Chapter Text
One moment, I was dodging dragonfire, the Hungarian Horntail’s roar vibrating through my bones as I darted past boulders, trying not to die. The next… everything vanished.
No wind. No roar. No sky.
Just silence.
I hit something hard and cold—smooth stone—and groaned as I pushed myself up. The air was eerily still. The room—if it could be called that—was pitch black, like light itself didn’t dare exist here. The only illumination came from four torches, one in each corner, casting blue flames that flickered too slowly to be natural.
Before I could process what was happening, a voice rang out—smooth, amused, and weirdly charming.
“Harry. It’s nice to finally meet.”
I turned so fast I nearly lost my balance.
A man stepped into view. He looked nothing like I expected from someone calling out from a void. He was tall, sharply dressed in a black suit, with a wry smirk that made it hard to tell whether he wanted to help me or laugh at me. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his eyes—well, they sparkled like he already knew every mistake I’d ever made.
Leaning casually on a long black scythe, he looked more like a bored rock star than a terrifying entity. Beside his throne-like chair—because, of course, he had one—sat a massive three-headed dog, watching me in complete silence.
I raised my wand. “Who are you? What do you want with me? Where am I? Do you work for Voldemort?”
The man raised both hands in mock surrender, laughing lightly. “Whoa, whoa. Easy there. One question at a time.”
He lowered his hands slowly and tilted his head.
“To answer all that: I’m Death. I don’t want anything from you—yet. This place is the Void, somewhere between life and death. And no, I don’t work for Old Voldy.”
My grip on my wand didn’t loosen. “What do you mean, Death?”
He gave a long-suffering sigh and started pacing slowly. The dog didn’t even flinch.
“You mortals,” he said, shaking his head. “Always so dramatic. I’m Death. Not a metaphor, not a title. The real thing. People call me Hades, the Grim Reaper, sometimes Lucifer—personally, I quite like that one. Suits me.”
He flashed me a grin that definitely belonged on a devil.
“I’m in charge of the dead. And you, Harry, are in my domain.”
I opened my mouth, closed it, then forced the question out. “Am I dead?”
He raised an eyebrow. “No. You’re... on a temporary detour.”
“Why?”
“Well,” he said, voice light, “someone I know—someone I respect—asked me to help you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Who?”
He stopped pacing. “Let me tell you a story first. It’ll make things clearer.”
I didn’t respond, so he continued.
“Once, three brothers cheated me. Clever little mortals. Used magic to cross a river I meant to claim them at. I was impressed. Amused, even. So I rewarded them. One asked for the most powerful wand ever made. The second wanted to summon the dead. The third asked for something that would let him hide from me. A cloak.”
I stared at him. “That’s... not a story I know.”
He grinned wider. “Of course not. Dumbledore wouldn’t want you knowing it. Knowledge makes you harder to control.”
I didn’t like how casually he said that.
“Anyway,” he said, waving a hand, “the first two brothers were arrogant. They died. I made sure of it. The third? He accepted his end. Passed on his cloak and walked with me like an old friend.”
He grew quiet for a moment.
“That brother asked me to help you. Said he doesn’t like how your life’s going. I agreed.”
I blinked. “Just like that?”
He shrugged. “I get bored. You’re interesting. That’s enough.”
“And what does that mean—helping me?”
“Well, first things first,” he said, walking over to a side table beside his throne, “you’ve got a bit of Voldy's soul in you.”
The words hit me like a Stunning Spell.
“THERE’S A PIECE OF VOLDEMORT’S SOUL IN ME?!”
He raised a hand to calm me. “Yes, yes. It’s tiny. Basically harmless. Just the cause of your nightmares, visions, stabbing pain whenever Voldy’s nearby, and the occasional unexplainable rage.”
My head spun. “Can you destroy it?”
“Of course I can,” he said cheerfully. “But I’m not destroying it. I’m transferring it into this pebble.”
He held up the most normal-looking rock I’d ever seen.
I narrowed my eyes. “Why not destroy it?”
“You’ll find out later. When you’re actually thinking for yourself, not as Dumbledore’s little martyr puppet.”
That stung.
“So... do I have your permission?”
I hesitated—but only for a second.
“Do it.”
He smiled. “Good lad.”
And snapped his fingers.
Pain. Raw, pulsing pain like my soul was being yanked inside-out.
When I came to, I was on my back. Everything ached. My head pounded like I’d been hit with a Bludger.
Death sat nearby, flipping through a newspaper. Still lounging. Still annoyingly calm.
“Ah, our little soul vault wakes,” he said without looking up. “Feeling lighter?”
“Would feel amazing if I didn’t have a hangover from Hell,” I groaned.
He peeked over the paper. “That’s just Void-lag. You’ll be fine.”
I pushed myself upright and glared at him. “Now what?”
“Final bit,” he said, reaching to the table again. “A gift.”
He held out a ring. To anyone else, it would look like a plain black band. But as he turned it, it shimmered, changing into a silver family crest I didn’t recognize, carved with a strange symbol: a triangle, a circle, and a vertical line.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“My symbol,” he said. “But your kind calls it the Deathly Hallows.”
“What are the Deathly Hallows?”
He smiled knowingly. “They are objects I gift to mortals when I am bored. There are three main known ones, but there are probably hundreds out there.”
I looked at the ring again, heartbeat steadying.
“This ring will protect you from poisons and love potions,” he said. “Let you talk to me from the living world. Come here if needed. And once I train you—no trying early—you’ll be able to shadow travel.”
I stared at it, stunned.
“Oh,” he added, “it also breaks the curse Dumbledore stuck on you to suppress your magic and track your location. You’re welcome.”
I gawked.
Death winked.
“Okay. That’s it. BYE!”
He snapped his fingers again, and the world fell away.
When I awoke, I was lying on my right side. The crisp, antiseptic scent of the hospital tent hit me first, but it was the stinging sensation spreading across my left shoulder blade and down the backside of my bicep that truly pulled me into consciousness.
I stirred slightly, trying to twist enough to see what was causing the pain, but before I could manage it, Madam Pomfrey's voice cut through the quiet.
“I tried everything I could,” she said softly, her tone a mixture of exhaustion and regret. “But you'll have that scar for the rest of your life. Still, I was able to save the muscles, tendons, and nerves. You should count yourself very lucky.”
I blinked, confused. “What scar?”
She gave a sad little smile. “The scar from where the dragon burned you. Here, let me get you a mirror so you can see it.”
She disappeared for a moment, then returned, holding a mirror that she gently positioned so that all I had to do was glance over my shoulder.
I did.
“Oh my.”
The sight stole my breath. The scar looked brutal—angry red tissue and raw, mottled flesh, some parts still charred at the edges. It was the kind of wound that made you instinctively flinch away, even though it was part of you.
Madam Pomfrey frowned as she studied it from behind me. “You got really lucky,” she said again, more firmly this time. “Only another second or two and there would’ve been no arm to save—at the very least.”
Before I could respond, the flap of the tent rustled open and a familiar voice burst in, full of frantic relief.
“HARRY! YOU’RE AWAKE!”
I turned my head and saw Hermione, eyes wide, hair slightly frizzed from running, cheeks flushed. She couldn’t see the burn from where she stood, the tent opening blocking the angle.
“Hermione, don’t look,” I said quickly, warningly. “It’s… it’s not good.”
“Nonsense, Harry. It’s just a burn.” She stepped inside with careful resolve. “You’re still my best friend.” Her voice softened. “And handsome.”
At that word, her cheeks turned scarlet, her eyes darting away, and her mouth opened again like she hadn’t meant to say it—or didn’t know what to say next. Silence lingered.
Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey broke the tension with a harried sigh. “I have to inform the judges you’re awake,” she said. “Hermione, dear, you have until I return to talk to him. Harry, no moving until I say so. And you’ll be staying in the hospital wing for a couple of days.” She turned, muttering under her breath, “Freaking dragons. Why must the tournament have dragons?”
Once the tent flap closed behind her, Hermione looked at me seriously.
“Harry. Can I see it?” she asked gently.
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to say no, to keep the ugliness of it hidden. But if there was anyone I trusted to see it—to not recoil or pity me—it was Hermione.
“Sure, Hermione,” I said, exhaling slowly. “But feel free to leave if it’s too much.”
She walked quietly around my bed until she had a clear view. I didn’t look at her—I couldn’t. I focused on the ceiling, listening to the silence stretch between us.
“Does it hurt?” she asked finally.
“A little,” I replied, trying to sound lighter than I felt. “But I think Madam Pomfrey gave me the strongest painkillers she has.” I tried to laugh, but even that small movement sent a ripple of pain through my arm.
Suddenly, a camera shutter clicked, sharp and jarring. A familiar, smug voice filled the room.
“Ah, the perfect story. Wounded Hogwarts Champion with his best friend and lover by his side. My readers will love this.”
Hermione spun around, eyes wide. Confusion, embarrassment, and fury warred across her face as she snapped, “You’re not allowed back here!”
Rita Skeeter didn’t even blink. “Oh, I was just passing by and checking in on our champion,” she said airily, and then, just like that, she was gone.
Hermione was still staring at the entrance, lips parted in disbelief. After a moment, she spoke in a quiet voice. “Harry, I think I should leave, too. I don’t know how lonely Pomfrey will be… I’ll visit you later.”
Before I could answer, she turned and slipped out of the tent.
And just like that, I was alone again.