Chapter Text
White.
Blinding, infinite, unyielding white. Harry Potter floated, fell, and stood all at once within a world that had no substance but its own emptiness. Gravity and direction were theories—his sense of self was the only fixed star. Somehow, he was drifting—and rooted.
The last thing he remembered was fighting against Voldemort, and then dying. After watching memories of Snape, he had come to the conclusion, which had been in his head for some time, that he was the last Horcrux. Then he had pulled his invisibility cloak over himself and walked towards the Forbidden Forest. He walked past everyone, Ron, Hermione, Ginny. He also walked past the dead. He saw Tonks with Lupin, hand in hand. They had left their little child in this world and made him the Godfather. He had thought that even he wouldn’t be there and saw a parallel between him and Sirius.
Finally, he had sacrificed himself for his friends and the whole magical world, and then he met Dumbledore in between, and then he returned. He played dead until he was brought back in front of the whole school and everyone, and then the fight started back again. He was fighting Voldemort at the center of the Great Hall, and somehow, he was struck again by one of his killing curses. He didn’t understand how, as he had dodged it. But now, he was here.
Only in this whiteness.
It was chilling. Harry looked down, heart pounding. He was naked—utterly so, not just in body but in soul. Panic gripped him, and memory crashed through: the self-consciousness of childhood, the fear of punishment after Dudley’s bullying, and then, oddly, the echo of Dumbledore’s patient gaze in King’s Cross Station after that first great death at Voldemort’s hands. He shuddered, longing for concealment, for a boundary between himself and this endless exposure.
Then he remembered the way he got clothes when he was at King’s Cross and shut his eyes and, with a desperate act of will, imagined jeans and a t-shirt—his old, favorite ones. When he looked down, the clothes were there. The fabric felt real, solid. His heart slowed, just a bit.
His legs then touched a surface, he was standing somewhere, a place with no end in view. He started walking. He did not know which way was forward, or whether the concept even existed, but he pressed on, shoes slapping softly on nothing. Time grew elastic. Maybe he walked for hours, or years. Maybe only seconds. There were no markers—just a longing to find something, anything, other than this sterile eternity.
Then, quite suddenly, the world changed.
The whiteness folded in upon itself, and Harry felt the world snap into place. He now stood within a vast, sprawling chamber, its marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. The ceiling arched out of sight; pale columns pierced the haze in regular procession. At first glance, the space felt like an impossibly large court—part majestic temple, part clinical waiting hall. Along long black benches, people sat in various states of agitation, nervousness, or resignation.
It was structured, bureaucratic—if the afterlife could be described in such terms. Still dazed, Harry found a vacant seat and settled, unable to keep from scanning the sea of faces. Some looked hopelessly alien, a few comfortingly familiar in direction if not detail. A massive pair of counters loomed up front, manned by identical figures dressed in neutral black. Every few moments, a bell sounded, and a name was called. A person would rise, move to the counter, be handed a paper slip, and vanish behind a set of double doors that cracked open, then closed with a distinct finality.
He watched, counting the minutes until—
“Harry Potter.”
The voice was neutral, brisk, and efficient. Harry startled. It took a second for him to realize it was his turn; heads turned, some curious, some apathetic. He rose, walking on legs that felt too light, to the counter. The attendant didn’t speak, merely pressed a slip of paper into Harry’s palm. He looked down: a room number. Before he could ask, the attendant pointed, silently. Harry nodded, gulped, and began to walk.
The corridor was short. Three black doors, unmarked except by elegant golden-brass numbers etched into black wood. He found his—112. Heart in his throat, he knocked twice.
A voice answered, crystalline and inviting: “Come in.”
Harry opened the door.
What waited inside was nothing at all like the stern, humorless figure he’d imagined for his death.
She was seated behind a sleek obsidian desk, legs crossed with careless poise. A platinum-white mane, cut in a sharp, jaw-length bob with an undercut so clean it gleamed, framed a face Harry couldn’t recognize, strangely, as if from dreams or a long-ago magazine. Her eyes burned violet—intelligent, playful, dangerous. Her lips quirked in welcome, dark as night.
She wore a fitted office suit, the navy jacket hugging every graceful line of her body, the skirt perfectly professional but nothing short of scandalous on anyone less divine. In the faint, not-there light of the room, her presence was magnetic—a star masquerading as human.
“Harry,” she said, her tone low and melodious, the name caressed, not spoken.
He swallowed. “Wh-Who are you?”
“I’m Death, in the flesh, more or less,” she replied, standing up. Even in heels, she was not tall—yet the room bent around her. “Not what you were expecting? And here I thought you’d be able to guess who I am.”
Harry opened his mouth, closed it. Found nothing to say at first.
“And by the way, this is not my real form, but for your sake, I have adopted a face from human life, she is called Ariel Winter on earth, or would be called. Well, doesn’t matter, time has no place here.”
Ariel gestured to a chair in front of her desk. “Please. Sit. This might take a while, and you’ll wish to be comfortable when we go through this whole mess.”
He sat, the chair impossibly soft, engulfing.
She leafed through a thick file on her desk, stacks of parchment, photographs, and a strange hourglass that turned itself every few moments.
“Let’s start simply,” she said. “Do you know how many times you’ve died, Mr. Potter?”
He stared at her. “Once? Sorry, twice. Just now, and when I sacrificed my life for my friends? Although I did come close to dying multiple times,” replied Harry.
Ariel’s smile tilted, almost sad. “Not even close. You are… a curiosity. A singularity, really. Believe it or not, the Chosen One. Would you like to know your tally?”
She let the question hang, then continued. “Let’s review, together, just so we’re perfectly honest, before we talk about the future.”
A gesture. Scenes floated in the air, nearly tangible.
“Your first death: The night you were left on the Dursleys’ doorstep. Your little body, wrapped in a blanket, hours in the cold. Hypothermia. You died before morning, you came here in this realm, and I sent you back, with a warming charm on you and the blanket on you. Dumbledore, in all his wisdom, had forgotten to add that, instead, he was busy meddling with your mother’s protection, but we will come to that later.”
Harry stared, not breathing. He felt sick. “I died….”
A second scene rose. “Your second death: Not much later, but it was when you were almost 5. Dudley pushed you down the stairs. You struck your head, falling badly. Internal bleeding. You bled out before your fifth birthday. Again, I sent you back, with no memories of here.”
Harry’s stomach flipped. He remembered the pain, a blurred fall. Uncle Vernon’s bellow. Nothing more.
“Your third death: Petunia herself, a frying pan. She caught you from behind, full force. Fractured your skull. You were gone by the time anyone found you. Same story, I sent you back. But from this time onwards, I started sending you a few minutes back with some premonitions, so you avoided death.”
Harry closed his eyes, but the images would not leave.
“You came very close to dying again by your relative’s hand, but your survival instincts had grown you lived. The fourth… Ah.Yes, your first year at Hogwarts. In the Quidditch match, Quirrell’s jinx worked, Severus was not able to counter it on time. You were thrown from the broom at speed. You died on impact before Madam Hooch even reached you.” Ariel tapped the photo, watching him blanch. “This time when I sent you back, I also sent a nudge towards Severus so he was more attentive, and was able to counter the jinx until Hermione lit fire on his robe.”
Harry remembered the pain. He had never told anyone how hollow he’d felt for weeks after.
Ariel’s gaze softened, sympathetic. “Your fifth death was in the Chamber of Secrets. You locked eyes with the basilisk before Fawkes even came, you died instantly. I was surprised you didn’t die again when I sent you back again, and you were trying to kill the basilisk with that sword. But yeah, I sent the nudge to Hogwarts itself, which in turn sent Fawkes and the Sorting hat on time for your help.”
Harry’s jaw trembled. As a 2nd year student and almost a brainwashed student to worship Dumbledore, he had thought it was Dumbledore who sent Fawkes and the Hat, but in the end, he was not. He didn’t know how many things Dumbledore had manipulated him and presented in a much more skewed way than they should have been.
She continued, gentle but relentless. “You came close many times—facing Dementors, Dragons. But your survival instincts, luck, fate, and intervention kept you going.” Then her eyes darkened. “Your sixth death was in the Fifth year. You followed Sirius through the Veil. You died instantly. Remus had tried to catch you, as you remember, but in this death, he was not able to catch you on time before you jumped through the veil. I sent you back just enough so that Remus can catch you, but not too before. Even I wouldn’t have been able to hear your scream for Sirius. He was the closest family member to you.”
Harry recoiled. It hurt to hear, but deep inside, it explained so much.
Ariel leaned forward, fingers steepled. “And your seventh death, the one you remember now. Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra, in the Forbidden Forest. You offered yourself because Dumbledore manipulated you that it was the only way. You believed, Harry, bless you, for far too long that sacrifice was your only weapon. He groomed you to be a martyr.” She sighed. “But even then, you were ready to die for others, not for yourself.”
“And last, you died again by a killing curse, a stray one coming your way. It was not Voldemort’s, because after you died, things went to hell, the resistance died and... well, let that be. It won’t come to that, because YOU will be going back again, to fix things.
Harry exhaled, shaking. “What does it all mean? Why am I here, really?”
Ariel stood, circled to his side, and perched on the desk. “It means you have been cheated out of your destiny. Every single time. Dumbledore, Voldemort, they are not your fated enemies, Harry. They are your jailors, your gaolers. Dumbledore most of all.”
Harry looked up, agony in his eyes. “But—he protected me. He—”
Ariel cut him off, voice like a bell: “No. He controlled you. Manipulated the Potter line, the Black history. Placed you in chains—physical, magical, emotional. He used potions to dull your will—love for Ginny, loyalty for Ron and Molly, the gentle mist of trust for every false promise. He allowed every death to shape you into a weapon—meant to break, but not to rule, only to die in the end. The thing he hadn’t calculated for was his own death. That’s why when he realised that he was going to die, he changed his plan a bit, not completely, as you were supposed to die in any of his plans.”
Her words burned, but Harry felt them root in his chest. The hours of blankness. The obligation that always weighed more than hope.
She continued, her voice wistful now. “But all is not lost, Harry. Not yet. There are always… pocket moments—gaps in time, cracks in fate, the seconds right before things went to hell. You could go back—farther than you ever dreamed—to a time just before disaster or not, in any moment of your life.”
Harry blinked, hope frantic and terrified inside him. “To fix things. To… choose again. To live a life you deserve and not the life you were forced to live.”
Ariel nodded. “And not merely to survive. To conquer. To break every chain. For the first time, you would be unbound—free from every subtle leash they ever wound around your mind or soul.”
She lifted a hand, and more visions spun before them: Harry, older, wearing black, eyes fierce. Rallying magical world, realms, lovers.
Harry frowned. “But I’m just—just Harry. I’m no one. I have nothing …”
Ariel’s laugh was musical, rich. “Is that so? Who would you be, Harry, if you had never been bound? What are you, truly?”
She stepped close, her presence suddenly smoldering with impossible energy. “You are powerful, even more than Dumbledore, Harry. Dumbledore suppressed not just your will, but your power, and also your birthright.”
“Your magic was bound by him, your capabilities. Your magical power was high even when you were just a one-year-old. You were able to summon your favorite toy and change the color of Sirius’ hair.”
Ariel’s lips quirked. “You are the true heir of the Blacks, the Potters, and Peverall, via Potters.
You’d also be able to claim the Slytherine line through your mother, she was a descendant of a squib line. Dumbledore lied when he told you that Voldemort transferred some of his powers to you. Because he himself didn’t know, he thought it was because of the Horcrux. Coming back to your birthright, their knowledge—every grimoire, every power, hidden from you because he didn’t tell you about them, and didn’t let anyone tell you about it. Your abilities, suppressed by bound magic and furthermore by keeping you ignorant of your heritage.”
She placed a finger on his forehead. Harry felt a pressure release: magic thrummed, wild and new.
“And your magic, Harry—greatest of them all. As I said, was bound by Dumbledore because he feared your magical power and potential. It was limitless. Do you remember trying to work on the Patronus Charm? You were able to perform it even when your magical core was bound. That’s why Dumbledore feared you more. Why the Weasleys bled you dry on his manipulations. Why every witch and wizard in your path either loved you, hated you, or tried to claim you.”
A single tear fell from Harry’s eye. “But why me? Why not someone else?”
Ariel knelt, fierce. “Because you are destined not for servitude, but for glory. To lead the people and the current magical society. All those deaths—they were not coincidences, they were sabotage, one way or another, to keep you meek and gullible, for when you were rescued, you’d follow the person who freed you from those conditions. The world is made of those who obey, and one who commands. But right now, that’s not the point. Moving on, forward now, you’ll understand everything.”
She half-smiled. “Also, you were never supposed to be alone, Harry.”
He looked up, confused. Her eyes twinkled, more knowing than ever.
“Usually, a person who comes with a destiny has one or probably two soulmates, but you were not meant for one or two soulmates, but many. Fate cannot constrain a destined wizard like yours.
You’d be familiar with Hermione, the mind that matches and challenges you. She had a crush on you since you saved her, but manipulations and your lack of interest pushed her into the hands of Ronald.
Daphne, the cunning match from Slytherin. She grew up reading the childish books about you, but she was cunning and knew the books were just fictional and not real. She wanted to befriend you, but Ronald was always there to push her away and her advances.
Luna, she has the sight, but she didn’t know how to recognise it. She was ecstatic when you took her to the Slughorn party, and she was looking forward to a kiss, but you left her there to pursue your own hunch on Draco.
Susan, well, in 2nd year, she was very convinced that it was you who was the heir of Slytherine, that’s very true, but not the same thing, right? Because it was not you, but Ginny, who was controlling a 1000-year-old Basilisk. Once it was revealed that even Hermione was petrified, she couldn’t show her face to you, and that’s why, when your name came out of the goblet in your 4th year, she supported you against any slander.
Fleur, well, she was older than you, and you did not have any direct connection with her, but once you saved her in the 2nd task, it also created a bond.
Tonks, she was also connected to you. When she saw you in your first year, she could tell you were not treated well, but Dumbledore prohibited her from reaching out to you, cause since she was still your family, distant but still family, it would have put a block in his plan if you had been removed from the Dursleys. And when she guarded you in your 5th year, again, she was not able to do anything on Dumbledore’s orders, and through some manipulations, she was pushed into Lupin’s hands.
All of them drawn to you by fate and destiny, yet pushed away by only one person’s manipulations and his greater good dogma.”
She leaned in, whispering. “Your magic will not let you rest until you claim them. And they, in turn, will grow too—magic, beauty, strength. For you, these witches are drawn to you, unable to look away.”
Now, she patted the file on her desk. “But there’s more. Until you sacrificed yourself, there was a Horcrux inside you too, it was by mistake or prophecy that I can’t say, but this time when you go back, you won’t have it.” She shuddered, disgusted. “Keeping it did no good to your mental health. You wouldn’t know, but the Horcrux was stopping you from learning Occlumency. You have a natural affinity to it because you also come from Black blood.”
Harry felt suddenly lighter. He would be able to keep others away from his mind. This thought gave him a lightness.
“And one more gift,” Ariel said. “When you return, the moment you kiss one of your soulmates, you will bond with them, and that bond means you’d be able to share your thoughts without even speaking, and if the need arises, you’d be able to share magical power with each other.”
Ariel shifted, standing, her aura growing even more luminous.
“Harry, you will return with all of your memories, and the magical knowledge you have learned so far. But the rest, you’ll have to learn. Being powerful doesn’t mean you can defeat Voldemort or Dumbledore, their experience itself will prove heavy against you, as is you are now. Learn, go to goblins, take their help. You have so much waiting for you. Your heritage, family magic, your birthright, your soulmates, and your destiny.”
Harry swallowed, mind racing. “But where, sorry, when, will I go? If I change too much, too soon, I’ll lose my advantage. But too late…it would be for nothing.”
Ariel held up a finger. “That is the question, isn’t it? If you go too far back, too much changes—your knowledge grows obsolete; your ideas lose context. Too late, and you’re already in their snares. This is a choice that must be considered—tactically, emotionally, and magically. We will plan your return together, Harry.”
She circled the desk, perching beside him. He could smell jasmine, starlight, the ozone crackle of chemistry, all at once.
“By the way, when you return, you shall have the allegiance of every Deathly Hallow. Technically, they are your family heirlooms, you can call them to you. When you call for them, they will answer, and you alone shall bear the title Master of death, In semblance at least, as Death has no master.”
A pause lingered. Harry swallowed, mind swirling with possibility and fear.
For a long moment, Ariel simply watched him, violet eyes ageless and hungry for history. “So, Harry. You have heard all of it. All the ugly, beautiful truth. Betrayals, powers, destinies, lovers, futures. Now… you must decide how you wish to live, for perhaps the very first time.”
Suddenly, she was beside him. She leaned in, lips brushing his ear, her voice as soft as thunder in the distance. “Are you ready to claim what you were denied—and take the world for your own?”
Harry’s mind reeled with revelations, waves of disbelief colliding with growing clarity. He hadn’t dared to ask about the people he thought he loved most—a hope lingering like a bruise, refusing to fade.
Ariel pulled away, her gaze bright with patience and a certain sadness. She drew in a slow breath, she was back at her chair.
“Harry… one last thing”
He looked away, jaw set. “What more could there be? Haven’t I lost enough?”
Her voice was a velvet knife. “Some wounds don’t bleed until you see them. The last chains are always the hardest.”
“You trusted Weasleys because you found a family in them, but not all of them are worth trusting. Molly followed Dumbledore’s orders and kept you from Sirius. Even when Ron and the twins rescued you, she got money out of it from Dumbledore, which he, in turn, got from your trust vault. Molly also brainwashed Ginny and Ron from their childhood, Ginny to become your girlfriend and wife, and Ron to be your best friend. Both of them weren’t bad, but under lots of brainwashing and manipulations.”
“They didn’t involve anyone because that would have become suspicious, and the older siblings were much too smart to fall into these schemes, well, except Percy, but he just wanted to keep Molly happy, and that’s why he followed her dreams of him getting a job in ministry.”
Harry’s breath caught. It was all so normal, he thought—so safe.
Ariel continued, voice strong but not unkind. “They kept you loyal, Harry. Subtly angled your adoration toward Ginny. Molded you to lean on Ron, to accept his flaws, and the cherry on top was, you accepted it all with open arms because you hadn’t experienced what an actual healthy household is.
Every word was a fresh cut. He remembered how he refrained from any physical touch, how he pulled away from any hug he slowly came to accept. He was deprived of physical familial love, and he didn’t know the difference or what familial love is, and they didn’t let him have it from Sirius, keeping him with Sirius when he was there.
“There were times, Harry, when you might have understood. Hermione nearly confessed her crush, and later her love for you, more than once. Your magic would have surged around her—real, raw, unfiltered. It’s why they doubled the doses after she challenged Ginny or questioned Dumbledore in fifth year.”
Harry’s hands curled into fists. “But… they were my family.”
Ariel’s lips softened. “They were the family you got by manipulations, they weren’t bad but not exactly good either, and not all were bad at all, but it was not the one you would have chosen, had you been free. Remember, true bonds only thrive in honesty. Yours were built with chains.”
The room seemed colder now, the realization settling with a weight heavier than any curse.
“But why?” Harry asked, voice hoarse. “Why all this effort?”
“Because you, Harry, will bring the world to a new era, and from your line will come another like you. A destined hero like yours cannot be left to chance, but the odds were played against you, and the prophecy that would have made it easier was interpreted very badly by the person it was given to. Dumbledore was supposed to be a guide to you and help you win against Voldemort, but his own ego and selfishness had blinded him. So now, he has become the very Dark Lord. It’s not just Voldemort, but also Dumbledore you have to defeat.”
Harry thought back: the headaches, the moments of red hot shame, a sudden, inexplicable urge to apologize, to forget, to surrender.
“He layered the potions and compulsions. Molly brewed them, Ginny dosed them, Ron watched over you when your will wavered, by the order of Dumbledore. Dumbledore… he wove the master enchantments, the ones that clouded your heart—turned you from Hermione’s side and poured you hopelessly toward Ginny.”
“Even when you were with Hermione on adventures, the revulsion you’d feel now and then… it was not yours. It was cast upon you.”
Harry’s eyes stung. “Then my whole life—my, my relationship, my friendship...”
“The love for other Weasleys was always yours. That’s why their friendship and companionship are the last memory you carry. True love can’t be erased so easily. But Ginny’s role—Ron’s too—was never what you thought. They can still be saved, but it would be a difficult path.”
He swallowed, the last fragments of denial bleeding away, replaced by silent resolve.
Ariel waited, deep empathy in her eyes. After a long silence, she rose and gestured, and the light of the room changed from cold white to a warmer, golden dusk.
“It is time to plan your return. Not too far back—to keep your knowledge sharp, but early enough to break the chains before they are set.”
Harry straightened, new strength coiling through his body. “When?”
“The moment just before the end of your third year. In the hospital wing, with Hermione. About to fly to save Sirius. All the old players are in place: Dumbledore is sure of his control, Peter Pettigrew is still at large, your true powers are locked, but your enemies think you’re just their pawn.”
She conjured an image between them: Harry, bruised and hopeful, Hermione by his side, Dumbledore watching as the hour turned.
“But your magical power would be unbound before you return, but you’ll have to train it.
It’s perfect, Harry. There you will save Sirius, but this time—you’ll nudge him to stay, to work with the right allies. You’ll let Wormtail slip away on purpose, I know it would be difficult, but you’ll have to, so that the threads of prophecy play out… but when you meet Voldemort in the graveyard the next year, you’ll be ready. Strong. Whole. More powerful than any wizard alive. Also, when you go to goblins, you can get access to the vaults, I mean the Potter vault and not your trust vault. You’ll have to get to your Account manager, from whom, you were always kept away, by another pawn placed by Dumbledore. Be careful, you’ll find something which will help you free Sirius.”
“But what about my soulmates?” Harry asked, heart thudding with anticipation and fear.
Ariel smiled, the goddess and the friend in one. “This is not a tale of instant answers. Each bond must be forged anew—slowly. Hermione is closest; you’ll sense the love between you once the chains are broken. Rest, you’ll figure it out. The love and bond will guide you.”
“It won’t be instant. You’ll have to struggle, but it will be worth it in the end.”
Ariel drew Harry up from the chair, holding him by the shoulders. “Are you ready, Harry? This is not just a second chance—it is the last and greatest. Every bond, every secret, every destiny will be yours. But you must seize it. You must want it enough to let go of the past—not just its chains, but its lies.”
He met her gaze. “I am ready.”
The room rippled, gold and silver swirling as Ariel stepped back. She pressed a quick kiss to his brow—cool, electric. The world trembled. His bonds were broken, his abilities would come to him soon.
“Then go. Live. Love. Rule. Make the world remember the name Harry Potter—not the Boy Who Lived, but the man who would conquer everything he sets his sight on.”
A door appeared behind her, black-edged and shining with memory.
“Step through and awaken. The world awaits your hand.”
Harry took a breath, pushed back every fear, and strode through the portal.
A rush of wind, a shudder of light—and suddenly, sensation: bedsheets, the antiseptic scent of hospital linen, sunlight cut by tall castle windows. He opened his eyes, Hermione’s voice nearby, her eyes bright with hope and concern.
He hadn’t gone anywhere yet. But this time, everything was different.