An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Harry Potter fails to die.
“Behold The Boy Who Lived, your precious chosen one, your supposed hero… in shackles.”
Lord Voldemort reigns supreme.
With the afterlife refusing to keep his soul and his freedom stolen by Voldemort, Harry must navigate the delicate tightrope between willful resistance and lives of his friends. What if he refuses Voldemort’s demands too much? What if precious lives are taken from him because he didn’t give into Voldemort?
“What if I’m doing this all wrong?”
Yet… something greater calls their attention.
The Master of Death has not been seen for a thousand years and the dead are restless. Something ancient demands restoration to the balance between birth and death.
For neither the light nor the dark can be seen without the other.
The ancient door creaked, reverberating shut with a deafening snap, but it did not block out the sobs of loss.
Harry walked through the courtyard, throwing the invisibility cloak around his shoulders. No breeze ruffled through the leaves of nearby trees; the air remained deathly still.
He made his way across the empty grounds. The setting sun painted orange purples across the sky, their colors reflecting against the surface of the lake, clouds dotting the horizon. In the distance, at the edge of the Black Lake and the wards of Hogwarts, stood the mass of Voldemort’s army.
Harry curled the cloak around his shoulders a little tighter. The sun dipped below the horizon as Harry neared the edge of the wards, its light softening to dusk.
The radiance of twilight illuminated the tall figure of Voldemort.
He stood, regal and majestic, beside the lakefront with his hands clasped behind his back in a loose, casual stance, his pensive gaze settling over the lake. He towered over all but one of his followers in height; his presence stood out among the mass and his magic fluttered around him, magnifying the intensity of his power. Dark robes draped down his back, parting in the front and revealing a black dress shirt; his matching trousers lay loosely on his body.
Voldemort turned his head, hairless brow lifting. A shimmering, splattering of scales adorned his bare neck and his smooth, bald head. Surrounded by white sclera, the pupils of his red eyes were reptilian like, his nose flattened slits, and his ears were tipped at the edges.
Lord Voldemort had long lost his humanity.
Nagini slithered near his feet, sliding over the shivering body of Severus Snape. He did not look well.
A smile twitched at Voldemort’s pale, thin lips.
“Ah…” breathed Voldemort. Magic whooshed through the air and his men went still in reverence. “Hello, Harry.”
His breath hitched. Severus spasmed on the ground, glancing up with despair in his dark eyes; Nagini hissed her warning.
Voldemort clicked his tongue, chiding gently. “Come now, you need not hide. I sense your presence… and all those strong emotions of yours. Your magic, it tastes—” There was a flick of a long forked tongue. “—mm… sweet, so pure and untainted, you are, Harry Potter.”
His mouth went dry; Harry shook, terrified, but determined.
“I know you are there,” said Voldemort softly. “Show yourself, little Gryffindor.”
Harry pulled the invisibility cloak off and threw it over his arm.
Voldemort tilted his head, lips lifting, and curled a long nailed finger towards himself. “Come to me.”
For a terrible, brief moment, Harry hesitated. When he stepped over the boundary, he would die. But… that was his purpose. The Boy Who Lived… now had to finally die.
He exhaled and acceptance loosened his limbs.
“You won’t attack Hogwarts?” asked Harry. “You swear to leave them alone?”
Voldemort inclined his head, his thin lips stretching in a contemptuous, amused smile. “You have my word, Harry,” he whispered. “Hogwarts and the children within will go untouched. Now… come to me.”
Harry stepped forward, crossing the safety of the boundaries, greeting his death as he would an old friend.
The flash of green light caught him immediately.
“The master is finally here.”
“Come, come, fix us, heal the cycle.”
“They are yours; they belong to you.”
“Absorb them, absorb them! Become one, become whole.”
“A millennia we have waited for your awakening.”
“Oh, Master, it is finally time.”
A wailing cry tore through the air.
Harry gasped, eyes popping open; he bolted upwards, breathing heavily. His heart rabbited in his chest and thumped loudly in his ears. He groaned, feeling the entire weight of his mortal body.
The stillness of black greeted him.
Harry rubbed at his eyes. He couldn’t see his hands as he waved them in front of his face. His head turned from side to side, but the darkness was so oppressive. Terror billowed up inside of Harry’s chest, up his throat, a little earnest, begging gasp escaping his lips.
But what he needed, he didn’t know.
The cry cut the air again. In the darkness, Harry could suddenly see, yet still there was no light. A baby lay swaddled beside his hip, squirming and fussing in his cloth. Harry reached out and gingerly lifted the babe into his arms, cuddling him against his breast. The baby calmed, cooing softly, head twisting around his protective wrappings.
Red eyes pierced his soul: the wrinkled homunculus form of Voldemort lay in his arms. Harry jolted back, nearly dropping the baby. Voldemort’s face scrunched up and he began to cry slightly.
“Dammit,” muttered Harry, bouncing the baby in his arms. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it. You just surprised me. I wasn’t expecting creepy baby Voldemort right now. I’m supposed to be dead, you see. Is this hell? I feel like it’s gotta be hell if I’m here with you.”
Voldemort blinked up at him with intelligent eyes.
“They are yours; they belong to you.”
“Touch him now. Collect them, collect them. Remember, remember.”
Harry glanced up, a chill sliding down his back. Who’s there? Who’s that speaking? But the darkness was pervasive. He strained his ears, closed his eyes, and listened.
The burble of a stream echoed softly somewhere in the distance. As Harry turned his head in the direction, opening his eyes, a single color flooded the blackness.
Crimson coated the horizon, flowing as a river; the gentle movement of blood kissed the edge of the land.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. A terrible sense of wrongness assaulted every fiber of Harry’s being. With the infant clutched against his chest, Harry scrambled to his feet. His head whipped side to side, seeking the source of who or what was watching him.
“Master… why haven’t you collected them?”
A hand burst out of the river, crimson droplets splattering the ground. A head followed, blood spraying, dripping down a familiar contorted face with round spectacles. A lightning scar cut across the forehead, over the eyebrow, and over a glowing scarlet eye.
His own face, mutated and rotten, grinned back at him; teeth painted in red peered through his open cheeks, blood dripping down his decayed chin.
“Welcome back, Master,” whispered the doppelgänger. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
