Chapter Text
Disclaimer: The rights to the Harry Potter series go to J.K. Rowling. All original ideas present in this belong to me.
"As Sirius Black fell into the veil, the only sign that he recognized his demise was a fleeting smile… an apology he couldn't quite voice. It was utterly and completely blank. No shock. No fear. Not even a hint of anger. Just a simple request for forgiveness. Unfortunately, cortisol and other hormones make people do things they wouldn't otherwise do, like taking a bullet for a stranger. They may do something even more foolhardy than that, for example, jumping into a magical portal purported to be a window to the land of the dead in some hare-brained attempt to save someone who was, and is, very much dead. Well, here you are Potter. You're in my world, my domain, much earlier than you're supposed to be. What have you got to say for yourself?"
I look up at Death, at least that's who I'm assuming it is. A tall, horrendously lanky and frightfully imposing man who seems to be poured into a skin tight black three-piece suit, complete with a silver tie pin in the shape of a scythe, and a small brass sundial adorning his left wrist. He runs his terribly long, almost skeletal fingers through black hair that shines like oil, slicked back in a way that's slightly reminiscent of Draco's regular quiff. His skin is wrapped tight to the bones of his face, with sallow cheeks forming a gaunt, yet handsome demeanor.
The truly, truly eerie part about him is the eyes. Pitch black. Darker than any night, blacker than black, greedily swallowing up the light around them. I don't even know if the word him, he, or even it can define Death. Them? Who? I guess I'll have the rest of eternity to figure it out, along with wondering why in the hell I'm being lectured by him.
People die all the time! Really! I certainly didn't expect Death to be this verbose. You'd expect him to understand that occasionally shit happens, and people may once in a while have a freak accident involving portals to the underworld. Honestly, he is an immortal being. I imagine he’s seen every manner of death one can think of.
Looking around a bit, I take in my surroundings, trying to get a cursory glance of what the afterlife is like. I shake my head in confusion at what I see, wondering why the afterlife is represented by Platform 9 & ¾ for some godforsaken reason, complete with the Hogwarts express shining in all of its garish glory. It's a bit different than the light at the end of the tunnel I've been told to expect, although I guess it's a little hard for someone to really come back and give you a proper story about the afterlife, what with necromancy being a relatively volatile field of work.
A voice cuts through again, strained and rattling in his throat like he hasn't spoken in many years. “Potter, I know I have eternity to get a reply out of you, but I'd prefer not to wait that long, are you done with your musings?"
Oh yeah, Death. "I'm sorry, er… Death, sir. What was the question again?” I ask, looking down at the ethereal cobblestone trying not to brood, considering there's not exactly anything left for me to brood over.
“What have you got to say for yourself? Why are you here?”
“I fell through the veil?" I say, shrugging tiredly, although I don’t know why I can shrug tiredly when I’m dead. Adjectives involving one’s state of body and mind don’t seem like they should apply here. “I fucked up, alright? I panicked when I saw Sirius die, and before I realized what I was doing I had run in after him.”
Death cocks his head to the side, studying me. “Yes, you did fuck up as you so eloquently put it.”
I put my hand over my mouth, holding back the anger building inside of me. It wouldn’t do me well to tell Death to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. “So, do I get to see my parents finally? Dying may be a bit of an improvement over life,” I state morosely. He shakes his head at that.
What? Why did he shake his head? What does that mean? Was he just shaking his head for the sake of it? Was it because of what I said? Do I not get to see my parents?
Well… fuck, does that mean I'm going to hell? Did my parents and Sirius go to hell!?
"No, nothing as serious or as simple as that Mr. Potter" he states, frowning at me. How did he- oh, of course Death can read minds. Of course he’s been listening in on me mentally rattle on about him. "Why how kind of you to notice Mr. Potter, it certainly makes my job quite a bit easier. Now let's ignore my omniscience for the moment and focus on the problem at hand.” He pauses, quirking one eyebrow at me. “Trust me, I’ve heard much worse over the years. That you believe I would be offended by your thoughts is quite amusing to me.”
With a quick gesture from him, a table and chairs appear between the two of us, made of what looks to be ebony, plain, smooth as marble, and completely unmarred by any knots or contortions in the grain. He waves his hand at the chairs, so I take a seat. May as well get this judgement business over with.
Hands steepled in front of him, elbows on the table Death stares at me with those creepy, creepy eyes. At least, I think he's staring at me, it's really hard to tell without pupils. This is certainly more imposing than St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. Death rolls his eyes, I think… still not so sure. Okay he's raised one eyebrow, he's definitely rolling his eyes now.
With a snap he conjures up a large and ancient leather tome, licking one finger and leafing through it like one of my primary teachers once did, running his finger along the pages and muttering all the while. "Potten, Potteo... ah! Potter! There you are,” Death announces, pausing as he looks at the book. He pulls it up to his face, sticking his nose deep into the pages, squinting his eyes so tight they nearly close. He suddenly drops the book, sending it crashing to the table, frustration in his features. “Book says I'm not supposed to get you for another hundred odd years or so, why'd you have to go and muck that up? You know I'll have to rectify this, right?"
Muck it up? I'm supposed to live over a hundred? I guess that's not so unusual for the wizarding world Dumbledore looks to be pushing one hundred and thirty, give or take a couple decades. Hey! Wait a tic! "Rectify? I'm sorry I don't really get what you mean by rectify?"
Death rolls his eyes again before leaning forward, the book disappearing as he holds his hands out in front of him. "Yes Potter, rectify, fix, glue it all back together. Ah! No interruptions!" he cries as I open my mouth, his finger raised pointedly in the air. "By rectify I mean to right this wrong of you stepping through my doors many, many decades too early. There's rules in place for these things! You can't just go dying before you're supposed to.”
He runs his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “This will be a touch complicated as I've only had to do this a couple times before. Who was the first… what was his name? Jehovah? No… Jesus, yes, that Jesus fellow, and that was quite a while ago, and people made a very, very big deal of it. I'm sure you've read or at least heard of his book,” Death adds, waving his hands lazily. Yeah, Jesus. Not a big deal. “Thankfully being all powerful makes this job a lot less stressful," he notes, studying his knuckles, as if bringing someone back into the world of the living is just a regular Tuesday sort of gig.
"Now of course, I'm going to have to pull some strings, since you won't be able to jump back into your world exactly where you left off, rules and such you know,” he explains, waving his hands once more, punctuating his every word with a quick chop. “What do you think about a week before your eleventh birthday? Not as you were when you died though!" He emphasizes this, raising finger now even higher in the air than before, as if to stress the importance of his statement via the height of his finger pointing. "That would raise too many questions and I don't enjoy people prying into my world before their time is due, like I said, that whole fiasco with Mr. Christ made my life very difficult for the next few centuries. So many wars, so much reaping, so little time," he muses aloud. He shrugs laboriously. "Physically, you will be ten, but with a little bit of elbow grease on my part I believe we can work something out."
"Huh," I add. Shakespearian, I know, but what the hell should I say when I win a Darwin award and Death itself decided to send me back because of red tape. Not to mention the fact that I learned that Jesus, even if I never read the damn book, had to deal with the same thing. Not that often one gets to be compared with someone of that calibre.
"I mean, yeah that sounds like a great idea. But what about my friends, what about Sirius, the prophecy? What's going to happen to them, or Voldemort? Will it have never happened?" I challenge, curious but also a little bit terrified at the prospect of potentially being dead in another reality and simply transplanting myself into another. What would happen to everyone in my original universe? I’ve read enough sci-fi novellas to know that this is probably a terrible idea.
"Something similar, Potter, the timeline will cease to exist… at least in a way of sorts. It's not something you can wrap your head around while you're only mostly dead, you must be all dead to understand what I am about to do," he grins, before looking at the sundial on his wrist, tapping it with the same slender finger that was just reaching for the heavens.
“The Princess Bride? Really?”
"It’s a fantastic film,” Death shrugs, before looking pointedly at his sundial, smiling dangerously. “The most important part is that you do not need to worry about all of this, as I am about to send you back right about… now."
-::-
I shoot up out of bed, smacking my head and cursing loudly, "Fuck me running that stings!" I gasp, clutching at my forehead and massaging at the ache that's now steadily growing. What a god-awful dream that was! Even for me with my lovely ‘visions’ of Voldemort, up to whatever gets his jollies off. Torture, murder... you know, the usual. But a dream about Death? Sirius falling through the veil? I must be losing it.
Suddenly, light is everywhere, stinging my eyes as a massive meaty hand grabs my ankle and drags me out of bed. "What did I just hear you saying you ruddy freak!?" Oh. Wow. I am losing it.
"Huh? Vernon? It's not the summer… what am I even doing here? Why am I in the cupboard, and how did I even fit in that cupboard? Did you renovate?" I cough, rubbing my eyes and looking up at Vernon… Christ! Did he grow three feet since I last saw him? What the hell is going on?
"I don't know what kind of freakishness you're talking about boy, but I won't have it in my house! Especially the cursing! I don't want my Dudley catching your sick!" He smacks me in the back of the head, trundling off to the kitchen table and falling into his seat, the wood squealing in protest as all twenty stone of him comes crashing down onto it (give or take a few stone for the cats and dogs in the neighbourhood he may have snacked on earlier in the week). Across from him, Petunia turns to see the commotion I’ve apparently caused, sniffing loudly and sending a glare down the hallway, an unspoken threat in her eyes. Dazed by Vernon’s strike, I pull myself up onto my feet and look around, everything in the house looking much, much larger than it's supposed to.
I squint curiously at the living room, the TV blaring loudly and Dudley bouncing excitedly in his seat childishly. Didn't I break that chair break two years ago? I could swear that I did... and Dudley? Why is he wearing that stupid little outfit? It looks remarkably similar to the one he wore before my eleventh birthday.
Oh… woah.
I pinch my cheek, hissing at the slight sting it brings. I pinch it again, puffing my cheeks out as the situation I’ve landed myself in becomes much more pressing. I really did go back in time, either that or the Dursley's started taking HGH and decided to get a little nostalgic.
Going with the flow, or as much as you can go with the flow when Death has just torn time and space in twain because of a bureaucratic error. Really? Due in about a hundred years? I mean, I'm not about to complain but that is shoddy reasoning at best. Anyways, I stroll into the kitchen and get cracking on breakfast, I can worry about my situation while cooking. Turning on the stove I start hashing things over, running through the checklist.
One, I've gone back in time. Wow.
Two, Sirius is alive. Good.
Three, Voldemort hasn't been revived yet in this timeline. That means that I need to get a head start on training and studying. I could barely hold my own against Lucius and the other Death Eaters in the battle at the ministry, and I'm pretty sure they're a piss in the rain compared to Voldemort in terms of knowledge, let alone raw power.
I'm weak. Sirius died because of my inability. He died because I allowed my self to be tricked, to be manipulated, and I won't let anyone else die again. Especially Sirius… I can't let him die again, otherwise I may be forced to go to Death for another chat, and I doubt a third mulligan will be on the table that time around. This time though, I won't make the same mistakes, I won't be the weak Harry Potter, the doormat, the archetypal Gryffindor. I can't afford to be that Harry Potter, too many people may die. Apparently, it's up to me to pick up the slack that the ministry and, regretfully, Dumbledore have left for me. Be that through incompetence, a severe lack of effort, or by completely ignoring their responsibilities, those in a position of power in this world have left people to suffer, especially me.
Seriously! The ministry ignoring the return of Voldemort, Dumbledore allowing me to be tortured by Umbridge, like he didn’t know that she was carving my hand open every damned night. Hell! Dumbledore is apparently the only man that Voldemort fears! Why was he spending his time stopping people from sending me mail instead of hunting Death Eaters!? Looks like I have a lot to mull over and plan if I'm going to get things to go more smoothly in this timeline. It makes me feel a little unsettled to go against Dumbledore in such a way, even though he has the best of intentions and has never really done me wrong. I just feel that he falls short a lot of the time, juggling so many important things at once.
After handing plates of sausage, eggs and toast to the Dursleys, I take my own meagre portion with me to the cupboard, or at least what the Dursleys believe to be a meagre portion, considering I've stuffed a couple extra sausages in my pockets. These pockets have been through worse from what I've seen of Dudley's snack hoarding habits, don't judge me for just following tradition.
After finishing my breakfast, washing up the dishes, and serving tea and biscuits to Vernon and Petunia, who seem to be particularly confused about me today, as I'm behaving like a three-star maître d' and not the scared, abused orphan they've spent so much time horribly mistreating, I hear a rattling from the front door.
Suddenly it clicks. Dudley’s outfit, he wore that in late July, bragging about how he was going to beat the hell out of me with his Smelting’s stick. Damn, it's not just late July, it’s the 24th! The day I get my letter to Hogwarts! I almost bounce on my heels in excitement, being able to relive such a monumental part of my life. Well let's just make sure this goes better than the disaster that occurred last time round. I’d prefer not to visit that awful shack in the middle of the sea. Seriously, who the hell built that thing? It’s like a little ramshackle Azkaban, sans-dementors.
"Boy! Get the mail!" Vernon grunts as he munches on his eighth digestive.
"Yes Sir!" I shout, confusing Vernon and making my way over to collect the mail, the pudgy man staring daggers into my back. If I’m going to have to relive my life, I’m going to have fun doing it. Why not start that by messing with the minds of my doting relatives? I don't recall signing a contract with Death stating to not invoke havoc. His mistake, not mine. Grabbing the mail, I tuck my Hogwarts letter into my back pocket, not worried about it being noticed due to the sheer size of the shirt, or what would be more aptly described as a small a tent that I'm wearing. Damn Dudley is a big kid, I should check and see if he's broken a world record some time. "Here you go sir, all of your mail. Mostly bills I'm afraid" I announce, snapping off an awkward salute before making my way back into the cupboard.
If I'm recalling correctly, Vernon and Petunia had plans today last time around and the Hogwarts letter put a stopper in those. I decide to wait in the cupboard until the horse and the elephant decide to leave with their small imitation of a planet in tow, that way I can get to Diagon Alley, get my school supplies, and send off a letter without them knowing. I could probably rent a room at the Cauldron while I'm down there. There's no real point in coming back to this hell-hole if I can get Sirius out of Azkaban by the time the school year is out.
What should I do? How would I go about getting Sirius free so soon? I could maybe convince the twins to give me the map, grab the rat, march off to Dumbledore's office, maybe send off a letter or two to every magical newspaper in Britain to make sure that the Ministry can't pull one over on me. I really don't know what goes on in Fudge’s mind, and I’m sure that if I ever got a peek into it I would be forever changed. I’d rather not reduce myself to a gibbering mess similar to that embarrassing excuse for a man.
Well, I was supposed to be put into Slytherin according to the Sorting Hat. It's time to exercise my cunning a little more, flex my brain instead of running headfirst into danger every time it pokes its head out. A little less doing, a bit more thinking I should say. Looking back on things, I’m surprised I didn’t die earlier. Really, I didn’t plan anything at all, from homework to my ridiculous adventures, I always went in half-cocked.
I doze off momentarily, an hour or so going by before I hear the front door slam closed, and a few moments later the quiet puttering of the Dursleys car leaving the driveway, off to who knows where. Time to get cracking.
I make my way upstairs and grab a couple quid off Vernon and Petunia's dresser, enough to take the train to London and find my way over to the Leaky Cauldron. I stop as I start to leave the room, doubling back to snatch a few more notes, just to be safe of course. I head back downstairs and throw on my trainers and get ready to leave.
I pause again, remembering all the times that Vernon struck me, how he would catch me unawares, clipping me in the side of the head with the flat of his hand, laughing boisterously as my brain shook and my throat swelled in fear. How he found it absolutely hilarious to treat a child, an orphan no less, like a punching toy. Like an object.
I remember all the moments when Petunia belittled me, her nephew. How she spewed her vitriol, her screeches detailing my worthlessness, how unwanted and unloved I was, poisoning my mind and stirring up a self loathing that still rears its ugly head today.
Dudley? I don’t really hold anything against him, but unfortunately my idea for revenge against the pieces of shit that he calls parents will affect him. Hopefully this brings a bit of humility to their lives.
I mentally steel myself, running into the kitchen and grabbing a couple handfuls of loose paper, a box of matches, and some lighter fluid that was hidden away under the grill out back. I march back into the house, shredding and tossing the paper around the living room, moving on to scatter the impromptu kindling throughout the rest of the house. I douse it all liberally with the lighter fluid, the trail leading to the cupboard that was my prison for the better part of ten years.
I stand still, surveying my work. I strike the match, watching as the flame flickers playfully, unaware of the destruction it’s about to bring. With a jump in my heart, I toss the match on the carpet, admiring the trail of fire as it grows rapidly, racing into the living room, splitting off halfway and racing towards the stairs and kitchen. I turn around to leave, and as I stride out the front door the crackling and hissing behind me tells me that my work is done. I turn my head, taking a glance at the house as flames begin to lick at the windows, some beginning to crack from the swelling wood, the plastering on the side of the house splitting as its stretched over growing studs and joists. I smile morosely at the sight, saying the only thing that comes to mind.
"Good fucking riddance."