Chapter Text
Harry Potter had been through a lot in his short life, far too much for his age, but he could never have predicted that the end of the world would be part of it.
Three long years had passed since the end of the war against Voldemort and his followers, and yet the world had still ended up being destroyed, even if some time later. In the weeks that followed, he had chosen not to get involved in the political reconstruction or the power struggles that had followed the collapse of the British wizarding world. For despite the loss of the Death Eaters and their master, when they fell, the entire system of organization fell with them, so deep had the corruption and rot been.
And the few men and women of power who remained had been unable to keep everything afloat. Many expected him to be the one to take care of it, but he had neither the desire nor the courage. For the first time in his sad life, he had truly chosen to say no and be selfish. How could he have predicted that this would contribute to destroying everything he knew?
But Harry really didn't want any of it, not more heavy responsibilities on the shoulders of a young adult who hadn't even had the freedom to enjoy his childhood and innocence. He didn't want a position of power or control, especially knowing what the obsession with control did to human beings. Rather than remain at the center of a world that still expected him to be a symbol, he had set off alone, preferring to become a silent witness rather than a reluctant leader. Because he was not meant for that.
He left Great Britain shortly afterwards, hoping that no one would try to follow him. He knew that some were waiting for him, convinced that he would eventually take his place again, accepting a role as a guide or some kind of twisted moral guardian, like Dumbledore had been. But the idea exhausted him. He had already given too much and lost too much, the death of the only family he could ever have had, Sirius, still too fresh in his mind despite the passage of time.
Still, he kept a discreet ear open to the events of the world, not wanting to be completely blind to them. The most influential members of post-war England, such as Kingsley and even Hermione, had struggled to put measures in place to contain the damage and repercussions of the war. Some blood purist groups had been particularly difficult to deal with, remnants of Voldemort's supporters, wishing to finish what he had started.
It was because of them that it all started, after all. They quickly grew tired of trying to bring down the already crumbling edifice that was the English magical community, and chose instead to pour oil on an already raging fire.
A few weeks later, a series of magical attacks struck across the globe, killing thousands and causing the deaths of several influential people, including the president of a fucking country. And with so few actions, these morons had done what even great wizards, crazy but powerful, like Grindelwald, had failed to do.
They had reduced the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy to ashes, loudly and proudly revealing the existence of magic and wizards to the entire world.
The reaction of the Muggle governments was swift. It was brutal, chaotic, and deeply human in its predictability. Fear preceded understanding, and understanding never really came. Harry felt that he couldn't technically blame them when wizards had been the first to attack. All these governments, caught off guard despite many of them being aware of magic, had initially been overwhelmed by disbelief before falling back on their most ancient reflexes: identify a threat, name it, then attempt to crush it. In the eyes of the non-magical world, wizards were not discreet neighbors who had been living in the shadows for centuries; within a matter of days, they had become an unknown force capable of striking anywhere, anytime and without warning.
And with a force that most of these people considered an abomination... as if things hadn't changed much since Salem and that whole sad era. Various religions had quickly condemned magic and those who practiced it, which didn't exactly help to paint them in a favorable light. It was almost ironic that the only way for countries around the world to stop fighting each other was to redirect their hatred towards them. A common enemy, and the miracle was accomplished.
The first few weeks were marked by a heavy silence, with neither side doing anything. The various magical communities had attempted to negotiate and dispel the confusion, explaining that these attacks were in no way a declaration of war and that they had no intention of provoking one. But, of course, that didn't work at all. How could there be dialogue when the mere existence of one side challenged the other's worldview?
More violent conflicts had quickly erupted. Harry didn't really know where or when it had started, but the repercussions were disastrous. Wizards were powerful, yes... but Muggles were so much more numerous and technologically advanced. And this superiority had quickly become cruelly apparent. Satellites, drones, global surveillance networks: traditional magical concealment was powerless against such tools. Protective spells, designed to divert human attention, proved useless against machines that had no minds to deceive or fears to exploit. Magical enclaves, like Diagon Alley, once invisible, were tracked down, and immediately targeted. The first strikes had been surgical, almost cautious. Then, in the absence of a clear surrender, they became systematic.
They were like rats, unable to really fight back. A Protego spell was effective, but against a sophisticated weapon that could fire hundreds of bullets very quickly? And against several soldiers? Usually, it wasn't the wizard who came out alive.
Oh, many had tried to resist, but they were not prepared for a war of this magnitude. Magic excelled in duels, in one on one fight, which of course didn't happen often when not against other wizards. It had never been designed to counter a barrage of guided missiles or weapons capable of destroying an entire city from a distance. Every magical victory was followed by devastating reprisals. Each attempt to demonstrate strength only fueled an ever faster and more indiscriminate cycle of violence.
Fear created violence, which in turn generated more fear and more anger... a vicious and violent cycle from which neither side (and how sad it was to have to divide humanity into two sides) could escape.
This kind of senseless slaughter and fighting lasted for two years, destroying so much, with the magical population declining at an alarming rate. It was also at this point that the war changed its face.
And not for the better.
Of course.
Cornered and panicked, convinced that they were facing imminent extinction, some wizards had crossed a line that even the worst conflicts of the past had not pushed them to cross. Forbidden spells, long relegated to law books as 'Prohibited from Use', had resurfaced. Among them was the Fiendfyre. That damn cursed fire, which had already nearly killed Harry once. A devastating, uncontrollable, almost living magic, whose mere invocation was as much suicide as it was the ultimate weapon. Where Muggle bombs razed, Fiendfyre devoured. It destroyed everything in its path, leaving behind dead, barren areas that were impossible to repair. No wonder when it was one of the few things capable of destroying a Horcruxe.
This was the breaking point for many.
This war was no longer a struggle for survival or domination, it had become a stupid race toward complete annihilation. Muggles responded with increasingly heavy strikes, some even convinced that they were now facing some kind of demonic force. Wizards, even those who had once sworn to be part of the 'light', were gradually losing what morally distinguished them from their enemies before. Each side justified its atrocities by those of the other. And in the midst of it all, the planet itself was beginning to collapse.
Harry had continued to watch all this from afar, unable to look away, unwilling to ignore and, worse, forget these images. He had watched the world fracture under the conflicts all this time. So many deaths, innocent women and men, children who would not have time to grow up.
Human beings in all their sad nature.
Destroying themselves, and in doing so, causing the end of the world. For where magical fire and bombs killed as easily as a scythe reaps wheat, the environment was also affected. The seas boiled, natural disasters struck even more than before, and thousands of animal and plant species ended up in ashes under the boundless hatred of Human Kind.
He had stopped counting the number of Fiendfyres he had had to control, having become an expert at manipulating and putting it out over the months.
What haunted him most was not the destruction itself, but the helplessness it evoked. Magic, which he had learned to see as a gift, capable of so many wonderful things, had become a weapon... It was so tragic. Worse still, it was becoming a catalyst, accelerating the fall rather than preventing it. Harry had understood then, with painful clarity, that this conflict had never really been between Muggles and wizards. It was, as always, between beings incapable of coexisting with what they did not understand.
Like so many times in the past.
It was sad to see that this was what the world had been reduced to.
And there he was, alone in front of a city in ruins, ravaged by flames and so, so empty. Empty of life and... everything, in fact. All the people he had known were long dead, most of them from the very beginning of the conflict. He had mourned them, but there was nothing he could do to change that.
He sat down gently on a rock at the foot of a hill, charred trees behind him. He had closed his eyes for just a few minutes when he felt the change, the heavy heat that was now natural in the environment replaced by an icy wind, heralding the arrival of an ancient being. It was a sensation he had felt so many times before that he wasn't even surprised. After all, he was familiar with it, with its cold touch. More than anyone in fact.
“You look tired,” said a strange voice, like a mixture of several voices intertwining, a mixture of low and high tones. “Yet you didn't fight in this war.”
Harry didn't turn to look at the figure he could sense behind him, exhaling softly. “What's the point? Not only would it have changed nothing, but I'm tired of always having to fight.” He closed his eyes, letting the cold surrounding this being caress his skin. “At least I don't have to feel guilty about taking lives with my own hands this time.”
The stranger chuckled. “Indirectly, you still did, by doing nothing.”
Harry reopened his eyes, looking at the other ‘man’ who had moved in front of him. He wasn't sure what to expect, but honestly, it wasn't this. When he had imagined what Death might look like, other than being some kind of abstract concept, he had pictured it dressed in long, flowing black robes, with a skeleton head, a bit like the Dementors... yes, not very imaginative. Or subtle. And yet, the form before him was much more complex and strange.
His face was pale, too pale, carved with a perfection that could not exist in a human being. His features were sharp, unchanging, frozen in terrifying serenity. His eyes, however, were irresistibly captivating. They were not black in the usual sense, being completely black, void of anything, freaking abysses. No irises, no pupils, just darkness, like black flames devouring life itself. Two black horns emerged from his skull, smooth and curved backward, like polished obsidian, embedded in the flesh, rising like a dark crown.
His arms, partially exposed beneath the sleeves of his black tunic, were covered in dark scales, layered perfectly. They glistened faintly, gently reflecting the few rays of moonlight. At the tips of his hands stretched long, curved, terrifying black claws. Not that this thing needed to use them to cause death... After all, it was technically death incarnate, wasn't it?
“You took your time,” Harry said calmly. “And, I know these are human clichés, but weren't you supposed to be a woman?”
The god sneered. “I am far older than such concepts, young master. Death is my domain, but I have many names and many appearances.”
Harry ignored the way he had been addressed, for now. “What should I call you then? I can just keep calling you ‘Death,’ you know?”
His two pools of infinite darkness rested on him. “Balerion. That is what you will call me. It will help you acclimate.”
“Acclimate to what?”
A silence stretched between them, almost palpable. The non-existent wind seemed to freeze, as if even the world was waiting for the answer. Balerion tilted his head slightly, and the surrounding cold intensified immediately, biting and deep, not the cold of winter but that of forgotten graves and dead stars.
For even stars eventually died.
“There isn't just one world, Harry Potter. There are countless others. Some are very similar to yours. Others are so different that your mind would struggle to comprehend them. Some worlds are ruled by magic, others only whisper of it. Some worlds are still intact, others are already doomed.” He uttered these last words as he glanced around at the desolation surrounding them.
“And how does that concern me?” he asked, standing up.
Balerion stopped a few steps away from him. The depths of his gaze anchored themselves in Harry's green eyes. “You are... special,” he continued. " You have crossed my domain without staying there, more than once. You have carried my relics without ever seeking to possess them, unlike so many others. You survived where you should have joined me, and you refused, again and again, to become what others expected of you.“ A low chuckle vibrated in his chest. ”You became the Master of Death."
Harry laughed briefly, without joy. “I have never been the master of anything. Not even of my own life.”
“Well… you are right, for I have no master,” he corrected. "Death bows to nothing. But you are an exception. And as such, you are entitled to... gifts. Because, as my dear brothers and sisters liked to point out to me, you are the closest thing I have to a ‘chosen one’. And you have to gain something, don't you? So that all this suffering hasn't been for nothing?"
Harry never wanted to be called that again, in his entire life. Or whatever was left for him anyway.
He raised a scaly hand, and the air cracked around his claws. Not a violent tear, but a gentle opening in reality itself, where images began to overlap: unknown skies, virgin lands, civilizations still young, majestic flying creatures, worlds where war had not yet left its definitive mark.
Not like in this one.
“I want to offer you a way out," said Balerion. “Not a rebirth. Not oblivion. You will go as you are. With your magic, your history and all your delightful scars. You will not be cleansed of your sins and memories, however painful they may be. My brothers Shrykos and Vermax can give you that gift.“ He made the strange images disappear. ”A world in which you will be neither chosen, nor hero, nor any kind of symbol. Just a traveler. Free to walk, to observe and learn... or to ignore. Honestly, you can do what you want."
Harry felt his heart sink. The idea was both terrifying and dangerously tempting. It was selfish, but what did he have left here? “And this world?” he couldn't help asking in a low voice.
“Do you know how many people are still alive here? ” the God replied. “Apart from you, of course.”
“Do I really want to know?”
“Forty thousand, seven hundred and twenty-nine people.”
Oh, fuck. Harry had to take a step back to keep his balance. The number echoed in his mind with a dull violence, far more devastating than what he expected. Forty thousand. Not millions. Not even hundreds of thousands. A handful of souls scattered across a ravaged planet, condemned to survive in a world that had nothing left to offer, not even the illusion of a future.
And all of these deaths in just three little years…
“So few...” he murmured, his soul heavy.
“Indeed, and in a few years there will be no one left, because no one can live and survive in a dying world.”
“If I leave...” he whispered, “they will die?"
“Yes.”
“And if I stay...”
“They will still die anyway,” he added without the slightest emotion in his voice. What was a handful of lives to the god of Death, after all?
Harry closed his eyes. He had fought to save the world, even if he had refused to take part in another even more pointless war... and now he had to accept that there was nothing left to save. He had known this for a while, but it still hurt.
“You call that a gift,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “The last survivor...”
“I call it a final choice,” Balerion replied. “A luxury that few beings get before the end. Besides, if you accept, you won't exactly be the last living being in the world...”
“How so?” he asked curiously.
Balerion sighed, which was strange coming from a god. “Many of my siblings refuse to let all their creations in this world disappear completely…” Seeing the wizard’s confused look, he continued, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “I'll give you two weeks to save whatever you can, magical creatures, potions, plants, and all that, before I put an end to it all.” He stared at him heavily, his abyssal gaze seeming to swallow his soul. “But no other humans.”
Harry took a few seconds to digest this, before asking what had been troubling him since the beginning of this strange discussion. “What kind of world do you want to send me to? And why?”
Balerion chuckled softly, revealing sharp fangs. “This new world is much more medieval than yours,” he replied. Its structures are simple. Very crude all in all. Made up of Kingdoms, lords, swords and broken oaths. Magic is wilder here, less theorized... and much less understood. Compared to what you know, well... let's say that no one possess your kind of magic there." He took a few steps, slowly, as if mentally tracing the contours of this other universe. With each movement, the shadow of his robe shifted, the shadows flowing around him. “A cruel world, too,” he added. “Perhaps even more so than yours. There, death is a daily occurrence. It is not hidden behind numbers or speeches from some rotten politicians. It walks the streets and the battlefields. So much death at all times."
Harry frowned. “So you want to send me from one hell to another.”
Balerion slowly turned his head toward him. “No. I want to send you to a world that hasn't fallen yet. Let's just say that this one is also destined for destruction if nothing changes, and my siblings and I are particularly fond of this one.” He smiled slowly, reaching out his hand, his dark claws gleaming menacingly. “Do we have a deal?”
Harry stared at the outstretched hand, before his eyes left the dark claws for a moment to lose themselves in the dead horizon, in this world reduced to a silent carcass. He felt something contract painfully in his chest, an old, familiar pressure. Guilt. He had so much guilt inside him, sometimes devouring him from the inside. Making him wonder of everything he could have done differently... or just done.
“All my life, I was told I had a choice,” he said. "And every time, that choice came down to the same thing: stay. A child forced to fight and suffer, to do things that no man, even less a freaking child, should have to do. Because if I left... someone else would pay the price. It was never really a choice after all." He faced the god. “And now you're asking me to do the exact opposite. To turn my back. To leave while this world dies. How can you expect me not to call that selfish?”
Balerion's smile faded slightly. “The selfish thing, Harry Potter, would be to stay to ease your conscience. What good is staying here? Do you really want to be the sad guardian of a graveyard? Guilt is the ultimate chain for survivors. You haven't even been able to live your own life, have a family, and just live for yourself... I'm giving you that chance, you'd be a fool not to take it.”
Harry thought about it for a long time before reaching out his hand, his skin touching the icy scales of the God of Death, not knowing what awaited him. “You know,” he finally said, his voice hoarse but surprisingly steady, “among Muggles, we used to call that a deal with the devil.”
⚡︎ ⚡︎ ⚡︎
Exactly two weeks later, Harry stood in the same place, once again facing Death itself.
“It is high time I put this world out of its misery,” Balerion declared softly, his right arm raised slightly. And Harry watched with morbid fascination as dark eyes and blood-red and black flames engulfed his arm. “I hope you're ready, Harry Potter, ready for all the lives you're going to change, for better or for worse. For the deaths you'll prevent and those you'll cause.” A morbid smile spread across his lips, revealing his monstrous fangs. “In any case, it will be fascinating to watch.”
Before he saw his world disappear around him, like a simple sheet of paper burning in the flame of a candle.
And he fell.
The stars and space stretched out before his eyes, and he fell, fell... endlessly. Abandoning his world, unaware of what awaited him in the next.
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⣿⠀⢸⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣾⡟⠁⠈⢻⣷⣸⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣧⠀⣿
⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⣷⣀⣀⣸⣿⡿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⣿
⢸⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠛⣿⡿⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⡇
⠈⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣼⠏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠸⠁
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⢷⣴⡿⣷⠀⠀⢰⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠴⡿⣟⣿⣿⣶⡶⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Harry Potter (-Peverell)
Aemon Targaryen
Baelon Targaryen
