Chapter Text
Harry stared at Kingsley.
The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat but didn’t look up from where he was shuffling the papers on his desk. Another memo flew in, and the Minister barely glanced at it before tucking it in a box labelled Percy Weasley.
“I’m sorry. What?”
One month. It had been one month since the battle. In that one month, Harry had been in here almost every day, and yet this was the first he was hearing about this.
“She has the experience we need to get the Ministry back up and running.” Kingsley was continuing to avoid eye contact, and Harry found himself running through various violent fantasies about how he could make the man look at him. “We don’t have many people left with the experience we need–“
Harry snorted.
Kingsley fell silent. Harry couldn't tell if he was blushing, but he found himself hoping that the man felt embarrassed. Embarrassed or not, Kingsley kept looking through memos as they landed on his desk, sorting them into the boxes scattered around his office.
Harry took time, in the ensuing awkward silence, to look around the newly refurbished office of the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. No longer covered in the sumptuous luxury that had been so dominant during Fudge's reign, it was also missing the stark dark colours and wanted posters that seemed to be a theme for Pius Thicknesse's Ministry. Buried under the pile of memos was a simple but functional desk, and the bookcases were filled with law reference books and histories of the British wizarding world. Paperwork was haphazardly stacked on every surface, and decorations were minimal.
They had prioritised the atrium and the Minister’s suite of offices when they started on the refurbishment. Hermione said it was important to still make a good first impression as they started to rebuild, so Harry had been splitting his time over the last month between the clean-up at Hogwarts and tearing down the changes made by Voldemort at the Ministry. He and Ron had taken too much joy out of ripping down Lucius Malfoy’s office. It had been a bright spot in an unrelentingly terrible month.
A month that was about to get worse, apparently.
The silence was getting uncomfortable, but Harry was done with making an effort to make other people comfortable.
Harry was done.
“If you bring Umbridge back, if you give her power again. I’m out,” Harry stated coldly.
Kingsley grimaced and glanced up at him, eye contact finally made, but not held for long. Harry found himself sneering. Coward.
“Harry, I understand that this isn’t ideal.” Kingsley paused and seemed to be waiting for Harry to step in.
Harry just raised an eyebrow.
“We need Umbridge; we don’t have many administrators left with her skill set.”
“When did bigotry, arse-licking and torturing children become a skill set that the Ministry needs?” Harry kept his tone light; the last month may have been an essay in patience, but the last year of endless camping had taught him how to wait.
“Harry, I have really appreciated you and your friends helping out over the last month. We wouldn't be as far along as we are without your help.” This sounded familiar. “But you’re only seventeen, you don’t understand what it takes to run a country yet, this is politics, Harry, personal feelings can’t come into it—”
“My personal feelings are that Umbridge is a psychopath who enjoys hurting children, and that fact should absolutely be relevant to her appointment to a Ministry position. Again.” Harry was just about holding on to the calm. Just about. “I have three curse scars on my body, Kingsley, three. One from Voldemort, one from Pettigrew and one from your new bloody undersecretary.”
“You have to understand the situation at Hogwarts during your fifth year was an isolated incident in a 25-year career with the Ministry.” Harry stared across the desk at the man he had just fought a war with, the man who had comforted him over Tonks and Remus’ bodies. The man he had helped put into office only a month ago. Harry stared at Kingsley, speechless as a list of excuses worthy of Lockhart spewed out of him. “1995 was a bad year for everyone involved. Dolores was completely loyal to Fudge and was merely following orders. I know it is hard to separate feelings from past hurts; it is something that comes with age and experience. I know you don’t have the distance at the moment to see that.”
Harry rubbed his face. Sirius had once described Kingsley as the Order’s moral compass, where had that unrelenting belief in doing the right thing gone?
“Look, Harry, I understand you have a history with Umbridge, but we need her if we’re going to be able to put the ministry back together.” Kingsley was staring at him earnestly, only breaking eye contact to continue reading the stream of memos and stick them roughly into the right box for whatever sorting system he was currently working with.
“Then don’t put it back together.” Harry gestured at the flying memos. “Is any of this actually helping people? Is that memo going to improve anyone’s life? Save a life? Do anything at all to impact anyone at all?”
Kingsley looked down at the memo in his hand, which even from here Harry could see was from the magical games department. Such high-priority work for just after a civil war.
Kingsley at least had the grace to cringe. “All work is important in order to restore normalcy. We desperately need to get back to routine, surely you can see that, Harry?”
“If you need a woman like Umbridge in order for something to function, then that should be a sign that what you’re trying to fix isn’t worth fixing.” Hermione was already being blocked from even starting conversations about Magical Creature reform. Kingsley had told Mr Weasley that they wouldn't be repealing some of the anti-Muggle laws because it was too time-consuming, and it looked like Lucius Malfoy would be going free. Again.
Harry eyed one of the boxes Kingsley had been tucking the majority of the memos into; it seemed to be deliberately angled so Harry couldn’t see the name. If Kingsley had already resigned himself to working with marked Death Eaters, he could see why Umbridge was suddenly so easy to justify.
“That isn’t an option,” Kingsley stated. Harry watched the man pull himself straight. A familiar movement. Here comes the ultimatum. “If you’re unable to work with us on this, then you might find yourself—“ The man at least paused, but a small amount of hesitation wasn’t going to do much for Harry's opinion of him at this point. Harry had been subject to a lot of threats over the last seventeen years, and he could already tell this one was going to hurt. “You might find yourself facing more opposition on clearing Mr Black and Mr Snape’s names.”
Oh, there was the rage.
Familiar, bubbling bile rising, his magic was always too close to the surface these days, and he could feel the fire of it burning in his veins as he glared across the desk at the latest Minister of Magic to disappoint him.
“You going to take back Remus’s Order of Merlin next? What about Tonks? You going to shit on her memory too?”
Kingsley’s eyes flashed, and he slammed his hands down on the desk in front of him. “Mr Potter, Tonks was—”
“What?” Harry spat back. “Your friend? Your colleague? You’ve already started holding other dead Order of the Phoenix members hostage, why stop there?”
They glared at each other over the desk. Harry could feel the roaring need to crush, to destroy. He wanted to reduce the whole office to dust and then continue to destroy the remains. Burn it. Whatever it took to make this stop. He drew in a sharp breath and released it, breathing through the rage.
He had been forced to bend too far this time. This wasn’t what he’d fought for, bled for, died for. He forced himself to relax and sit back in his seat.
“I think this conversation is over,” He stated firmly. “Goodbye, Minister Shacklebolt.”
He pushed himself upright and tucked the file he’d come in with back under his arm. “Harry, I’m sure we can—”
“Yeah, I don’t reckon you have the right to call me Harry anymore.” Harry glanced back at the slumped man still sitting behind his shiny new desk. “After all, I don’t actually work for the Ministry and you've decided to get into bed with someone who abused children and terrorised Muggleborns last time she was in a position of power." Harry held up his hand to stave off Kingsley's objection. "We are clearly not on the same team anymore, not in any way that matters.”
He swept out of the office.
“Mr Potter! Wait, I’m sure we can—“
Whatever the Minister had to say was cut off when Harry closed the lift doors behind himself with a flick of his wand.
He groaned and leaned back against the wall of the lift as it made its erratic way down to the Atrium. He glanced down at the file Hermione had handed him this morning; her plans for an alternative Wizengamot were clearly going to have to wait, which meant another series of intense conversations would be happening in his near future.
He bumped his head back against the lift wall and groaned again. It had been such a long month.
The lift doors opened, and he was immediately met with flashes and calls from the journalists permanently camped out in the foyer.
Harry stalked through the photographers, eyes fixed on the apparition point just beyond the floo entrances. Too slow, as always, to avoid all of them.
“Mr Potter.” A familiar simpering voice from the bespectacled beetle herself, Harry barely stopped himself from sending a stinging hex her way. “Are you going to the memorial tomorrow?”
Eyes fixed on the apparition point, Harry almost ran her down when she failed to get out of the way quickly enough. “Mr Potter,” she called after him, heels clicking rapidly as she tried to keep pace. “Are you still claiming that known Death Eaters Sirius Black and Severus Snape were part of your victory against You Know Who?”
Harry paused for a moment, considering.
Well, if she was asking.
Harry turned to eye her. “I will give you a statement if you promise to print it in full.”
He watched Rita Skeeter hesitate, glancing at the other journalists around her. She narrowed her eyes. “I can’t guarantee—“
Harry turned back towards the apparition point. He heard an impatient sigh behind him. “Fine! Fine.”
He turned back around, raising an eyebrow and waiting for her counteroffer. He wasn't exactly good at it yet, but he was trying to work out how to work with the press.
“If you promise not to glare in one picture. I promise you will be printed in full, no deviations, adjustments or exclusions.” Rita pouted at him but quickly motioned her usual photographer forward when it looked like Harry might be staying.
Harry kept his eyebrow lifted, but relaxed the rest of his face for the next picture. He wasn’t going to smile, but he could hold off on his usual glare. Once.
Rita glared at him. Harry glared back.
She gestured with her quill and then left it floating in the air where it poised itself over a piece of parchment. “Dictaquill only,” Harry stated calmly, the rest of the journalists around them tittering lightly when Rita roughly stuffed the fluorescently pink quill back in her bag, muttering something under her breath that Harry was sure was completely complimentary.
She produced a different quill. Harry might be imagining things, but this quill felt dramatically less malevolent.
Rita gestured at him to start, clearly too frustrated for words.
“Sirius Black was the closest thing I had to a father before he died in 1996. He died defending me from Bellatrix Lestrange in the Department of Mysteries. He fought as part of the Order of the Phoenix against Voldemort before and after he was illegally incarcerated by the Ministry for the murders committed by Peter Pettigrew.” Harry paused. “He was not my parents’ secret keeper, and he spent 12 years in Azkaban without a trial when plenty of Voldemort’s actual Death Eaters walked free. He gave so much for this country, and I would like to see him be recognised for that.”
He could see a couple of people nodding, but most of the growing crowd just looked confused.
“I made Minister Fudge aware of Sirius’s innocence when I first encountered Peter Pettigrew alive in 1994. I was dismissed then as a confused child.” He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes when people gasped. “I was dismissed again a year later when I confirmed, in front of multiple witnesses, that it was Peter Pettigrew who murdered Cedric Diggory on the orders of Voldemort. I wasn’t believed about a lot of things that year, all of which turned out to be true. It was because I told this truth that I got this scar.” Harry angled his hand toward the photographer who dived in for a close-up. “A teacher sent to Hogwarts by the Ministry forced me to carve 'I must not tell lies' into myself as part of a series of detentions, detentions assigned to punish me for telling the truth to the wizarding world. The truth about Voldemort, the truth about Cedric Diggory’s death and the truth about Pettigrew’s actions — truths that make a mockery of the permanent scar I now have as a reminder of a Ministry that was not only responsible for falsely imprisoning my Godfather but also for denying the truth of Voldemort's return for an entire year.” Yeah, it wasn’t exactly a mystery who the Ministry teacher was.
He glanced at Skeeter, who was eyeing him like he was a side of beef. Ew.
He cleared his throat and tried not to sneer.
“Severus Snape was deeply unpleasant to the vast majority of people he ever interacted with, including me.” The journalists seemed taken aback by this opening, but Harry wasn’t going to lie about the man. “He was a childhood friend of my mother, and they remained good friends until their 5th year. When he chose to join the Death Eaters, my mother instead joined the Order of the Phoenix. Severus Snape was a Death Eater, and on the opposite side of the war, but when Voldemort threatened my mother, Snape switched sides.” Harry took a breath. This was more difficult than he expected. He still didn’t know how to feel about Snape; he wasn’t a good man, but Harry owed him his life nonetheless. They all owed him. “He swore an oath to Dumbledore, and when Voldemort came back, Snape took up the role of double agent. He fed the Order information and gave Voldemort false reports; he consistently put his life at risk to give us the intelligence we needed to combat Voldemort and his forces.”
He could see the questions brewing, so he kept going before he could be interrupted.
“In the 1996-97 school year, Dumbledore was suffering from a curse that ate away at his right arm. Snape worked tirelessly to prevent the spread of the curse but only managed to extend Dumbledore’s life by a matter of months.” Harry glanced around at the gathered journalists who were frantically scribbling. “I was given a memory of the conversation, which I have supplied to the Ministry, that confirms that Dumbledore had weeks left to live when he died. He was aware of the attempts being made on his life, and he asked Severus Snape to kill him as part of a strategy to embed Snape further into Voldemort’s trust and to prevent Dumbledore’s inevitable death from being made into a bigger spectacle than it already was.”
And wasn’t that a bombshell? He had kept this to himself because he had trusted the Ministry, or at least trusted Shacklebolt, to get this sorted. If the Ministry wanted to put monsters like Umbridge back into power, then he was at least going to make this shit difficult for them.
“Over the last year, Snape repeatedly provided support to Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley and me in our efforts to defeat Voldemort and, in his dying moments, Snape passed on essential information to me that directly led to Voldemort’s defeat.” He paused to let that sink in for a moment, but started speaking again before anyone could decide to ask him a question. He could see the lifts opening at the other end of the atrium. Shacklebolt’s distinctive purple-clad form exited, followed by a gaggle of other Ministry workers. “Severus Snape made mistakes, but he died a hero.”
His voice carried, and he could see the moment Shacklebolt realised who was talking to the press. He sped up, making his way over, but Harry still had a couple of moments before the Minister reached them. He felt the grin, wide and sharp, break across his face briefly enough to make the photographers around him frown when they missed the photo opportunity.
“Heroes like Sirius Black and Severus Snape deserve to be celebrated alongside the likes of Albus Dumbledore, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks and Fred Weasley.” His voice broke, but he continued to push through. “So many incredible people sacrificed themselves to defeat Voldemort and free our world from the threat that has lingered over our society for decades. We cannot forget them just because they weren’t perfect heroes.”
He glanced over at Shacklebolt, who was now close enough for Harry to see the panic on his face. “Corruption and ineptitude from the Ministry of Magic, sensationalism and lack of objectivity from our press and bigotry and ignorance from our society as a whole.” He was basically quoting Hermione here, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t mind. “These things let us ignore the contributions of figures who deserve our thanks and focus too hard on contributions from people who fit our idea of a hero. Anyone who contributed to Voldemort’s defeat deserves to be acknowledged for that, whether they are a convict, a Death Eater or a house elf.”
Shacklebolt reached them, and Harry reached out to clap him on the shoulder with a grin. “The Minister worked with both Sirius Black and Severus Snape as part of his contribution to the war effort. I am sure he can tell you more about their contributions to The Order of the Phoenix.” Shacklebolt looked like he was trying to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “To quote Dumbledore, ‘We must all face the choice between what is right, and what is easy.’ It would be easy to ignore the contributions of people we do not like, but that doesn’t make it right."
Harry nodded once at Skeeter and stepped back into the apparition zone. “I will see you all at the memorial tomorrow, where all of those who sacrificed themselves to defeat Voldemort will be celebrated.”
And then he apparated.
Harry grimaced as Hermione rubbed firmly at his cheek with the sleeve of her dress. She was mid-rant and showed no signs of slowing down anytime soon.
“—basic understanding of governance works, if they would just take a look at examples from the muggle world rather than sneering at me every time I mention—“
Ron gave him a commiserating look over her shoulder, but was clearly uninterested in reigning his girlfriend in. Or providing a distraction so Harry could escape. Traitor. Hermione had moved on from his face, at least, but what had started as Hermione straightening his tie felt a lot more like he was being strangled as her ranting continued.
“—can’t believe Kingsley would be so stupid as to rely on the bureaucratic capabilities of that toad, school children organised an uprising against her! How can she be considered competent—“
This particular rant had been going on since Harry got back to Grimmauld yesterday; the nearby paintings had already evacuated, and Kreacher was nowhere to be seen. Hermione had made Harry repeat the whole conversation verbatim. Repeatedly. Until he had just given up and gotten out the Pensieve.
It’s not that Harry didn’t get it; ever since they’d got back to Grimmauld after the battle, both Harry and Hermione had been researching as much as they could. Politics in the wizarding world was completely messed up; the Minister was the only elected position on the Wizengamot, and the rest of the seats all seemed to be held by old purebloods. It was overly complicated, illogical and everything Hermione had always accused wizards of being.
Hours in a tent with nothing to do had ignited a passion for reading in Harry, but law tomes were still a little beyond his comprehension and attention span.
“—given you a decent write-up even if they did completely miss your point about House Elves. Honestly, I am convinced there isn’t a competent journalist left in the whole of Britain—“
Harry glanced at the clock and sighed in relief. “Hermione, if we don’t leave now, we’ll be late.”
Hermione sighed lightly and thankfully released his tie. She smiled at him sadly and looked over at Ron. “Sorry, I’m nervous. Today was meant to be about honouring the dead, and now it’s turned all political.”
Ron wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her gently on the cheek, his face still showing a degree of awe at the fact that he could do that now. “It’s alright, love, we understand.”
Harry smiled at the two people he loved most, who loved him most. “We’ll get through it, we’ve said goodbye already. This is just—“ he shrugged. They’d had the funerals. All of them. This memorial was meant to mark the end. End of what he wasn’t sure because it certainly wasn’t the end of grief. No, that still felt as sharp as ever.
“Worst comes to worst, we’ll just set mum on them.” Ron shrugged, mouth pulled up in a half smile. “Ever since she killed Bellatrix, everyone’s at least a little scared of her.”
“Anyone who wasn’t always a little bit scared of Mrs Weasley is an idiot.”
“You’ll get no argument from me there, mate.”
“Portkey leaves in 45 seconds,” Hermione interrupted them firmly.
Harry looked down at the portkey he’d been posted yesterday. There were some security concerns, so the ‘Golden Trio’ had been given special dispensation to portkey directly into Hogwarts. In typical wizarding fashion, the portkey itself was weird — a short piece of steadily unravelling rope.
They each held on firmly, and when the familiar hook into his navel sent the usual thrill of fear through him, he was comforted by the closeness of his best friends. They’d been through hell together; they could get through a memorial.
Harry hit solid ground and immediately fell into a sprawl. One day, he would work out how to stay upright during portkeys, but he’d only just started to stay upright during apparition, and he’d practised that one extensively. He didn’t have much hope.
Harry blamed the disorientation for how long it took him to realise something was wrong.
They had arrived in the Entrance Hall, which was unexpected; the port key was meant to lead to Headmistress McGonagall’s office.
They were not alone in the Entrance Hall, despite the memorial taking place outside, their arrival was met with a wall of sound. Witches and wizards surrounded them in a chatty, incredibly loud crowd.
Harry glanced around them and had just enough time to recognise the third thing that was wrong.
Walden Macnair.
They made eye contact, hatred burning out of red-rimmed eyes.
Harry barely had time to go for his wand before the explosion hit.
And then there was only darkness.
Harry woke slowly, screwing his eyes up against the bright light. His breath was still coming rapidly, but his mind was curiously blank, any memory fleeing as soon as he tried to hold on to it.
He was in a void of whiteness, and as he blinked his eyes open, he became more aware that this was weird. He pushed his hands down on the surface he was resting on, and it seemed to become more tangible the longer he concentrated on it, solidifying into something that felt like polished glass under the press of his fingers. That realisation brought the next stuttering on its heels. He could now feel the cool, smooth texture of glass pressing against his back and legs.
Harry concluded that he was lying down, naked, in a weird void made of glass. His emotions felt like they were moving through molasses, so he felt only vague concern that none of these facts seemed to be causing him any concern.
His concern for his lack of concern was growing more concerning by the minute.
He really felt like he should be upset by the lack of clothes. He was sure that was something he had been upset by in the past.
But maybe he only had to be upset if someone was there to see his lack of clothes?
He blinked at his surroundings again, features slowly emerging from the blank space around him.
He was in a… train station?
He scrubbed at his eyes and sighed into his hands. Of fucking course.
“If you’re going to tell me some more bullshit about blood and hope and love, I would really rather you didn’t,” he called out to the painfully familiar space.
When the only response was a deep chuckle, Harry’s eyes flew open again, and this time he wasn’t alone.
There was no whimpering child this time.
Nor was there a white-bearded ball of frustrating double talk and regret.
Instead, there was a tall, dark-haired man who was draped across the back of a nearby bench with a level of insouciance that Harry had previously only witnessed in a Malfoy.
Harry stared at him.
He wasn’t sure this was better, and he was increasingly sure that he didn’t want to be naked anymore.
The man raised his head to look back at Harry, and Harry found himself questioning his previous assumption that this was a man. His eyes were pitch black.
“Hello, Harry.” The man directed a sharp smile Harry’s way and slipped his feet onto the seat of the bench, still perched on the back, resting his chin on a hand as he leaned over his knees to focus on him fully. “No talk of blood, hope or love planned, though if we venture into that territory, feel free to call foul.” His voice was rich and plummy, the crisp enunciation reminding Harry of Snape’s overly precise consonants.
“Oh well then, consider all of my concerns withdrawn in that case.” Speaking was reminding Harry that he did, in fact, have feelings, and one of those feelings was a strong desire not to be naked in front of a rando in a weird spiritual train station.
The weight of cotton settled across his shoulders, and when he glanced down, he found himself in a familiar, comfortable pair of jeans and the worn light blue shirt he typically wore under robes. He sat up and stretched out his legs; the clothes felt real enough.
Well.
In that case, he would also feel more comfortable if he had his wand.
The press of his holster as it materialised on his forearm made him feel a bone-deep level of relief. It was a gift from Shacklebolt after the final battle, handed over with a wink, and an application form —“for when you join the Auror Academy.” Harry hadn’t been without it since.
Harry snorted at the direction his thoughts had taken. For some reason, he didn’t think the Auror Academy was in his future anymore.
The dark-haired maybe-man was still watching him; a quirk to his lips gave his face a light-hearted, mischievous look. It was slightly undermined by the black eyes of a demon thing, but the guy still looked, friendly?
Harry was quite comfortable sitting on the floor, but when the man shuffled over slightly, Harry took the invitation at face value and shuffled over to sit on the bench. He took the chance to get a closer look at his new companion; he certainly wasn’t less handsome up close. He had the kind of perfectly sculpted facial hair that Harry had always associated with film stars, and he was wearing a three-piece suit, which certainly added to that vibe.
Harry glanced around at ghostly King's Cross and hummed to himself. “I’m dead then?”
The man shrugged. “In some ways.”
“Is this another Horcrux thing?”
“Not this time.” The Man waved his hand back and forth in a seesaw motion. “At least not entirely.”
“Right. I see.”
He didn’t see.
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t,” Harry agreed.
“You died in an explosion.”
Harry nodded. That sounded about right. The memories were still vague and muddled, but he remembered blinding hot pain and bright light. Walden Macnair. “Umbridge?” He questioned, some things were becoming clear. After all, the Ministry had issued the portkey. It wouldn’t be the first time Dolores Umbridge had sent a monster after him.
The Man nodded.
Harry could feel tears pressing against his eyes now and he tried to swallow them down before he asked his next question. “Ron and Hermione?”
The Man didn’t have to answer this time; the sympathy in his eyes was enough.
Harry closed his eyes, tears released to run down his cheeks.
Everything. 7 years of adventures, challenges and insurmountable odds. And now, Ron and Hermione were dead. The way Harry had always worried they would be, dead, because they had been standing too close to him.
He gasped, unable to keep in the sob that ripped its way out of his chest. Was he cursed? Surely nothing else could explain the way people were ripped out of his hands whenever they got too close.
It was all meant to be over.
He did everything he could, he sacrificed everything he could, and they all worked so hard to free the wizarding world from a figure of all-around evil. He destroyed the big bad and that was meant to make all the difference.
“Did Kingsley know?”
The sigh next to him was heavy, “He knew Umbridge was planning to do something about you; he wasn’t expecting her to use the opportunity to kill anyone else.”
Harry creaked out an awkward laugh.
“Of course, he fucking didn’t.”
Killed by the fucking Ministry.
"If it makes you feel any better, he regrets it, he didn't mean for anyone to die, and he is not likely to last much longer in office. Mr Longbottom seems determined to make sure of that."
Of course, Neville would be there to pick up the pieces.
"It doesn't make me feel better." The surge of regret and rage swelled up in Harry like a physical thing. He could feel himself choking on it as hot tears streamed down his face. “They deserved more,” he spat, throat tight and unpleasant. “They deserved so much more.”
He could feel the man on the bench shift, but he made no move to say anything, just resting a hand softly against Harry’s shoulder, lightly squeezing in a way that felt like permission.
Harry found himself sobbing. Great, heaving, childish things. Tears streamed down his face as his breath caught in gasps, mouth twisted, and fists balled into his jeans. He let himself mourn everything because, with Ron and Hermione gone, there was nothing left for him to hold on to.
Through it, there was a soothing hand on his shoulder, a gentle pressure accompanied by quiet murmurs of comfort.
He focused on the rumbling baritone, the sound giving him something to focus on that wasn’t the sound of his own devastation. The words slowly became clearer.
“Let it out, Harry, that’s right. You all deserved so much better. You all did. This isn’t your fault. You did your best with what you were given. You did so good, Harry. So good.”
Harry turned his face into the man’s chest, burrowing in and desperately holding on to that soft, calm comfort.
“Shhh, get it all out, love. You’ve worked so hard. Let it all out.” The man’s arms wrapped loosely around him, pulling him close. “This isn’t your fault, Harry, you did so much with so little.”
Later, Harry wouldn’t be able to tell you how long he just cried, sobbing out his regrets and rage and grief into a familiar stranger. Later, Harry would feel mildly embarrassed, but for now, he took what he needed, here at the end of his world.
When his sobs finally subsided, Harry slowly became aware of the arms embracing him. He stiffened, but when the stranger didn’t comment, he relaxed back into the warmth. At the moment, it was comfort Harry didn’t feel like he could refuse. His edges were barely holding together.
Harry took the handkerchief that was proffered, happy to spare his shirt from any more weird stains. The stranger released Harry enough that he had some wiggle room, but kept an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Harry found himself leaning heavily against the warmth of the body next to him whilst he dried his face, his breathing slowly returning to normal.
He cleared his throat.
“I should probably’ve at least bought you a drink before making myself this comfortable,” Harry murmured, glancing over at the man who seemed frustratingly at ease comforting a recently dead man in the middle of a breakdown on a park bench. “I definitely owe you a pint.”
The man raised a glass that hadn’t been in his hand a couple of seconds ago, and Harry looked down to see he was also holding a pint of what looked like lager.
He took a sip.
Tasted like lager too.
“Whatever makes you happy, darling,” The man winked at him, and Harry found himself unwillingly smiling. Despite his life – or unlife, whatever this was – being tragically shitty, this was still the best conversation he’d had in a weird limbo space.
It was a low bar.
He raised his glass to clink against the other man’s with a quiet cheers. The man’s eyes were getting less creepy by the second.
“So.“ After a couple of minutes of drinking quietly together on the bench, Harry turned slightly to face the man. “What’s your name?”
The man chuckled again, shuffling limbs until he could also turn and face Harry, ankles crossed and Malfoy-esque lean back on display. Harry already missed the reassuring weight of the guy’s arm around his shoulders. “Got to love a direct question!” The man grinned at him sharply. “I am Death and you, Harry, are my Master.”
Harry breathed in sharply and glanced down at his wand holster, the familiar sight of his holly wand missing and instead replaced by the Elder Wand's still slightly alien shape. Shit. To add to his panic, he felt pressure on his hand and looked down in time to see the Resurrection Stone materialise on his finger. When a heavy fabric was draped over his shoulders, Harry just sighed heavily. “Right. So it was too much to hope that the three brothers were a myth then?”
Death just shrugged at him, eyes sparkling with repressed mirth. “I’m sure your many-greats-grandfather and his brothers will be very sad to find out that you think they’re mythological.”
Harry groaned theatrically. “Fucking Peverells.”
“Quite right.” Death smirked. “I was less than pleased with them in the beginning, but they and their descendants have provided me with centuries of entertainment at this point.”
Harry snorted.
“And ultimately they produced you, so I am going to have to write them a thank you note after all.”
Harry raised a sceptical eyebrow, “And what’s so special about me?”
“What isn’t special about you, Harry?” Death laughed when Harry’s face pulled into a grimace. “Don’t look at me like that! It’s true. It takes a unique kind of wizard to not only collect my Hallows but master them.”
Harry continued to stare at the being, and Death huffed, any impatience in his tone undercut by his teasing smirk.
“Firstly,” Death raised a finger, “you value the cloak of invisibility not for its power but for its familial connection.”
Harry blinked at him. Okay, apparently, he was getting a list.
Death raised his second finger, “You used the Resurrection Stone and were not consumed by it.” Another finger. “You turned away from the power of the Elder Wand.” Another finger. “You have been touched by death your whole life.” When Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Not like that, you fiend, do you know how many times you came close to death in your childhood? Honestly, I’m surprised you made it to Hogwarts in the first place.”
Death raised another finger. Harry looked at his hand in confusion.
“Finally, you went back.” Death paused and looked at his hand, frowning for a second before he shook his hand out. “You chose the more difficult path to try and maintain the balance and in doing so prevented billions from dying.”
Harry frowned. “Billions?”
Death shrugged, still frowning down at his fingers. “You think Voldemort would have stopped at Britain?”
And wasn’t that a bleak thought.
“And you don’t resent that? That I stopped people from passing into your realm?” Harry ventured.
Death snorted. “No, darling, I could never resent you.” And on that confusing bombshell, Death clearly decided that they had done enough sitting. He rocketed to his feet and started pacing into the void, dragging a reluctant Harry by the hand. “I always find it’s easier to talk about important topics on a brisk stroll. Come along, love, I have a lot I need to explain to you about death.”
Harry stumbled alongside him for a moment before he managed to get his feet underneath him. “Right, yes, nothing like walking and talking about death, to Death.”
“I’m glad you agree, darling.” Death cheerfully tucked Harry's hand into the crook of his elbow, and Harry had never felt like more of a Victorian maiden. All he needed was a parasol, a dramatically different outfit and a complete change to his personality and outlook on life. “Where to start,” Death mused, patting Harry’s hand absentmindedly as he did so. “As my master, there is one core thing you need to understand about me. That is, I am inevitable, but I am not in a rush.”
Oh.
OH.
“I see you understand me, darling. I don’t really care what happens in someone’s life; I am not here to judge the souls of those who pass the afterlife. They exist in my domain, but their afterlives are their own. What I care about is that the living keep living, and when they reach their time, they come to me.” Death nodded slightly as if confirming something to himself. “Death, with a small D, dear, is just an inevitable end to life. Death’s job, that’s me, is to look after the transition. The most important thing is to ensure balance, and as I live in my realm of unlife, I need to be balanced amongst the living.” Death nudged Harry, happily grinning down at him, the tall bastard. “That’s where you come in.”
“I’m meant to balance you?”
“You are my balance in some ways, my companion in others, and my favourite in every way.” Death smirked at him, the twist of his lips turning into a genuine smile when he saw Harry’s continuing confusion. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.”
Harry just blinked at him for a while, his feet automatically keeping pace, but his brain hitting a wall of static.
One thing stuck out, though.
“I have to be in the world of the living?”
Death’s face turned to terrible sympathy, and Harry couldn’t look at him anymore. Harry blinked down at his shoes.
He slowed his pace, coming to a stop, hand still grasping desperately at Death’s arm.
He was going to have to go back.
Alone.
“I don’t think I can do that again,” Harry whispered, tightening his grip on Death. “I can’t go back again.”
Death turned and pulled Harry into a tight hug, “I know, darling, I know.”
Harry breathed through his panic, trying to remember Hermione’s coaching on breathing exercises when they were still in the tent. He had never needed them more.
He finally managed a calm, if still slightly hysterical, breath. “You’re surprisingly tactile for an immortal embodiment of death," he choked out.
Harry felt Death’s mouth twitch where it was pressed into his hair. “Oh, darling, I have watched you your whole life; you are dangerously overdue for some hugs. Forgive me for being a little overeager to make up the deficit.”
Harry closed his eyes against the rush of static. He was grateful for the numbing force this space seemed to have on his emotions, but his whole body was crying out that this was wrong, that he was tired.
“Death. Please. Don’t make me do this.”
“I know Harry. I know you didn’t pick this. I know you don’t want this, but I promise I am going to do everything I possibly can to make sure you can be happy.” Death tightened his grip, and Harry desperately burrowed into him. The part of his brain not currently panicking noted that Death gave shockingly good hugs, considering how little practice Harry assumed he had. “I know you can be happy, Harry. I know it.”
“How?” Harry asked, a plaintive note creeping into his voice.
Death leaned back to look Harry in the face and, whilst the black eyes still sent a chill down Harry’s spine on an instinctual level, the seriousness of Death’s face felt more reassuring than an unbreakable vow. “Because I am going to give you back the thing you’ve always been missing. Time.”
Harry was confused.
Death smiled lightly and ruffled through his hair. “Come on, let's sit down again. I think it's my round this time.”
Harry found himself shuffled into sitting, this time on a comfortable sofa that had appeared in lieu of a bench. Death thrust a cup of tea into his hands, and he automatically sipped, the familiar taste of Hermione’s favourite blend doing more to settle his nerves than anything else had so far. Sighing happily, Harry tucked a foot under him and turned to Death. “So, time?”
“Time.”
“Care to explain?”
“The whole of time? We might be here a while.”
“Death.”
“Harry.”
“Tell me the plan.”
Death chuckled into his tea and took another sip before he angled his head to look back at Harry. “I have to send you back, but I don’t have to send you back to the moment you just left. Time isn’t linear, and limbo exists outside of time; it's why Fate was able to meddle enough to send you Dumbles as a spirit guide last time. She hid the old goat’s soul in Limbo so he could spring out at the right moment and waylay you.” Death snorted. “Most annoying thing she’s done in centuries, I had to mess around with one of her seers to get revenge. Kept sending him visions of funny deaths until the man was laughed out of proper divination circles, she was livid.”
“Fate is real, too?” Harry gaped at the embodiment of death opposite him, who was still sniggering into his tea.
“Oh yes, and we love poking at each other. It should be another couple of centuries before she comes up with something suitably annoying to provoke another response, and then we’ll be able to plan our retaliation together. I’ve been needing someone on the inside desperately. She has all these seers working for her, and it can get really annoying.” Death was actually pouting. At least Harry didn’t have to worry about being bored for the next however long he lived; apparently, he had a prank war with Fate to worry about.
In a couple of centuries.
Fuck, now he was back to morose.
Death topped up his tea and smiled gently at Harry, pulling him out of his terrifying consideration of what forever might mean. “Time means I can send you back to the beginning if you want, whatever point in your life where you feel like you could make the most difference. With your memories intact and with a new friend in your corner to help when things get bad.”
Harry mustered a smile back at the man, but it quickly fell back off his face. “Doing it all over again…” Harry looked down at his lightly steaming tea. “What difference would it make, really? Some of the same people might not die, but I’d still have to fight Voldemort, I’d still have to die again. Even if I go back with all this information ready to go, I’m not sure I’ll be in a better position to do anything about it.”
“Harry.” Harry looked up, startled. Death’s voice was quiet, but it commanded attention the same way a shout did for other people. “Harry, the purpose of my sending you back isn’t to make you more effective at killing Voldemort, or to make different or fewer people die.”
“Then what is it?” Harry demanded, suddenly angry at this being who was so thoroughly turning his everything upside down. “Another way to make me forget that I’ll never see my parents again? Another way to make me feel better about living forever?”
Death didn’t seem offended by his anger, but he didn’t smile and make a joke either. Instead, Death took Harry’s hand in his, “I want you to be happy, Harry. That is the only reason to send you back, to find a way for you to be happy for however long you’re my companion.”
Harry gaped at him. “What?”
“Well, you can’t expect me to want to make you miserable, darling. Of course, I want you to be happy. Happy in whatever form that takes.”
“I don’t want to be alone.” Harry blurted, anxiety making his voice tight and high. “I can’t do forever without other people, and I can’t lose everyone again.”
“Okay then, that can be our first point of business then.” Death summoned a blackboard from somewhere, standing in stark contrast to their still ghostly white surroundings. Death wrote in a neat cursive at the top of the board, ‘Harry’s Aims’ followed by a single bullet point:
- a companion for my companion
“Any other requests, darling?” Death asked politely, tapping the chalk lightly against his own lip. “I think I’ve got one for you.”
- no self-sacrifice
“It’s not healthy, love, all this self-sacrificial stuff has a weight on the soul.” Death glanced back towards Harry, who was still stuck on the idea that they were making a to-do list. “Anything else, dear?”
What did he want? If getting rid of Voldemort wasn’t his overall aim, what did he actually want?
He thought back to Hermione and Ron, both of their faces tired and worn, thin from too long on the run and exhausted from their endless work to try and make the world better, make the people around them better.
Harry knew exactly what he wanted.
“I want to burn down the Ministry.”
Death hummed, “Arson? Not the way I was expecting you to go, but a valid expression of your feelings, I suppose.”
Harry snorted a laugh, imagining twelve-year-old Harry swanning into the Ministry atrium with a can full of gas and a handful of matches. “I mean that could be fun, but I was thinking more — overhaul the government, get rid of all the bullshit oppressing muggleborns and werewolves and everything else the Ministry fucked up on.” Harry gestured angrily with both hands. “Make them actually take responsibility for magical kids, have a proper justice system and some less idiotic rules.” Harry and Hermione’s time in the tent, just the two of them, might have fuelled more than his recently discovered love of books. They spent a huge amount of time discussing the justice system, the Ministry, and the shitty decisions adults had been making around them their whole lives.
Death chuckled again and added to the board.
- overturn the government
“I have just one more, and then I think that sounds like a good list to start with, darling,” Death drawled.
Death finished the final point with a flourish.
- do what makes you happy
Harry opened his eyes to darkness and the distant sound of banging.
“What the fuck?” He croaked, throat dry, before he violently startled at the high-pitched sound. “What the fuck?” Even squeakier. Grasping his throat, was that his voice?!
Harry glared around him, eyes catching on broken toys, dust and too many spiders. He slumped backwards and glared up at the angled ceiling of what he now recognised as his cupboard, and looked down at his now tiny body. Jesus Christ. Merlin’s bloody fucking trousers. He was ten again. Ten and squeaky. He cleared his throat.
“Hello?” Yeah, fuck that. That could not be his voice.
His private freak-out was interrupted by another banging noise on his door and the familiar screeching of his never-missed aunt. “Boy! Stop talking to yourself and get a move on. I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday.”
Harry groaned. For god’s sake, he was not living through this fucking day again. He had over a month until his letter arrived, and he was not planning on waiting around.
"What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door.
"Nothing, nothing..."
He pulled on the first clothes that came to hand and headed to the kitchen, a familiar mound of brightly wrapped presents covered most of the living room. He ducked a swot with the frying pan from Petunia and made his way to stand guardian over the bacon, adding rashers and adjusting the heat of the pan with a muscle memory ingrained so deep that he did it without thought.
Not for the first time, he wondered what the Dursleys did when he wasn’t there to do chores for them. The garden had certainly suffered from his absence in his last lifetime.
He kept an eye on Aunt Petunia, and as soon as she headed upstairs to wake up her precious Duddikins, he slipped over to her purse in the hallway. The heavy footsteps in the upstairs bathroom indicated that he didn’t have long before Vernon would be making his first appearance in Harry’s new life, and Harry had already decided he didn’t want to wait around for that.
He quickly pulled his aunt’s wallet from her purse and scooped out the cash in it, tucking the wallet back in the purse and stuffing the muggle money into his front pocket. He headed straight for the front door just as he heard Vernon's first heavy step into the hallway upstairs.
He closed the door quietly behind him and paused for a breathless moment to see if his exit had been noticed, but there was only the thump thump of his uncle on the stairs and the distant sound of Dudley waking up.
He left the driveway at a brisk walk, but by the time he passed the twitching curtains at number 3, he was already at a full sprint. He rattled through the familiar roads of Little Whinging, not slowing until he reached the nearest bus stop.
He pulled to a stop, panting, just in time to jump on the half-hourly service to Sunningdale. From there to Waterloo. From Waterloo to Charing Cross. And then he would be at the Leaky Cauldron. One month early and a very different Harry Potter.