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It wasn’t supposed to be this way
Our roles reversed without our say
But even in death, he shines
Brighter than any false constellation (for he is my only star)
Or breath of agony
Or shattered light in a crystal hallway
And with batted breath, I will wait for him
Even if I am waiting forever more
Because he is pure
Made of all that is just and good
And I
Well I may as well be evil
For I can never live up to his name
Even in his death
He tortures my soul
And I crave
For it is my fault, undoubtedly
That he cannot stay
And cast well around the world.
I am nothing without him
Ying and Yang
Out of balance
Suffering
And like a fool,
I let it.
For even in death,
He haunts me
And with heaving breaths
I will wait
For the day we switch roles once more.
Harry clutched his head, blood oozing from a slash on his right eye. He was fighting again. Fighting was all he ever did anymore. Fighting stupid wars and half-thought words. He chugged a liquid from his water bottle, the potion mix consuming his insides. It tasted of lilac flowers and honeysuckles. He was grateful every day for his muggle knowledge. Electrolyte solutions could mix with any half-assed calming draught, keeping him both on his toes and at peace.
“You're getting good, kid.” Harry heard. Mad-eye Moody was training him again, and like always, Harry was above and beyond their expectations. He wasn’t excessively powerful, oh no, he just had a dream. He wanted to defeat Voldemort and have a healthy, long life. Or, he wanted to take both of them out with a bang. He hadn’t been granted that wish any of these go-arounds. He felt a chill on the back of his neck. He was out, again. Wondering what his master was up to.
“Thanks, Moody,” Harry said, his mouth running before his brain could catch up. That was dangerous, here. Or anywhere, actually. He had made that mistake the first time he repeated the timeline, and had been locked up in saint mungos for three years. His own hand in his passing hadn’t stopped it from repeating.
“Whatcha got on your mind, Harry?” He heard Ginny ask. It was the summer of his sixth year, and with the death of his Godfather, Sirius Black, still weighing heavily on his mind, he hadn’t had a moment to consider what else was on his mind.
“Sirius.” He answered, half truthfully. He would sound insane if he said what was actually in there, in that haven of lies and mistrust.
“Harry, it wasn’t your fault-” Harry walked off, leaving the conversation before it could truly start. He knew it wasn’t his fault. He knew what would happen by now. He had tried. Sirius was still meant to die during his fifth year. He had tried everything. Even hunting down Azkaban and trying to get Sirius out. Approaching him during third year, not going after him when Kreacher said he wasn’t home. Sirius Orion Black still died on June 18th, 1996, at approximately 7:31 P.M. Nothing he did stopped it or slowed it down. The most he could save Sirius was three minutes. Even throwing himself in front of a killing curse didn’t work. That just leads back to point one.
“You shouldn’t ignore her, Harry.” He heard Hermione say. How smart she is, he thought, to not recognize his mourning.
“I’m not ignoring her, ‘Mione. I just don’t want to listen to how it isn’t my fault. I know it isn’t. Truly, I know.” He interrupted what would have probably been a lecture. “I also know that I need to train harder than ever, become better, to take on Voldemort. Ginny knows this and knows I don’t want whatever she wants with me. I’m nowhere near ready for that.
“Still, Harry, you need to talk to us. Give us some inkling as to what is going on in that brain of yours.” Harry would never do that.
“If you say so, Hermione. I know you'd love to lecture me, but,” Harry pointed at the clock in the room. “We have a certain someone's birthday party to get ready for. I love you, but I'm not spending my whole party smelling like sweaty arse.” Hermione’s eyes softened.
“I do love you, Harry.” Harry smiled back at her.
“I know, ‘Mione. I know. Now out, I need a shower.”Hermione chucked an old band T-Shirt at him and laughed as he tried throwing it back. It missed, unexpectedly, and hit the door frame right as she skipped out. He loved her, but she wouldn’t understand. He didn’t mean that in a pity-party way, as if his troubles meant nothing, but because they truly wouldn’t understand. Hermione’s concept of Death and Life was very muggle-minded, and Ron just thought you died and got reincarnated. Technically, that's what this was. Just the same timeline over and over again. Nothing special. He was top of his class this year, and the year before that, and the year before that. He didn’t have to try, ever. The only thing he knew he wasn’t going to do this year: bothering Draco Malfoy. He still felt the phantom pains in his chest, even though he had had 15 years to get over it.
I am ever so sorry for that, master. Death’s chilling voice made Harry shiver, and suddenly his summer clothes did not feel warm enough. He was standing in the sun and still felt cold as if ice had been shot into his bones. A hot shower, then.
“Hurry Harry dear!” He heard as he descended the stairs fifteen minutes later. “You’re the birthday star, come blow out your candles!” Harry offered her a small smile. He knew they were all trying to make him happy, make him grieve a little less, but nothing ever worked. He had a bond with Sirius that could never be replaced. It was as if Sirius knew he was traversing between timelines, between destinies, between worlds. If Sirius did somehow know, it just made him even cooler.
You will spark the flames of rage to illuminate your path forward, master. Woe be upon those who yet live to see your passing. May their gods give them mercy. We shall not.
Death spoke cryptically as if he was a misplaced poem in the middle of a historical novel. Harry always understood the gist of what he said, but when he spoke of Harry himself, it was like Harry was two years old again. Struggling with basic comprehension skills and lacking everywhere. He wasn’t meant for this, not here at least.
“Are you cold, Harry?” Harry shook his head, blamed a chill, and went and focused on his party. He needed to enjoy this one. It could very well be his last.
If that is what you wish, master, then Life and I shall will it.
Harry hated life. Not his own, but the diety. The one he had begged, the one he had kissed the boots of. Sirius’ life was promised in one of the run-throughs, only to be taken from him three minutes later by a well-placed cutting curse. Harry still remembered the feel of warm blood in his hands, of burying an innocent man or burying a father. Life had laughed at him, at the end of that life. Of his most recent voyage to the veil. She had laughed, so high and cold and there and in his head, around him, in the sky. He was lost in the madness of life and death, like Schrödinger's cat. He was never truly alive but never genuinely dead either.
Just ask, master, and the lid will be taken off the box. Harry knew he was referring to Harry’s ultimate end. Where he renounced his title of Master of Death and settled peacefully across the bridge. Death would let him choose which reality, too. He may choose this one or any of the others that came before. Like number three. Harry loved number three.
Harry, at seven years old, had snuck out of the Dursleys and found his way to Azkaban. He knew Sirius’ cell, number 731, and had pulled the poor dog-man thing out of the bars. Sirius had been his and only his. They had lived a life on the run, and Harry loved it. He had his father, his Sirius, and his parent with him and life was great. Until he was killed by Severus Snape on June 18th, 1996, at 7:36 pm. They were just eating dinner when Snape went up behind him and stunned him. The sheer force and hate behind the stunning spell stopped Sirus’ heart. Harry could remember the light leaving his father's eyes, and not being able to hold him, to be near him, one last time.
Harry remembered a lot of things. He had every one of Sirius’ deaths timed and written as to how it happened. It was his way of coping, of reminding himself who and what he had to stop. It was why he trained.
His days at Grimmauld slowly faded into one, and soon it was the night before school started. He was training with Moody, like he always was. He would not let up, not for a moment. He would enact the DA as quickly as possible again if he had to. He would kill Voldemort this time, or truly die trying.
He had already gotten all but two of the Horcruxes in the world. Even the secret one Dumbledore kept hidden. And no, it wasn’t himself, though that one had yet to be dealt with. It was a small rock left at the graveyard when he had attempted to kill Harry in the fourth year. Harry had disposed of it quickly once finding it. He had ended up keeping his basilisk fang after the fourth try, and now it was an unassuming practice that had taken over Harry’s life. Every second year, and boom, basilisk fang added to his trunk. It was ridiculous, and Harry’s only hope was to survive.
“Potter, are you even listening to me?” Moody’s yelling voice snapped him out of his stupor.
“Sorry, sir, I’m just thinking. I need to keep up my training at Hogwarts. Maybe I should start a duelling club of sorts. Pair me up with Slytherins and let them have a go at me. Like Dumbledores Army last year.” That was a sound plan, now that Harry thought about it. He had been talking out of his ass, but that was actually smart.
“That's a good plan boy, you keep thinking about that. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” His voice quickly quieted down at the end as he leaned closer to Harry. “The magical ink you asked me to get, I have it with me. Are you sure about this?” Harry nodded. Moody walked him through the procedure of a magical tattoo, and Harry listened intently. Death had assured him that, if he did get this tattoo and planned to continue repeating, the tattoo would follow him.
“Here you go. I had it copied in his handwriting, the lot of it.” Moody nodded, taking the paper and enchanting the needle to do its work. It was a painful and tedious process. Not just because of the needle pricking his skin, but because of the enchantments. Light protection against poisons and incoming attacks on his right side, but also a forever-lasting potion mixed in to make sure it stuck . The potion was rare, and cost a small fortune, but for this, Harry would do anything.
By the time Moody was done, Harry’s entire body was in a deep sleep. The pain must have gotten too bad because Moody swore not to let Harry fall asleep unless it was a must. He stared proudly at the tattoo, happiness and grief lining his eyes. His thanks were but whispers, but Moody had heard them. They stayed in silence for a moment, embracing the magic now embedded in his arm.
“I had a small trace of Sirius’ magic that I grabbed from his wand. Now, it might not be a lot, but he’s with you, kid. His magic is in your tattoo. It’s why I had to put you to sleep. It was a tedious process.”
“Thank you. More than anything, thank you.” Moody nodded at him, and soon they both went to the kitchen for a quick lunch. They would be back training later today but on my academic itinerary. His shirt was off, his stomach gleaming with sweat and the oily sheen of his bruises. He was well-met prowess-wise, more than he used to be at least, but even his body couldn’t take Moody’s constant brigade of spells.
“Harry James Potter, what is on your arm!?” He heard Hermione shriek. Harry got defensive, covering it with his hand and snapping out of his chair. It clattered to the ground, gaining the silence of the adults in the room.
“Leave it alone, Hermione.” He heard Ron interject. He shot him a grateful look but kept his eyes trained on Hermione. Constant vigilance and all that.
“No, I will not leave it alone Ron! This isn’t healthy, coping with your grief by scarring your body with tattoos, probably going to be covered in them like a common thug if he keeps going at this rate! You’re not even a legal adult but you already have a tattoo!” Harry growled, his former time around Padfoot never leaving him.
So similar to him, master. Even the wolf notes it. Harry didn’t bother to look.
“Do you even know what it says, Hermione? Did you even take a second to read it?” He uncovered the tattoo, showing the words and the irritated skin beneath it. He heard Remus take a quick sip of air, and a quiet sob fill the room.
Sirius Black, June 18th, 1996, 7:31 PM
I can’t wait to see you, pup!
-The one and only, Padfoot
“Harry, oh God.-”
“Exactly, Hermione. You shout out false accusations, you have since he died, and I’m coping. Will you please let me grieve in peace!?” Hermione looked shaken, but Harry didn’t have it in him to care, at least not today. Not when, tomorrow, he’d be going to Hogwarts without Padfoot there beside him. No more late-night calls, waiting for Remus to catch them, or for Kreacher to demand Sirius go to bed. No more, no more anything. God, he was fucking over feeling this way every. Single. Time. Without fail, his grief shook him to the core and emptied his insides for all the world to see. With that final thought, Harry turned around and headed back to the training room.
Spell after spell, curse after hex and jinx after healing spell, Harry was exhausted. He knew Moody was watching him. Watching how he worked, how he casted, how he dodged the spells that flew back at him. This was how he’d cope. Through himself into battle before Dumbledore could do it to him.
“Potter, you’ve been at this for an hour. Head to bed.” Harry asked, but handed the Auror his wand and trudged up the stairs into his room. Hermione tried talking to him on his way to his room, but he sidestepped her apologies and went to bed. Once his head hit the pillow, he was dead to the world.
It had been a few months since the huge argument, Harry realised one late December day. He was training, like normal, in the room of requirement. He had been made quidditch captain, which was great for his physical training, but he needed to cultivate his spell work. Today was the day Draco tried the cursed necklace on Dumbledore. Harry wasn’t going to intervene. He knew the old man had planned Harry’s death, and Harry couldn’t give two shits any longer. Voldemort's demise was his biggest concern. He would wait and watch.
Harry stood, wand pointed out as Voldemort stood against him. People from both sides of the war waited, breath batted, as they stared at each other. Red against green, silver against gold. A standoff that had never felt this calming before.
“Harry Potter, the boy who li-”
“Avada Kedevra!” The killing curse shot out of Harry’s wand, faster than lightning. It struck Voldemort, right in his temple. The snake man let out an unearthly scream, and his body began to flake and fade and fly away. Harry didn’t care. Wand pointed at his temple, and the spell was repeated.
Are you happy now, master? He is finally defeated, and your prophecy is fulfilled. Death said, voice light and airy.
“Of course I’m happy, why wouldn’t I be? I just offed myself in front of a bunch of people.” Harry had one thing on his mind, and it definitely wasn’t his death or life for that matter. It was getting to his Godfather and the rest of his family. TO Remus, to Tonks, to Dobby. He saw the bridge, and ignoring Death, walked to it.
Master, you’re going the wrong way. Death said, willowy white eyes watching Harry.
“No, I’m not. I’m going to see Sirius, my parents, Remus, Tonks, and all of the other poor souls past the bridge.” Harry kept walking. He could see them, faintly, at the end of the bridge. All he had to do was cross over the veil, then he would be at peace. Death's boney hands gripped Harry’s arm suddenly, and Harry hissed. Colder than ice, and Death did not have a loose grip either.
Master, I cannot let you do that. You fulfilled a prophecy, one as old as time. The prophecy of Ying and Yang. It states that the defender of Death and the defender of Life, should they battle, will switch places after their awakening. That is you and Tom Marvolo Riddle, master. It is time for you two to switch, to become one another, to defend what you fought against. Only then can you become the true master of death.
“I don’t want to be a master of death, Death. I want to die, to be with my family. I care little for old age prophecies.” Harry yanked his arm away and continued walking.
Master, even in your true death, you will one day be reincarnated. You will find me again, master, or I will find you. You cannot escape your duties.
“ Duties that were forced upon me!” Harry yelled. “I don’t want to live any longer! I want to die, Death! Let me cross over. Please. Don’t make me beg.” Death seemed to falter.
What if I told you, evader of life, that if you choose to govern over my terrain you can have your precious grim back? Lifes' words were sweet and likely laced with deceit.
“Oh yeah, in return for what? Are you killing him off every two seconds? No thanks. I’d rather join him over there. On that side of the bridge.”
You had the choice to serve me of your own free will. Now, I must choose for you. Reign over me or I will have death send Sirius Black to the Pitts of Hell.
“He’s already dead, Life. You cannot tempt me with pretty words or shallow threats. Goodbye, and may your next master be better than I was.” Harry stepped over the veil, voiding the prophecy of Ying and Yang, and the world as we know it exploded into light.
That was really dramatic master, and it obviously didn’t work,
Bloody mother fucker.