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Harry's life after the war—which he was going to be honest—was nothing but abysmal. And honestly, who could blame him?
He had joined a war at such a young age. Seen things people his age should have never witnessed. Now he couldn’t even look into a mirror without seeing his scars and remembering everything the war had taken from him.
Sometimes his fingers would pause against the bathroom sink as he stared at his own reflection for too long. The pale lightning scar. The tired eyes. The faint white lines stretched across his skin like permanent reminders. Then he would look away first, jaw tightening slightly before forcing himself to continue washing his face as if nothing had happened.
Hermione and Ron tried to be there for him. Of course they did, even though Harry pushed them away almost every time. Still, they occasionally visited him just to check whether he was alive or not.
Hermione would talk softly while making tea he rarely drank, and Ron would awkwardly linger around the house, pretending not to notice the untouched food or the curtains that stayed closed for days. Harry usually sat there in silence, fingers tapping absently against the armrest while his eyes wandered somewhere far beyond the room.
His love life with Ginny was what he would probably call... monotonously insipid. Yeah. That word fit perfectly.
He just couldn’t feel the flavor of love he once thought he had for her.
Sometimes Ginny would reach for his hand across the dinner table, and Harry would hesitate a second too long before holding hers back. Sometimes she would kiss him, and he would respond purely from memory rather than feeling.
(Sometimes he wasn’t even sure if he had truly loved her in the first place.)
Still, he tried his best for his children. Yet even they felt colorless to him somehow. Distant. Like faded paintings he was supposed to care about.
He attended birthdays. School events. Listened when they spoke. Smiled when he was supposed to smile. But every movement felt rehearsed, exhausting. Like he was forcing life into a body that no longer remembered how to live properly.
Ron once advised him to see a psychologist because of his “mentality,” but Harry was fine.
At least, that was what he said while avoiding Ron’s eyes and tightening his grip around his coffee mug hard enough for his knuckles to pale.
Nothing he couldn’t handle.
...
Then Ginny died.
Harry remembered standing beside her hospital bed long after the healers had covered her body. His hands hung stiffly at his sides while the silence pressed painfully against his ears. He didn’t cry. He only stared.
And slowly, one by one, his friends followed after her.
Funerals became familiar.
Black clothes. Rainy skies. Flowers.
Condolences repeated so many times they became meaningless sounds.
Honestly, Harry had always assumed he would die first because of the way Ron used to talk about him.
He hated this.
Sometimes late at night he sat alone in the dark living room, rubbing a tired hand over his face while the grandfather clock ticked endlessly in the background. The silence of the house felt rotten somehow—too large, too empty.
...
After finally washing himself in the bath, Harry remembered he was supposed to check on his great-grandson. The little boy had apparently wanted to see him for some reason.
Harry pushed himself out of the tub with a quiet sigh, exhaustion clinging heavily to his movements. Water dripped from his hair down his shoulders as he lazily dried himself off.
He changed clothes without much thought, barely glancing at what he grabbed. A wrinkled shirt. Dark trousers. Good enough.
He didn’t even bother making himself look presentable.
The house was only a street away anyway.
As he stepped outside, the cold evening air brushed against his damp skin. Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and slowly walked down the familiar street, his footsteps quiet against the pavement.
The familiar blue house stood ahead beneath the dim glow of the streetlights.
And then it exploded.
The blast violently shook the ground beneath him.
Harry staggered sideways, instinctively throwing an arm over his face as heat slammed into him. Glass shattered outward in glittering pieces while flames burst through the windows like something alive.
For a second, he froze.
No, he thought.
No, no, no, no—
His breathing immediately turned sharp.
He couldn’t lose the little boy too.
Harry lurched forward into a run, nearly slipping as his shoes scraped harshly against the pavement. Smoke poured violently into the sky while burning debris crashed around the ruined house.
The closer he got, the louder everything became—the crackling flames, collapsing wood, distant screams, the violent pounding of his own heartbeat echoing inside his skull.
“Daniel!” he shouted desperately, already choking on smoke. “DANIEL!”
No answer.
Panic clawed through his chest as he stumbled over broken debris, catching himself against a half-burnt fence before falling completely. His old injuries screamed painfully with every movement, but he ignored them.
He had already buried too many people.
He wasn’t going to bury another.
————
“Daniel?!”
Harry stumbled through the ruins, nearly collapsing as smoke flooded his lungs. He slammed a hand against a broken wall to steady himself while burning debris crashed somewhere deeper inside the house.
“Daniel!”
No answer.
Panic twisted violently inside his chest.
His boots scraped against shattered glass as he forced himself forward, ignoring the heat biting into his skin. The entire house sounded alive in the worst possible way—wood groaning, flames crackling, beams collapsing one after another.
Then-
A weak sound.
Harry’s head snapped toward it instantly.
“Daniel?!”
His wand was already in his hand before he fully registered moving.
“Wingardium Leviosa!”
The rubble exploded upward.
Heavy pieces of stone and wood ripped away from the floor, hovering violently in the air as dust burst around him. Harry immediately pushed through the opening with uneven, frantic steps.
And then-
He saw him.
The world stopped.
“...Daniel?”
The little boy was buried beneath the remains of the staircase, unnaturally still amongst the ash and splintered wood.
Harry dropped to his knees so hard pain shot through them instantly.
“No no no—”
His hands shook violently as he clawed debris away from Daniel’s body. Splinters dug into his palms. Ash coated his fingers. He barely noticed.
“Daniel, hey- hey-”
Harry carefully lifted the boy into his lap.
Too limp.
Far too limp.
The child’s head lolled weakly against Harry’s arm.
Harry froze.
His breath caught somewhere painfully in his throat.
“No...”
With trembling fingers, he pressed against Daniel’s neck.
Nothing.
No heartbeat.
Harry immediately moved his hand beneath the boy’s nose.
No breath.
“No no no no-”
His voice cracked apart.
He started CPR instantly.
One hand over the other.
Press.
Press.
Press.
“Come on-”
His arms shook harder.
“Come on, Daniel-”
Breath.
Press.
Breath.
Press.
Harry’s messy hair fell into his face as he bent desperately over the child, his movements becoming sloppier with panic.
“Please-”
He fumbled for his wand again.
“Rennervate!”
Nothing.
“Episkey!”
Nothing.
“Please!”
His voice broke completely.
Harry’s hands hovered uselessly above Daniel for one horrible second before he grabbed the boy again like refusing to let go could somehow force life back into him.
“You asked to see me...” Harry choked out weakly. “I came—I’m here-”
Nothing.
Daniel didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t open his eyes.
And slowly—
Slowly—
Harry realized he wasn’t going to wake up.
The realization hit him so violently it physically hurt.
It felt like something inside his chest had been ripped apart.
“No...”
The word came out tiny.
Broken.
Harry stared at Daniel’s face with widening eyes, like if he looked long enough he could somehow undo reality itself.
“No... please...”
His breathing turned uneven.
Sharp.
Painful.
Then suddenly Harry bent forward, a horrific sob tearing from his throat as he crushed the child against his chest.
“No!”
His entire body shook violently.
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry-”
Tears poured down his face as he held Daniel impossibly tighter, like he could shield him from death after it had already happened.
Harry buried his face into the boy’s hair, choking on sobs so hard he could barely breathe.
Another person gone.
Another body in his arms.
Another person he failed to save.
Cedric.
Sirius.
Remus.
Fred.
Tonks.
Ginny.
And now...
Daniel.
The little boy who had only wanted to see him.
Harry let out another broken sound, almost animalistic in its grief.
He had survived everything.
And somehow everyone else kept dying instead.
Then-
The fire stopped crackling.
Harry’s sobs slowly quieted.
Not because he calmed down.
Because the silence suddenly felt wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Harry slowly lifted his head.
The flames around him had turned grey.
Not weaker.
Grey.
The orange glow vanished from the fire completely until the entire world looked drained of life itself.
Ash hung motionless in the air.
The smoke no longer moved.
Even the heat disappeared.
Harry’s breathing became shallow as cold spread violently through the ruins.
Then he smelled it.
Rot.
Decay.
Death.
Something moved behind him.
Harry turned slowly...
And immediately wished he hadn’t.
Black mist slithered through the ruins unnaturally, spilling across the floor like liquid darkness. It moved without sound. Without wind. Without reason.
Then it started rising.
Higher.
Higher.
Until a figure formed inside it.
Tall.
Too tall.
Its limbs looked wrong somehow, shifting beneath the smoke like the shape couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. The darkness around it twisted endlessly, swallowing the dim grey light itself.
And then Harry saw its eyes.
Bright gold.
Not human.
Not alive.
They glowed from within the darkness like two stars buried inside a corpse.
Harry’s entire body locked up.
Every instinct inside him screamed.
Run.
The creature tilted its head slowly—
And the movement made Harry’s stomach drop.
Its neck bent just slightly too far.
A quiet cracking noise echoed from inside the mist.
“No...” Harry whispered weakly.
The thing stepped closer.
The shadows around its feet crawled unnaturally across the ground while the air grew colder with every movement.
Harry immediately dragged Daniel closer against himself despite knowing it was useless.
“No no no— don’t take him away from me too!”
The creature stopped.
Then smiled.
Or at least...
Harry thought it smiled.
The mist split open across its face into something too wide to be human.
“...Don’t... try...”
Its voice sounded wrong.
Not deep.
Not quiet.
Like thousands of whispers speaking over each other from underneath the earth.
Harry shook his head violently, tears still falling endlessly down his face.
“No!”
His fingers clenched desperately into Daniel’s clothes.
Not him.
Anything but him.
He was still young.
The creature suddenly circled around Harry slowly.
Like a predator enjoying the panic of dying prey.
“The boy who managed to live... and continued living.”
The whispers echoed from every direction at once.
Harry’s exhausted green eyes followed the thing frantically while trying to shield Daniel’s body behind himself.
“My dear unlucky star... he will not go alone.”
Harry’s breath hitched painfully.
“W-what...?”
One trembling hand lifted weakly toward his face...
Suddenly-
The creature grabbed his wrist.
Harry screamed.
Its hand was freezing.
Not cold.
Freezing.
Like being touched by a corpse buried beneath ice.
Before Harry could react, Death slammed him violently against the floor.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs.
Black mist exploded around them instantly, curling around Harry’s arms and throat like living shadows.
Death leaned over him slowly.
Those golden eyes stared directly into his.
Ancient.
Hungry.
Inhuman.
Harry couldn’t look away.
Couldn’t move.
Could barely breathe.
“You think you can simply collect the Deathly Hallows and-”
Death paused.
Its gaze slowly traveled across Harry’s body, lingering over every scar, every shaking limb, every old wound carved into him by life itself.
“...you sought the end. You sought finality. You sought me.”
Harry’s pulse pounded violently in his ears.
Death leaned closer.
“Yet you never realized what you became... and ignored me.”
“I... ignored you?” Harry whispered weakly, voice destroyed by sobbing.
The creature’s golden eyes narrowed almost fondly.
“Yes. Remember your ‘stalker’?”
Harry froze.
“T-that was... you?”
The darkness around them deepened further.
The ruins disappeared.
The world disappeared.
Only Death remained.
Then the creature placed one freezing hand against Harry’s head almost gently.
“Welcome to the realm you belong to.”
Harry’s vision blurred violently.
“The Realm of Death.”
Cold spread through his body.
Into his bones.
Into his soul.
“Master of Death.”
Harry's fingers twitched against the fluid like floor—the darkness finally ingested him whole.
His eyes struggled to stay open, Everything around him became distant and unfocused—His consciousness finally began abandoning him.
And the last thought that crossed his mind-
Was the Grotesque truth that Death had planned this from beginning.
Getting tricked by Death...
———
“Sleep well, my Unlucky Star... It has been a very long day for you.”
Death’s voice lowered into something quieter as Harry finally lost consciousness beneath him.
For a moment, the entity simply remained still.
The ruins around them no longer burned. Time itself seemed suspended within the endless grey silence while ash hung motionless in the air.
Harry looked strangely small now.
Fragile.
His face remained tense even unconscious, tears still visible against soot-covered skin. One trembling hand remained loosely curled into Daniel’s shirt as though some stubborn part of him still refused to let go.
Death watched that hand for several silent seconds.
Then slowly, carefully, it loosened Harry’s fingers from the fabric.
The motion was oddly gentle compared to the creature’s monstrous appearance.
Black mist curled lazily around them while Death adjusted Harry against its arms, preventing his head from striking the ruined floor. Harry shifted weakly at the movement, a quiet, exhausted breath leaving him.
Death paused.
Its golden eyes lingered over Harry’s face.
Over the exhaustion carved into him.
Over the grief.
The loneliness.
The endless weariness that had followed him for decades.
A century of survival looked ugly on mortals.
“Humans break so easily,” the entity murmured softly, though there was no mockery within its voice.
Only observation.
Its clawed fingers brushed stray ash away from Harry’s forehead before the creature leaned downward slightly, pressing a cold kiss against his skin.
The shadows surrounding them stirred in response.
“We lost a hundred years to know each other...”
The words barely sounded louder than a whisper.
Death slowly lifted its head again, gaze drifting toward the endless darkness surrounding the ruined house.
For over a century it had watched Harry Potter run from death while unknowingly walking beside it at every turn.
Wars.
Funerals.
Loss.
Always surviving.
Always continuing.
The irony had almost become amusing eventually.
Almost.
“And finally...”
The black mist thickened around them instinctively, swallowing the remains of the ruins piece by piece until only silence remained.
Death’s hand rested briefly against Harry’s head, fingers disappearing within dark strands of hair.
“...fate returned the Master of Death to where he belongs.”
Harry stirred faintly in unconsciousness, brow twitching slightly as though reacting to the voice.
Death went silent immediately.
Then, after a long pause, the entity adjusted its hold around him once more before disappearing slowly into the darkness with Harry resting against its chest.
The grey world vanished alongside them.