The battlefield was quiet now.
The kind of quiet that follows ruin — heavy and hollow. The kind that settles after the last scream dies, and there's nothing left to break.
Harry Potter lay still.
The stone beneath him was cracked, slick with blood — his, Voldemort's, the dead. All of it had blurred together in the end.
He felt… weightless. Disconnected.
Not in pain.
Not at peace.
Just… drifting.
And then he heard the voice.
> "You have died."
It came from nowhere. Not above, not below — but within. Calm. Ancient. Not cruel, but final.
> "And yet, your soul has not shattered. Remarkable."
Harry tried to speak, but he had no mouth. No body. He was thought and memory, floating in an endless void.
And then, the void shifted.
A figure emerged from the dark — not in smoke or flame, but in silence. A shape in a robe darker than black, as if it wore absence itself.
It did not carry a scythe. It did not need to.
> "I am Death."
---
Harry should have been afraid.
But he wasn't.
Maybe he'd already passed fear. Maybe he had burned through it, like everything else.
"So… this is it?" he asked. "The end?"
> "It could be."
The figure tilted its head.
> "Or… it could be a beginning. A correction."
"…Correction?"
> "You were a pawn, Harry Potter. A piece moved across a board you never saw. Used by those who feared power — yet craved control."
"Dumbledore," Harry whispered. He didn't ask. He knew.
> "Yes. He watched you. Raised you for slaughter. All under the guise of love."
Harry felt cold.
> "But there was another. One who marked you."
The space around him pulsed — and suddenly, his scar ached. Even in death, it throbbed, as if something else were inside him.
> "The fragment."
> "A piece of Tom Riddle's soul. Anchored to you by accident. Or so they say."
Harry grit his teeth. "It wasn't an accident, was it?"
> "No."
The void shimmered.
A memory surfaced — a flickering green light, the crib, his mother's scream — and then him, marked.
> "You were the perfect vessel. Of noble blood. Protected by love. Marked by prophecy. What better place to hide a soul than inside the child fated to kill you?"
"But he didn't know the prophecy."
> "He didn't need to. Fate knew. Prophecy is not prediction. It is gravity. You were pulled into it. Made into it."
Harry was silent.
> "And the others allowed it. Dumbledore knew. He let the fragment live. Watched it corrupt your magic. Suppress your growth. Poison your soul."
The scar pulsed again — but this time, Harry saw it. Not just a mark. A tether.
A rotting black chain.
> "But now you are mine," Death said. "And I will not share what is mine."
With a gesture, the void ignited.
Harry screamed — not in pain, but in release — as something tore from him. A scream echoed across the realm. Voldemort's scream. High and inhuman.
And then… nothing.
The scar burned. Sizzled. Faded.
The chain was gone.
Harry gasped.
The weight he hadn't even known he carried was lifted.
He felt… whole.
For the first time in his life.
> "You are cleansed," said Death. "Unbound. Yours alone."
> "Now you must choose."
---
Harry looked up, eyes glowing in the dark.
"Choose what?"
> "The world mourns you. But it does not deserve you.
You were shaped for sacrifice, never for power.
But you have power. More than they ever imagined."
> "You are the last Peverell, bound by blood to Potter, to Gryffindor, to Slytherin. You have united the Hallows. You are no longer a pawn."
> "You are Death's Heir."
A silver thread appeared between his hands — soft, ancient, humming with potential. It shimmered with names:
Gryffindor.
Slytherin.
Potter.
Peverell.
> "Take your blood. Take your name. Take your right."
Harry took the thread.
The void shattered.
---
⚡
Harry awoke with a gasp.
Darkness.
The smell of dust and spider webs.
The ache of wood against his shoulder blades.
The cupboard under the stairs.
He was eleven years old again.
But not the same boy.
Not anymore.
This time, he was whole. Cleansed. Armed with truth.
And Death was watching.