The Elder Wand spun through the air like a dramatic baton in a marching band, except instead of halftime at Hogwarts, this was Voldemort's final act. About time, really. The guy had been milking the villain monologues for years.
Harry caught the wand.
There was a pulse of power so strong it made the hairs on everyone's arms stand up like they were trying to join the duel too. And then—
Voldemort, formerly known as Tom "I Hate Hugs" Riddle, trembled like a bad CGI villain hitting his expiry date. His body cracked apart, piece by piece, like the world's creepiest porcelain doll, until he vanished into ash. No explosion. No scream. Just... poof. Evil: deleted.
The silence that followed wasn't victory.
It was shock. Like the whole castle was holding its breath, waiting for someone to say, "Just kidding!"
But no one did.
Harry stood in the center of the Great Hall, bloodied, bruised, wand in one hand and destiny in the other. His robes were in fashionably tragic tatters. His scar gave one last, dramatic throb—because of course it had to be extra—and then, blessedly, it stopped.
The Elder Wand slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the stone.
Harry went down like a puppet with cut strings.
"Harry!" Neville bolted forward, slipping slightly on a puddle of something gross and probably magical, because Hogwarts was nothing if not a tripping hazard.
He caught Harry just in time to not catch him at all.
Harry crumpled on the cold floor, his breath shallow, his limbs twitching like even they were debating whether this whole "dying" thing was really necessary.
"Hermione," Harry rasped, because apparently even at death's door he was dramatic. "Ron... Ginny... I did it."
"Oh my God," Hermione whispered, skidding to his side. She was already casting spells, her wand lighting up like a miniature fireworks show. "We need dittany, essence of murtlap, a Time Turner, a miracle—Ron, help me!"
"I—I think he needs a healer, not a redhead in pajamas," Ron stammered, kneeling beside her. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, like he'd just watched all the Chudley Cannons lose in a single match. "Harry, mate... come on. It's over. You won."
"Technically, I survived long enough for the villain to trip over his own ego," Harry muttered, his voice thin but still managing a snark level of British Royalty meets teen sass. "So... not exactly a team win, but I'll take it."
"You can't die," Hermione said, her voice breaking as she cast another healing charm that fizzled uselessly. "You're Harry Potter. You literally survived death like three times already. You don't get to quit now!"
"Yeah," Ron added. "You're the Chosen One, remember? You choose not to die. That's how it works."
Harry gave a tired half-smile. "Honestly, mate... if I had a Galleon for every time someone said that, I could buy out Gringotts."
Neville hovered behind them, white-faced and uselessly holding the Sword of Gryffindor like he was hoping it might know CPR.
"Is he... is he okay?" Neville asked, though the answer was obvious and very much nope.
"Just peachy," Harry whispered. "Gonna take a quick nap. Maybe haunt Snape a little. Tell him I'm deducting fifty points from Slytherin... posthumously."
"Harry, no," Hermione sobbed, clutching his hand like she could physically tether him to this world. "Don't you dare go. Don't you dare die on us."
"I'm sorry," Harry said, his voice almost too soft to hear. "Tell Ginny... tell her I was going to propose something outrageously Gryffindor. Like fireworks and a Hippogriff and probably a musical number."
"You idiot," Ron choked out, tears sliding down his cheeks. "You absolute tosser."
"Love you too, Weasley," Harry said, grinning like a smug, sarcastic ghost already preparing his entrance into the afterlife.
And then... his head lolled to the side. His chest stopped rising.
"NO!" Ginny's voice tore through the hall like a Bludger on a warpath. She ran to him, dropped beside his body, and gathered him into her arms. "Harry! Don't do this. Don't you bloody dare!"
But Harry didn't move.
The Boy Who Lived—again and again and again—had finally stopped fighting.
He was still.
He was gone.
Ginny pressed her forehead to his, trembling. "You stubborn, noble prat. You saved everyone but forgot to save yourself."
The hall remained silent, not out of respect, but because no one could believe it.
Harry Potter—the boy with the lightning bolt scar, the chosen one, the sarcastic hero with a hero complex and too much hair—had given everything. Not for glory. Not for fame.
Just... because it was right.
The Elder Wand lay beside him, dull and silent now. Its master had no more need for power.
And somewhere, just maybe, Harry was finally getting the nap he'd earned after seventeen years of chaos, trauma, and not nearly enough butterbeer.
But man, was he gonna be pissed when he woke up and realized he missed the victory party.
—
Harry woke up flat on his back.
Again.
He let out a groan that could've doubled as an old floorboard creaking in protest. "Brilliant. Either I'm dead or Hogwarts installed really aggressive mood lighting."
He cracked one eye open. Everything was white. Walls, ceiling, floor—like someone had rage-quit decorating halfway through and decided "bleach chic" was the vibe.
King's Cross. Again. Seriously, he should've gotten frequent flyer miles for how often he visited this place post-mortem.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, Potter. Let's assess: still not wearing pants of light, no choir of angels, and no buffet. So either this isn't heaven... or I got stiffed on the afterlife upgrade."
He half-expected Dumbledore to stroll in like some wizardly Gandalf cosplayer, spouting poetic metaphors and offering cryptic advice like a magical therapist with a lemon sherbet addiction.
But nope.
Instead, sitting on one of the pristine benches, legs crossed and clipboard in hand, was a woman. Not floaty. Not glowing. Just... sitting. Calmly. As if the universe was currently on hold because her train was three minutes late and she was already composing the customer service email in her head.
She looked like she could ruin your entire existence with a spreadsheet and a sarcastic smirk.
Black suit. Hair in a no-nonsense bun. Heels that said, "I walk with purpose, and you're in my way." Her eyes flicked up from her clipboard like twin storm clouds on coffee.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her voice dry enough to drain an ocean. "Welcome back. Again."
Harry blinked. "...Okay. Either I'm dreaming, or Death shops at Ann Taylor now."
She didn't even blink. Just clicked her pen like a countdown to doom. "That's cute. You think Death wears a robe and carries a scythe. What is this, the fourteenth century?"
"Excuse me for having aesthetic expectations," Harry said, squinting at her. "So what, the Reaper outsourced to HR?"
She gave a theatrical sigh, crossed something off on the clipboard. "That's offensive. I am HR. Also Finance, Legal, and occasionally Catering when someone tries to bribe me with cupcakes. Spoiler: it doesn't work."
He frowned. "Right. Cool. Just checking—did I actually die again or is this like a magical out-of-body experience caused by dramatic irony?"
She smiled, and it was the kind of smile that could make your taxes scream. "You are, at this very moment, dead-adjacent. Not fully expired. Just... buffering."
Harry raised a brow. "So I'm basically a spinning wheel on a cosmic loading screen?"
"Pretty much," she said. "You're in liminal space. A holding pattern. The place between 'The End' and 'Try Again?'" She gave him a once-over. "Frankly, I'm impressed. You've died more times than most horcruxes and with less whining."
Harry grinned. "Thanks. I try to die with style."
"Emphasis on try," she deadpanned.
"And you are…?"
She stood, extending a perfectly manicured hand with all the warmth of a sarcastic thunderstorm. "I'm Death."
Harry stared. "Death death? The whole 'Master of the Elder Wand, Cloak, and Stone' package deal? That Death?"
"In the flesh—well, the paperwork version. The scythe's in storage. Budget cuts." She glanced at the clipboard. "You, Mr. Potter, have been a nightmare to schedule. Honestly, I haven't seen such a chaotic file since Nicolas Flamel tried to fake his own expiration date."
Harry shook her hand, smirking. "And here I thought being 'The Chosen One' came with perks."
"Oh, it does," she said sweetly. "Like getting to meet me. Most people just get the light at the end of the tunnel. You? You get a sarcastic office worker with commitment issues and a clipboard."
He tilted his head. "No offense, but I was kinda hoping for someone more... twinkly. Maybe a beard. A robe. Someone who smells like old books and regrets."
"Yeah," she said, snapping the clipboard shut. "You got that last time. Beards are overrated. You want real closure? Talk to the woman who actually runs things."
And with that, Death turned and began walking down the tracks, her heels clicking like a countdown. She didn't look back.
Harry blinked.
"...Bloody hell," he muttered. "Even Death has better comebacks than Voldemort."
—
Harry Potter was dead.
Again.
Sort of.
He wasn't entirely sure. One minute he was fighting Voldemort. The next, he was lying in a place that looked suspiciously like King's Cross, except with a glow-up from a celestial Instagram filter.
And then Death showed up.
Not the skeletal, scythe-swinging grim reaper he'd expected. Nope. This Death wore business casual: black jeans, boots sharp enough to stab a dementor, and a leather jacket that said "I file souls alphabetically and will throw hands if you mess with my system."
She had the energy of a person who had traded sarcasm for eldritch cosmic power. Her heels clicked on the station floor like judgment day was a Zoom meeting and Harry was late.
"So," Harry said, trying not to sound like he was definitely panicking. "This is awkward, but I kind of thought I was done dying for the day."
Death didn't stop walking. "Yeah, well. Life's full of surprises. And also endings. You're currently in-between. Dead-adjacent. Schrödinger's wizard, if you like."
Harry blinked. "Does that come with a complimentary cat, or is that DLC?"
She glanced sideways at him. "You're handling this unusually well."
He shrugged. "Once you've watched your own teacher drink unicorn blood and then gotten possessed by a moldy ghost-nazi, nothing really fazes you."
Death snorted. "Fair. You've seen things that'd make eldritch horrors cry into their therapy journals."
They kept walking through the eerily clean, gleaming version of King's Cross. It was empty, echoey, and somehow made Harry feel like he'd forgotten to do homework that would decide the fate of the universe.
Which, knowing his luck, wasn't even a metaphor.
"So," he said again, because awkward silences made his skin itch, "I'm here because…?"
Death stopped walking. Then, without a word of warning, she shoved her hand into his chest.
Harry flailed. "Oi! This is wildly inappropriate, and also I'm British!"
"It won't hurt," she said, rummaging around like she was checking his metaphysical glove compartment. "You're fine. Well. Fine-ish."
Harry made a strangled noise somewhere between "what the hell" and "I'm suing."
When she pulled back, her hand held three objects Harry knew far too well: the Resurrection Stone, looking as cracked and tragic as ever; the Invisibility Cloak, still whispering secrets in the light; and the Elder Wand, radiating the smugness of a pure-blood Slytherin with a trust fund.
Harry stared at them. "Okay. No. Nope. That's not how this works. I got rid of those. The Stone's lost, the Cloak's... somewhere under a pile of Hogwarts rubble, and the Wand—"
"Slipped out of your hand the moment you snuffed it," Death interrupted, examining the wand like it was a museum piece she'd been waiting centuries to collect. "Yes, yes, we all know. But you did have them. All three. That's what matters."
"I didn't have them at the same time!" Harry protested.
Death arched a brow. "You really wanna argue semantics with the literal concept of mortality?"
"…point taken."
She held out the items. "Here. These are yours now. Perks of the job."
"Job?"
"Mm-hmm." She tossed the cloak over his shoulders like a fashion-forward funeral director, handed him the wand, and dropped the Stone into his palm. "Congratulations, Potter. You're hired."
Harry stared at her like she'd just offered him a gig as the next Supreme Mugwump of IKEA.
"Hired for what?"
She grinned. "You're the new Death's Champion."
"Right. And what does that come with, exactly? A dental plan? Paid vacation? Do I get to smite people? Because honestly, I've got a list."
"Calm your horcruxes, drama king. This isn't a power trip. You're being recruited to stop a multiversal tyrant from wiping out free will."
Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, and then said, "I'm sorry, did you just say multiversal tyrant? As in, plural universes? More than one of this madness?"
"Yup."
He stared at her, deadpan. "This is why wizards don't trust Muggle studies. Every time we blink, someone's inventing a new cosmic horror."
"Glad to see you're still snarky," Death said cheerfully. "You're going to need that."
"Who is this cosmic horror?" he asked, already bracing himself.
She took a breath like she was about to recite a very long Yelp review from hell. "His name is Darkseid."
Harry squinted. "Dark...side? Like the evil bit of Star Wars?"
"Darkseid," she corrected. "Think Voldemort, if he did leg day, had a god complex the size of Jupiter, and dressed like he was in a permanent school photo."
Harry looked appalled. "What's he want? Universal domination?"
"No. He wants the Anti-Life Equation."
"Oh, well, that sounds positively cheerful. What is that, a really emo math test?"
She didn't even blink. "It's a formula that erases free will. One that lets him control every sentient being in the multiverse. No rebellion. No choice. Just... obedience."
Harry grimaced. "So basically, an Imperius Curse with a cosmic Wi-Fi signal."
"Exactly," Death said. "If he gets it, no one dies properly anymore. They just exist. Empty. Like a conference call that never ends."
Harry shuddered. "Okay, now that's a horror story."
Death nodded. "And when people stop dying properly, it breaks the system. Causes soul traffic jams. Bureaucratic backlogs. It's a nightmare."
"You're telling me you want me to fight a god because—what? His evil plan ruins your paperwork?"
"Yes," she said seriously. "And also, you're the only one who passed the test. You found the Hallows. You held them. You let them go. You proved you're not just powerful—you're not an idiot about it."
"That," Harry said, "is the nicest backhanded compliment I've ever gotten from an immortal entity."
She smiled. "Don't let it go to your head."
"So, what now?" he asked. "Do I get, like, armor? A sword? A multiversal GPS?"
"First," she said, as a train's whistle echoed in the distance, "comes job orientation."
Harry groaned. "Tell me there's coffee."
"There's cosmic coffee," she said. "It screams a little when you drink it."
"Perfect," Harry muttered. "Sounds just like Hogwarts."
She clapped him on the back. "C'mon, Potter. It's time to learn how to punch gods in the face."
The train rolled in, impossibly sleek and glowing with starlight.
Because apparently, even Death's employees had to go through HR.
—
Death wasn't a fan of emotions. They were messy. Loud. Sticky. Like glitter, but with crying.
Which explained absolutely nothing about why she'd decided Harry's first day of job training should punch him right in the feelings.
The celestial train—yes, train, not spaceship, not teleportation, not even a shiny Time Turner—whooshed along what looked like a light-speed rail built by eldritch IKEA. The windows sparkled with stardust and raw cosmic energy, while inside, everything reeked of dramatic ambience and soothing essential oils. Harry sat in a seat that felt like being hugged by your favorite childhood memory, wrapped in a blanket scented with "mother's pride."
It was unsettling.
"So," Harry began, voice tentative, eyes squinting into the flickering void outside, "are we headed to some kind of office? Or, like, a metaphysical HR department? Because I'm getting onboarding paperwork vibes."
Death, lounging in a chair across from him like a bored cat with a doctorate in sarcasm, grinned. She had sharp cheekbones, sharper eyeliner, and the kind of smirk that made people reevaluate their life choices.
"Pit stop first," she said, twirling a strand of hair that shimmered like raven feathers dipped in moonlight. "Before you start your whole Multiversal Magic Avenger gig, we're unlocking your full potential. Also… you have guests."
"Guests?" Harry echoed, because that word came with baggage. Like surprise exams or family reunions.
The train didn't slow. It just stopped. Like inertia looked at Death and said, "Yeah, I'm on break."
The door hissed open onto a quiet twilight grove. Trees swayed in a breeze that didn't exist. The air smelled like comfort and nostalgia and maybe treacle tart.
And waiting in that impossible place were four people Harry hadn't seen outside of mirrors, dreams, or Resurrection Stone cameos.
James Potter—lean, handsome, radiating chaotic good energy like a troublemaker with a wand and a teenage grudge.
Lily Potter—fire-haired and glowing with fierce, "I'm proud of you but I will also ground you across timelines" energy.
Sirius Black—casually leaning against a tree in full rebel-mode, black leather jacket included, grinning like death was just another prank he'd pulled off.
Remus Lupin—tall, thoughtful, with the kind of soft menace that said he'd correct your Latin and punch a werewolf in the face before breakfast. Also, he was in his standard tweed coat.
They were real.
Not shades. Not echoes.
Real.
And Harry promptly forgot how to breathe.
"Bloody hell," he croaked, blinking rapidly. "You all look like—like yourselves. Not dead. Or traumatizingly spectral."
Lily smiled, stepping forward. "Death is a sentimentalist."
Death rolled her eyes so hard the stars flickered. "I will deny that under interdimensional oath."
Harry didn't reply. He launched into a tangled group hug that probably violated several laws of physics. Sniffling may have occurred. Denial also may have occurred. Look, he was emotionally compromised and British.
They sat on conjured stone benches—because apparently magic groves came pre-installed with family seating—and Harry took a breath. Then he looked at Death.
"So, let me guess. I'm getting superpowers, you're giving me a speech, and then I get flung headfirst into a cosmic blender with nothing but my sass and trauma to protect me?"
Death wiggled her fingers. "Bingo. Also, capes. Very dramatic."
James nudged Harry. "So what's the job title? Soul Reaper? Multiverse Babysitter?"
Sirius chimed in. "Warden of the Weird?"
Harry grinned. "I'm taking suggestions, but right now it's leaning toward 'Dark Wizard-Puncher Extraordinaire.'"
Remus sipped a cup of tea that hadn't been there a second ago. "That's a mouthful for a business card."
"I was thinking Eidolon," Death said, suddenly serious. "It means a spirit made real. A remnant. What's left when the soul refuses to fade."
"Creepy," Sirius whispered with admiration. "I like it."
Death snapped her fingers, and turned towards Harry. The atmosphere was humming with the quiet weight of destiny.
"The wand, the cloak, and the stone," she said. "One last time, Harry. Give them back."
Harry stood. No hesitation. He reached into the ether, and they materialized—obedient as always. The Elder Wand. The Resurrection Stone. The Cloak of Invisibility. They hovered before him, shimmering with memory and meaning.
Then floated into Death's palm.
And she crushed them.
Just—boom.
No explosion. No dramatic slow-mo. Just a crunch, like reality had a spine, and she just snapped it.
Dark goo spilled out of her hand. Liquid shadow streaked with red lightning, oozing like the stuff nightmares bathed in before heading to work.
"The Hallows were never meant to be separate," Death whispered. "So I'm calling them all back. Every wand, every cloak, every stone from every timeline—and I'm binding them to you."
The goo slithered toward Harry like it was auditioning for a horror movie.
It climbed his boots, his legs, his arms—buzzing, not burning. Like his magic had just drunk twelve espressos and gone to therapy.
The armor formed: black as void, sleek as dragonhide, trimmed in crimson lightning. A symbol pulsed on his chest—abstract, shifting, alive. His cloak billowed even though there was no wind (standard superhero clause), and the helmet sealed over his face, eyes glowing red.
He looked like a myth.
He looked like a warning.
He looked like a one-man apocalypse with a wicked sense of humor.
James let out a slow whistle. "Damn. I feel underdressed."
Sirius fist-pumped. "I'd follow that guy into hell and bring snacks."
Remus nodded. "He looks like a nightmare someone dared to dream."
Lily walked over and placed a hand on his armored chest. "He looks like my son."
Death raised her hand, her voice echoing with layered realities.
"The Elder Wand has given you the knowledge of every wizard who ever held it. Dueling. Theory. Runes. Combat. Think it—cast it."
Harry thought of a shield. One flared into existence. Not bad.
"The Resurrection Stone? It fused your soul to your body. You're stronger. Tougher. You'll die—yes—but you'll come back. Again and again. Stronger. Smarter. Sassier."
Harry grinned. "So I'm the magical version of Gandalf and Deadpool had a love child?"
"Don't tempt me," Death muttered.
"And the Cloak?" she smirked. "Still invisible. But also… flight."
Harry floated. Just... hovered.
"Because," Death added smugly, "I'm terrifying, but I'm not a jerk."
Sirius gave a slow clap. "Ten out of ten. Dramatic. Theatrical. Sexy."
Remus elbowed him.
James looked at Death. "So… now what?"
Death's smile turned wolfish. "Now we train. The powers are yours, but if you try to use them raw, you'll explode like a supernova made of sarcasm and poor decisions."
Harry flexed his glowing fingers. His grin was sharp enough to cut gods.
"Bring it," he said. "Let's make the Multiverse regret giving me a second chance."
Death raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, they will," she purred. "Welcome to orientation, Eidolon. Time to see what a master of death really looks like."
—
If Harry Potter had a Galleon for every time he thought, "This is how I die," he could've bought the Ministry of Magic, fired Fudge, and installed a chocolate fountain in every corridor. But today? Today was different.
Death stood before him—
"Right," she said, her voice dripping with cheerfulness that didn't match the apocalyptic backdrop. "Let's start with speed."
Harry blinked. "You mean, like... running?"
Death's smile widened, revealing teeth that had seen too many souls. "No, sweetie. You're being hunted."
The sky turned crimson.
"If they catch you, you die," she added casually. "But it's okay. You'll resurrect. Probably."
Harry stared. "You say that like it's supposed to be comforting."
"Then run faster, Eidolon."
Cue training montage.
—
Super speed sounded cool on paper. In reality? It was like asking your body to become a blender on maximum setting.
Harry face-planted into twenty-seven trees in the first hour. His legs felt like jelly. His lungs threatened to secede from the United Kingdom. But by month three, he was doing parkour on clouds, bouncing off raindrops, and outrunning actual lightning.
Yes, Death summoned lightning.
No, she didn't warn him first.
—
"Alright, Love Handles," Death said one morning, casually sipping a coffee made from screams. "Next up: strength."
She pointed at a mountain. A big one. Himalayan-sized. Possibly borrowed from another dimension.
"Punch that."
Harry squinted. "I'm sorry, did that geological landmark insult your honor, or...?"
Death raised a brow. "Are you stalling, British boy?"
"I'm mentally preparing. There's a difference."
Still, he punched. And shattered the peak.
Unfortunately, gravity still worked. The mountain fell on him like a celestial game of Whac-A-Mole. He died. Again.
He resurrected five minutes later. Covered in dust. Grinning like a maniac.
"Okay, that was kinda awesome."
—
Muscle came slowly. The lean kind. Not beefy like a bodybuilder, but the kind of shredded that made Greek statues look like couch potatoes.
Sirius tackled Harry daily in what he called "combat hugs."
James offered helpful commentary like, "You know, most wizards don't wrestle nightmares for cardio. But hey, I fathered an overachiever."
Remus calmly handed him protein potions and deadpan advice. "Try not to scream this time. The echo spooks the local banshees."
Lily just muttered, "Finally, someone fed the boy."
—
Then came the magic.
Oh boy.
Harry had inherited the legacy of every Elder Wand wielder across the multiverse. That's a lot of power. And even more unhinged magical geniuses whispering in his brain like an eldritch version of Google.
"You'll go mad if you try to use it all at once," Remus warned.
"Already there," Harry replied cheerfully. "I have full conversations with Death."
Wandless spells became second nature. He blinked, and shields formed. He coughed, and trees turned into phoenixes. He sneezed once and banished a small moon (they found it later in another galaxy).
On the third Tuesday of Year Two, he created a fire that sang Elvis songs.
Death looked mildly annoyed. "Stop showing off. Fight me."
"What, no first date?"
She killed him in 0.3 seconds. Heart exploded. Brain boiled. Body vaporized.
He came back grinning.
Rinse. Repeat.
Every death made him stronger. Smarter. Snarkier.
Death called it "Refined Resurrection."
Sirius called it "Leveling up like a cosmic video game."
—
Combat training? Oh yeah.
Death summoned a throne made of skulls and marshmallows (aesthetic!) and pointed at the Marauders.
"Teach him. Make it brutal."
Remus was strategy. Precision. He taught Harry how to make magic subtle, deadly, elegant.
Sirius was chaos. Dual-wanding, explosions, cheese wheel warfare. You name it.
James was presence. Command. The way you walk into battle and make the universe blink first.
Lily? Lily was power. She once redirected a comet and turned it into a Patronus stag. "I'm a mum," she said sweetly. "Reality listens to me when I'm pissed."
—
And in between the chaos? Life happened.
Movie nights with popcorn that sometimes tried to escape. Flying through nebulae. Magical feasts. Bonfires made of enchanted logs and bad puns. Dance-offs. Pillow fights (Remus won those. Always.)
They were a family again.
—
Seven years in. The Final Test.
Death summoned the Arena. A multiverse coliseum. Audience: ghosts, gods, and creatures that probably shouldn't exist in polite company.
"This time, I won't hold back," she warned.
Harry cracked his knuckles. "And here I thought we were just warming up."
The fight was apocalyptic. Literally. Suns exploded. Time hiccupped. Realities wept.
When the dust cleared, Harry stood. Cloak tattered. Magic thrumming like a heartbeat.
Death—goddess, eternal, terrifying—knelt.
"You are ready."
A mirror appeared. A portal to a world without Harry Potter. A world on the brink.
James hugged him tight. "Proud of you, son."
Lily kissed his forehead. "Be safe. Be glorious."
Sirius gave a wolfish grin. "Wreak havoc. Look hot doing it."
Remus smirked. "Try not to blow up the sky. Again."
Harry stepped toward the mirror. Took a breath. Smiled like the British sassmaster he was.
Death's voice echoed one last time:
"Now that you've survived your powers, Eidolon... it's time to show them."
Welcome to Phase Two.
---
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