Chapter Text
The cold green light of the Killing Curse is the last thing Harry Potter sees before everything goes black. It’s over. Voldemort has killed him. There is no more pain, no more fear, just the empty void that follows death.
When Harry next opens his eyes, he finds himself lying on a smooth, gleaming surface in a place that seems eerily familiar. The bright, clean whiteness is almost blinding, and as he slowly stands up, he realizes where he is: King’s Cross Station. Or at least, something that looks like it.
The station is empty except for one figure sitting on a distant bench, waiting as if for a delayed train. Harry squints, feeling his stomach churn with a mix of emotions as he recognizes the man: Albus Dumbledore, dressed in deep purple robes, smiling serenely as if everything were perfectly normal.
For a moment, Harry’s mind goes blank, caught between disbelief and fury. Then, without thinking, he marches straight toward the elderly wizard, fists clenched. The moment he gets close enough, he lashes out.
His punch connects with Dumbledore’s jaw, sending the older man sprawling off the bench and onto the gleaming floor. Dumbledore groans, rubbing his jaw, and then… something strange happens. His form begins to shimmer and shift, his old, tired features melting away. In moments, the figure that had been Dumbledore is no longer a kindly old wizard but something far more formidable.
Where Dumbledore had once stood, there is now a tall, skeletal figure draped in tattered black robes. His face is gaunt, almost entirely hidden beneath a hood, with only deep-set eyes visible—eyes that gleam with a mix of humor and ancient wisdom. A large scythe is slung casually across his back.
“Now, now, Harry,” says the figure, his voice no longer that of Dumbledore’s but something deeper, resonating with echoes of eternity. “Is that any way to greet someone who’s here to help?”
Harry stumbles back, momentarily stunned by the transformation. “Who—what are you?”
The figure chuckles. “I believe you know me, Harry. I am Death.”
Harry blinks, trying to process this. “Death? Then why do you look like Dumbledore?”
Death tilts his head slightly. “I thought you might find it comforting. Or perhaps amusing. But you’ve always had a rebellious streak, haven’t you? Perhaps this form has run its course.” With that, Death’s appearance flickers once more, settling into something more neutral, more shadow than substance.
Harry swallows, his anger still simmering. “What do you want?”
“It’s more a matter of what you want,” Death replies. “You see, you’re at a crossroads. You can choose to move on—meet your parents and everyone you’ve lost. Or, you can return to the living world and finish what you started. Kill Voldemort and save your friends. But I suspect you’ve grown weary of choices that seem predetermined, haven’t you?”
Harry narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch?”
Death’s smile widens. “Always perceptive. Indeed, there’s a third option—one that I don’t usually offer. You could go back, but not just to where you left off. You could go back further, change things before they get so dire, stop Voldemort earlier.”
Harry’s heart skips a beat. “What do you mean, go back further?”
“I mean,” says Death, with a patient tone that belies the gravity of his words, “you could be sent back in time, to a point during his first reign. Along the way, you might even save someone who was meant to be your perfect match.”
Harry blinks in confusion. “My perfect match?”
“Regulus Black,” Death says calmly.
Harry’s eyes widen. “Sirius’ brother? The Death Eater who turned against Voldemort and died trying to destroy the locket?”
“The very same,” Death confirms. “Regulus was a man whose courage only revealed itself in the end, but had he lived, things might have gone very differently—for him and for you.”
Harry takes a step back, shaking his head. “This is crazy. You’re saying Regulus Black is my perfect match? How would that even work? We barely knew each other—he died before I was even born.”
Death sighs as if explaining a difficult concept to a stubborn child. “Time is a curious thing, Harry. Souls resonate across eras, not bound by mere chronology. You and Regulus are intertwined, whether you know it or not. I’m offering you a chance to change the world and, in the process, find the connection that was meant to be.”
Harry’s mind races. “And how exactly would that work? Do I just show up in the past as myself and tell everyone, ‘Hey, I’m here to save the world and also Sirius’ brother happens to be my soulmate’?”
Death chuckles softly. “Of course not. I would provide you with a new identity, one that fits the time. You’d retain your appearance and all your abilities, including those inherited from your parents. But there are conditions.”
Harry crosses his arms. “Naturally. What are they?”
“You would have to forfeit your titles—Lord Potter and Lord Black,” Death says, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “And you cannot reveal your true identity to anyone, especially not to those closest to you. That means no telling James and Lily you’re their son.”
Harry’s breath catches. “So I’d meet my parents, and I wouldn’t be able to tell them who I really am?”
“Correct. You’d be their contemporary, not their child. You could interact with them, even befriend them, but you’d need to maintain the secret of your past.”
Harry’s mind spins with the implications. The idea of seeing his parents, of getting to know them as real people rather than distant memories, is tempting. But not being able to tell them the truth? That is almost unbearable. Still, the opportunity to prevent the suffering of so many people, to save Regulus, who had died alone and unsung—that is a chance worth taking.
Harry takes a deep breath, weighing his options. “Alright,” he says finally. “I’ll do it. I’ll go back in time. But this better be worth it.”
Death’s smile returns, sly and satisfied. “Oh, it will be.”
“One last thing,” Harry adds, a sudden thought striking him. “If I go back and change things, will I risk erasing my own existence? What if I’m never born?”
Death’s expression softens slightly. “Ah, that concern. No, Harry, you will not simply vanish from existence. You are now an anomaly, a being outside the natural flow of time. Even if the timeline shifts, your existence remains fixed. You won’t fade away, no matter what changes.”
Harry nods, a weight lifting from his shoulders. “Alright, then. Who will I be?”
Death’s eyes gleam. “Did you know there was once an attempt to break up the marriage between Charlus and Dorea Potter? Someone fed Charlus and your great-aunt Isabella Baker a powerful lust potion and locked them together in a room. No child was conceived, but with a little nudge from me, that’s about to change.”
Harry stares at him, wide-eyed. “You’re making me the product of a botched sabotage?”
Death grins. “Indeed. You’ll be Harald Charlus Potter, son of Charlus Potter and Isabella Baker, brother to Cepheus and cousin to James. Your new life will begin from there. And now,” he adds with a flick of his wrist, “it’s time to go.”
The whiteness of King’s Cross begins to dissolve, replaced by the bustling chaos of Diagon Alley. Before Harry can ask anything more, Death vanishes, leaving him standing in front of the familiar cobblestone streets.
As the sounds and sights of Diagon Alley come into focus, Harry can only think one thing: This is his new beginning. Whether it leads to salvation or disaster, he has made his choice. Now, it is time to live it.
---
In the dimly lit interior of the Hog’s Head, the air hangs heavy with the scent of stale ale and pipe smoke. The fire crackles weakly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the cracked wooden walls. A few patrons sit hunched over their drinks, murmuring in low voices, their faces obscured by the gloom. Behind the bar, Aberforth Dumbledore stands in his usual spot, wiping an already clean glass with a rag more out of habit than necessity. His gruff demeanor and unkempt beard are as much a part of the Hog’s Head as the dust and shadows that fill every corner.
At the far end of the bar, a woman sits alone, her wild mane of frizzy hair framing a pair of oversized spectacles that magnify her eyes to an almost comical degree. She clutches a half-empty glass of sherry in one hand, her fingers trembling slightly. Sybill Trelawney, descendant of a celebrated Seer, leans heavily on the counter, muttering softly to herself as she swirls the dark amber liquid in her glass. Her shawl, patched and frayed, hangs loosely from her thin shoulders, and the collection of mismatched beads around her neck clatters as she takes a deep, shaky breath.
Aberforth eyes her warily. He’s seen her type before—wannabe Seers and self-proclaimed mystics who come in to drown their delusions in alcohol. He has little patience for those who pretend to see what isn’t there. Yet something about Trelawney’s presence tonight seems off. She’s been here for over an hour, ordering drink after drink, her gaze unfocused as if she’s staring at something far beyond the dingy walls of the pub.
With a faint clink, Trelawney places her glass back onto the counter. Her hand hovers over it for a moment before her entire body stiffens. The light in her eyes dims, and her breath catches as though the air itself has become too thick to inhale. Then, without warning, her head snaps up, her eyes wide and unseeing, glassy like twin orbs of mist. Her mouth opens, and when she speaks, her voice is not her own—it’s deep, resonant, and echoing, as though coming from the depths of a distant cave.
“The one with the power to unite our world arrived...
Blessed with the power of the ancient but born with new blood,
King of Serpents but son of lions, born of light but dark as coal…
He will free the lion from his gilded cage and stop the stars from falling…
Through him the constellations will be united and shine brighter than ever before
Both Dark and Light Lord will tremble in fear when they stare into the color of death...
The King of Serpents will change our world…”
Aberforth freezes. His weathered hands, steady through years of tending this pub, suddenly falter. The glass he’s absentmindedly scrubbing slips from his fingers and crashes to the floor, shattering into jagged shards that scatter across the stone. The sound seems to echo in the sudden, suffocating silence of the room.