Chapter Text
For the first time in a long time, Harry rose with the sun, a feeling of gentle anticipation coursing through his veins like sweet champagne. His slumber of late was perpetually besieged by ghosts both past and present—no surprise, he supposed, given that the stack of pages lying on his desk constituted engraved invitations. He spared them barely a guilty glance as he dressed. Last night had been no different, but for the moment, at least, he felt wide awake, brimming with energy.
He was pathetically relieved to find Ver, dressed in her usual snow-white table cloth, rather than Trody waiting with his tea downstairs. Trody tended to scold if he slept too late, or woke too early, or ate too little at breakfast (and today he intended to skip breakfast altogether). Tea, however... He finished the cup in a few hurried gulps.
"Thanks Ver!" he grinned at his longtime housekeeper. "How are the preparations coming along? You sure you don't need any help? It's pretty easy nowadays to find someone for a couple of hours, you know."
"Yes, yes," she rolled her large tennis-ball eyes. "So you said the last time...and the time before that...and the time before that. These young elves nowadays, they're becoming as lazy as the satyrs and nymphs."
Harry chuckled. "Speaking of which, it's time we talked about your raise again."
Ver's forehead wrinkled in distaste. "You talk of nothing but my raise! How many pairs of socks do you think I need?"
"As many as you like. Branch into hats, maybe," Harry teased. "Seriously, Ver, you know I can't do without you, and that means you should be paid accordingly."
Ver snorted. "If you were to advertise for a housekeeper tomorrow you would have elves knocking down your door." But she seemed pleased.
"So, all the more reason you should keep me happy by taking a raise."
Ver apparently decided to distract him and take her revenge in one fell blow: "Ms. Gains fire-called."
Harry flashed to the pile of papers on his desk with markedly more guilt. He'd faced down the greatest Dark Lord of all time—surely he could take on one slave-driving editor, however formidable? But writing was hard! He gulped. "If she calls again, please let her know I'll get back to her tomorrow," he requested with as much dignity as he could muster, before handing Ver the empty teacup and stepping briskly (not fleeing!) out the front door.
The day outside was perfect, a warm breeze ruffling through his hair as he tilted his head back to look up at the wide blue sky. In the distance, waves crashed against a rocky shore. A white gull wheeled overhead, and for a moment he flew alongside it wingtip-to-wingtip, leaving his corporeal body a mere dot in a vast sea of verdant green.
How long had it been since he'd last flown? He shook away the temptation to summon his old Thundershear from whichever storage closet Trody had undoubtedly hidden it in. But today was a special day, and he hadn't given himself the day off to indulge in idle pursuits. He set off again at a quick pace—or what passed for "quick" for him these days.
He had to stop for a moment at the bottom of the cobblestone path to catch his breath. He definitely needed more exercise, if walking down his own garden path was enough to wind him. After breathing deeply of the salt-tinged air, he straightened and smiled at the sight before him.
A tiny grove of trees stood in a rough semi-circle against the deep blue of the ocean, leaves of all shapes and colors rustling in the sea wind. The largest, an elderberry tree planted nearly fifty years ago, was more than twice his height. The smallest had joined the grove just two years ago, though the sequoia sapling would one day tower over the rest. Tomorrow they would be joined by a new sibling—his granddaughter Clara's.
But first they would celebrate. He lifted his wand, and dimmed fairy lights flew out of its tip by the hundreds to attach themselves to the leaves and branches overhead. Come nightfall, the trees would glow almost as brightly as day. It took him less than an hour to fill the grove with his magic. It sang in his blood as strongly as it ever did, a joyful soul-deep thrum that he could never give up no matter how much his healer cautioned against overuse. Although—he smiled ruefully as he tucked his wand back into its sheathe and a tingling ache ran down both shoulders—his stamina wasn't precisely what it used to be.
He made his way much more slowly back up the stone path, veering down a well-trod side trail towards a gentle knoll with a commanding view of the grove below. A single mpingo tree, the oldest of them all, stood here, and he laid his hand against its gray sun-warmed bark in greeting. "Good morning, old friend. Fine day for a party, don't you think?" The tree's dense branches with their light green leaves waved as if in response. He took his customary seat on a upraised root and leaned his head back.
It was tradition for the child getting his or her wand to pick a restaurant for lunch; he had a little time yet before he had to make his way back to the house. "Lily picked Fortescue's, you know. The boys ate so much ice cream they turned green whenever they saw any for the next six months. I wonder if she told her daughter that?" he chuckled. "I rather hope Clara takes after her uncle Teddy's side, wand-wise. I'm quite fond of you exotic species, even if I have to bribe Neville for help with keeping you alive." He patted the root, smiling. "Although I don't suppose anyone in the Potter-Weasley-Lupin-Scamander-Krum clan would have an affinity for Japanese maple..."
His arm was aching again; maybe he'd over-extended more than he'd thought. Did he have time for a tiny nap? Ver knew where to find him if she needed anything. Just for a few minutes.... Harry closed his eyes.
He awoke to bright white lights arching overhead against a roof of rectangular glass that was instantly familiar to him. He felt no surprise; it was as if the intervening seventy-odd years were already falling away, receding into memory and mist. He stood slowly and approached the tracks. A train stood placidly waiting before him. It looked sleek and modern, its brushed chrome sides gleaming and spotless. As he approached, he saw that it hovered a few inches above the tracks, like the maglev train he and Ginny had taken that time she'd been invited to play with the Tokyo Snow Cranes.
He wondered what it meant. Was he so ready to move on that he'd conjured a bullet train to take him away? Poor Ms. Gains was going to be furious with him for leaving her with half an autobiography. And Clara. He hoped he hadn't ruined her special day with his untimely departure. What was it Ginny had said of him? "Time enough for all the world except his own?" Maybe he should have added that to the book.
He went slowly to an open carriage door. Was someone coming to meet him, like the last time? Or should he simply climb aboard and let the train take him wherever he was supposed to go? Was he supposed to go? Or was this indecision a sign that he was not yet ready? Before he could make up his mind, someone (or something?) stepped off. It—he wore a long black cloak, and a hood completely covered his face. He carried a scythe as tall as he, its silver blade gleaming wickedly beneath the artificial lights.
Harry blinked. So Death actually looked like every child's book depiction of him ever written? "Um?" Yeah, that was a fair description of what he was feeling right now. Also, "I mean, really?"
Death gave an aggravated-sounding sigh. "Humanity's capacity for blaming its own lack of imagination on others never fails to astound me," he complained in a mournful baritone that sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of a well.
Harry took a moment longer to parse this than perhaps he should have. (He was literally facing Death, after all!) "So...you look like this because I expect you to look like this?"
"An over-simplification, but essentially—yes," Death replied.
"Aren't you supposed to be—er, scarier?"
"Are you scared of me, Harry James Potter?"
Harry considered this for a moment. "No, but I also didn't think I'd be meeting you quite this soon."
"Ah," Death murmured, and Harry had the distinct impression that he was smiling beneath the hood. "Quick to the point, I see. Very well. I have a business proposition for you."
Harry felt his eyebrows rise to what remained of his hairline. "A business proposition?"
"Allow me to explain. You know, of course, that time is not a straight line, that your actions and those of others can cause it to circle back on itself, to splinter and warp, to create a whole new history radically different from your own. What you have no way of knowing, at least from the inside, is that although you can create those splinters and tributaries of time, and to visit them as you might an exotic destination, they do not cease to exist once you leave them. Yes, in other words—" Death nodded at Harry's stunned look— "there are universes in which Hermione never marries Ron, never becomes Minister for Magic; universes in which Lily and James are not betrayed by Peter Pettigrew, and so survive. There are universes in which you die too soon and Voldemort reigns supreme."
Harry swallowed past a suddenly aching throat. "Why are you telling me this?" he whispered.
"You already know of one such universe," Death continued. "You saw Scorpius Malfoy's memories of it. Shall I tell you what happens after he leaves? Dementors devour Severus Snape's soul. Voldemort captures Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. He burns her at the stake and tortures him to death. Long, bloody years follow in which Voldemort rules unchallenged through his daughter Delphini. He grows increasingly bold, finally revoking the Statute of Secrecy and declaring himself supreme dictator of all life on earth."
"Stop," Harry choked out, his heart beating so fast he felt light-headed, but Death ignored him.
"Muggles and Wizardkind alike come to me in heaving, faceless torrents. But Voldemort underestimates the Muggles, as wizards often do. Unified against the chains of magical oppression, they begin to study the laws of magic with underground Wizarding allies, secretly sharing their knowledge through technologies Voldemort does not deign to understand. Eventually they learn enough to contain magic, to nullify it, to shield themselves against it. Then they bring the battle to Voldemort."
"Do they win?"
"Yes. Though they lack to means to find Voldemort's Horcruxes, they are able to neutralize him, to cage him and seal his magic. Then they turn against the rest of Wizardkind."
"Stop," Harry pleaded, louder this time, his voice ragged and harsh. "I know how this story ends. You don't need to tell me the rest." As Death obligingly lapsed into silence, Harry swallowed against nausea and struggled to slow his pounding heart. "Just—what is it you want from me?"
"I want you," said Death, "to change the story. Every death is a doorway. Your death and the death of the other Harry form a gateway to that timeline. The magic you have remaining to you in this lifetime is energy I can use to send you there."
"So you want me to stop Voldemort in that other timeline?" Harry questioned, bewildered. "But why? Don't you want to claim all those people he murders?"
Again, Harry had the impression that Death smiled. "Do you really think anyone can escape me, in the end? I do not reap corpses, Harry—I reap souls. Can you imagine the souls that Voldemort sends to me? Poor tormented things, cowering and stunted. The therapy alone overshot my millennial budget by six hundred seventy four percent. Point three five eight six. But who's counting?"
"Uh." Had Death just made a joke? Harry decided to carefully edge away from that question lest he started laughing hysterically until he cried. "So you can send me to that other timeline to repair things, but what if I just want to be done? I've been the hero once already—I've lived my life; isn't that enough?"
"The decision is yours, of course." Death inclined his head. "But I have seen your regrets, Harry. They shadow your brightness like flies on a light bulb." He looked pointedly upward.
Harry refused to follow his gaze to see if there were indeed flies swarming around the lights above. "You mean, I can save—" After so many years, he still found it difficult to say the name. And in fact, he realized, that was why he'd been driving his editor so much to distraction with missed deadlines lately.
Death nodded. "You have that chance. You have a chance to change many things."
Harry paused, but the conclusion was foregone. Something in him, deeply buried beneath years and layers of guilt and remorse, was opening its eyes and chanting softly, "Yes, yes, YES."
Death nodded at the open door of the train. "Shall we discuss the details, then?" He sounded amused; perhaps he, too, could hear that voice now singing its victory song. The manipulation didn't have to be subtle when you held all the aces.
"By the way," Harry asked curiously as he fell into step beside Death, "what did you look like when you met Dumbledore?"
As the train began to leave the station, Harry smiled and sipped a perfect cup of English tea across from a resigned-looking purple flamingo wearing a tiny green felt top hat.