Chapter Text
In leash-less confusion, I'll wander the concrete
Wonder if better now having survived
Jarring of judgement and reason's defeat the sweet
There are many instances in Harry’s life that he would argue to be his lowest low, and every single time he would think that, something new would come up and take the winning slot. It has been a neverending cycle, until now.
Because now he’s dead.
Like, actually dead. Gone. No more of that ‘surprise I’m actually not!’ moments of heroism because he just died in his sleep. Almost 200, old and wrinkled, and satisfied with the life he had lived.
Or as satisfied as you could be with the kind of adventure he went on before he was even legal age in the Wizarding World. There was that decade of therapy and trying to get ahold of himself after the effects of war…
But anyways! All of that has lead to now, after almost two centuries living life as the boy from the prophecy.
He closed his eyes, knowing he wouldn't open them again and allowed himself to drift off. All ready to say goodbye to a life well-lived. Probably had too much adventures than he would have liked, but it’s a life lived nonetheless.
It’s probably time to join his parents now. Wait—would he look younger?
It would be a bit weird to go into the afterlife all wrinkly while James and Lily remained their youthful selves, he would look like he’s the parent instead! Not that it should matter when you’re dead.
Who else would he see? Remus and Sirius for sure, that should be a fun reunion. Then there’s also Dumbledore, if he’s still available for a chat. Maybe he could also meet his grandparents for the first time.
He’s not too sure on the specifics of dying permanently.
Hence here he is now, crawling out of whatever space he’s buried in. His body moving on autopilot to just get out before he loses air. Should he be worried about oxygen when he’s dead?
Harry clawed and crawled, as if swimming in slime and hoping you’re headed to the direction where you can get air, which is usually up (if he really is going up). It felt like a whole minute of digging upwards before he finally made it out. His hand shot up through the bed of dirt, and felt the cold, biting wind.
The rest of his upper body followed, he planted both his palms firmly on the soil and hoisted himself up until he had up to his waist above ground. Merlin’s beard, he was just under the dirt, buried like the dead!
Harry looked down to see his soil-covered hands, a frown instantly on his face. He patted himself clean, brushing off the bits of soil that clung to his skin and uncovered a surprisingly smooth surface underneath it.
He’s not wrinkly.
“Welcome back, Master.”
Harry looked up in shock to the black smoke suddenly materializing in front of him. Actually, it’s not even entirely smoke, with ribbon-like thin black strips swirling around itself. Similar to how the edges of Dementors blurred, there’s a vaguely circular entity floating inches away from him.
He hadn’t exactly expected St.Peter to greet him with open arms but—
“What—”
Harry was shocked to hear his own voice. He sounds young, and he is quick to figure out that he might be in a younger body as well. It did not take a genius to realize that either he is dreaming, or this is the afterlife he had been looking forward to.
That thing called him Master. Harry did not exactly own any elves that took on the form of black smoke and phantom ribbons, it doesn’t appear to be some form of pet either. Harry decided that getting the bottom half of his body out of the soil is the best move for now.
With a lot of effort, he pushed himself upwards and successfully dug himself out of a… Harry looked down to see the human-sized grave he just crawled out of. Ah, right.
“Who are you?” he asked the floating black smoke, hovering above the ground higher to level with his gaze now.
“I am known by many names. I am the final destination. I am the one to welcome you at the journey’s end.”
Harry pressed his lips into a thin line. “Death,” spoken with thinly veiled apprehension, “what is this?”
This is unlike the afterlife Harry had imagined. He was hoping something like the spectral white of King’s Cross Station again or maybe a curated world that imitated the land of the living but with brighter colours and rainbows.
But Death is here, so that must mean he’s at least close to the truth that he is dead and this is what comes after.
”This is your new life,” Death replied, like it was a sufficient answer.
Harry nodded slowly, holding back a sarcastic quip and looking down at the unmarked grave he crawled out of.
“By new life…” Harry turned back to Death, “did you mean that I just died and instead of reuniting with my loved ones, I am instead in another universe?”
Death’s hovering figure wobbled slightly as if amused or taken aback. “You are quite bright, Master.”
Is that backhanded or what?
”I have so many questions, but it’s hard to talk to some black ball of smoke, do you have another form you can take?”
Death seemed to consider that a bit before complying. Harry stood watching as the ball of smoke warped into the stereotypical image of Death in the Muggle tales. Black hood with no face, skeletal hand holding a gigantic scythe. Harry grimaced at the terrifying sight of it.
”Okay, maybe not that either,” Harry said.
Death didn’t say anything as it warped again, this time turning into… a cat. A black cat with bright green eyes mirroring Harry’s. It had short fur and thin limbs, like a very agile black cat that could probably leap 20 feet off rooftops and land gracefully.
It meowed once, but somehow Harry could understand it. He heard the meow loud and clear but the message was translated inside his mind, which he took two whole seconds to process. It asked if this form is most acceptable, and Harry decided that it is with a light shrug.
He neglected to question how he’s able to understand its meows, but that should prove helpful in a public setting where they have to talk and Harry can just be seen as a doting cat parent chatting with his feline child.
Harry bent down to pick up the cat before he could even stop to ask himself if that’s proper, because Death is not really a cat, he is just in the form of one. But whatever. He hasn’t made any move of scratching Harry’s face off, so he decided this is fine.
”Okay, so tell me—everything. Give me the run through.”
The cat looked up to meet his eyes and meow, purring as Harry stroked behind its ears as he listened to the cat talk.
The cat briefly reminded him that he conquered the Deathly Hallows, and he’s the first and only person to do so. The position never seemed relevant until now that he has died, saying goodbye to his original life.
Harry frowned as he absorbed the information that as the Master of Death, he cannot die. Not truly anyway. He can choose to go back to his original life, but he already had 200 years of it, and he cannot go back in time. He would just be returning to the life he left and that did not seem appealing.
”I’d rather not. My children would have already mourned me, my grandchildren too, and their own children.”
So that leaves the explanation of this new life. Death meows again, tilting its head to the side. Telling Harry that this is very much similar to his original world. The wizarding world remains hidden from the Muggles, but the time he has landed in is way far back before his own.
”What year is it?” Harry asked cautiously.
The cat replied that he’s currently in 1942. Harry’s expression was quick to drop into a scowl. Now that’s just bloody great! His own parents aren’t even born yet.
”Why 1942?” Harry asked, stroking the cat’s back, its body flexing instinctively against his touch. The cat answered that it’s simply because he wants to see how his master would navigate a life where he was placed in time with a young Tom Riddle.
Like that answers all the fucking questions he has. But Harry did not have it in himself to get mad at the cat. He might have jinxed himself when he agreed to have Death take on a cat’s form.
Harry looked to the now empty graveyard and raised a brow at the cat, “Now can you tell me whose body I’m inhabiting?”
The cat merely yawned and closed its eyes without giving Harry an answer. Harry exhaled through gritted teeth and contemplated the ethics of throwing a cat if it’s not really a cat but an eternal impossible being taking the form of one.
With a shrug, he looked around to find that a cottage was nearby. The most logical move now is to go there, maybe check if it’s empty and if it’s not—well, he’ll figure it out.
Harry walked up to the cottage and the door was slightly ajar. Before he could even knock, the cat in his arm informed him that it’s his residence. Telling him that he lived there with his aunt who he did not fully get along with.
That sounds familiar.
Harry walked right inside and shut the door behind him, he called out “Auntie?” and received no response.
“Can I at least know my name?” Harry asked the cat who only blinked at him.
“H-Harold?” A woman’s voice, laced with fear and uncertainty called out.
Harry’s head shot up to the source of the sound. In the corner of the cottage he can see a woman visibly shaking from fear, eyes wide as it stared at him. Like he was a ghost.
Harry facepalmed at the name and glared at the cat. “Harold? Really?”
The cat defended itself that he had no input on the matter, claiming it only presides in matters of Death. The terrible name could be blamed on his parents.
“W-w-what—H-Har—Oh!”
The woman is almost hysterical with the way she tried to grasp anything around her for stability. Like her knees are failing her. Harry frowned at her. His stupid name might be the least of his priorities when barely lucid aunt over there is having an episode.
So a not-so-sane Aunt, check. A similar enough name, check. He wonders what else is familiar. With that question in mind, he headed for what he assumed was the bathroom.
He was lucky enough to get it on the first try. He shut the door behind him and placed the cat on the closed toilet seat. It meowed to tell him he should wash himself.
Harry is covered in soil from head to toe. But even through that, he could tell that he looks pretty much the same, sans the glasses which he just now realized he could see without. Jet black hair, bright green eyes, though his lightning bolt scar is evidently missing as he searched for it.
Actually, all the scars he accumulated from his original life as Harry Potter are gone.
“But seriously, Harold?” Harry asked exasperatedly, the cat failing to respond.
Choosing to stop dwelling on it, he casted a quick Scourgify on himself and it was as if he never crawled out of a grave. So his wandless magic works just as well, and it seems his magical core is just as strong.
“What now?” Harry asked and the cat jumped off the toilet. It scratched at the door, asking to be let out and Harry complied. He opened the door and watched the cat move about the cottage with a purpose.
The woman is still in the same spot, watching Harry with bloodshot eyes and parted mouth. Harry is making a point to ignore her. Though he does take note of the fact that she looks similar to aunt Petunia, she probably has a similar flower-related name.
They both had short, curly blonde hair and icy blue eyes. Skinny stature and a very long neck to hold up that face sporting a shellshock expression.
Harry could argue that she’s probably like that because he had crawled out of a grave, but if this aunt is anything like his last one—he did not mind one bit scaring her this badly by his coming back to life stunt.
Harry followed the cat into what he assumes is his bedroom. Fitting for a boy his age, which he assumes to be around fifteen, if the appearance he saw in the mirror was anything to go by.
It’s simple, befitting the rest of the humble cottage but there’s posters here and there. Harry noted that they are of Muggle nature and some are Quidditch related. There’s a decent collection of books on wixen education, and there’s also some pages of drawings.
“What is that?” Harry asked when the cat slapped something off his wooden desk, an envelope landing at his feet. Harry bent down to pick it up, holding it close to his face, it reads like the Hogwarts letter he got from when he was eleven. But this looks different, probably a product of its time, and the name signed on the bottom is Deputy Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.
Well, hello again, old man. Harry grinned as he placed the letter back on the desk next to the cat.
“When do I go to Hogwarts?” Harry asked, sitting on the bed and watching the cat slap his books off the desk. “Stop that!”
Death complied and turned to look at Harry with its paw still outstretched to drop another book midway. It tells Harry that his transfer to Hogwarts should be tomorrow, as Tom Riddle’s fifth school year just started a week ago.
Harry makes a face at that. “If you wanted us to face each other on equal footing that badly, why not reincarnate me as a baby at Wool’s or something?”
The cat stretched and jumped on Harry’s lap. It purred as it explained that he did not want to tag along with a babbling infant who did not know its proper bearings as Death’s master. So he chose to put Harry in a grown body, one that conveniently checked all the boxes.
“So is this Harold a random person that just happened to die at the same time as me?”
The cat meows a yes. Which still doesn’t explain why he looks so much like Harry anyway, and the many similarities they have. But Harry decided to save that for another day, he’s running out of energy to process the many pieces of information he’s receiving.
Who knew that dying used up so much mental energy?
Harry landed on the bed, the cat crawling to sprawl across his chest. It tells Harry to rest, that tomorrow he will be appearing at Hogwarts and demanding they take him in. Harry snorts at that, as if he could actually do that and not get thrown out. The cat did not bother correcting him as they both drift off to sleep.
Harry heaved a sigh before walking up to the castle. It looks the same as it did when he first saw it, but it was hard to unsee the wartorn image of it as Death Eaters raided the castle and turned the school into their battlefield.
As he approached the main entrance, he spotted a man stood ready to welcome him. Albus Dumbledore, in all his very alive glory. Though instead of the long white hair and matching beard, he looks younger.
So much younger in fact that Harry struggled to reconcile the image of this younger, hotter, Dumbledore with the grandmother he knew. It felt somewhat wrong to admit how attractive he is right now.
Harry was far too busy struggling with his attraction to younger Dumbledore to realize how the man’s blue eyes widened in surprise at the sight of him.
When they received the letter yesterday that a student was seeking refuge at Hogwarts, they were more than willing to open their doors to him. The letter informed them that the child had private education until now, and would be more than happy to enter the wizarding society by attending school.
The letter was written by his aunt, or so it said. It detailed that Harold is a strange boy with even stranger habits due to his lack of socialisation so she hopes that putting Harold in Hogwarts would do his personality wonders.
She hopes that he could meet new people and form meaningful connections with his peers. Dumbledore and Dippet alike were touched by the story, they had replied back almost instantly letting the aunt know that Harold would be welcomed at Hogwarts.
He expected a shy, timid boy. He was prepared to accommodate Harold however he turned out to be but… this is entirely something else. Dumbledore felt his heart beating in his throat, and fear is not something that he had so easily in all his years of living.
The boy—no, it wasn’t even that—the thing that walked up to him is nothing like the letter suggested. It was as if the light from everywhere had dimmed, and the grass where he stepped died and was drained of all its colour as he went.
Dumbledore kept his composure as the creature stopped mere three feet away from him. Jet black hair like a starless night and terrifying green eyes that looked like the killing curse when struck.
He could feel the shiver run up and down his back at the sight of this… thing. Harold is too normal a name for something like this. But Dumbledore forced the name through gritted teeth. “Har— Harold Peters, right?”
The creature hissed with dissatisfaction, and Dumbledore struggled to keep his composure as he watched the terrifying creature mouth something incoherent. Looking at him feels like staring into an abyss, spiraling down and down and downward.
The creature wearing a young boy’s face grinned, the sight of it chilling. “Yes.”
Dumbledore’s many years of experience in education did not account for this.
Harry is honestly peeved. Harold Peters? Harold bloody Peters? What kind of fucking name is that anyway? Harold was already bad, but then Peters? If only Death were here he would strangle that cat.
He muttered a complaint under his breath and smiled up at Dumbledore, hoping he was playing the part of a polite young man. Because he is. And he wants to give a good impression, it’s been forever since he has last seen the old man.
He admits he missed him, even quite a bit.
Soon after the introductions were out of the way, with Dumbledore awkwardly introducing himself like he wasn’t sure he really was saying his own name (odd, Harry almost thought that he was already experiencing symptoms of his old age despite his younger face), Harry followed him to the Headmaster’s office.
Harry fortunately did not run to any students, it appears everyone is enjoying their breakfast meal before they head to their respective classes. He took in the interior of the castle, there’s a few small details that are different but nothing entirely foreign to him.
It surely was nice not to see a portrait or two of himself in the castle. He had been vehemently against it but the school committee were very much adamant on having a portrait of him displayed in the castle he helped restore.
Grimacing at the memory of that, Harry anchored himself back to his present.
He stalked behind Dumbledore as he was led up the stairs and into the office. There sat Armando Dippet, now he looks like a proper old man. Harry took a few seconds to look around the office, it looked different. Dumbledore probably did some renovations when he took over the post.
Once he was finished, his eyes landed on the man standing frozen behind his desk. Harry gave a small wave, “Hello, Headmaster. I trust you’ve heard so much about me.”
Yeah, from the letter he forged. He wrote it in place of his aunt, talking about himself with made up bollocks so he could explain his weird quirks that will surely turn up as a man out of time placed too far back in the past.
He died when Muggles were riding self-driving cars, now he’s in the era where cars are barely able to take you to another city within the day. It’s gonna take a lot to get used to, so he’s hoping that describing himself as a reclusive, homeschooled boy would do the heavy lifting for him.
If not then he’ll just make shit up later.
Armando Dippet has been an educator for more than a century and he’s been the Headmaster for over two decades now. And he truly prides himself for all the job he’s done, the many students he helped.
He values each and every children, he thinks there is always a potential waiting to be unlocked if you provide them the proper environment for it. Hence he prided himself in his work as Hogwart’s current Headmaster.
But not once, in his life, had he expected something like this to enter his castle.
Armando is no stranger to dark creatures, he has seen his fair share of them. Even unfortunate enough to witness a Dementor in person, but this is something else entirely. Possibly even more terrifying than a Dementor.
Because this one wore the face of a teenage boy, but there was no mistaking the darkness that wrapped around it. It looks normal at first glance. Stark black hair and bright green eyes, the longer he looked, the more he saw of it.
Of the darkness wrapped around it, like black smoke trailing after the skin it wore. Those eyes are too bright and electric to be real, to be human eyes. They looked like—like the killing curse’s bright flash when cast.
Armando subtly turned his head to see that Albus was already looking at him. The two wordlessly exchanged a conversation, trying to decide how to navigate their complex situation. There was no way he was going to allow this creature near his students but—how does he contain it?
It could very well be that the real Harold is inside that human shell somewhere, and if they turn it away now, it may never return and they would have allowed a young life to be lost.
The silence was growing more and more, the creature appeared agitated. So Armando clapped his hands together and put on a wide grin, welcoming the new student into his office and his school. He introduced himself, the feeling of it almost like an action taken without a thought put into it.
Like his body is moving while his mind floats off elsewhere.
“Here at Hogwarts, we sort our students into four respective houses using the Sorting Hat,” Armando explained as Dumbledore held up the grinning hat, “usually we do this every welcoming feat at the beginning of the year, but with your sudden arrival, it should be enough to get sorted in the privacy of my office.”
Harry nods along, acting like he has no idea about any of this. He almost thought they were about to reject him with that awfully pregnant pause. It was probably more than that, it was about to give birth.
But he allowed himself to act surprised at the hat and walked over to the stool next to Dumbledore and waited for the hat to be placed on his head. He had been a Gryffindor through and through during his first life.
But he’s lived many years and his experiences shaped him into a person that’s entirely something else. He isn’t foolish enough to believe he will be sorted into the same house. He’s no longer Harry Potter.
He’s Harold Peters now, as much as he bloody hates that awful name.
The hat is placed on his head.
“Hello… again.” Harry greeted the Hat hesitantly.
It was quiet for a whole minute, not even saying anything to him and he sat there dumbly waiting for something, anything. He almost took it off his head and asked, "Is this thing broken?” But that might be too rude as the Hat is somewhat sentient.
After what felt like forever, it finally answered. “You shouldn’t be here, whoever you are.”
Harry made a face at that, wow rude. But he’s not about to back down from a challenge. “I’m a student waiting to be sorted, so get to the sorting. You’re just delaying the inevitable.”
There is absolutely no need for theatrics. The Hat must be extremely bored to stall him this much.
“What do you seek? What is your purpose?” It asked.
If Harry was mad he would even say that the Hat sounded scared, but that would be impossible. It has nothing to be scared of, especially not Harry.
His purpose, huh? It wants to ask about his goals to determine which House would suit him best, it seems. Harry pondered for a moment. Death did not give him any instruction, just said he wants to see the absolute circus that would be Harry attending Hogwarts with young Tom Riddle.
Whatever he chooses to do whilst in the castle is entirely up to him. So he figured he could collect the founders’ artefacts himself and stash them away for safekeeping, then there’s the matter of the Chamber housing a deadly creature right under where students reside, and a literal Dark Lord in the making posing as a Prefect.
Harry finally answered the Hat: “I’m here to fix everything. There is a great debt to be paid, I have taken it upon myself to be the collector.”
Collect the founders’ trinkets, collect the Basilisk, collect Tom Riddle, collect the quiet and peaceful school life without war that he was owed. He has so much to collect, honestly. So he’s decided on that.
The Hat was quiet again, Harry almost thought it fell asleep. That was until it finally spoke, out loud this time for the two older men to hear. “I cannot believe this is happening and that I am doing this… but better be—”
Harry’s jaw dropped. There is absolutely no way he just got sorted in Slytherin.