Second Chances
The Forbidden Forest
As Harry ventured deeper into the heart of the Forbidden Forest, the world around him faded into an eerie hush. The usual whispers of the wind through the leaves, the distant rustling of unseen creatures—all had fallen silent, as if the forest itself knew what was to come.
His thoughts drifted, carrying him through the winding corridors of memory. Hermione’s first hug, the warmth of it surprising him. Ron’s easy grin when they met on the train. The troll in the dungeon. The glint of the basilisk’s fangs. The soul-crushing despair of the Dementors. The Triwizard Tournament. Dumbledore’s cryptic lessons. The endless, agonizing days on the run, huddled in a tent with only Horcruxes and half-formed plans for company. Dobby’s sacrifice. Hermione’s screams. Ron’s betrayal. Ron’s return.
Remus teaching him the Patronus, the first spell he had truly mastered. The rush of his first Quidditch game. The giddy nerves of his first crush. The clumsy, stolen moment of his first kiss. The sheer, unfiltered joy of Sirius offering him a home.
Each memory vied for dominance, flickering in his mind like a dying fire.
And then, their voices.
His parents. Sirius. Remus.
They whispered encouragement, their love an invisible tether pulling him forward as he let the Resurrection Stone slip through his fingers, falling silently to the forest floor.
‘It won’t hurt.’
Just a few more steps, and he could finally be free.
He had done everything that had been asked of him. Trusted in fate. Trusted in Dumbledore. Trusted in his friends to finish what he started. They would destroy the snake. Voldemort would be mortal. It would end.
‘It’ll finally be someone else’s problem.’
A bitter thought. A final thought.
Yet, as his memories shifted, a deeper, uglier truth rose to the surface.
4 Privet Drive.
The cupboard under the stairs. The locked doors. The whispers of “freak” behind his back. The hunger. The bruises.
Anger surged.
Anger at the Dursleys for their cruelty.
Anger at Dumbledore for placing him there and forcing him to return, year after year.
And—worst of all—anger at himself. For being too weak to change it. Too obedient to question. Too afraid to ask for more.
For the thousandth time, he cursed the bloody prophecy—a fate thrust upon him before he could even walk. A life not his own. A childhood stolen, a future never promised.
A part of him still ached for the things he had never been allowed to have. A real home. A family. A life where he wasn’t the Chosen One, just Harry. A boy who could grow up without the weight of an entire world on his shoulders.
But there was no time for regrets now.
His footsteps slowed as he entered the clearing.
Tom Riddle—the self-styled Lord Voldemort—stood at the center, encircled by his most devoted followers. The Death Eaters flanked him like shadowy wraiths, their cruel laughter breaking the fragile silence of the forest. Torches burned low, casting a feint light over the damp earth.
Voldemort’s thin lips curled into a smile, grotesque in its victory.
"Ah, Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived, come to die at last."
Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. He simply held the Dark Lord’s gaze, watching as Voldemort savored the moment, stretching it out for his own twisted pleasure.
‘You want me to be afraid’, Harry thought numbly. ‘You want me to beg.’
He wouldn’t.
He had long since made his peace.
And yet—one final thought nagged at him. A whisper of doubt, of regret, of a life unlived.
‘Would it have been different?’
If he had been stronger. If he had pushed past Dumbledore’s boundaries, challenged the limits of his own magic. Would he have been able to stand against Voldemort, as his parents had? As Dumbledore had?
Would he have been more than just a pawn in someone else’s war?
Had he wasted his gift? Had he wasted his life?
His gaze flickered to the Dark Lord, who was still speaking, monologuing as always, stretching out his inevitable triumph.
‘Get on with it, Tom,’ he thought dryly.
The air grew heavy, magic coiling around them like a living thing. Voldemort raised his wand—his pale, spindly fingers caressing the wood.
And then—the world shifted. A terrible cold seeped through the clearing. Not the empty, mind-numbing despair of dementors, but something older. Deeper.
The shadows twisted unnaturally. A whisper of something dark and unknowable slithered through the air. Even the Death Eaters shivered, their cruel smirks faltering as unease prickled at their skin. The creatures of the forest had fled. The wind had stilled.
Only Harry remained unaffected.
‘It’s waiting for me.’
Still, Voldemort did not notice.
Blinded by his own hubris, he saw nothing beyond his triumph.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A burst of sickly green light tore through the darkness. Harry closed his eyes. He let out one last breath, releasing seventeen years of tension, pain, and longing. And for the first time in his life… he let go.
The world faded into nothingness.
No sound.
No pain.
Just… quiet.
A stillness so profound, it felt as though time itself had ceased to exist.
And then, a whisper.
A voice—ancient and knowing—echoed through the void.
"Not yet, child."
Something shifted.
Something reached for him.
And, before he could resist—before he could even think—Harry Potter was pulled from the darkness…
The Red Keep
Daenerys Targaryen looked down, her vision blurred by the pain lancing through her body. A dagger, slick with her blood, protruded from her chest, the hilt trembling in the unsteady grip of the man she had once loved.
"Jon…"
The name barely escaped her lips, swallowed by the rising tide of agony. Her knees buckled, but she held herself upright, fingers grasping weakly at his shoulders as she tried to make sense of it—to make sense of him.
‘Why?’
She had wanted them to see, to understand. To realize they no longer needed to bear the weight of choice, of uncertainty, of struggle. She would have borne it for them. She would have led them, freed them—
No. That wasn’t right.
She had wanted to break the wheel, to tear apart the chains that had bound the world in endless cycles of war and suffering. She had wanted love, acceptance, family.
Her children.
Her poor children.
A sob tore from her throat, more grief than sound.
‘Our child… our son—no! My child!’ Her nails dug into Jon’s tunic, a feeble, desperate grasp, as though she could hold onto him long enough to make him see. ‘Jon, I wanted to tell you… our beautiful miracle. Damn you! Curse them!’
‘They turned you against me… They turned me against myself…’
She trembled against him, the weight of betrayal greater than the pain of the wound itself.
Jon’s face crumpled, his grey eyes glassy with grief. She had dreamed of love in those eyes, but now, she saw only regret.
"I’m sorry, Dany," he whispered, his voice shaking. "You are my queen. Now and always."
And then, she was falling.
Falling into darkness.
Falling into memory.
Falling into fire.
She should have hit the ground.
Instead, she was soaring.
Wind howled around her, the scent of salt and embers filling her lungs as the world stretched below her, vast and infinite. She felt weightless, her wings unbound, freed from the chains of mortality.
‘My wings?’
She looked down.
Where arms should have been, she saw dark scales shimmering in the sunlight. She felt the beat of her own wings, the pulse of fire surging through her body like a second heartbeat.
And she remembered.
The house with the red door. The warm summer breeze whispering through the lemon trees. Laughter, soft and unburdened. The peace of it wrapped around her like a childhood memory half-forgotten.
For the first time in years, she felt whole. No one could control her here. No one could shackle her will, no one could snuff out her fire. She was a dragon, and a dragon is not a slave.
She closed her eyes and let the wind carry her into the light.
???
When Daenerys awoke, she was bathed in blinding light. She winced, lifting an arm to shield her eyes before slowly lowering it as her vision adjusted. White marble stretched infinitely in all directions; an endless expanse untouched by time. No horizon. No walls. No doors. She wasn’t in Westeros. She wasn’t anywhere.
Her hand flew to her chest. No wound. No blood. But the ache remained.
"Daenerys Targaryen." The words rang through the void, curling around her like a veiled prophecy.
A figure loomed before her, cloaked in absolute darkness, a stark contrast to the pale world around them. No face, no true form—just a mass of shifting shadows, the abyss itself given shape. She had thought she’d known death, seen its bone chilling terror in the eyes of the Night King and his servants. This was something else entirely—ancient and finite—something incomprehensible.
Her senses screamed for her to run and curl in on herself all at once, but her body wouldn’t allow her to move; she was momentarily petrified.
It had no eyes that she could see, yet she felt herself being laid bare. As if her soul had been peeled apart, exposed, and dissected. Her victories, her failures, her regrets—it saw everything. But as it unraveled her very being, fear gave way to something else. Resonating deep within her, a single word.
Opportunity.
“What are you?” She scrutinized the figure before her.
"I am the one who transcends all. I am inevitable. I have had many names and many faces, and in the end, all shall face me." The figure tilted its head slightly. "If you must call me something… Grimm will do."
Confusion gave way to recognition. This was death. To believe she had known it before, oh how wrong she was.
"You have faced great turmoil for one so young," the figure rasped, its voice like the whisper of ancient parchment crumbling into dust. "For every victory, a debt was paid. For every love, a loss. For the gift of trust, treachery was returned. You were meant to be more than a conqueror…more than a liberator. You were meant to be a revolution."
Grimm paused examining her for a moment.
"Tell me, Daenerys Targaryen—when did your fire grow so dim?"
A spark of defiance surged through her. She straightened, lifting her chin in challenge.
"My fire, dim?" she repeated, voice sharp as steel. "I assure you, the blood of the dragon still runs through me, burning as strong as ever."
A chuckle—a soundless, knowing thing.
"So you say." The figure seemed amused. "Yet here you stand before me, defeated. Your paranoia and fear guided your steps, and they led you to ruin. Oh, don’t look so wounded, child. You know I speak the truth."
She bristled. "Truth? You speak of truth? I was betrayed! Used and discarded the moment my dragons were no longer needed. My advisors—my own Hand—they schemed against me! My blood, my love, turned his blade upon me!"
The figure tilted its head ever so slightly, like a scholar amused by a foolish pupil.
"And yet, tell me—was it they who whispered fear into your ear? Was it they who convinced you that the only way to secure power was through fire and blood? Was it they who chose destruction over love?"
Her mouth went dry. Because deep down, she knew the answer. She had let it happen.
Somewhere along the way, her dream had twisted into obsession. She had let the throne consume her. She had ignored the signs, dismissed the warnings, abandoned the trust of those loyal few who had stood beside her.
The realization cut deeper than any blade ever could.
"I see you have realized some of your mistakes. Good. Now you know not to repeat them."
Daenerys startled, her hands curling into fists at her sides.
"Repeat them?" she echoed, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"
The void pulsed with amusement, and the figure’s voice came again, that rasping whisper curling around her like unseen tendrils.
"I mean exactly what I said. Don't repeat your mistakes. You will make new ones—of that, I am certain. But if you trust yourself and show the capacity to learn from your past, you may yet succeed in the new life I am about to grant you."
A strange dizziness overcame her, and she swayed on her feet. She clenched her jaw, struggling to keep upright as the truth settled in her bones like ice.
"My new life ?" Her breath hitched. "You're going to make me do it all again!?"
It chuckled, dry as autumn leaves.
"Oh, no. As they say, the ink is dry. Your time in that world has ended. What I offer you is a chance to try your hand in another—one filled with even greater magic than your former." The shadows coiled around Grimm’s form, as if relishing the words. "And yes, dragons exist there as well.”
"And what of my child?" Her voice softened, breaking with something raw. "Will he be coming with me."
"A child of destiny," it mused. "Marked by fate, though not in ways even your former gods could have foreseen. Yes, he will make the journey with you. He will have a burden thrust upon him, and it will be your task to guide him, to prepare him."
Daenerys gasped, wrapping her arms protectively around herself, as if her child was still there, nestled beneath her heart.
It was too good to be true.
‘Do I deserve a second chance?’ she thought. ‘Maybe not. But my child does.’
Resolve hardened in her spine, stronger than valyrian steel.
"I'll do it," she said fiercely. "Whatever you want from me, I'll do it—as long as I get to see my son."
Grimm was silent for a beat before giving a low, knowing chuckle.
"While I admire your devotion as a mother, I would advise caution when offering to do whatever I want ."
Under any other circumstances, she might have been wary, but she had made her choice the moment she lost everything.
She lifted her chin, staring directly into the abyss. "No matter. Send me to this world, and I will not fail him this time."
A skeletal hand rose once more.
"Then it is decided."
A single snap of its fingers—
“Good luck...”
And darkness swallowed her whole.
Arrival
When Daenerys next awoke, warmth surrounded her. A cocoon of silk sheets pooled around her limbs, their smooth fabric gliding against her skin as she shifted. The air smelled of aged parchment, woodsmoke, and something faintly floral—lavender, perhaps. She blinked, adjusting to the dim light filtering in through the large windows to her left. The deep blue walls of the chamber glowed under the morning sun, casting long, golden streaks across the room.
She pushed herself up from the luxurious bed, feeling the whisper of cool air against her exposed arms. Slowly, she swung her legs over the side and rose to her feet. A dark-colored nightgown, soft and unfamiliar, brushed against her skin as she padded barefoot toward the intricately carved door at the far end of the room. She hesitated only briefly before grasping the cold metal handle and pulling it open.
A grand hallway stretched before her, lined with heavy wooden doors on either side. A wide staircase loomed just ahead, sweeping down into an entrance hall below. Everything about the manor exuded an old, quiet grandeur, as if the very walls carried the weight of time itself.
Just as she took a tentative step forward, a soft pop echoed in the still air.
Daenerys startled, inhaling sharply as the strangest creature she had ever seen materialized before her.
"Good morning, Mistress!" came a squeaky, high-pitched voice.
She took an involuntary step back, her pulse quickening.
The creature—small, with enormous, tennis-ball-like eyes—stood before her, clad in a tiny black suit, its oversized ears twitching as it regarded her with what she assumed was a smile. It smoothed its coat with tiny hands before wringing them together eagerly.
"What can Pippin do for youz this morning?"
Daenerys stared.
“What in the gods’ name are you?”
The creature—Pippin—blinked up at her, its ears flopping slightly in confusion.
“Pippin beez Mistress’s house elf,” he said, as if the answer should be obvious. “Does Mistress not remember Pippin? Perhaps Pippin should fetch her Missy to look over Mistress and see why she doesn’t remember!”
Daenerys’ breath hitched.
"Missy? Who is Missy?” she demanded, her voice steadier than she felt. “And what in the world is a house elf?”
Pippin’s enormous eyes widened impossibly further; his panic palpable.
“Oh noes, oh noes! Something is indeed wrong with Mistress if she doesn’t even remember Missy!" His tiny hands flailed. "I’ll go fetch her right now!"
And with a soft pop, he vanished.
Daenerys exhaled shakily, gripping the doorframe as a sudden dizziness overtook her. The impossible nature of what had just happened—of everything—threatened to crush her beneath its weight. This world, this place, the very air felt different. A strange sensation pooled in her chest, teetering between awe and fear.
Footsteps, light but purposeful rang through corridor.
A young woman soon stepped into view, ascending the stairs with practiced grace.
She was stunning—tan skin, dark curls neatly pulled back by a simple headband. A deep green, high-waisted draped skirt and a white blouse with flowing sleeves adorned her slender form. Intelligent brown eyes, brimming with quiet concern, met Daenerys' own.
“My lady, are you all right?” the woman asked, her voice warm and gentle, yet tinged with worry. “Pippin said you seemed confused, and I mean no offense, but you look quite unwell.”
Daenerys opened her mouth, but words failed her. She took an unsteady breath, moisture gathering in her eyes as she whispered a name—one that should have been lost to another world.
“…Missandei?”
The woman—Missy—tilted her head slightly, clearly puzzled by the raw emotion in Daenerys' voice.
Before she could question it, Missy turned to Pippin, who had popped back into existence. “Pippin, grab a calming draught and a dose of dreamless sleep. I’ll get the mistress back in bed.”
Daenerys barely registered Pippin’s hurried departure before Missy stepped closer, her voice soothing as she reached out.
“Please, my lady. You need rest. Stress isn’t good for the babe.”
The babe.
Daenerys froze.
Her trembling hands drifted to her stomach. Beneath the soft nightgown, her fingers found the barely-there swell of her belly. She gasped, a sob escaping her lips. He was here. Her child. Grimm had kept his word.
Missandei. Her baby.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, a quiet, overwhelmed laugh bubbling from her throat.
"I… I'm sorry," she choked out, shaking her head. "I’m just—so emotional and not really feeling like myself today. I didn’t mean to worry you."
Missy studied her for a moment before offering a soft, reassuring smile. “I understand, my lady. I'm sure you’ll feel just fine once you’ve had some proper rest.”
Pippin returned with the potions, and Daenerys swallowed them without protest. As she drifted into sleep once more, her last thought was a solemn promise:
I will not fail them this time.
A Grimm Message
The next time she woke, sunlight once again peered through the large windows in her chamber.
Pippin, ever dutiful, appeared at her bedside the moment her eyes fluttered open.
“Youz slept a whole day and night, Mistress!” he declared, practically bouncing on his feet. “Pippin hopes youz be feeling better!”
Daenerys offered him a small smile, stretching slightly. “Much better. Thank you, er...Pippin.”
Pleased, the little elf beamed. “A letter arrived last night. And a chest, too!”
‘A chest?’
Sitting up, she looked toward the foot of the bed, where a familiar wooden chest rested. A chill ran down her spine. She knew that chest.
Heart pounding, she slid off the bed and knelt before it. Hands trembling, she unlatched the lock and lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in velvet, lay three eggs .
Not just any eggs— their eggs.
Drogon. Rhaegal. Viserion.
The moment her fingers traced the gleaming scales—black, green, and cream—her breath hitched, a fresh wave of tears spilling down her cheeks.
“My children,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Oh, my sweets… how I have missed you.”
For a long moment, she simply sat there, cradling each of the eggs against her chest.
Then, hands shaking, she tore open the envelope and scanned the letter within.
Hello, Daenerys,
I’m sure by now you’ve received all my gifts. I pulled some strings (literally) and managed to give your precious friend back to you. Do keep in mind, she isn’t the Missandei you knew, yet they are very similar. Only their experiences are what set them apart.
I know you’d prefer your Missandei, but even I have limits—and I used most of my power and goodwill to provide you with the contents of that chest.
Now, a word of advice: find a different way to hatch them. Sacrificial magic is strong and deeply rooted in powerful magics. But unless you fancy magical law enforcement knocking on your door or wish to be shunned by wizarding society, I’d recommend shying away from human sacrifices. Trust me, they would know. It leaves a stain upon your soul—a stench that never fades.
You are now the last known member of the ancient Peverell family. I even tweaked things a little—ensuring a Targaryen family existed in this world and married into the Peverells centuries ago. Your bloodline carries weight here.
To help you stand among your peers, I’ve imprinted the knowledge of a practiced witch on your body. Basic spells should come easily enough with a bit of practice. It is up to you, to learn everything you can. Magic, politics, history. You’ll need it.
This will be the last you hear from me for a while. But depending on how you do, I may have more gifts in store.
Good luck, Daenerys. Do not waste this chance.
—Grimm.
The following days passed in a whirlwind of quiet discovery. Under the guise that her pregnancy had disrupted her control over magic, Daenerys practiced basic spells with Missy’s guidance.
The moment she picked up her wand for the first time, something inside her awoke. Energy surged through her, raw and intoxicating, thrumming beneath her skin as if the very air around her responded to her will. The wand felt like an extension of herself—alive, eager, waiting.
The feeling was… incredible. It was second only to the moment she had first touched her dragon eggs, knowing they were hers to protect.
Spells came easily to her, just as Grimm had promised. Simple charms, transfiguration, basic dueling techniques—she grasped them within days. While she still had to study more advanced magic, the foundation was there, as if these abilities had always lain dormant, waiting to be claimed.
Through their lessons, she learned more about Missy as well.
Missy, as it turned out, was only eighteen—fresh out of Beauxbatons. The young woman had always harbored a fascination for history, particularly the myths and legends surrounding old magical families. When she had received an opportunity to work for the Peverell line as the Lady's Companion and future Governess, she had lunged at the chance despite her initial skepticism.
One evening, as they sat together after a long day of practice, Daenerys finally voiced something that had been weighing on her mind.
"Missy, I just want to be clear on something," she said, studying the young woman’s expression. "You do know that you are not a servant, yes?"
Missy blinked at her, surprised.
Daenerys pressed on. "If another opportunity comes up for you, if you ever wish to leave, you may. There is no obligation to stay here. But as long as you do choose to stay, I want you to call me Daenerys," she finished, offering a small, uncertain smile.
A slow, warm smile spread across Missy’s lips.
"I assure you, I am quite happy here, my L—Daenerys," she corrected herself with a soft laugh.
And so, their days settled into a rhythm. Between lessons in spellwork, Daenerys devoured every book she could find, seeking knowledge of both her new family’s history and the world she now inhabited. The Peverells were as much a legend here as the Targaryens had been in Westeros—an old, powerful bloodline, long thought extinct. Yet here she was, the last of their name, with magic and mystery at her fingertips.
The outside world was more difficult to grasp.
She read everything she could in The Daily Prophet, yet it felt like looking through a fogged window. Moving portraits, self-writing quills, the curious concept of house-elves—she still wasn’t sure she would ever get used to Pippin. The little creature bustled about the manor with boundless energy, his unique manner of speaking a source of endless amusement and mild confusion.
But no matter how surreal her situation, Daenerys endured it all for one reason.
For her child.
Her son.
The Fated Day
Time carried on, and the seasons shifted.
Spring gave way to summer, and Daenerys found herself preparing for the most important moment of her second life.
Her belly had grown to its full roundness, a visible promise of the life she carried. She spent her final days of pregnancy in near-seclusion within Hallows Hill, surrounded only by Missy and Pippin, her hands forever resting against her stomach as she whispered to the little soul inside her.
And then, at last, the time came.
She had been reclining on the couch in the library, reading over a tome on elemental magic, particularly drawn to the pages detailing fire. It was instinctual, a need buried deep within her bones. Fire had always been a part of her, had always been hers to command.
That was when the first pang struck her. A dull ache, creeping through her lower back and stomach.
Daenerys tensed, sucking in a slow breath. She waited. The pain receded, only to return minutes later, sharper this time. She clenched the armrest, instinctively bracing herself.
She knew what this was.
The contractions continued, stretching longer, pulling at her body with undeniable force. Then—warmth. A wet sensation spilled between her legs.
She looked down. The realization hit her like dragonfire. Her water had broken.
Daenerys slowly rose to her feet, inhaling deeply through her nose, willing herself to remain calm.
She turned toward Missy, who was watching her with careful anticipation.
“It’s time.”
For a single breath, there was silence.
Then, all at once, the room erupted into movement.
Missy and Pippin sprang into action, their careful planning from the past months snapping into place. Pippin rushed to prepare the birthing chamber, muttering anxiously to himself about "warm blanketsies" and "potionses," while Missy supported Daenerys as they made their way through the halls.
Despite the sharp jolts of pain wracking her body, Daenerys could not keep from shaking with excitement.
He would be here soon. By the time the sun set upon Hallows Hill, she knew. By night’s end, she would hold her son in her arms.
The Void Between Worlds
Harry slowly sat up; his movements sluggish as if waking from an eternity of sleep. The first thing he noticed was the floor beneath him—hard, white marble that stretched endlessly in every direction. There were no walls, no ceiling, no horizon. Just a vast, empty expanse of light that neither burned nor comforted.
He turned his head sharply at the sound of something rustling behind him, followed by a pitiful moan. His stomach twisted as he saw it—a grotesque, malformed creature curled in on itself, trembling in agony. It looked barely alive, whimpering as if caught between existence and oblivion.
Harry took an instinctive step forward, compelled by something within him—
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The voice slithered through the emptiness, low and raspy, yet it carried the weight of inevitability.
A chill gripped Harry’s heart. He had known fear before—the bone-deep terror of facing Voldemort, the soul-chilling despair of dementors. But this was something else entirely. This wasn’t fear of death. This was death itself.
“The latter is more accurate,” the voice mused. “Dementors are merely shadows of my making—crude imitations.”
Harry turned swiftly, his breath catching at the sight of the floating, hooded entity cloaked in pure darkness. Its presence was an abyss, consuming all warmth, all sound, all feeling. A being of pure finality.
“What… what are you?” he managed, throat dry.
The entity tilted its head, examining him like a curiosity. “Hmm. You don’t seem as shaken as she was. That’s surprising.”
“She?” Harry blinked. “Who—”
Grimm waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, just someone I had the pleasure of speaking to before your arrival. She’s of no concern to you...for now. I’ve already sent her on her way.”
Harry tried to take it all in, but it was too much. ‘ There was someone else here? Where had she gone? Where am I?’
“Now,” Grimm continued, “let’s talk about you, Chosen One.”
There was a mocking lilt to the words, and something about it made Harry tense.
“My acquaintance is quite miffed with you, you know,” Grimm tutted. “Every year, you found yourself in mortal peril, yet you could barely be bothered to read a book unless it quite literally latched on to your face. We thought you’d finally get the hint in your fourth year, but alas—and now you chose to willingly walk to your own death. Noble, yet so utterly unnecessary.”
Harry swallowed hard, unable to look away from the abyssal void where Grimm’s face should have been. His breath was ragged, his pulse thrumming like a war drum in his ears.
“I did what I had to do,” he said, but the words rang hollow even to his own ears.
Grimm chuckled; a sound devoid of warmth. “Yes, and how well did that work out for you?”
Harry gritted his teeth, but Grimm pressed on, relentless.
“You had the ability, the potential to be so much more than a sacrificial pawn. Even with no proper training, no true guidance beyond what was given to you by those with their own agendas, you still performed feats of magic that others would have spent decades mastering. Imagine, for just a moment, what you might have accomplished had you taken the time to truly embrace your power.”
Harry's hands trembled at his sides. "You think I didn't want to? You think I didn't try? I was barely eleven when I found out magic even existed! From the moment I stepped foot into that world, I was under attack—too busy surviving, fighting, running. There was never time to—"
Grimm's voice dropped to a whisper, cutting through his words like a dagger. "There was always time. You just didn't take it."
Harry exhaled sharply, turning his face away. The truth of it burned, not because it was wrong—but because it wasn't.
"You wanted to be normal," Grimm continued, as if reading his thoughts. "You clung to the fantasy that, if you just played along, if you let others do the thinking, do the planning, then maybe—just maybe—you could pretend to be an ordinary boy with an ordinary life. But tell me, Harry Potter, did that ever work?"
A lump formed in his throat, but he forced himself to answer. "No."
"No," Grimm agreed. "Because you were never meant for normalcy. You were meant to carve your own legend."
The weight of his words settled on Harry’s shoulders, and he found himself shaking.
"You failed yourself," Grimm murmured. "You failed those who believed in you. And worst of all? You know it."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "I know," he whispered.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Then, Grimm’s voice softened, though the weight of his presence never wavered. "But Fate is not finished with you just yet."
Harry’s eyes snapped open. "What?"
Grimm tilted his head. "I brought you here for a reason. To offer you a second chance."
A flicker of hope surged through Harry before doubt quickly smothered it. "A second chance?" He scoffed bitterly. "What, you’re going to send me back? The war’s already over. I played my part. I walked to my death just like Dumbledore wanted. There’s nothing left for me."
Grimm chuckled again. "Oh, no. I’m not sending you back there. Your story as Harry Potter is over. But if you so choose… you may begin a new one."
Harry’s breath caught. "A new life?" His mind raced. "You mean, like—reincarnation?"
"In a way," Grimm mused. "Your memories, your experiences, your very essence—intact. But your name? Your bloodline? That will change. And what you do with that life?" He leaned in, though his form never moved. "That is entirely up to you."
The endless white stretched around them, vast and infinite, but for the first time since arriving, Harry no longer felt lost.
"Where would I go?" he asked hesitantly.
Grimm exhaled as if amused. "Somewhere quite similar to this world. Think of it like another of the universe’s many possibilities. You will not be alone, nor will you be without purpose."
Harry hesitated, but the longing for something more burned fiercely in his chest. "And what if I refuse?"
"Then you move on," Grimm said simply. "Your thread of fate will be cut, and the world will continue without you. It will be... as if you never existed."
The finality of that statement chilled him to the bone.
"...And if I accept?" His voice was quieter now.
Grimm’s void-like form seemed to loom, though it never physically changed. "Then you will live again. And this time, Harry Potter—you will not be a pawn."
Harry let out a shaky breath, his mind spinning with the enormity of the choice before him.
He had regrets. So many regrets. A wasted education. A blind trust in people who had never truly prepared him for what lay ahead. A childhood stolen by prophecy, by war, by a fate he had never been given the chance to defy.
He could fix it. He could be more. Harry lifted his head, meeting the abyss head-on.
"I accept."
Grimm let out a slow, satisfied exhale.
"Then wake up."
With a snap of fingers, the world shattered into darkness.
Rebirth
The first thing Harry felt was pain.
Not searing, not unbearable, but an ache deep in his bones—a heaviness he had never known before. His mind swam, thoughts sluggish, disoriented.
Then—awareness. He was small. Too small. A baby.
‘Well… that explains the headache.’
The second thing he noticed, was her.
She was beautiful—a woman with silver hair damp with sweat, clinging to the sides of her exhausted but radiant face. Her violet eyes, still wet with tears, gazed down at him with a love so fierce it threatened to break him.
And then, in a voice softer than he had ever heard, she whispered—
“My precious boy. My love.”
Harry stilled.
“Look at you… You’re perfect.”
His tiny fingers curled, and she brought them to her lips, kissing them as more tears fell.
“Mummy loves you so, so much.”
A lump rose in his throat.
“Do you know how long I have dreamed of this moment? When I could finally see you? Hold you? I do not deserve you, but I will give all that I have to ensure your happiness.”
Her grip on him tightened—not in fear, not in desperation, but in certainty.
“I would cast aside every desire, every wish, every dream of my own for you.”
A sob built in his chest, but his body was too small, too weak to release it.
“You are my everything, my sweet.”
And in that moment, Harry made a vow.
He would never let anything happen to her.
And if the world tried to take her from him—
It would burn .