Harry's spine. Obsidian eyes glittered unnaturally whenever her head moved, however, she was scarily still. Harry would have thought her to be a mannequin had she not spoken to him. 

Harry's bewilderment morphed into wary suspicion as he regarded the mysterious figure before him.

Harry's brow furrowed in a mixture of defiance and wariness, his wand held firmly in his grasp.“Your tools?” Harry scowls, and a wandless, wordless Protego surrounds him instantly. It was a reflexive response, one born of years spent navigating the treacherous currents of danger that seemed to follow him relentlessly. 

Harry knew by heart, the number of knives he had on him because he always had the same number of weapons before he went to sleep and the second he woke up. It was one of the many routines he had in place to keep him from simply imploding. 

Harry's voice was tinged with skepticism, his gaze steady as he confronted the enigmatic figure before him.

“Yes youngling, my tools. The ones you carelessly destroyed,” 

Her response was cryptic yet unmistakable, confirming Harry's suspicions with a chilling clarity. Apparently this was Death who was speaking to him or he got the whole Hallows story really messed up. He had faced Death once before, in the final confrontation with Voldemort, but this encounter was unlike any he had imagined.

“Indeed. I am Death,” She smiles at him softly. It wasn’t a real smile though. She didn’t smile with her eyes. “You forsook my tools and proved your worth to the Hallows. They are quite fond of you now.” She says, staring at the stone affectionately. 

Harry blinked. “You talk about them as if they are sentient,” He muses, causing her to actually shrug. 

“The Hallows are what they are. They are neither alive nor dead but something in between,” Death muses and Harry really wanted to go back to his drink. Maybe he could sleep this off and it would be nothing but a dream. 

The revelation that the Deathly Hallows themselves held a sentient consciousness was both unsettling and intriguing. But it remained an impressive feat of magic that would leave any wixen in awe. Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of curiosity and wariness as he regarded the Resurrection Stone, its surface glimmering with an otherworldly allure.

Death grins eerily and almost floats back into Harry’s living room. “I have come to offer you a boon, Harry Potter, for I owe you for your services.” Her eyes narrow slightly,  “And I despise leaving my debts unpaid,” 

Death's visage was a haunting enigma, devoid of the typical features that defined mortal beings. Instead of eyes as humans knew them, her sockets were hollow voids, suffused with a radiant silver glow that pierced through the darkness like twin beacons of otherworldly wisdom.

In the absence of conventional eyes, Harry found himself fixating on the subtle nuances of Death's expression -the delicate arch of her brow, the slight curl of her lips- as he sought to decipher the inscrutable depths of her intentions. It was a dance of subtleties, a silent exchange of unspoken truths that transcended the limitations of mortal understanding.

With every movement, every fleeting gesture, Death conveyed a myriad of emotions, her mood shifting like shadows cast by the flickering flame of a dying candle. There was a solemnity to her presence, a weightiness that hung heavy in the air, reminding Harry of the gravity of their exchange.

"I have glimpsed into the depths of your soul, Harry Potter," Death's voice echoed with a resonance that seemed to pierce through the very fabric of reality. "I am aware of the yearnings that reside within you, the desires that have been thwarted by the capricious whims of Fate herself. In recognition of your valor, of your efforts to rectify our oversights, we offer a boon as recompense."

Harry's gaze narrowed into a defiant glare, his resentment palpable in the tension that crackled in the air. "If you believe I will place any trust in the machinations of Fate, you are sorely mistaken," He snarls, his voice laced with a bitterness born of years of suffering and loss. They had taken everything from him, and he harboured no illusions about the capriciousness of divine intervention. He could not believe the audacity. They had taken everything from him. 

A mellifluous, melodious laugh resonated through the room, sending a shiver down Harry's spine. "I understand your trepidation, Harry," Death replied, her tone steeped in a disarming gentleness. "But rest assured, this gift is offered with your best interests at heart, you realize this of course?”

Harry's eyes narrowed further, skepticism etched into every line of his face. He was pretty sure the presence of a divine entity standing in his living room was not normal. He wished Hermione was here so they could bounce facts off one another. He longed for her rationality, for her keen intellect that unravelled every mystery that lay at her feet.

“That can be arranged if you accept my offer,” She was reading his thoughts and Harry did not appreciate it at all. 

The offer hung in the air, a tantalizing temptation that Harry was loath to entertain. Instead, he retreated into the sanctuary of his armchair, fixing Death with a steely gaze that dared her to intrude further into his affairs. Maybe if he ignored her, she’d simply go away. 

“No I won’t,”

“Get out of my head,” He demands in turn, his tone tinged with venom as he sought to assert his autonomy in the face of such overwhelming power. His glance was venomous and if looks could kill- well let’s just say it was a good thing the person he was looking at was Death herself. 

Death sighs, “Harry, you are one of my descendants dearest. I am very fond of you. Just as I was fond of your great-grandfather Ignotus,”  She explains lightly, “You were never supposed to have gone through what you did. But Horcruxes are against the laws of all deities.” Death sounded terse and Harry’s eyes flicker in her direction. Those silver eyes were just as haunting as they were unique. “You helped restore balance to the world. Necromancy should only be done by those of the correct bloodline. Everyone must die and everyone must live. That is the way. And that is how it shall remain. Tom Riddle almost destroyed this universe. Fate’s prophecy was not done on purpose, mind you. It was made in response to the travesty that boy did with his soul.” Death somehow sounded both enraged and saddened at the same time. 

Her eyes titled towards his left arm and his upper lip curled in distaste. “Don’t you dare,” He hisses and Death sighs. 

“It was never meant to be like this Harry. You both would have been so happy,” Death's voice was a whisper, soft and laden with sorrow, causing him to tense involuntarily. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, stirring echoes of regret and longing within him.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” He states, monotone before looking away. His tone was completely devoid of emotion, unwilling to confront the painful truths that lurked beneath the surface.

Death is silent for a second. She didn’t look like how he always thought Death would look like. She was more delicate than he expected, only he knew for a fact she could probably bend him like a pencil if she wanted. 

It was a paradox that left him both awestruck and apprehensive.

A sudden burst of laughter from Death shattered the tranquility of the moment, making Harry wish she would just leave his head the bloody hell alone already. 

“You would have a chance to begin anew youngling-” The word makes Harry internally bristle and Death coughs once as an apology before continuing, “- It is within my power to send you to a world where you are no longer the Boy-who-lived. You would be a normal person. Become whoever you would want without the weight of the world on your shoulders,” 

Harry's response was measured, his skepticism evident in the guarded tone of his words. “That is all swell and great, Death.” Harry begins, “But I’ve learned from a young age to not expect anything from anyone without asking what they want in return,” 

Death's sigh carried a weight of melancholy that tugged at Harry's heart, stirring feelings he had long sought to suppress. She looked much too saddened for Harry to feel comfortable. Only Harry didn’t care- well he shouldn’t care. 

“Life isn’t always so black and white, Harry.” Death says gently, “You’d be in a world where your parents are alive. Where your soulmate is alive and not insane.” She continues. “This is the repayment we deities believe you deserve.” 

Harry sucked in a breath, before he swallowed hard, staring intently at the Gryffindor red carpet at his feet. The implications of her offer washed over Harry like a tidal wave, stirring a tumult of emotions within him. A wave of longing and nausea bubbled up in his stomach, up his throat choking him. He grappled with the prospect of leaving behind everything he had ever known.

“Shouldn’t there be an alternate version of me as well in this so-called world,” Harry muses with a note of contemplation, before he realizes what exactly he was saying and scowls in frustration.

Death straightens up, a slight smile on her face, “Oh, that world’s version of Harry Potter is alive,” Her tone was a tad too uncaring for Harry’s comfort but he didn’t mention it and Death seemed not to care. “You will need another name of course,” Death muses and Harry glares. 

A surge of defiance welled up within Harry as he bristled at the implication. “I did not agree to do anything, I have responsibilities here, people who depend on me," He asserts, his voice tinged with a steely resolve, and Death looks at him with something akin to pity and it makes him bristle. 

Her gaze softens, a hint of sympathy flickering in her silver eyes as she regarded him. "Family you don’t have, and friends you never see?" She questions gently, her words striking a chord within Harry's heart. She leans forward, a sort of pain in her silver gaze that forces Harry to look away. 

She had scars, Harry suddenly realized. And it was a thought that made him resonate slightly with the upper being. Her scars were laced in gold. It reminded Harry of an old Japanese art. Golden threads were woven into the fabric of her being like a tapestry of resilience. She bore the marks of a lifetime of trials, yet there was a beauty in the way they shimmered against the darkness- a testament to her strength and resilience.

She looked like a real-life animated version of Kintsugi. But instead of broken pottery pieces glued together with gold, it was an actual being being put back together. Instead of making the cracks invisible, they were beautiful. 

“Hmmm….” Death was smiling warmly at him- much like how he imagined how his own mother would smile at him if she had been given the chance. 

“Your heart is filled with gold veins, Harry- not with the cracks you think it carries,” The deity says softly, making the lump in his throat increase. 

“The deal is too good…” He grumbles in response, his skepticism still lingering despite the reassurances offered by Death. “There has to be a hidden agenda here,” He says, gaze hard.

Death shakes her head, “No hidden agendas, Harry. You have my word.” Her face grows solemn, “And I never break my word.”

But honestly what did he have to lose? Harry had no one and maybe being in a world that didn’t remind him of the screams and the deaths and the graveyards…. wouldn’t be so bad. It would be like a permanent vacation with all of his loved ones. 

He would meet his parents…. his mother- the first person who sacrificed everything so that Harry would live. 

Death clapped, “Marvellous!” She rose to her feet, “I will handle everything for your peaceful transition into your new world! Oh this is just magnificent!” She was excited and Harry stands up quickly, almost stumbling out of his chair.

“Wait a second! I did not agree to anything! You can’t just-” 

Death completely ignored him, “I hope you enjoy your new life Harry,” Death says genuinely affectionate and then Harry was staring into a black void, the darkness pulling him into unconsciousness. 

Harry swore back and forth that when he saw Death again, he was going to have a harsh speaking to with her. He was never afraid of Death anyways.