Death had always fascinated Harry.
It had been with him from the very beginning — ever-present, like a shadow he couldn't shake. The death of his parents had followed him his whole life, a constant echo of what could have been.
Things had gotten better, of course. He'd gained friends, mentors, even something like a family along the way.
But instead of the warm embrace of his mother, he'd known only the cold glare of Aunt Petunia.
Instead of a proud look from his father, he got the hateful gaze of Uncle Vernon.
And instead of the innocent smile of a younger sibling, there was only Dudley's smug little smirk.
Those things haunted him.
They always had.
And as he grew older, it got worse — not better.
He didn't understand why.
Was it maturity? A growing awareness of how wrong his upbringing had been? Or was he simply growing bitter?
He didn't have an answer.
Not an honest one, anyway.
And honestly, he didn't think he'd ever be thinking about this again — not now.
Because he was supposed to be dead.
Why can I still think?
Harry slowly opened his eyes.
The night sky above him stretched endlessly, stars glittering brighter than he'd ever seen — and yet somehow... dimmer too.
The ground beneath him was soft like summer grass, but rough like sand.
Contradictions. Everything felt like a contradiction.
He sat up slowly, his muscles stiff, and took in his surroundings.
Nothing but trees. Old trees with dark, gnarled bark, stretching as far as he could see.
Above them all, the moon loomed — massive, silver, and impossibly bright. Brighter than it should've been.
Harry just stared.
Was this a dream? A hallucination as his soul unraveled?
He sighed.
It just never stops, does it?
"It never really does. But that's life, as mortals say,"
came a voice — deep, raspy, and right behind him.
Harry jumped to his feet, spinning around. His hand reached instinctively for the wand in his back pocket — but it wasn't there.
Empty.
Disturbingly empty.
His eyes locked on the figure before him.
Well... calling it a person would be generous.
It was tall. Unnaturally so.
Its form was angular — sharp in every way — and cloaked in shadows so deep they seemed to drink the light around them. The darkness pooled at its feet like ink spilled across the ground.
Harry couldn't see its face, just the faint outline of a mouth — smiling.
A mouth full of teeth. Sharp ones.
The figure towered over him, at least two heads taller.
It stared.
Harry stared back, heart pounding.
Probably. He couldn't actually see any eyes.
Then the figure tilted its head.
Like it was studying him.
Curious.
Harry forced himself to speak, voice low.
"You read my mind."
It wasn't a question.
"That I did, boy," the figure replied, completely unapologetic.
Harry blinked, beginning to circle it cautiously, head tilted.
"How? I didn't feel any probe at all."
"Your Occlumency is worse than you think. But if it makes you feel any better, I could read the mind of your headmaster, and he'd be none the wiser. No mortal would."
Harry was quiet for a long moment.
Eventually, he muttered, "How... reassuring."
The creature let out something that might've been a laugh — if you could call it that.
It was ugly, like sandpaper dragged across stone.
"I know. But that's not why you're here."
It smiled wider — like it was greeting an old friend.
"As you've probably guessed, I am Death."
Harry felt his throat tighten.
"And you," it continued, voice like ice scraping bone, "are the new Master of Death."
It said the title mockingly like it was a bad joke.
Harry blinked.
He'd suspected something — he wasn't that thick.
Still, standing face-to-face with a god? Just another bizarre entry in his long list of surreal life experiences.
But even so, his heart was thudding hard in his chest.
And it had been ever since he first laid eyes on the thing in front of him.
He wanted to speak. To ask. Maybe even shout about how this was just another thing being forced on him.
But he didn't get the chance.
His mouth wouldn't open.
His hands wouldn't move.
His feet were frozen in place.
His entire body locked — unnaturally still.
The being smiled again.
"It's more of a curse than a title," it said smoothly. "Now, listen closely, young Potter. As you know — and surely remember — Voldemort murdered you. Point blank."
It paused, tone almost amused, though tinged with annoyance.
"Spoiler incoming: after you died, he won. Took over the world eventually."
Harry's stomach sank.
"Now, Lady Magic — my wife — didn't like that. She liked your story. You were her favorite golden boy. She enjoyed your life immensely."
A brief chuckle.
"So did I, to be fair. You're an interesting mortal."
It sounded like both a compliment and an insult.
"The world eventually falls apart without you. Not good for us. So we bent the rules — which we're not supposed to do. Used a bit of our power to interfere. That's the only reason I'm here and not her."
Its smile widened.
"Basically: even if you don't want it, that title gives me power over your fate. And now you need to save the world. For us, yes. But for yourself too. You'll get a much better life this time around."
It smirked.
"So, buckle up. You're going back to the land of the living. Though, I have to warn you — it won't be your time. And things… may be a little strange. Some important things may have changed. But hey, that's your problem to figure out, right?"
That smirk was full now, wide and gleaming.
Harry reeled, his thoughts spiraling, his body still paralyzed.
Lady Magic? Gods? Husband and wife? Going back?
He wanted to scream. To beg. To do anything.
He didn't want to go through it all again.
The fighting. The running. The loss.
Watching people he loved die for him.
Ron's easy laughter.
Hermione's fierce loyalty.
Ginny's fire.
Sirius's still body.
And beneath it all — that aching, ever-present emptiness where his parents' love should've been.
Lily's smile. James's grin. A childhood he never had.
It hurt to remember.
But it also made him want to fight.
Then Death leaned closer, voice dropping low.
"Oh, and one last twist — courtesy of my wife. You can't kill your sworn enemy."
Harry's mind froze.
I can't kill Voldemort?
Even if he could match him in a proper duel — what else was there?
Diplomacy?
With Voldemort?
It made no sense.
If they wanted him to win so badly — if the fate of the world genuinely mattered — why bind him like this?
Why toy with him?
Death claimed this was all important.
But the way he spoke — the constant smirks, the amusement dripping from every word — it didn't feel like high stakes.
It felt like someone watching a show.
And Harry's death? Just a bad ending to an episode.
Unfortunate, but not tragic.
Not personal.
Death tilted its head once more, voice smooth as ever.
"If you kill Voldemort, you'll die too. There's a bond now — something my wife created. For our entertainment."
And then its voice shifted — just slightly colder.
"And if you die… there's eternal suffering waiting for you. A destroyed world for those you love. And one day, their souls will find you."
A pause.
"They'll judge you."
And then, almost gently:
"So do a good job."
It smiled — soft, final.
"Take care, Harry."
And then — everything went dark.
...
Warmth.
Heavy blankets. Silken sheets.
Harry's eyes opened slowly, vision blurred and soft. The ceiling above him stretched high into shadow, pale stone etched with curling patterns. The room around him glowed faintly in shades of violet and grey — not dark, not bright, just muted, like the world was being filtered through tinted glass.
He pushed the covers off instinctively, sat up—
And stumbled.
His legs hit the floor awkwardly. Too far down. His balance was off — his center of gravity wrong. He grabbed the edge of the bed to steady himself, heart suddenly racing.
Something was wrong.
Everything was.
He stood, slowly, warily, and the cool air against his bare skin made him realize — he was naked. Completely.
He glanced down and swallowed hard.
His legs were longer. His arms — the reach of them — felt strange, almost stretched. His shoulders were broader, his build more defined, though still lean. Not the wiry frame he knew, but something... more.
He moved toward the tall mirror across the room, walking like someone in a borrowed body. The floor beneath him was smooth, the room deathly silent, save for his own breath.
The man in the mirror wasn't him. Couldn't be.
The face was sharp, unfamiliar — high cheekbones, more visible now beneath the skin. A stronger jaw. His black hair was gone, replaced with something wavy and almost white, a pale silver-grey that caught the light in a way that felt surreal. It fell past his ears, neat where once it had always been messy, untamed.
And the eyes.
His mother's green eyes were gone.
Now they were pale grey — almost translucent. Not stormy or fierce, just... hollow. Like river-stone washed too long by current. They didn't look human.
Didn't look his.
He stared at them. At himself.
He didn't move.
His chest felt tight.
Every part of him had changed.
He turned his hands slowly, palms facing up. Even they felt foreign — fingers longer, the lines in his skin unfamiliar. Everything about this new body felt like a mockery of what he was supposed to be.
And something pulsed under the surface. Not pain. Not power. Just a wrongness — something moving in him, unfamiliar. His skin felt too thin. The air too still. It was like a hum inside his bones, faint but constant, as if something was waiting.
His magic.
It wasn't wild or burning like it used to be.
It didn't roar in his chest or rise to his fingertips in bursts.
It just sat there, deep and silent and aware.
He didn't know how to describe it — only that it wasn't what it used to be.
And it scared him.
He gripped the edge of the mirror.
Images from the battle rose again, unbidden.
The rubble of the castle.
The screaming.
The fear.
Voldemort's voice, cold and clear. The weight of every step as Harry walked to meet him. The brief, brutal duel — if it could even be called that. He hadn't stood a chance. Voldemort had broken through every defense like it was parchment. It hadn't been heroic. It had been pathetic.
He died barely lifting his wand.
And now this.
He looked back at the reflection, and all he felt was... alone.
Utterly, impossibly alone.
No familiar voice. No Ron. No Hermione. No Hogwarts.
Just silence.
And a body that wasn't his.