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Chapter Text

It begins, as all things do in Harry Potter’s tragically short and spectacularly unfair existence: with violence, abruptness, and a life-altering revelation about as subtle as a Bludger to the skull. Or, to put it more accurately—death-altering.

Hah. Bloody hah. Hilarious. Absolutely fucking side-splitting.

Looking back, he really should’ve seen it coming. The sun was shining in London, for Merlin’s sake. A meteorological anomaly so rare, it might as well have been the universe slapping him in the face with a neon sign screaming:  "Oi, Potter! Brace yourself, you miserable sod! Here’s another cosmic joke at your expense!"

But no. Harry, ever the oblivious (read: a walking disaster with the self-preservation instincts of a concussed pygmy puff), had just stumbled home after five weeks in Aksum, Ethiopia, breaking curses until his bones ached and his magic hissed like a pissed-off Kneazle—because apparently, the world couldn’t go five bloody minutes without ancient, malevolent artefacts trying to murder someone, and who better to handle that than the Boy Who Lived (And Really, Really Wishes He Hadn’t)?—dreaming of peace, quiet, and possibly a decade-long nap—the same things he’d been craving since, oh,  infancy. Not that he remembered much of that (sarcastic cough). Most people don’t recall their mothers being murdered by a snake-faced, noseless bastard at fifteen months old (sad thing he has never been like most people— lucky him).

Exhausted, covered in enough dust to recreate the Sahara in his boots (and possibly a few cursed sandworms for good measure), and dreaming of two things: Kreacher’s onion soup (which, let’s be honest, was so good it was probably brewed with the tears of angels and the despair of lesser chefs) and a bath so hot it could melt his bones into something resembling relaxation—he was  this close  to achieving bliss and peace.

And then, because Fate had the sense of humour of a drunken troll on a bender, his two-way mirror burned a hole in his fucking pocket the moment he put his feet on the first step of Grimmauld Place.

Now, the people Harry dealt with these days weren’t complete morons (a rarity in the wizarding world, shockingly). They knew better than to bother him during his precious, hard-earned leave unless the situation was world-ending.

Which meant, of course, that the situation was world-ending.

Fantastic. Just. Fucking. Peachy.

“What now?” Harry sighed, already mourning the loss of his hypothetical bath as he glared into the mirror. “Demon uprising? Cursed artefact singing show tunes? Or—Merlin forbid—another Weasley wedding? Because that would truly be apocalyptic.”

The face that greeted him was Bill Weasley’s, which would’ve been a pleasant sight if not for the fact that he looked like he’d lost a fistfight with a werewolf.  Again.

“What the fuck happened to your face?”

"Your concern is overwhelming," Bill deadpanned, before his expression sobered into something urgent. “I think I found it .”

Harry's stomach performed an impressive impression of a Snitch in freefall. There were only three things that could warrant that tone:

1. The Holy Grail (unlikely, given his luck).
2. Another fucking Horcrux (because Voldemort had apparently been really into DIY soul jars like a deranged arts-and-crafts enthusiast).
3. His Hallow.

And since Harry’s life had all the subtlety of a troll in a china shop (and half the grace), he already knew the answer.

“Fuck. I’m coming.”

And it wasn’t even the fun kind.

Seven years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, and the wizarding world had done what it did best: pretended to change while staying exactly the same. Shocking, really.

Oh, sure, there were surface-level improvements—Kingsley as Minister (a decent bloke, but even he couldn’t purge centuries of corruption overnight), fewer Death Eaters in power (thanks to some creative post-battle  "cleaning"  by Harry, Neville, and the DA – aka friendly murdering ), and a shiny new monument by the Black Lake (because nothing says  ’healing’  like a daily reminder of everyone who died at School, right?).

Harry, ever the reluctant poster boy—now known as the  Saviour of the Wizarding World™  (patent pending, royalties unpaid)—had been awarded an Order of Merlin (First Class, because obviously), named  Witch Weekly’s  Most Charming Smile (much to Gilderoy Lockhart’s eternal, memory-less dismay), and generally treated like a walking, talking monument to martyrdom, was now Gringotts’ most underpaid curse-breaker.

Ah, yes. Gringotts. The pinnacle of workplace satisfaction.

Thanks to that spectacular dragon escape (which, in Harry’s defence, had been  necessary —unless anyone fancied leaving a Horcrux lying around like a cursed teapot at a jumble sale), Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been charged with trespassing, theft, and general Goblin-offending. The Goblins wanted to be paid back—with work, blood, and tears—for all the destruction, and they weren’t the most benevolent when offering human rights-friendly options.

Hermione, ever the optimist (read: delusional), had declared the Goblins’ terms  "unconscionable"  and  "a violation of magical beings’ rights."  Which, in hindsight, might’ve been the worst possible thing to say to a group of creatures who had been systematically oppressed for centuries. Then, she decided to storm back to Hogwarts to finish her NEWTs—because apparently education trumped not being banned from the entire magical economy. Classic Hermione - willing to die on any hill except the one where she admitted she might be wrong. Ron, meanwhile, noped out of the bank faster than Crookshanks after mice (or Peter Pettigrew).

Harry, though? He negotiated . Like a desperate man bargaining for his last cigarette before execution.

So, after weeks of literal grovelling, he struck a deal: four years of curse-breaking for Gringotts at a fifth of the standard wage (even Dobby would’ve unionised on the spot), after which they’d consider letting him reopen his family vaults (yes, plural—because of course the Potters had been sitting on a fortune while he grew up in a fucking cupboard under the stairs).

All things considered? Not the worst outcome. He would learn tons of stuff, he would be paid to blow things up, and, most importantly—he would have  distance . Distance from the press, the politics, the endless circus of his own fame.

A blessing, really. If you ignored the indentured servitude.

Ron and Hermione, however, hadn’t been so lucky.

The Goblins, in their infinite spite, had barred them from all banking services until further notice. At first, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal—Ron had never had his own vault, and Hermione, being Muggle-born, hadn’t cared much for wizarding finances.

Then they realised the Goblins controlled everything.

Whoops. 

Last he heard, Hermione was trying to strong-arm the Wizengamot into banking reform (predictably, the Goblins responded by sharpening their axes—Binns’ ghost cried ghostly tears when he heard he would have new things to talk about at classes).

Ron, in a stunning display of self-preservation worthy of a veteran Slytherin, had fled to Hogsmeade to help George with the new shop—conveniently putting several hundred miles between himself and any Goblins who might want to turn him into a garden gnome. Rumor had it he'd developed a nervous twitch every time he heard the clink of coins.

The other Weasleys, well…

Molly had taken Harry's amicable breakup with Ginny as a personal insult. ("But you'd be family!"  she'd wailed, as if Harry hadn't bled for them a dozen times over.) Her campaign to guilt-trip him into matrimony had reached such fervent heights it could've been classified as a blood sport.

Bill, Charlie, and George remained solid. Percy was tolerable now that he'd stopped deep-throating Ministry propaganda. Arthur was caught between Molly's wrath and Harry's stubbornness—a position so unenviable it deserved its own tragedy play.

The rest? Well. Harry had survived a Dark Lord. He could survive a few awkward family gatherings—he loved them enough for that.

He was actually pretty content to deal with them by staying out of it and all and any other bullshit in sight—right up until the universe, in its infinite wisdom, decided to drop another bollock in his lap.

Because of course it did. Why break the streak now?

A week after the battle, Harry had stumbled into the Headmaster’s office, desperate for five minutes of peace.

And then— because the universe loathed him —the Deathly Hallows had appeared.

All of them.

The Cloak, draped over his shoulders. The Stone, spinning on his finger. The Wand, humming in his hand.

And Dumbledore’s portrait? To Harry’s oblivious despair? Fucking furious.

Turns out, surviving the Killing Curse twice and then claiming the Hallows hadn’t been part of the old man’s grand plan. Who knew?

(Well. Harry did. Now. After the fact. Like always.)

What followed was the biggest case of gossip that a portrait had ever caused—Rita Skeeter could  NEVER —that expanded from the Hogwarts corridors, to the Hogwarts staff and students, then to their families, to their friends, to—well, to everyone and their mother, and their mother, and their mother… That turned into years of Harry being hunted by every power-hungry bastard in the magical world, all while trying to track down his stolen Cloak—because apparently, Death’s gifts came with a no-returns policy.  Typical.

And now?

Bill had found it.

In fucking Albania. Because why not?

Of fucking course it was Albania.

If there was a cursed artefact, a demonic ritual, or a world-ending object lying around, all roads lead to Albania.

It was like the world had designated the entire nation as a "dumpster for evil shit." The universe said "You can’t possibly be this fucked," and Albania said,  "Bet." And then doubled down.

When Harry finally fought his way to Bill's location (leaving a trail of destruction that would make a dragon proud—or possibly jealous), he found the curse-breakers huddled behind wards that looked about as stable as Lockhart's memory.

“What the fuck,” Ramsom, Bill’s second in command, muttered as Harry dismantled the wards with a flick of his wrist. “We barely made it in here alive, and you just—what the fuck?”

“That’s Harry Potter for you,” Bill groaned, as Harry patched him up with a series of spells that probably violated several Healer oaths (and possibly the Geneva Convention). “Took you long enough.”

“I took the scenic route,” Harry deadpanned, already casting diagnostics to see if his healing was working (or at least not making things worse). “I’d just got back from Aksum,” he added, turning and finishing another spell on Irontooth’s broken arm. “Had my gear ready. Just needed a Portkey.”

‘Just needed a Portkey,’” Ramsom mimicked, spitting blood. “Like we didn’t have eleven dark witches using our guts for ritual confetti.”

Nika, the least-bloodied of the group, snorted. “Ramsom’s concussed. Talking shite again.”

“Doesn’t he always? It’s his state of being,” Irontooth grumbled.

“Alright, you’re patched up. Best I can do here.” Harry stepped back, appreciating his work (or at least the lack of screaming) before nodding to himself and turning to Bill. “Now, where is it?”

In a move so familiar it was almost ritualistic, Bill met his gaze, nodding in indication for him to go ahead and use Legilimency on him. The trust between them was born of years of work and companionship in between blasting cursed shite that should not exist. They were brothers and best friends. And also, very unhealthily codependent partners when working together, perhaps.

But anyway.

Harry saw it.

And his mind echoed.

It’s here.

It’s real.

And it’s going to change everything. Again. Because nothing ever stays simple, does it?

Lost in swirling colours, Harry remembered running, breaking curses, and finally—silk like water against his fingers. The Cloak embraced him. The Wand hummed. The Stone warmed his ring.

The universe dissolved into black, then white. Then rainbows and shinies. Cold. Warmth. Everything. Nothing.

Then—the being. Faceless. Ageless. Infinite.

“Hello, Master,” it said.

“Who are you?” Harry asked, though he already knew.

A laugh—or a scream (or maybe complete silence)—echoed.

“I am everything and nothing. The start and end of magic. Life. Void. Creation and destruction. I have many names, but all lead to me.”

“Death.”

“You are finally ready, I see.”

“Ready for what?”

“To live.”

“Wasn’t I doing just that?”

“Were you?”

Harry had no answer.

(Perhaps that was answer enough. Or perhaps Death just enjoyed being cryptic. Hard to say.)

"BOY! WAKE UP!"

Harry gasped.

His hands—small.

His scar—no pain.

The cupboard—oh, fuck.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

… Fuck