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And just like Atlas, I found myself holding the entirety of civilization upon my slim and starving shoulders. I, however, did nothing to deserve punishment as unjust as this.

For the sake of survival, I embedded a knife into my very soul and twisted it until I could twist it no longer - until my soul shattered under the pressure of the sharp instrument and it fell away at the seams with agony at the forefront of my mind.

This … otherworldly war led by a child no older than seventeen finished its decades-long fight not long after the body at my feet begun to cool, the roars of victory rang loud over the decimated castle I once called home. It deafened my hearing and shook the very depths of the marrow within my malnourished bones and I felt myself grow tired, weary and fatigued. How much longer was I supposed to follow the path others had laid out for me? Was I, the man who died and fought for others, not allowed to live? To be happy? To live content in the monotony of a simple yet boring life? A life where I am safe and protected like any and every child ought to?

Days after the Battle did my friends finally pursue me; in tow was Ginevra Weasley, the sister to my friend and brother in distant blood, Ronald Weasley. He looked none too pleased, yet the two women before him beamed in unhidden glee as he shifted to and fro on uneven feet.

I welcomed them into my home and I was burned soon thereafter. Ginevra was to become my wife, Hermione had declared. Ronald had apologized following the sudden silence that Hermione's words had brought. "Sorry, mate," he'd said. A grimace evident on his pale and tired features. "mum found a contract buried in dad's workshop. I would've warned you but..." I understood. I felt no ill-will to the youngest Weasley male. He was a good friend, if not jealous and petty at times. He was a child, I could not fault him on his attitude through our Hogwarts years. He had stood with me while I denied the contract and its contents; I had not been so lucky with Hermione.

The women left fuming, and Ronald appeared more tired and distraught than before. I offered him a room to rest in and he took it with a grateful smile. It was not long after that day that I had been struck with a sudden illness. Part of it had been because of the refusal of the marriage contract. I had fainted while talking to Ronald one night and he had caught me mid-fall. Like a damsel in distress, I mused. A funny gesture in a decidedly unfunny outcome. The Healers at Saint Mungo's declared that I was dying and I felt no fear, no grief. Only relief.

Life had not been kind to me regardless of my short time within Gaia's domain. It would make sense that Death wouldn't be either. "You're not dying, Mister Potter," said Ragnar, a Goblin Healer from Gringotts Bank. I had asked him to explain this sudden phenomenon and he gave me a cutting smile in return. "you're becoming something other. A curse, possibly. Have you touched anything you weren't supposed to? Break anything, perhaps?" My heart stuttered and I stared down at my paper-thin hands. I had snapped the Elder Wand in half and thrown the pieces away soon after the War. "Yes," I replied. My voice soft and my brows furrowed. "the Elder Wand. But it's - that's just a myth, isn't it? A legend?" The Goblin paused and seemed to give me a pitying look. I hadn't been sure back then, I couldn't decipher the emotions of Goblin's as I can now. "All legends have some truth behind them, Mister Potter. It's just the matter of finding out where in the lies the truth hides."

I drew my shoulders up and hunched my back as if the stance I held could protect me from the onslaught of emotions that overcame me. I had asked Healer Ragnar what I should do. He gave me a considering look and said simply: "Accept it."

And so, I did.

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I had been a gentle child. One who refused to raise his fists to his bully of a cousin, or his voice to his patronizing aunt. I enjoyed the peacefulness gardening brought and the knowledge books taught. It was my only relief from the fickleness of humanity; the neglect from my blood and the hunger in my stomach.

I was brought up tamed and submissive, lest I met the meaty fists of my portly uncle or the iron skillet my aunt donned on occasion. Yet the Wizarding World demanded something of me I could hardly deliver. They demanded a hardened warrior, a man who was able to take a life yet could afford to gift mercy.

Through the very same people, I learned the taste of blood and pain. I learned that I was sooner a monster than a hero; that the unstable wizarding world would rather condemn me than approve of me. I was a boy of less than twenty and I had been besmirched too heavily to have a positive opinion of myself. I constantly questioned myself. Was something right? Or was it wrong? Each time I asked these questions, I would get mixed responses of varying degrees.

I had sooner learned morality through the guidance of my guardians than I did in the wizarding world. Violence was bad, murder was worse. Stealing was a crime, and breaking-and-entering was too. I had funnily enough done all of these things. Be it through the excuse of war, or from the tasks Albus Dumbledore so painstakingly laid out for me.

By the time I was twenty-one, I was tired of the magical world. Nothing had changed after the death of Tom Riddle. Prejudice was still common; clothes and items were outdated and not a one decided to challenge the so-called Minister for Magic. I was still besmirched on a regular basis and Ginevra and co. refused to leave me alone. My only sanctuary was a small group of friends and even they, purebloods, halfbloods, and muggleborns alike were tired of the wizarding world as a whole.

It was nearing my twenty-second birthday when the curse took full form. My limbs ached and my eyes grew heavy the days leading up to it and I had warned my long-time friend and Healer that I would soon be put to sleep. He worried, naturally. And I had sated these fears. "I'll wake up," I recall saying. "Just take care of yourself, yeah?" Neville gave me a watery smile and a warm hug. He was by far the gentlest out of my little family and it made my heart clench at the small reminder of his still somewhat pudgy face. "When'll you wake up?" He warbled. I smiled and squeezed his forearm. The answer came as easily to me as nature came to him. "I'll come back when I'm most needed."

I remember asking him for one last favour before my indefinite rest consumed me. I asked him to gather the rest of our makeshift family one last time. I couldn't leave without saying goodbye. He understood the meaning and he rushed to get them, or rather floo them. They came in minutes yet I could already feel awareness start to leave me. "Harry?" Came a gentle voice and a soft touch. I hummed in reply, barely on the cusp of consciousness. I felt another hand snake around my wrist, this one firmer and larger than the other. "I'm sorry I can't stay much longer." My voice was so quiet, too soft. For a moment, I was afraid no one had heard me. I didn't want to leave them, not when they still grieved for those they lost in the war. And as if having heard my thoughts, George sat by my legs.

Through half-lidded eyes, I could see a sad smile on his lips and the agony in the depths of his bright blue eyes, he nudged my thigh with his foot and let out a heavy sigh. "Neville said you'll come back when we need you," he started. Voice loud in a sombre bedroom. I nodded, too tired to speak. I felt myself ebbing away more and more. My time had come and the occupants in the room knew it. "But what if you don't wake up? What if we need you and you don't come back?" spoke a voice in panicked desperation. That voice belonged to Ronald Weasley and I turned my head towards him mutely, eyes closing for the final time until I next wake. "Then you'll know what to do." I fell asleep with a smile on my lips as Draco Malfoy cursed my backwards Dumbledore-like answer.

Chapter Text

When next I woke, I am in a confined space. I am calm and confident in where I am and who I am. The world feels different to me, cold and empty though that might just be because I am underground, buried in a wooden box next to my mother and father. No sooner did I wake, I appear above ground. It is snowing yet it is not water that graces the sky, but ash. The blue sky I had come to know was gone, and in its stead was a despairing red. I feel the panic rise in me but it isn't my own so I follow the link, and I stand in front of an old friend. He's different, aged. Instead of a youthful appearance, I am met with greying hair and hardened features. His eyes no longer held only warmth, but now they held a calculating coldness that not even the Battle of Voldemort brought. He sees me and his eyes widen in surprise and elation. I'm certain he's not the one who's buried me and I smile serenely at him. He's tied up, like a pig for slaughter and there is a noose wrapped snugly around his neck. I feel anger and protection war inside me like common enemies and no later than when I remove the ropes from his person, did the floor beneath him give away. I catch him before he falls through and set him beside the trap doors. He smiles at me in reassurance, though his eyes spoke volumes of how fearful he truly was. Someone had been attempting to hang him and I cannot help the anger that overcame me as I turn around to face the ilk that threatened to harm a member of my family.

I am met with a gun aimed at my heart. They pull the trigger and the bullet leaves its chamber. I stagger back and look at the armed stranger. He looks smug as if I am a wild lion he had just poached. A trophy to show his hunting brethren that his masculinity is not in question. I seethe in white-hot fury and the bullet begins to leave the way it came in until it falls to the wooden floor and my bullet wound closes without incident. He is looking at the damaged bullet dumbfoundedly as if no one had ever survived such a feat before and I cannot help the dark shadow that appears in my vivid green eyes and the sharp smirk that twists my lips.

His mud-brown eyes meet mine and he subconsciously steps back, eyes wide with shock and fear. "Stay back!" He hisses as the hand holding the gun shakes limply at his side. There is nobody else here but him, my brother, and me. I wonder why that is but I dare not question it yet. I have unfinished business in the form of this weak-willed human and I advance towards him. He raises his gun, but I am hardly worried. "To hurt my family is a grievous mistake," I speak differently than I had before my rest, though that is of little surprise. I had warned Neville I would come back different, after all. "it is a mistake that I give no mercy for."

The man empties his gun on me and I do not slow down. It feels like nothing, a minor inconvenience if anything else. "What," the man begins, stumbling over a makeshift lever. The lever is no doubt for the contraption that would have snapped my brothers' neck. He falls to the floor and I force the wood underneath him to do my bidding. It entraps him and he stills with little choice. "What are you!?" I roughly grab his chin and stare deep within his brown eyes. I see the sins he's committed. The atrocities and I am disgusted.

"I am the End."

My lips meet his in a chaste kiss and he tries to rear back, disgust evident on his face. He does not know what I am doing to him, but he feels weak and sluggish and panic sets in on his heart. He is dying, he realizes. I smile as I feel his soul run down my throat like sludge running down an oil barrel. I am the last thing he will see as he dies.

I'm am the End. I am Death. I am taking his soul and judging it as I see fit. I remove myself from his person and he, an empty shell of a human, falls to the ground with a thud and an equally empty look in his glassy, unseeing eyes. I move to stand, to look down at the beauty I created. I feel accomplished and almost forget about my brother who calls my name. I feel the soul entrapped within my body scream in agony; he will never rest. He will never see peace and that, to me, is a just punishment.

ent.