Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tom sat prim and poised in his seat at the table in the main hall, surrounded by his sycophants— where he was supposed to be, where he was meant to be. He was destined for greatness, and, Tom will admit, he made some mistakes in the past. But he was here now, given a chance to start again, and what reason would there be for him to be sent back, given another opportunity to fix this world, if not because he was meant to bring change, if not because he was better, greater.

Tom has learned, and this time, this time, he will do it right. He was pushed out of his thoughts by the arrival of the new batch of first years, but what really caught his attention was one of the boys standing with them. He stood out sorely; taller than the other children with an unmistakable air of confidence. If Tom had to guess, he’d say the boy seemed more likely to be in his fourth year, if not Tom’s own.

Headmaster Dippet stood, gesturing for silence. As Dippet started his speech, Tom went over what he needed to do in his head.

Getting his first horcrux was a priority, but he wasn’t blind enough to realize the effects it had on him, and now that his soul was whole once more, it was even more pronounced. So, this time, he will make only one.

Then, he needs to reestablish all his old connections. Tedious, yes, but necessary. He needs to grow his circle, get more influence and sway.

Conversation started up around him once more as Dippet’s speech finally came to an end.

“The boy,” Lestrange inquired, “is he a transfer, do you think?”

Walburga Black sneered, her face twisting into something ugly, “I bet it’s a refugee, and a mudblood, no doubt.”

“It’s likely, Grindelwald doesn’t target our kind.” Orion Black said blankly, adding his own thoughts.

“Hmm, I’m not too sure. He has the build and air of a pureblood.” Malfoy added thoughtfully, tilting his head, a habit of his, Tom noted.

“Well,” Rosier cut in, “we’ll know soon enough, it’s almost his turn.”

They turned their attention back to the student, subtle in their staring.

“Peverell Hollow!”

Just like that, the Slytherin table exploded in whispers.

Malfoy smiled smugly, “looks like I was right, he is a pureblood, one from a prestigious line, no less.”

Orion Black looked baffled, his previous apathy gone. “But the Peverell line died out.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but there was clear intrigue in them. “Well, quite obviously, they didn’t.”

Peverell made his way over to them with confident strides, sitting directly across from Tom, Walburga Black seemingly affronted on his behalf.

Shoulder length black hair, and eyes as bright as the killing curse, Peverell smiled sharply. “Hello Tom, it always is a pleasure to see you.”

Tom has no idea how the fuck he managed to do it, or why he’s now a Peverell, but one thing was clear, even in death, he was never escaping Harry bloody Potter.

Chapter Text

Harry was… confused, to say the least. He died. He died and now he’s here, in the strange version of Kings Cross- that looks normal but feels wrong. 

And he knew he’d end up here, this is, what, his third time dying? Honestly, that’s got to be a record, it’s a bit absurd, even for him.

At this point, he’d lived two lives. At the end of his first, he was given the option to go back. And he took it. He lived through that life exactly how he wished it had gone the first time. He stopped everything before it happened, there were no deaths, there was no war. And now, he was dead again.

But, the reason he’s confused is not because he’s there, even if he was sorta under the impression that he’d go straight to the afterlife, but because the train from last time that would let him move on wasn’t there. 

Harry looked around, and yep, everything was exactly how he remembered it, except for the damned train.

“Hello?” He called out to no one in particular, “I’m pretty sure it’s my time to go.” No answer. “I want to die now, I’m ready to leave.” He tried again.

Harry huffed, he didn’t know why he bothered. There was no one here. No dead professors, no shades of people he once knew, no afterlife entourage, and still no bloody train. 

He was rather cross with that, if you couldn’t tell.

He walked over to where the train should be and jumped onto the tracks, looking down the tunnel as if he would see it coming. But, as expected, there was nothing. He paced back and forth before throwing his head back and pushing his palms into his eyes, letting out a loud groan.

“Are you kidding me!” He yelled, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m done! I did what I wanted to! Let me go! I’ve had a good life and one sorta good life! That’s more than enough alive time! What else do you want!” By the end of his little rant, he had thrown his hands up and was glaring at the ceiling as if it was the source of all his problems.

“It’s less what I want, and more what you want.” A soft, melodic voice said from behind him. Harry whipped around, half expecting Dumbledore even though the voice did not fit at all. 

Instead he was met with a woman sitting on one of the benches. She was tall, with aristocratic features, golden eyes and long platinum blond hair. She had an ethereal kind of beauty, and gave him major uncanny valley vibes. Harry had no idea why or how she was there, considering he had certainly never seen anyone like her before.

“Uh, hi? Do I know you…?” His frustration lost in the face of confusion.

Instead of answering; “standing on train tracks is generally considered to be a bad idea.” She sounded amused.

“Well, it’s not like a train will be coming, will it?” Harry said, petulantly. She pat the seat next to her, and, yeah, she was definitely amused.  

Against, perhaps, his better judgment, Harry sat. “You never answered my question.” 

She raised a brow, and Harry found himself more than a little annoyed at having to look up at her, “Do you truly not know the answer?” 

“You’re Death.” He replied, and she nodded with a smile. 

“I am, but you may call me Mortelle.” 

“Okay, Mortelle, but that doesn’t explain why I'm still here.” He almost demanded, his earlier annoyance coming back. 

“To make a choice, of course.”

“A choice?” He repeated incredulously.

“Yes, a choice.”

“I was already given a choice. And I don’t know if you misunderstand what choice means, but” he gestured to the empty tracks, “there doesn’t seem to be one. Either way, I’ve already relieved my life, and I did it right.”

“Yes, but did you live it how you want?”

“Of course, no one died, and everyone was happy, they got what they wanted.”

“But did you get what you want? In both lives, you’ve been living for other people, for their happiness, for their wants. You’ve always put them over yourself. You were born as the chosen one, in your first life you died as a child soldier, in the second one you didn’t die as a child, but you still died a soldier. You were so stuck on the idea that these were your problems to fix, that even when given a second chance, you still didn’t live your life for you.”

“Well what else was I supposed to do? Just let the war happen? Even if I didn’t want anything to do with it, I still had to deal with it because the problems were already there.”

“And that’s where your choice comes in.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can give you your third chance, but this time I’ll send you back before everything had a chance to take root. Instead of getting rid of the problems, you can simply prevent them from happening before they’re even there.”

“You mean…”

“1942. When Tom was still Tom.”

“…Yeah, okay.” Harry nodded his head, then paused. “Is it possible to bring someone else with me?”

“It is. What is your choice?” 

Harry grinned. “I’ll go back. And I’m going to bring Tom with me.”

“Wonderful!” She cried, standing up. Death looked down to him, then clapped, and Harry woke.