Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The feel of soft dirt beneath feet. Air crisp but not biting. Light from the full moon shining on his face. One hand grazing rough bark while the other flips a smooth stone.

"Does it hurt?"
"It's quicker and easier than falling asleep."

His breath steadies. This forest, this night, all of the little things that have led up to this big moment. To him, after everything that's happened, it's almost peaceful. He hurts, but it's not the worst shape he's ever been in. Merlin knows his uncle never showed him mercy. He's been hurting since before he was able to name what the feeling was.

Regardless, the state of him isn't the best. More of his body than not is battered and bloody. One side is crusted with flakes of red while the other hosts a cut that drips sluggishly. There's a gash behind his ear that runs to his neck. He can feel the bruises on his back, the swollen joint of his ankle, the chronic pain in his elbow that's starting to flare up. Hopefully he won't hurt much longer.

He's not as scared as he thought he'd be. Fear is another feeling he's been holding for ages, but maybe that's why this doesn't seem so bad. Death is something he has been intimately familiar with, something he's known and seen and craved before. Really, everything he did was always going to lead him to these last few moments.

"Quicker and easier than falling asleep. That sounds nice."

And it does. No more pain. No more fighting. No more sacrificing or struggling or forcing himself. No more of anything at all.

He caresses the stone, feels it pulse beneath his fingertips. Takes comfort in the fact that it's almost over. That this war he never wanted to be a part of, the battles he tried to avoid, the people that gave their lives, it's all coming to an end. He's coming to his end.

With renewed determination, he makes his way to a clearing. There's cackling coming from within the trees, harsh words surrounding him as he finishes stepping into view of those wishing him dead. He should probably pay more attention to what's being said and cursed and yelled, and yet. Well, the moon is full and the air is cool and the dirt is soft.

He's never said it out loud, but he loves the color green, and he's been looking forward to his death for longer than he'd care to admit. Perhaps that's why, when the bright flash of his favorite color comes streaking towards him with the promise of something he's been dreaming of, he smiles.

Finally, blissfully, there's nothing.

Quicker and easier than falling asleep indeed.

Chapter Text

He finds himself in a world of nothing but white. It's a bit disappointing, if he's honest. On the bright side, he feels incredible. He takes stock of his shockingly naked body, noting the scars but relishing in the sweet fact that there's no pain or blood or sweat.

He's lost his wand at some point in the transition of life and death, but he's not worried. He can feel the magic he's come to love caressing him, running up and down his limbs, filling the very air around him. The temperature in this place is comfortable, but while it's not a necessity, he would like to be covered. The lack of wand might have once posed an issue, but here he knows it won't be.

Knowing this, he pictures what he'd like to wear, and he's only slightly amazed as clothes materialise on him from what's ultimately thin air. A pair of soft worn jeans that fit him better than anything else he's ever owned, a black shirt that doesn't tug on his scars yet compresses the areas he knows once ached easily, and the softest green jumper he's ever had the pleasure of feeling. None of the items are torn, none of them ill-fitting, all of them his and his alone.

Perhaps these are basics, and he doesn't really need clothes in the afterlife. But if this place is his final resting place, he should be allowed to choose some parts of it.

He glances around the white world, taking in the fact that it looks an awful lot like King's Cross Station. Not quite what he pictured would be his eternity, but life, or death rather, is full of surprises. There's a lack of trains in what is ultimately a train station, but he catches sight of a bench near the tracks closest to him. Ah, this must be the in-between.

Waiting for what he assumes will be his ride to his end, he takes a seat. Relaxing for an undetermined amount of time, if time even exists in a place like this, he finally zones in enough to notice sounds of whimpering. A dog? No, that's not it. What is it? There's nothing in front nor behind him that he can see, but the sounds seem close. He stands, does a circle, and catches a glimpse of a box under his chosen bench.

He gets on his knees and gently tugs the box from underneath. The sounds grow louder, and what he assumes is a baby is revealed. It's an ugly looking thing, malformed and barely human, but it is still a baby.

"Well hello there, little one," he reaches into the box and lifts it up. It's covered by what might have once been a blanket but is now barely a rag. Without another thought, he waves his hand and changes the torn and tattered cloth to a thick, soft blanket. The baby is still whimpering, but it no longer sounds as if it's teetering into a potential cry.

“It’s alright, I’m right here. You can rest now, nothing can hurt us. We’re going to be just fine,” he says to the bundle he’s begun to rock back and forth.

A chill runs up his spine--he turns and spots a black cloaked figure gliding towards him. “Master,” it says, “you should not be here.”

“I am no one’s master,” he cradles the delicate cargo closer.

“Ah,” the figure’s voice is distorted and layered, “I suppose to you, you are not. And you are right, in a way. Master may be the title thrust upon you, but friend would be a more accurate term.”

The being is a mere few feet in front of him by now, and he takes a moment to truly look and examine his predicament. Curiously, his thoughts no longer feel heavy or slow, and he’s able to come to a conclusion far easier and quicker than when he was alive.

“Death,” he greets. And, because he is polite, “It’s nice to meet you. How are you?”

“Hello, Master,” it’s cloak tilts in a way that makes him think of a kitten, “I am well.”

“I’d rather you not call me that, if that’s alright,” he says as his nose scrunches up, “Just Harry is fine.”

A somewhat grating hum, another head tilt, “I would never call you ‘just Harry’, especially when Harry is not all that you are, nor is it even your magically given name.”

“What?”

“Nevermind all that, you can get rid of that blanket now,” Death gestures to the now empty bundle in his hands and sits down on the bench he had forgotten was there.

Startled, he looks down and drops the blanket, watches as it dissolves into nothing, “What did you do to it? Is the baby okay?”

A distorted chuckle echoes in the empty station, “The soul is fine, little Master, you showed kindness to a broken bond and that was all it needed to cross over. Now come, sit, we have much to discuss.”

He thinks most people would feel frightened over everything that’s happened so far. Dying, the white abyss, finding a baby that turned out to be a soul, meeting Death itself. It’s quite a lot, and yet he still feels the best he’s ever felt. He is still calm, and relaxed, and strangely enough interested. There’s no fear at all, and so he takes the open spot next to the being with no great fanfare.

“So, what happens next? What all is there to discuss?”

“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? I must warn you, this should not have been how you ended. Your life as you know it has been grossly tampered with, your being itself has been restricted and molded against us deities wishes,” the words come off as cross but Death itself sounds kind, “You’ll have to listen to the full story first, hear of the depravities and the schemes without interrupting, hold the questions and the emotions I know you will have until the very end. It is a long tale, but do not worry, we can fix it if that is what you desire.”

And so, now the story can truly begin. With it, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Boy of Prophecy, all of his known monikers and more—Harry Potter’s life crashes and burns.

Chapter Text

“I suppose we should start with your name, as that seems to be where the majority of issues start. This isn't precisely where your origins begin to be muddled, but it's prudent you know who you actually are.”

“My name?”

“Yes, Master. Like I told you before, I refuse to refer to you as ‘just Harry’. That is not because I can or will only call you Master, but instead because your true name is not simply Harry. In fact, it is not even Harry Potter,” Death crosses their arms, “Your parents chose your name with care. They bestowed you upon us deities with the hope and foresight that you would do great things. My siblings and I were honored to have the opportunity to claim you.”

“Claim me? Wait, do you like, own me?”

Death lets out what is probably a chuckle, but sounds more like shattering glass, “We do not own anyone, little Master. I’ll admit we do have favorites, but that is neither here nor there. Regardless, to claim is to acknowledge power. It is to provide what was once referred to as a ‘boon’ so to speak. You see, when Lady Magic first blessed the land, my siblings and I all contributed to magic’s beginning. We selected mortals deemed capable of our gifts and provided boons in a variety of areas. To simplify, they are a boost of one's core. It may be individualized, it may only be one specific aspect, but at the end of it all boons are improvements, additions, or expansions. If one is truly blessed, perhaps even all three.”

“So, what, my parents offered me to you without knowing if you’d accept? Or if you would help at all? Why would they do that? I thought deities didn’t engage in our world anymore.”

“It was once a common practice amongst you mortals,” Death sighs, “Centuries ago, all of magic was revered. Parents of all bloodlines would welcome their children into the world and introduce the continuation of magic to us. It was less of an offering and more like a greeting. Unfortunately, the tradition fell out of practice. Like many things, the custom became obsolete. Your parents were the first in generations to allow us to give our welcome to a child. You, Master, were a welcomed surprise.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad to have met you in a way that I remember, then.”

“Indeed. Let us get back on track, shall we?” At this, Death takes on a more wistful tone, “Now, none of us knew how your parents found out this forgotten tradition, and that made it quite an event. You were not even an hour old when we found ourselves drawn to a cluttered ritual space, made even more crowded by our presence. It was here that your parents enacted the rites of passage and introduced you to us all. With the weight of us in the room, they bestowed both you and us with your name. Hadrian James Thanatos Potter-Peverell. A strong name, though I may be biased.”

“Hadrian? That’s…that’s my name?”

“Yes, child.”

“Oh.”

Here, Death laughs yet again, “Yes, child.”

“Why would you be biased though?”

“Because your parents chose Thanatos in honour of me. The Potter line has always been intertwined with the Peverell line, as I’m sure you’ve concluded with evidence from that silly old fairy tale you once had to decipher. They knew of the connection I had with the Peverell’s, and while I cannot say for certain, they may have thought that by solidifying a known connection with at least one of us deities, there would be a higher chance of an introduction,” Death tells him, “They needn’t have gone to such lengths, as delighted as I am. We were all very intrigued by the pull of the ritual. Even those of us who may have been busy dropped everything to meet you. As I said before, it had been centuries since the last rites were performed.”

There’s a lapse of silence as Harry, no, Hadrian, takes everything in. He is not, and has never been, Harry Potter. He is Hadrian James Thanatos Potter-Peverell. A mouthful, perhaps. But it’s his. It’s his name. It hurts, just a bit. Not the name itself. He may have only just learned of it, but it feels right. He feels like Hadrian. And yet, it hurts.

Maybe it’s because he’s never had much from his parents, but he thought at least ‘Harry’ was from them. He had been called ‘freak’ and ‘boy’ and ‘brat’ and so many other derogatives for so long, when he finally learned the name ‘Harry’, it had felt nice. A little off, a bit ill-fitting, but still nice. He guesses it was just one of the many lies told to him all along. It’s probably for the best that Death started with his name. At the very least, knowing that the deceit around him touches even his name sets the tone for whatever else Death may tell him.

“Well, I’d like it if you’d call me Hadrian going forward, if that’s alright,” he says.

“As you wish, Hadrian,” Death says. Their voice may be a bit grating, but Hadrian doesn’t think a name has ever sounded so satisfying.