Chapter Text
A creeping suspicion crawled up the ladder of his spine.
“You’ve been so brave.”
‘Causing a barely suppressed shudder threatening to come out.
“You are nearly there, very close. We are… so proud of you.”
The people standing before him were neither ghost nor truly flesh, he could see that. They resemble closely to the fragment of Tom Riddle’s soul when he escaped from his Diary so long ago, where he had been a memory made solid. Less substantial than living bodies, but much more than ghosts, they moved towards him, and on each face there was the same loving smile.
Right there and then, in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, practically walking to his doom, Harry Potter understood what made them all so eerily familiar.
“Does it hurt?” asked Harry lightly, cautiously trying to keep his voice leveled.
Their smiles were just as artificially crafted as what the mirror of Erised displayed for him many years ago.
“Dying? Not at all,” said the projection of a stranger, “Quicker and easier than falling asleep.”
“And he will want it to be quick.” said the senile werewolf “He wants it over.”
These were not his loved ones.
“You’ll stay with me?” asked Harry, scared out of his wits for the answer.
Yet, they all seemed to be sharing the same goal.
“Until the very end.” said the man with glasses.
They all want him dead.
Harry gave them a stiff nod, pretending to be pleased with this answer. He pocketed the stone and once he had they all disappeared. Leaving him to the sounds of the quiet forbidden forest.
There were two ways to go about this.
Number one, turn on his heel, and march straight back into the castle and proceed to pour a concerning amount of time to understand what just happened and why did it happened, that would make Hermione proud and would make Ron appalled.
His second option was to continue on the damned path because time is of the essence and if he doesn't reach to his certain doom within the deadline, Voldemort would be on his toes like a mother hen demanding her child why he was 5 minutes late from his curfew.
Deciding on the latter, Harry absentmindedly rubbed the dent that the Resurrection Stone in his pocket made. Without a warning, realization struck him, twice, impact almost similar to a baseball bat.
He began again on the path, vaguely aware of the Dementor’s hovering in the distance—they’ve realized it too. Haven't they? Those bastards. His mind and body felt oddly disconnected after each step he took, his limbs working without conscious instruction as his mind whirled threatening it's maximum capacity. How long could a forest even be for a dead man? How long can a man ponder before his death? How sure can a man be of their hypothesis? From what stretched that could almost be measured by eternity, Harry found himself staring at the scene before him without actually processing anything.
Embers of a hauntingly green fire flickered in the middle of the clearing. Positioned into a circular stance, the crowd stood all individually, despite them being under a united front, completely silent. Their eyes either glued to the floor or flickering around the other faces, or at the sky, or at the tree, or at the fire, but never at the celebrity that gathered them all to form their reunion.
More individual than man, Voldemort who stood with his head bowed, and his white hands folded over the Elder Wand in front of him. He might've been praying, or else counting silently in his mind. Although, absurdly, in Harry’s mind, he couldn't help but compare the Dark Lord to a small child counting in a game of hide-and-seek. Only that Voldemort was waiting for the hider to come and find him. Some Death Eater came from the forest on a different side, bearing some news that Harry’s ears wasn't able to grasp and, let alone, comprehend.
After a moment of precise calculation, Voldemort admitted, “I thought he would come,” his voice high and clear in the silence. Similar to a snake, he rose his head fluidly, “I expected him to come.”
Nobody spoke. Harry could hardly blame any of them, because he too was sure that Voldemort was on the verge to start whipping out the fucking Death Stick and start exchanging spells to his Death Eaters as of it was Christmas morning. Harry’s palms were not sweating and his heart was not beating erratically against his ribs by this thought.
But Harry wanted answers. Answers that could only be obtained through Death, apparently. If his hypothesis was correct.
“I was, it seems… mistaken.” admitted Voldemort.
“You weren’t.” said Harry as loud as he could, with all the force he could physically muster to slow his heartbeat to a normal pace. All heads snapped towards his direction.
Remembering he was still under the invisibility cloak, he tore the cloak with one quick swift, revealing the maniacal smile that took over his face.
“Missed me?” he couldn't help but add, because if he had any say in it, his last words would be some memorable phrase. Him and Ron had discussed this before hand, five centuries ago in another forest under the roof of a tent, where it had been warm and cozy.
The Death Eaters rose together, and there were many cries, gasps, even unbelievable chocked-up laughter. Voldemort had frozen where he stood, but his red eyes had started to track Harry’s movements, and he stared as Harry trudged to move towards him.
Then a voice yelled—
“HARRY! NO!”
Harry’s eyes snapped to the owner of the distraught cries. Hagrid was bound and trussed, tied to a tree nearby. His massive body shook the branches overhead as he struggled, desperate, he could see tears brimming from his eyes.
Harry couldn’t help but compare Hagrid’s reaction of him accepting his death with his ‘family’s’ reaction.
“NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT’RE YEH—”
“QUIET!” barked some Death Eater as he flicked his wand to silence Hagrid.
Harry steeled his nerves and walked towards Voldemort, ignoring Hagrid’s relentless thrashing.
“Harry Potter.” said Voldemort, very softly. His voice might have been an adult consoling a child. “The boy who lived.”
In an act that rooted purely on a scene he and Ron constructed, where Ron was pretending to be Voldemort, Harry grabbed Voldemort’s wand arm and pointed it directly at his chest.
“Hit it where it hurts.” said Harry hauntingly. He blames Ron and Firewhisky for this.
There was a sharp intake of breath that came from Voldemort before a look that could meaning nothing but surprise sprouted from his eyebrows. The moments were fleeting as he quickly reclaimed composure and regarded Harry with a tilted head as if he was a curious child.
He felt the wand movements against his chest, the movement of the mouth, and the sound that never quite reached his ears as a flash of green light enveloped all of his senses.
He’s figured it out. He's figured it out.
He had just kneeled to peek under one of the bench chairs in this weird, white waiting room to see where that adamant noise was coming from, but once he locked eyes with the baby everything started to make even a little bit more sense.
“You cannot help.”
Harry spun around, his mind working 500 miles per hour, “You FUCKED Grindelwald!” accused Harry, pointing an even more accusing finger at the Headmaster before him.
Dumbledore was momentarily shock before quickly gaining composure, “Now, I did not do—”
“OH, SO IT WAS THE OTHER WAY AROUND?”
Dumbledore gagged, “NO! HARRY, WHAT PROMPTED THIS–”
Harry clasped his hands together, utterly pleased with himself. Smiling wildly, at a befuddled Dumbledore. “You’re not Dumbledore.” he concluded.
Dumbledore visibly stiffened, “I don’t understand, my boy,” said Dumbledore giving a smile which looked more like a grimace. “I think you’re probably still confused, why don't we just take a walk? Help you sort through your thoughts?”
Harry firmly shook his head, now fully convinced because of Dumbledore’s reaction. “You’re not Dumbledore.” he repeated.
“How come you say that?” asked Dumbledore gently, “Do indulge me, I find myself sorely stumped with the conclusions you're jumping into.”
“The real Dumbledore died long, long before. Before I was even born.” blurted Harry out, more than happy to be dumping all of his thoughts, “You’re not him. But you’ve been pretending to be him, for quite a while now. The real Dumbledore probably died around when Grindelwald was defeated, if not, took his own life since they were, you know, lovers.
"You planned this— all of it. From deliberately holding a meeting with Professor Trelawney, up to this exact moment. You planned it.
“You made Voldemort go after my mother because you knew Snape would beg for her to stay alive, while securing that I stay alive as well. Therefore, securing me to be a Horcrux holder.
"You gave me the Resurrection Stone in your will, so that when I used it I would've been comforted by the people I loved and to willingly go to my death."
Harry barked out a laugh, pointing accusingly at the imposter who wasn't Dumbledore, "Those—those people were not my parents. That wasn't Sirius or Lupin. Those were sickly projections to convince me that I had to die and that it wouldn't hurt.
"You wanted me dead, so that Voldemort would be once more rendered mortal. Only if they kill the snake, which I have full confidence that they are capable of doing.” Harry said in rapid succession, with exaggerated hand movements. “And that this thing,” he gestured under the bench, “was the Horcrux in my head.”
The imposter appeared to be impressed as he nodded, “Wow, honestly… just, wow.” said Dumbledore—or is it not-Dumbledore now?—stroking his beard. “You’re smarter than the other ones.”
Harry raised his eyebrow, this he did not consider. Did not-Dumbleore killed others..? What?
“The other ones?” demanded Harry
“Harry, do you know where we are?”
“A waiting room.” answered Harry instantly.
“Okay, could be.” said not-Dumbledore agreeing easily, “Look harder.”
Perplexed, Harry scanned his surroundings and saw a whole lot of.. white. Harry turned back at Not-Dumbledore, giving him a look and a shrug but the man just urged Harry to look even harder. Right.
Harry squinted at his surroundings, there seemed to be some sort of mist floating around them. Though nothing was hidden behind the cloudy vapor, rather the cloudy vapor had not yet formed into surroundings. Harry looked into the floor and realized that he was now standing on familiar grounds of tiles only that it was painted a pure misty white, which took him a while to decode where he was.
“King’s Cross Station?” guessed Harry turning back to the imposter.
Not-Dumbledore laughed at that, “Quite perceptive.” he remarked jovially, “We are currently what appears to be a limbo. Where every person from any timeline, universe, or even the multi-verse comes to when they die.”
“Every person? From everywhere?” asked Harry astounded, looking around and seeing the mist starting to form something actually legible like some more benches and some walls. Harry frowned, “Then why is nobody here?”
“Are you expecting to find people here?”
“Well," Harry started, stumped by such an unusual question, "Don’t people die all the time? I was sort of expecting for this place to be crowded or something.”Harry mumbled to himself.
“Ah, that’s because they're all late.” replied not-Dumbledore idly, looking around as of to check for a clock.
“They’re all late.” echoed Harry.
“Time is a finicky thing around these parts.”
“That still doesn't explain my earlier question.” reminded Harry
“Ah, yes. That.” said Dumbledore clasping his hands together, “Tell me Harry, who do you think I am if not Dumbledore?”
“You’re deflecting.” pointed Harry out.
“Harry, I promise you this has everything to do to answer your question.”
Harry bit his lip, with a moment of deliberation he answered, “Ronald Weasley.”
Not-Dumbledore spluttered and started coughing loudly. “How did you reach to that conclusion?”
Harry shrugged, “You both have, or had, orange hair and blue eyes. Considering Ron, he was a mad good strategist and endearingly clumsy. So, I wouldn't be surprised if Ron accidentally—I don't know—tossed a time-turner in a cauldron of doom and despair or something and got sent back all the way back and had to live under Dumbledore’s name because he somehow killed him in the process.”
Harry took great offense as he saw not-Dumbledore trying not to burst out laughing, and understood in that moment that this isn't Ron because Ron would’ve already folded under zero pressure.
“Anybody else?” not-Dumbledore tried to say trying to prevent any of his laughter that dared to escape his mouth.
Harry thought about it for a few moments and snapped his fingers, “Grindelwald—” seeing not-Dumbledore about to topple over, he hastily added his third option, “—Kidding! I know it you, Death.”
“Always happy to be of your assistance.” said Death as he cracked an all-devouring smile.
Harry was evidently surprised, if his face was to go by it, to find that the old man that was laughing at his expense not too long before had disappeared entirely and was now replaced with a hooded figure holding a very intimidating and 100% very lethal scythe in their right hand.
Quickly picking up his metaphorical jaw on the floor, Harry found himself scowling at Death, “My theory about Ron was better.”
“Yes, but undeniably false.” said Death, “And to answer your question.. Well. It's not only in this universe that I am playing pretend to be Albus Dumbledore. Time is relevant, so to speak, I am in every universe and none of them at the same time. You are neither the first Harry Potter to walk this plain nor the last. Though you can proudly claim the badge of, what? The smartest of the bunch?”
Death vaguely waved his scythe and a badge with the engravings: ‘Smartest Potter down the block!’ appeared on his robes.
Harry inspected the badge, before shrugging, “I’ve seen better.”
Nailed it. Harry was taking this whole ‘I’ve-controlled-your-whole-life-and-used-it-to-defeat-a-Dark-Lord’ situation surprisingly well. Heck, Harry hasn’t found anything in himself to actually care about the whole ordeal, that much. He was still a tad bit pissed about a few things though (e.g. the Resurrection Stone stunt, being left with the Dursleys.)
“I’m sure you have.” said Death patronizingly, it really didn't suit their whole costume choice but this was a being beyond human comprehension. Harry decided not to think about it that much. “Now, with all of this out of the open and you not yelling death threats at me, pun intended.” Death winked at him, and again, Harry doesn't think too much about how are they able to do that with no eyes, “I think it’s time to talk about your perks.”
Death then waved his scythe, making a very business-like desk appear with two plush armchairs on either side of the table.
Harry’s eyebrow rose up suspiciously, “Perks?”
“Yes, perks, Master. Do keep up.”
Both of Harry’s eyebrows shot up, “Master?”
Death eyed him in annoyance, “Are you going to repeat everything I'm going to say?”
“Repeat?” squawked Harry, dodging the papers Death materialized to throw at him. He sat down on his own respectful chair that felt far more comfier than it should been, though it's been a long day.
“As you can probably tell from my vibe, the thing we’ve got going on,” Death gestures between the two of them, “has never been attempted before. You, are the first Harry Potter to become the proper Master of Death in a very long time.”
"What the fuck," commented Harry fluently, his eye brows furrowed, "How could that be? Aren’t I supposed to collect all three of the Deathly Hallows? I've only gotten two in my possession so far.”
“Its sort of hard to explain but basically, all the way back in Malfoy’s Manor, you disarmed Draco—who was the former Master of the Elder Wand—and that title shifted to you and you became the Master of the Elder Wand. And when you pulled that stunt with little Tommy, where you made him touch you with the Elder Wand. Right there and then, you’ve technically and practically collected all the Deathly Hallows.”
“Why do I have a bad feeling with where this is going.” groaned Harry, slouching in his chair.
Ignoring Harry, Death continued rattling along, “So, all things considered, you’re my master. Which gives you this perk where you can’t die. Which, considering for you and the whole situation you’ve been in, is a good thing, however, what will you do next?”
Eyebrows furrowed, Harry stared at the concept of Death, perplexed, “What will I do next?” wow, uh, Harry didn't actually thought that far in his life. He sort of assumed that he wouldn’t make it past his adult years… Which technically did happened, nonetheless. “Start a family?”
“What? And name all your kids horribly?” Death made an incorrect buzzer sound. Again, Harry decided not to dwell on it too much. “Bo-ring! What else you got?”
“I don't know? Study Dragons in Romania? Become an Auror?” spluttered Harry. What do you even do after school? It's not like there's any adventures you can take up on.
“Seriously, that's it?”
Harry scowled, “What is there in life? I haven’t actually thought this far.”
“Well, we could start this recommended train of thought—time travel.” said Death enigmatically.
Finding himself intrigued, Harry leaned forward on his seat, “I’m listening.”
“Get this, I can send you back in time, let’s say, before your first year, and you can mess everything up—while also beating up Voldemort on the sideline—under my watchful gaze.” presented Death, proudly “Or, you could travel even more back in time and befriend the 4 founders of Hogwarts, OR, befriend Merlin and his completely heterosexual friend Arthur, OR, you could go to the future and see what's going on there. Meet you’re friends, and promptly mess with them, since for some reason you looked like Harry Potter but that can't be because he died saving us all those years ago. Amen.” they then added, “The possibilities are endless.”
“I can see where you’re coming from, but messing with the timeline? I don't think I should be allowed to do that.” remarked Harry cautiously.
“You’re the Master of Death, a.k.a me, which practically states all forms of logic fails to apply on you, and if they do, you could just fix it.” Death shrugged, “It’s not like you’d be running out of time.”
Having fun. Huh. Now that seems like an abstract sentence. Actually, this whole thing—no, these past few years feel abstract and nonsensical. When was the last time Harry had fun? Probably a few weeks ago when he and Ron snuck out and stole a bit of firewhisky from some rural wizard town. Okay, so there's that… For Merlin’s sake! Harry was being given unbounded, probably limitless, time travel on a silver platter. He could do anything! He could run for the Minister of Magic! Get rich. Get laid. Probably have a family and name them exaggeratedly ridiculous names to spite death. He could just go back from where he left off and kill Voldemort. Reunite with his friends, say proper goodbyes!
Then what?
Nothing Harry listed was anything he actually wanted. If he just went back to where he left off, there would be so much to do and so much to fix. Undoubtedly, the castle is in ruins. The government is in disarray. The dementors have turn theirs backs on them. The goblins in Gringotts undoubtedly would have his head on a stake because of the stunt he pulled. They’d need to capture the remaining Death Eaters, give them the Dementor’s kiss somehow. Harry didn't want that. Didn't want anyone else to die or to be hurt. He didn't want the kids of the next generation to live in a world the adults themselves couldn't fix.
How does anyone in his position go about this? Go to the root of the problems. Harry could, hypothetically, destroy Voldemort earlier on. Go back to his first year, collect all the Horcurxes again and kill him right off the bat. None the wiser. Would that fix the already crumbling government? Not entirely no.
Scratch that. Harry could travel back in time way before he was born and vanquish the Dark Lord way before he could even start his first war? That has to be it. Right? Maybe he’d catch a glimpse of his parents. He could become a professor or, well, an Auror. Infiltrate the Ministry. Make sure no other evil will arise. That sounds like a good plan.
Harry felt his eyes wandering back to a bench where a disfigured-looking baby wailed in the background.
The concept of Death following his line of sight, has already figured out Harry’s conclusion before he could even put it into words.
Death sighed, “If you must,” they said reluctantly, “Do try and keep me entertain would you?”
Harry snorted, “No promises.”
Death whined, “Why must every version of you have a heart of gold. Why can't any of you be batshit crazy.”
“I’ll have you know I'm far from a heart of gold.” said Harry indignantly, aiming a kick at Death’s feet. If you could even call it that.
“Humble does not suit you, Master.” drawled Death.
Harry scowled. He didn't push farther, seeing this argument fruitless. He was not a good person.
Death didn't seemed to notice as they hummed absent-mindedly as they arranged papers on the table before him. “So this is a one-way trip to the 1940s, I’m presuming?”
Harry nodded. Merlin, the world shouldn't let him make world-altering decisions right after a hefty Horcurx hunt and war. He would so regret this decision in a week or so.
“Alright, sign here and here and a few more of these.” Death instructed Harry, passing him some papers and a pen.
Skimming through the papers, a line snagged the attention of his eye, “Wait, this says that ‘Whatever Fate does in retaliation you have to go through it and persevere’ what the fuck does that mean.”
“Don’t worry about it, she wouldn't do something too horrific.”
“Pardon?” demanded Harry, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, it's just the god’s fun. Please don't worry about it!” said Death child-like, ushering him to just sign his name.
Jesus Christ, Merlin Above. He’s sooooo going to regret this.
Harry signed it. Death hid a poorly concealed squeal. Harry tried not to think about it too much.
Signing a few more papers, and being denied answers and gaining more questions of the contents of this contract—if you could even call it that. As Harry finished his workload, all of the papers vanished into thin air, along with the table and, rudely, the seats. Falling on his bottom, and Death having a good laugh.
"Take my hand, quickly, before Fate figures out why we're taking so long." Death urged as he extended out a hand to Harry on the floor.
Harry glares at them, "You still haven't told me who they are."
"Explanations and secrets will all be revealed in due time." Death said gravely, annoyingly deflecting the topic.
Harry grunted in response, still not making a move to take Death's boney hand. "Why are you even allowing me to do all of this."
"To do all of what?"
Harry vaguely gestures at everything, "All of this." When Death stilled seemed confused, he continued on, "You could've not offer this time-travel shtick. You could've, I don't know, trick your master into having a normal life. Wouldn't that be an interesting legend?" Harry chuckled bitterly, "But no. You're helping me. You're joking around. It's just—"
Harry looked back up to Death, searching for answer in the incomprehensible being, "It's just, I don't know how to feel about all of this. Being the master of Death and all." Harry pulled his knees to his chest and rested his cheek on them. "It feels a bit unfair, no?"
"I'm an ancient being and incomprehensible, incoherent concept that will live on forever even beyond when the sun decides to blow up." Death began, solemnly, "I have seen everything a man can go through and become. It is unfair. To say the least, that you, Harry Potter, has been given the title of the Master of Death. The ability to rise from the dead, and to travel through time and space that transcends you.
But everything you've been through, in the span of 17 years. Maybe, you deserve it."
Harry looked back up at Death in full unfiltered disbelief at his words.
"Consider it in this angle, Master. You were given the choice of Time-Travel. You could've done absolutely anything. But you've decided, all on your own, that you want to try to redeem the world that stamped on you."
Harry pursed his lips and scowled, "Any decent person would've done that."
"And you did. Which person would be better to present time travel to?"
Harry thought about it for a moment. "Neville Longbottom."
Now it was Death's turn to scowl, "Alright, fine. But is he the Master of Death? Does he know half of what Voldemort was in the past? Would he be able to relate to him"
Harry furrowed his brow. Merlin, he hates Death. Can't he just let Harry sulk on his decisions in peace. He threw his head back in defeat, "Fine! Alright. Pity party over."
"Excellent." Death said satisfied. Their hand still out-stretched.
Harry stared at it for a moment. Distantly, he could hear Hermione listing off things that needed to get done when he time-traveled there. He could feel Ron's hand clamp his left shoulder and rubbing him encouragingly. Distantly, Harry could hear a baby wailing in the distance.
Harry took their out-stretched hand, hoisting himself up until he wasn't holding a hand anymore.
Until he felt weightless, his ears ringing. The distant cries of a baby in the background were drowned under screams of pain that came from some poor boy.
Harry then realized he was screaming, he was the poor boy, and that he was no longer weightless and suddenly ponderous. Equilibrium switching up on him as his head collided with solid footing, you know, where his feet are supposed to be on not his probably cracked skull.
The date was July 1942.