Chapter Text
October 31st, 2013
It was a long day.
That was Harry’s only thought as he got out of his robes and threw them on the couch. His body followed the navy blue clothing just a few seconds later, causing the old piece of furniture to emit a sad puff; the horrendous thing that probably was in this world longer than Nicholas Flamel. His eyes were fixed on the black ceiling, and not for the first time in the day, he wished he had time to renovate Grimmauld Place to look a little more… Homey. But, as he well knew, the wizarding world couldn't leave him alone for more than half a day, and this Halloween was no exception.
The auror had returned from Hogwarts after giving one more Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson as a favour to McGonagall, filling in for the actual professor. These extra lectures were so frequent that he was almost begging her to offer him the job as the Defence instructor instead of that twat Roger Davies. Balancing his career as a senior auror and substitute teacher for the quidditch player was getting harder, and he guessed he had to make a decision soon. Harry, at thirty-three, felt weighed down by his responsibilities and no longer as youthful as before. The letter in his last drawer was once again remembered, and he wished for someone to find and send it, putting a stop to his misery.
His lamenting was interrupted by the glowing form of the meerkat patronus. Every time it appeared in his off-hours, he wished to feed it to a snake. He grabbed a cushion and pressed it to muffle the groan of annoyance, but it did nothing to avoid hearing Head Auror Robards’ rough voice as it echoed through the floo and filled the room.
“Potter, I want the final list of contents of the crime scene vault tomorrow, the prosecution needs it to pin the heist on Heywood.” With its message delivered, the animal disappeared and left Harry alone to contemplate his misfortune. Not only had he dealt with rebellious teens vandalizing Diagon Alley in the morning and over-excited children all evening, but now he would spend the night cataloguing dusty artefacts and overbearing dark magic imbued jewellery. Oh, the glamorous life of the man-who-vanquished.
Harry feels his back crack in places he never knew could crack as he gets up from the couch and walks towards his office, stretching. He had a long night in front of him, and his body was going to thank him in the morning for loosening it up. The clock on his wrist showed that it was past ten, and he resigned himself to another late night and early morning. Harry wondered if, with enough intent, he could hex Heywood from Grimmauld and blast their smuggler ass to the next century.
Without getting the wand out of the holster in his arm, the auror lazily gestured his fingers to open the protected cabinet and levitate the warded boxes with pieces of evidence to his desk. After the war, Andromeda moved to Grimmauld so they could co-parent Teddy, thus Harry had taken the habit of locking nearly everything in his office to his magical signature, and it never really faded. The kid was Remus and Tonks’ son through and through. His curiosity towards dark magic almost took the boy to St. Mungus more than once, so they learned long ago to make dangerous objects as hard as possible for the kid to get his hands on.
Memories of his mishaps brought a smile to his face, and as he usually did on nights like that, Harry found himself thinking about the time when he had the little boy around the house all the time. At first, he had Andromeda to help — and Merlin knew he did need it at first — but losing both her husband and daughter took a toll on her, and combining the werewolf’s traits little Teddy had, it was just too much for her. Sooner than he expected, it was just him and Harry and the once-godfather, decided to do what he wished Sirius would’ve done with him so many years ago, and raised his godson as his son.
But now wasn’t the time to drown in nostalgia. If Harry wanted to sleep tonight, he needed to start working, so he wrestled these thoughts away.
Sitting down and grabbing his quoting quill, he went through the antiques while dictating his report, sorting everything into descriptions of visual and magical aspects, rareness, and danger levels.
“Vortex Box, danger level 11, dark wooden chest carved with elemental runes and equipped with silver clasps. Creates a wind rotation capable of originating tornadoes, cyclones, and great storms; magic smells like rain and brings pain to the joints in closeness.” Banned since the 13th century by the predecessor of the ICW, the Global Regents Council, and bringing another point of complaint to Dylan Haywood's ever-growing list.
“Iphigenia’s Flute, danger level 0, bronze concert flute. No magical properties are known, and historical significance is incalculable. Stolen from Italy’s magical museum in 2002 and considered lost until now.” The scratching of the quill was as certain as his voice, this was one of the objects he used in consultants’ speciality to identify, and Zabini was the best musical historical dealer in all of Europe. Harry thought it was just a random instrument, but the man had stars in his eyes looking at the flute and made the auror promise that he would check it out of evidence to return it to the museum. So, he returned it to the warded box and set it aside for later.
“Goblin jaw, danger level 6 to 9, jaw bone. Used in longevity rituals; magic is muted until activated by the ritual master.” Prohibited ingredient since the goblin rebellion in the 17th century, when Bedrod the Bearded avenged the murder and theft of his husband's jaw, killing 30 known wixen. Something he was intimately aware of because of Binns.
Harry’s magic opened the next box almost hesitantly and levitated the statue for closer inspection. The antique was as big as his forearm, made of black onyx, and depicted a woman’s body covered by a chiton. It was detailed in texture and jewellery and had a familiar aura that anyone in the wixen world would recognize. Harry deduced this one to be a figure of Hecate, the pagan goddess that was most known in Britain. She had many faces; to some, she was Freyja, Mórrígan, to others she was Kataḫzipuri, Hi’iaka, and many more names. For him, she was Lady Magic .
For some reason, his mouth dried as he started talking. “Hecate’s statue, danger level…” He assumed none, but something in his core disagreed, and he let out a tendril of his magic to touch the figurine and get a better feel of it and the strange magic around it.
And when they touched, there was no more.
*
Harry opened his eyes and closed them again when faced with a familiar shade of bright white. Fuck . He was dead again, laying on the floor of King’s Cross Station, like he did 15 years ago. He breathed slowly and figured that Dumbledore would be waiting for him a few steps away with cryptic words and condescending smiles, but deep in his heart he wished for another person to make the honours this time. Perhaps he could see Sirius.
“Rise, my child.” The voice that echoed on the station sounded like everyone and nobody simultaneously, he shivered with the raw power and obeyed without a second thought.
He found himself speechless and didn’t bother to ask who it was, as her identity was obvious. Harry felt his magic retreat to its core as his senses became saturated by her very existence. The woman's magic was so intoxicating that he could taste its sweetness on his tongue, hear it as a piercing whistle, and smell the shade of ozone that it had. The eyes fixed on him exposed a cowering inhumaneness, and he was forced to close his own once again to avoid the hurt of the brightness of her figure.
“You could be hurting less if you had accepted your title. The Death’s Champion cannot be compared to a deity, yet he still stands above a mere human.” The voice sounded as if it was simply amused.
“I have no interest in it. I want no part in immortality or more strange powers.” Harry couldn’t hold back his irritation, even knowing whose presence he was in. It was a tiring point of discussion between him and Ron already, and he wanted to refrain from hearing about it in his afterlife. Even sometimes in his dreams a warm and dark presence — whom he suspected was Death herself, but never dared to ask — tried to persuade him to put on the mantle, disregarding his repeatedly refusing.
The chuckle he heard in response seemed to make the floor shake like an earthquake, but he felt the power diminishing, allowing him to open his eyes again and stop feeling like his five senses were being attacked.
“Death was right when she told me you were entertaining. But this isn’t why you are here. Come, my child, we need to talk.” Harry couldn’t get a good look at her face when her appearance seemed to flicker every second, changing between features, skin tones and clothing. He could see a black-skinned woman with dark eyes and a sweet smile, and later a wavy-haired Mediterranean woman dressed like the statue from before, and the second after a pale Asian lady with traditional clothing and a red headpiece. Honestly, it was starting to give him a headache, so, instead, he focused on her eyes, where sharpness and vastness were constants.
“I’m dead.” It wasn’t a question because he knew the feeling, but he didn’t understand what was happening and why he was standing in front of the mother of all magics.
“Yes.”
“And…”
“And again, you have two choices, child.” Suddenly, he heard the train’s whistle getting closer.
“Go to the afterlife or go back and keep fighting? Is Dylan Heywood the next Dark Liege?” His voice was incredulous. That idiot; a thief, smuggler and dealer, with enough power to try to conquer the wixen world? There was no way they were a real threat.
“Very unlikely.”, she said, dismissing the idea as if it weren't concerning, and stepped close to get his attention. “But you are dead, child. When your magic touched my statue, it fed on it and created an explosion that destroyed your house. Nothing but the evidence you were sorting was kept intact. Your partner was able to retrieve them and get him arrested easily, Dylan will die in prison three years from now”.
He felt a little hollow hearing about his death in such a blasé tone. Harry would miss Teddy. His friends too of course, but his child… It hurt more than he could’ve ever imagined, even knowing that they would be reunited later. Especially because he knew what decision he would make; obviously, it was time to rest. He couldn’t keep escaping death over and over again. He missed Sirius, Fred, Remus, his parents, and all his friends who had died since then and he knew Ron and Hermione would care for Teddy like their own. His kid would be happy even without him because he'd be loved and cared for, unlike him when he was just a baby left with Dursleys.
Still, he couldn't help his curiosity, and the question escaped his lips without much thought. “Who needs to be defeated this time?”.
“The future.”