Chapter 1
We begin this story in the second room of a house on Privet Drive.
It's not a very large room. There's a small bed, a desk, a dresser, a trunk, and an empty owl cage. The contents of said trunk are currently strewn across the room, and the small boy lying on the bed seems to have no desire to move them.
The small boy's name is Harry Potter. He isn't much to look at: skinny, with oversized clothes and messy hair. His glasses, which are currently resting on the desk, do nothing for the boy's poor eyesight. But beyond the ragged appearance of the child, there lies a secret.
He is a wizard -- a very famous one, considering he defeated a Dark Lord at the age of one.
(Or so everyone says. Harry, personally, is a bit skeptical that a literal baby could defeat one of the most powerful Dark Lords of all time.)
Harry sighed and turned to squint at the clock on his dresser. Five minutes to midnight.
Ever since he could remember, Harry had stayed up until midnight on July 30th. His relatives didn't celebrate his birthday, so he wasn't sure why he made a big deal of it, but something kept him up anyway.
Turning back to face the ceiling made him wince. His uncle, whose girth was larger than the man's ego, had punched him earlier that day for saying "What's the magic word?" in an attempt to get Dudley to be more polite. Unfortunately, his relatives hated any mention of magic and immediately retaliated. His ribs had taken a beating, and Harry was quite sure one of them was broken.
The clock struck midnight, and Harry blacked out.
-------
"Meddlesome fool."
Harry groaned. He ached everywhere, not just his ribs.
"Carefully, brat. Death takes a lot out of you."
Harry opened his eyes.
He was lying in what seemed like a desert, but there weren't any dunes. He could see miles in every direction, even if the sky was completely black. He could see figures in the distance, heading in the same direction.
And standing above him was a tall, cloaked figure with his hood down and a familiar sour expression on his face. One hand clutched a massive scythe, while the other rested on his hip.
"Snape?" Harry sputtered.
"Yes," Snape drawled. "Technically. Your potions professor is the shape I took to keep an eye on you. However, I am actually Death -- or Mortem, if you prefer."
Harry stared at him. Then he tried to sit up and yelped.
"You are still recovering from the blocks that stupid fool, Dumbledore, placed on you. If you plan on returning to the mortal plane, or even continuing on to the afterlife, I suggest removing those."
"What?"
Snape pinched his nose and sighed irritably. "Potter..."
"It's not my fault!" Harry snapped at him. "I just f*cking died-"
"Language."
"-after my uncle broke a rib-"
"Two of them."
"-and you just told me that I have blocks! Yes, I know what those are," Harry snarled before Snape could interrupt. "Sorry if I don't trust a teacher who continuously belittled and insulted me just because my father was a bully."
He expected Snape/Death to immediately get angry, but instead-
"If I had not belittled and insulted you, Dumbledore would have become suspicious," Snape said flatly, although Harry swore he saw a bit of guilt in his eyes. "James Potter was horrible to me and every Slytherin, but I should not have taken that out on you. I apologize."
Harry stared at him.
"However, there is something you need to know," Snape said carefully. "James Potter was not your father.
"...I am."