Chapter Text
Harry Potter was a ripe 203 years of age when he greeted Death as an old friend, surrounded by family and loved ones. It was life filled with everything that made a life worth living. Love. Happiness. Adventure. Strife, adversity, you name it, he did it. It was an amazing and fantastical life worthy of the Master of Death.
Death, the primordial entity, loved Harry as if he were their own son. They had chosen the boy from birth. The last surviving Peverell deserved a grand life. A magnum opus to their favored family (Death was the Peverell’s patron deity, after all, and called upon them frequently over the generations to restore balance as needed).
Yes, Harry Potter had a grand life. He was the tragic hero who came out on top kicking and screaming to the end. Powerful, but never craved power to Lord over others but to protect. Humble. Steady. He was everything Death imagined him to be as a babe and more. As he should be, given the title he had earned through Fate’s designs.
(For the record, Death did not ask Fate for Harry to gather the Hallows, they merely wanted Harry to have an epic life, but Fate was ever the sneaky deity and snuck that bit in there knowing the parental affection Death had for the babe).
So, as Harry Potter lived his life fully after destroying the Elder Wand at the end of the war, the young man thought nothing more of the title “Master of Death,” because he rejected that power… right? It would be silly anyway… Death has no master. The entire uniting the Hallows thing really didn’t cross his mind much after breaking the wand in half (Death had clapped gleefully when their master resisted the temptation because of course their master would, he was the noble sort).
But little did Harry know, the acts of snapping the wand and abandoning the stone were what cemented his title into the very essence of his being. The old saying, “those who do not seek power are qualified to hold it,” was especially true for Harry. He had shown that through his actions time and time again.
So, as an introduction to fulfilling his duties as Master of Death (which boils down to maintaining balance in worlds on the brink of apocalypse), Death wanted to reward him with Power. Capital ‘P’ power because of the massive boost in his core capabilities.
Death told him it would make him a minor god. Harry immediately wanted to reject, but out of respect to the deity, he listened (or more like allowed Death to send feelings and images to him since actually hearing the primordial entity speak would likely turn him insane).
Apparently, a minor deity of chaos died (was justifiably murdered by his ‘benevolent, angelic creations,’ the rulers) and made a mess of things. Typical Tuesday, really. But there is an earth on the brink that had been reset multitude of times because of apocalypse. Death knew their Harry would be able to sort it right out.
Harry had lived 203 years, but at his core, he was still Harry Potter. A man whose formative years groomed him to have a savior complex deeper than the Mariana Trench. He would feel guilty if he didn’t take the offer and this earth was destroyed.
So, Harry accepted, and Death send feelings of smug satisfaction like he knew the answer all along.
“You are allowed to have Power, Harry. You, of any, are worthy.”
Harry wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. He knew he could withstand the temptation of corruption from overwhelming strength. He’d never become Voldemort, or Dumbledore for that matter. He was no puppet master.
So, Harry was reborn as Sung Jin-woo in this new world with vivid knowledge of the apocalyptic events to come.