Chapter Text
"Magic works in mysterious ways."
That was the first—and most unsettling—thought that crossed Harry’s mind. The realisation left a bitter taste in his mouth because, in that moment, he recognised how much he had become like Dumbledore: a man he respected and loved, but never wished to emulate.
Dumbledore had used people, treating them like pawns on a chessboard. After months upon months of reflection, Harry had come to see the late Headmaster as something akin to a god—playing with lives as if they were pieces in some grand design. And this conclusion hadn’t come lightly. Harry had traced every moment of their relationship, every manipulation, every carefully placed word. He had been used. Abused. Just as Hercules had been exploited by his divine family, or Achilles by the whims of the gods.
They, too, had been tools for a "greater good"—or so they had believed. And Dumbledore? He had fervently clung to that same ideal. But Harry couldn’t help but wonder: A greater good for whom?
A year had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, and everyone seemed to have moved on—everyone except Harry.
He attended every event "The Hero" was expected to grace, never missed a single Auror training session, and never turned down a Weasley family dinner invitation. He spent most of his free time trying to mend what had broken between him and Ginny. By all appearances, he was living.
But his soul refused to agree with his mind.
Harry could almost physically feel the void inside him—a hollow ache that nothing could soothe. He wasn’t depressed; he’d been there before, and this was different. This wasn’t grief or exhaustion. It was as if a part of him had been carved out.
And it wasn’t the tainted shard of Voldemort’s soul that was missing.
It was the magic that had shielded him from that cursed fragment.
He had lost his parents’ love—the very protection that had saved him—and its absence burned deeper than any Cruciatus.
The stone corridors of Hogwarts’ third floor echoed with Harry’s footsteps as he made his way to the Headmistress’s office. The summons from McGonagall was undoubtedly another attempt to convince him to return and complete his education—another well-meaning but ultimately hollow gesture in what had become a year of hollow gestures.
"Death?" Harry’s voice cut through the silence of the empty hallway. The question had been gnawing at him since dawn. "Why does it feel like my soul is broken?"
"You’ve never asked me that before, Master." The response came not from any particular direction, but from everywhere at once—that deep, calm voice only Harry could hear.
On the Other Side, Death had first appeared to him wearing Dumbledore’s face—"So as not to frighten you," it had explained later. Their conversations had been rare since then; twice before, and now this third time.
"I try not to think about things that cause me pain," Harry replied, his fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of his wand. "But now I’m just... living. And it hurts more."
"Master, don’t lie to yourself. You already know the truth. I need not tell you." The voice carried an unexpected warmth, like an old friend offering comfort.
Harry’s steps slowed. "I need to hear it," he whispered, the admission tearing at something deep within him.
"Magic is complex, Master," Death began, its voice wrapping around Harry like a cloak. "It answers most powerfully to powerful emotions. The Muggles you know wield magic unknowingly through such emotions—their love, their grief, their rage shaping the world in subtle ways. Wizards are not so different, but with magic flowing in your veins, your acts become... extraordinary."
Harry’s breath caught as Death continued: "Your parents loved you beyond measure, Master. They were prepared to give everything for you... and they did. On the night the Dark Lord came for your family, that love became something tangible—a magic so pure it bound itself to you."
"And it stopped the Horcrux from consuming me," Harry finished, the realisation settling like a stone in his gut.
"Precisely, Master," Death affirmed. "And when that love had fulfilled its purpose, it returned to where it came from. A mystery, is it not?"
Harry didn’t respond. Strangely, he didn’t feel sadness either—just a weary acceptance. He knew Death wasn’t lying, but this answer, like all the answers he’d ever received, was riddled with holes. Frustrating, but he couldn’t muster the energy to protest. If this was the answer, then so be it. He would move forward. Yet in the fractured depths of his soul, a desperate longing took shape—to be normal, to have grown up with his parents, to have known their love beyond that single sacrificial moment...
The wall to Harry’s right shimmered, stone melting away to form a familiar door. "The Room of Requirement," Harry murmured. "I didn’t think it would still exist after all that cursed fire."
"Powerful feelings affect magic, Master," Death observed, sensing both Harry’s growing desire and the ancient castle’s magic responding to it.
Harry felt the change in the air—a prickling at his skin, a charge to the atmosphere—but he pushed the sensation away. Masking his emotions had become second nature. Curiosity overpowered caution as he reached for the door handle.
The moment his fingers made contact, an invisible force yanked him forward. Time distorted—was it an instant? An hour? White-hot pain exploded through his scar, long dormant but now burning as though freshly cursed. He felt pieces of himself tearing away, unravelling...
Then, as suddenly as it came, the pain vanished. Darkness swallowed Harry’s consciousness, his last thought a quiet wonder:
"Have I finally died?"
Death took no sides. It judged no right or wrong, showed no preference for size, race, or gender—it simply was, as inevitable as the setting sun. But Death had never before had a human Master, never stood beside a soul so radiant with unyielding kindness. Should anyone question what it was about to do, Death realised with quiet amusement, it would have its first justification ready.
Harry’s body convulsed as forces beyond mortal comprehension remade him. Time didn’t merely bend—it unravelled around him, stripping away years like layers of old parchment. Memories blurred at the edges, then dissolved entirely as his very essence rewrote itself. The pain was excruciating, visible in every taut muscle and strained tendon, but necessary. For Death had one final service to perform for its only human Master who had ever mattered—plucking free that accursed sliver of soul that had dared return to its vessel.
A final, piercing scream tore through the air—but the voice that rang out wasn’t a man’s. It was the terrified cry of a child.
"Good luck, Master," Death murmured, its voice softer than moonlight on a tombstone. "May you live well."