Chapter Text
The world had become a blur of blue light and screams the moment the Order of the Phoenix had appeared. And before Harry knew it, Sirius and him were duelling off Death Eaters back to back, exchanging smirks before each of them focused on an enemy and got separated.
Glass shattered like stars breaking apart, spells collided mid-air, and the echoing voice of Bellatrix Lestrange slicing through the chaos as if it were a horror movie soundtrack. The air in the Death Chamber was thick with dust and the copper sting of blood.
And in the center of it sat a stone dais in the middle—ancient, cracked, heavy with whispers—and the only still thing, the only place where time seemed to hold its breath.
Harry didn’t notice when the prophecy fell. He didn’t notice when Lucius Malfoy shouted. He only noticed when Sirius laughed.
That bark of laughter—wild, real, and so him—cut through everything. Sirius Black, dueling with Bellatrix, dancing around her curses like it was a game, like he wasn’t fighting for his life. For a second, Harry’s heart swelled. Sirius was unstoppable. Sirius was free. He looked alive in a way he never had at Grimmauld Place.
He looked just like that night in the Shrieking Shack, where he got reunited with Remus and ready to kill Peter. Sirius laughed again — “Come on, you can do better than that!” Then, of course, Bellatrix’s spell hit him square in the chest.
Harry’s world stopped. The grin on Sirius’s face faltered for just a moment. What happened next felt like slow-motion, and Harry would have nightmares of it. His godfather fell backwards, arms flailing, into the thin, rippling archway behind him.
Harry’s mind refused to understand. He didn’t feel his feet move. Didn’t feel himself run. He only heard himself screaming Sirius’s name.
He hit the dais hard, knees cracking against the stone, and scrambled forward. The archway stood silent again, its black veil fluttering faintly as though stirred by a nonexistent breeze. The whispering was louder now, murmuring, coaxing, calling.
“SIRIUS!” he shouted again. “SIRIUS, COME BACK!”
There was no answer. No echo. Just that voice, soft and endless, from the veil.
Hermione was yelling something behind him, but it was a distant sound—like she was on the other side of the world. Lupin was there too—his hand caught Harry’s arm, but Harry tore free. The world had narrowed to that veil. That damned veil that had stolen Sirius’s laughter and left nothing behind but air.
He wasn’t thinking anymore. Thinking was for people who could afford to lose their loved ones. He couldn't lose anyone else. He'd rather die, quite literally.
So, he jumped and dove through the Veil of Death. And he felt glad for doing so. For a heartbeat, a glorious moment, he felt Sirius’s hand — warm, solid, real — brush his fingertips.
But then there was nothing. He just kept falling. Everything was quiet, loud, bright, and dark at the same time. Like static blasting in his ears and void around him at once.
He saw flashes of his life, and they were not happy ones. Most of them he had forgotten over the years, but apparently dying meant you watched everything. Every single day of your life until now.
His mum being murdered by Voldemort as she begged for his life.
Aunt Petunia shoving him inside that bloody cupboard after barely changing his nappies, touching him as little as she had to, a look of disgust in her face whenever he babbled at her.
The cupboard, cold and humid in winters. The first time he caught pneumonia. It had been his own magic that healed him, but at the age of five, he hadn't known that, obviously.
Oh, and that particular heatwave in '87. A bad one, really. He fainted on his birthday, vomited on his ratty mattress from the heatstroke, and then had to clean it himself when he recovered consciousness. Otherwise, he wouldn't have had dinner for three nights.
He always knew his seventh birthday was the worst, but he feared his life would take it as a challenge to beat the record.
The rest of the memories were no better, but at least he remembered enough of them not to be affected as much. Kids refusing to be his friends at school, Dudley and his gang hitting him and chasing him, teachers looking away uncomfortably whenever they saw him.
He had been so used to it back then that he had forgotten it all.
He winced when he saw his 9-year-old self getting his nose and glasses broken by a kick to the face. The younger Harry had sobbed unconsolably. Not for the pain. He was used to it. But for the glasses. It was the only thing Aunt Petunia ever got for him that hadn't belonged to Dudley first.
And he had been scared of what Uncle Vernon would do to punish him for breaking something so expensive.
The year he turned 10 was the worst by far. He couldn't even keep his eyes open for that one. Tears escaped his eyes as he heard his younger self's voice whispering in the dark of the cupboard to himself: "I shouldn't have been born... Everyone says so. I should die. I don't wanna exist. Why does no one love me? Is it ‘cause I’m a freak?"
Harry covered his ears desperately. There were people who loved him. Of course there were. His Aunt and her family were simply bigoted and they influenced their community. The wizarding world was different. He belonged there.
But, as he heard 11-year-old Harry getting his Hogwarts letter, he wondered if the Wizarding world was actually better. The public always believed the slander published about him. No one had believed him about the return of Voldemort.
The few people who liked him either died, or suffered because of him.
He saw Ron risking his life at that magical chess. Saw Hermione getting petrified by the basilisk. Ginny nearly died in the Chamber of Secrets. Ron and Aragog, his living fear.
Sirius being unable to clear his name after Peter escaped. Ron got a broken leg in the Shrieking Shack. Hermione risking her life with Moony and the Time Turner. Ron fed up with him in fourth year. Hermione mad at both of them. Cedric dying.
That summer afterward. No letters. Not being told anything. The migraines. Umbridge. The blood quill. No one believed him. Cho and her tears. Snape and the Occlumency. Mr Weasley and Nagini. His dad being a bully. Sirius having nearly killed Snape. Snape calling Lily a slur.
The three of them were horrible in their fifth year. And yet, Harry still loved Sirius. He had broken out of prison for him. He had lived as a fugitive instead of clearing his own name because Dumbledore told him it was best for Harry’s safety.
And just like everyone else, he got hurt and then died. Neville, Luna, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were out there, on the other side of the Veil. With Remus. They were alive, but they were all injured. And how long did they have before they were killed, anyways?
It was his fault. His idiocy, his temper. He was a freak, in both worlds.
"Please. Just- just stop it. Get- get it over, please. Let me die, please. I- I can't. No more," he sobbed agonizingly. It was just too much to relive all of that again.
He just wanted to forget everything. To be far away from his life. Was Death the answer for that? If it was, he wouldn't fight it. He didn't have the strength.
And yet, the muffled voice of the Veil simply whispered: "You do not belong here. You can’t die yet."
What the hell. Why? Not even Death wanted him now? Was it because of the protection his mum gave him? Or was it because of that bloody prophecy that cost him everything?
Harry tried to scream, from frustration, anger, anything remotely like "I don't even get to die in peace!?" but found that his voice didn’t exist anymore. And the ominous whispers of the Veil simply told him that it would spit him out in a moment.
“Of course, why are we going to let Harry choose his own bloody fate, right?” He snapped, wiping tears furiously from his face. He was so fucking tired he no longer had words to describe it.
He was being pulled —backwards, sideways. Inwards and outwards, like his whole being was being rearranged. The world around him blurred, warped, burned. He clutched the only solid things he had: his wand and the Invisibility Cloak half-tucked in his pocket.
A flash of light, blinding, and before silence engulfed him, the Veil spoke again.
“Your wishes will be fulfilled, Peverell boy. Try and remember that while Death and Fate have been defeated more than once, Time is a trickier enemy.”
Harry fell into darkness, wondering why nobody spoke clearly to him.