Chapter Text
They stumbled into an alley on the outskirts of the hectic crowds of Diagon Alley, a quiet secluded section that led to a lesser known entrance to Star Street’s lines of pubs and bars. No one had seen them appear out of thin air not unlike apparition —it wasn’t. It wasn’t apparition. Harry hadn’t felt the nauseating pull of magic pushing him through space. Instead, in what seemed to be the blessing of a deity, their transportation was merely a step in and out of a shadow.
Slowly, clutching at their patched satchels, the group of children —for that’s what they were, made their way outside their little spot of safety into the bustle of the morning rush. Their arms linked, fingers intertwined, the little group made an odd picture as they pushed past various kinds of people —the kind that stopped for a mere second to stare; the kind that followed them with suspicion in their eyes, the kind that bumped into them and walked away without a glance. There were around two weeks before the school letter would be sent, so to see students walking along the market district of the Magical Britain without any visible adults was quite strange. That, and their rumpled state also questioned the nature of their visit.
The recent Grindelwald attack had caused a mass panic in the country, tipping over the scale of trust the people had in the government to protect them were there to be a raid in the country itself. After multitudes of assurances by the Minister, plus some government appointed speakers, that the Dark Lord would not under any circumstances wage war against Magical Great Britain.
There had to be something said about omission, Harry mused amusedly, considering nothing was said of the Muggle side of the country.
“Are we sure it’ll work?” Ron muttered under his breath as they paused for a moment, taking in the Wixen Bank, Gringotts, in all its glory standing crooked and tall in the midst of the alley. A direct contrast to the wixen buildings —straight, stacked on top of another in a clash of reds, oranges, blues and greens.
Luna hummed, a dreamy smile touching upon her lips which prompted a sigh from the redhead before the girl even parted her lips, “Are any of us sure about anything, Ronald?”
Hermione snorted, bringing a fist up to cough as a lieu of hiding the flashing mirth of her lips.
“I mean, she’s got a point,” she mumbled when Ron threw her a glare.
“Well,” Harry started, the corners of his lips twitching. “Only one way to find out.”
“If we get arrested after all this I’m going to have some words with Lord Death,” Draco exhaled heavily, gaining a chorus of ‘same,’ in response, before straightening his back and strutting up the stairs masterfully replicating the gait of one of the many white peacocks that resided in the Malfoy Manor.
Of course, one may assume that they’re merely talking about Death in the sense of a vague mythological divine personification instead of it being literally… except, it is. No, they’re not completely sure how it happened either, however as most things were, they decided it was Harry’s fault.
It sort of was, can’t argue there.
You see, it all started with them dying. Apparently that is all the necessary requirement to get yeeted into the limbo by the pinch of their souls and get greeted by a literal deity who mumbles some vague but concerning information at them before kicking them out seventy years into the past.
Harry collapsed to his knees with a pained jerk. Fuck. That was not how he imagined the afterlife to be. Ow, that fucking hurts. Distantly he heard similar thuds and cries of pain. A part of him wants to cackle deliriously at how familiar the situation was, and he might have if not for the fact he very clearly remembered getting pierced by a flaming arrow and a following green light.
“Shit,” he groaned, getting to his feet and hearing his knees crack. Around him, his friends —who knew he’d be sharing an afterlife with these idiots, clamber to regain their bearings too.
“Where are we?” Neville asked, hand reaching for his holster and finding nothing strapped to his arm. Speaking of, all their belongings that were on their person seemed to have disappeared and they themselves had been changed into grey robes. How… dreary.
A question Harry knew the answer to all too well.
“Limbo,” he breathed, air hitching in the back of his throat as he looked around, finding the white space exactly as he saw when he last appeared here. “ My Limbo. ”
“Limbo?!” Ron squeaked.
“Your Limbo is a train station?” Hermione scrunched her nose as she asked at the same time.
“Don’t ask,” Harry shook his head, walking over to the bench and taking a seat. “I don’t know.”
“Mm, Master has always been a little dense,” a voice suddenly said from his side. “So I’m not surprised.”
“Shit. Fuck. Shit,” Harry sweared as he flinched off the bench, taking several steps back with the rest of his team.
“Eloquent,” the black tendrils of smoke said, with an odd tilt to its voice that Harry realised was amusement. What the hell.
“What— Who are you?” Neville braved, hand reaching to clutch at Harry’s shoulder. There was a slight tremble to the boy’s voice but he pushed forward regardless, frowning at the black blob.
The black blob floated back and forth, in a movement that projected the feeling of contemplation. Harry blinked. Was it just him, or was the black blob highly emotive in its less than coherent movements?
“Nice save,” the black blob snorted, inching to the bench and settling there. “And stop calling me a black bob. You have already understood who I am, Master. ”
The title, falling from the black bob’s unidentifiable mouth, sounded a little… derisive.
“Oh I don’t even have privacy now, do I?” Harry muttered, bitterly. Shaking off his friend’s hand, Harry strode forward with a grimace. It better not be true, what the black blob was insinuating. It better not be fucking true. He’s too fucking tired to play pawn in their games.
“Oh don’t joke,” the black blob muttered, the smoke slowly solidifying into a firm figure. “You never did.”
Black tendrils gradually dripped away to reveal a human-like figure, skin similar to the rich earth and eyes a strange concoction of molten gold and grey. Gold adorned every inch of the deity, from gold-sewn pattu clothing to glinting golden anklets.
“Death,” Harry let the name fall from his lips softly. Several gasps echoed behind his back.
“Yama,” the deity corrected, with a sly little smirk playing on his lips. “If you don’t mind. I prefer to be called as such when I’m in my current form.”
“Yama, then,” Harry acknowledged with a tilt of his head. Briefly he wondered whether he should bow properly and then brushed the thought away. If the deity truly wanted it, he should have informed them earlier on before summoning them in such a painful way. “Why are we here?”
“You collected three of my divine artefacts,” the deity deadpanned. “And promptly threw them away but we don’t talk about that.”
“Yes, we talk about that,” Harry spluttered, plopping next to the god. Absently, from his peripheral, he noticed several benches forming around them. “I threw them away. I do not own them!”
Yama sighed, aiming a pitying look at the young child before them.
“That is not how it works Little Master,” they said, tapping at the bench in a singular rhythm, hurrying on before the child imploded. “You collected all three Hallows. You were acknowledged as a Peverell. You wished to die. Congratulations! I’m as happy about this as you are, in the name of professional transparency.”
“... What.”
Oh dear, the child seemed to be going into shock. Well, this would take a while.
“...He wanted to die?” a whisper from the right drew their attention. It was the bushy haired child, Hermione —Narada would flip if he knew the child carrying his counterpart’s name valued responsibility about everything else, who had asked the question. Her lips trembled and she gripped at the hands of the boys sitting next to her on either side.
“Oh several times,” Yama admitted with ease before waving a hand towards the little Master of Death. “Hardly a surprise, though? Anyways, it was his wish when facing that idiot child that led him to be immortal.”
“ Immortal?!”
“Oh now he listens,” Yama shook their head, exasperated and exhausted, before pinning the child to his place with a glare. “Hadrian Potter, listen to me now and listen to me well. You united my artefacts. Thus, you are now a companion of mine, Master of Death and immortal though you will always die when in the mortal realm.”
“...I don’t like this,” Harry shook. “I don’t want to live alone forever.”
“You will not,” Yama sighed. Did this child never listen? “To be Master of Death means to understand death, the act and preside over creatures of death. You can lead lives in the mortal realm with or without your memories. Your friends are soul bound to you, yes these are breakable so take care however since they are, they will follow you wherever you go until you deem it unnecessary. Are we clear?”
Harry stared, unblinkingly, hysteria climbing up his throat like the waves of a tsunami threatening to consume him. ‘Are we clear’ they ask, as if they just didn’t info-dump on me. What the fuck.
“I have so many questions,” he mumbled out, at last.
“So do we,” Draco slumped back against his bench, looking very much like a flobberworm. “What the fuck, Potter?”
“What did I do?!”
“What didn’t you do?!”
So now they were here because apparently, the fucking timeline is cracking apart. Who would have fucking thought, that after all they go through vying for a rest the entire world would deconstruct itself like a fucking slap in the face?
“Lady Magic is furious,” Yama had explained calmly. “The lack of balance between both Light and Dark magic was tilting the world towards destruction. Combined with that, the imbalance of Life and Death, Magic and Mundane practically confirmed it.”
The deity had followed that with another strike of thunder, “I’m using most of my probability to send you back, it’s my duty as the Lord of Death and Justice to do my best to fix the timeline. Your existence itself would, in my belief, set things back on track. I’ve taken care of most things, including your blood inheritance to finance. I fear the rest is in your hands.”
So… no pressure, really.
Tom had started his day as usual. Wake up, cast a wandless lumos and go through the books he had brought back with him for an hour or so before heading down for breakfast. Which was really, just some dry bread and watered down porridge. Nothing like the rich feast of Hogwarts. It had taken several days for him to become accustomed to the orphanage food again, having become used to having various flavours of numerous cuisines dancing on his tongue and to having a full stomach. He had fasted for a week or two, only consuming liquid as it was supposed to cleanser the body and slowly but steadily build the body to withstand harsh circumstances.
The rest of the children didn’t dare obstruct his path when he made his way towards the serving table, lowering their eyes and inching or directly scuttling out of his way in fear. As they should. How many times had he endured their kicks and punches, poisonous words and blames? How many nights had he gone to bed with an empty stomach? Now that he had made sure none would ever touch him again, of course they should fear him. It is only the laws of the wixen world that kept him from annihilating them all, squashing their breaths out like bugs. The wixen laws and Dumbledore. That old man who despised and suspected Tom. Tom had to only give that man one reason for him to kick him out of Hogwarts. If only…
Tom exhaled, a bit harshly if going by the way the child sitting opposite him startled, and set down his bowl with a thud. He must go to Diagon Alley. Spending some time amidst his kind would set his itching nerves and boiling mind.
With a nod to the matron, that wicked lady, he stepped out of the orphanage. He wasn’t technically supposed to be going anywhere unsupervised, even less so in the current atmosphere but the matron never cared about it. Sometimes she seemed even a little disappointed when he made it back alive.
As if he would die so easily. As if he would let himself be killed that easily.
Clenching his fists, Tom strode past the orphanage, until he found a secluded corner and pulled out his wand, summoning the Knight Bus. A horrendous method of transport, but currently his only one.
Over last semester, he had heard from Abraxas about the blood inheritance test available to the wixen folks in the bank. It was apparently goblin magic that required a bit of one’s blood to determine their heritage. It’s not widely known because of the wariness the general wixen populace had towards blood magic. Regardless, it's fool-proof.
Blood never lies, after all.
So first stop, Gringotts.