Capítulo 1: chapter 1
Chapter One: The Man Who Won
The door creaked open to an empty house. Harry Potter stepped inside, the quiet air pressing down on him like a heavy cloak. He closed the door behind him, his hand lingering on the knob for a moment longer than necessary. The faint smell of parchment and old wood greeted him, but it felt hollow, lifeless—like everything else in his world.
At 38, Harry Potter was a man most would envy. To the wizarding world, he was a beacon, a hero, a leader. They compared him to Dumbledore now, spoke his name with the same reverence and awe. He was the man who had not only defeated Voldemort but also reshaped the Ministry, championed reforms, and brought justice to places long neglected. But beneath the surface, Harry felt… empty.
He crossed the room, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it onto a chair. The silence of the house echoed his own solitude. There had been a time, years ago, when he believed that defeating Voldemort would be the end of it all—the end of pain, the end of struggle. Back then, he had naively thought that once the Dark Lord fell, everything would simply fall into place. He'd been wrong.
A World Stuck in Shadows
The war had ended, but the battles had not. While the Death Eaters were captured and punished, the wizarding world carried on, its deeper flaws untouched. The same biases, injustices, and fears that Voldemort had exploited lingered in the cracks.
Harry had tried to ignore it at first, tried to move on with his life. But how could he, when he saw the werewolves still shunned, their children denied entry to Hogwarts? When the Ministry sent squads to drive entire giant families into hiding—or worse? When house-elves continued to be treated like property, and goblins whispered their resentment in dark corners?
It wasn't in Harry's nature to look away. He couldn't stand by and watch. He had jumped into the fight again, but this wasn't a fight he could win with his wand. The enemy now was systemic, entrenched in the very fabric of wizarding society. He had fought tooth and nail, using every resource, every ounce of influence he had gained. He'd sat through endless meetings, endured smear campaigns, and faced opposition from those who clung to their power and wealth.
The reforms came slowly, each one feeling like a battle won—but at what cost? He had sacrificed his time, his peace, and, somewhere along the way, himself.
The Price of Winning
Harry sank into a worn armchair, staring at the darkened fireplace. He had achieved so much. People looked at him now and saw the man who had changed their world. But all he could see was how far he had fallen.
In quiet moments like this, he couldn't help but think of Tom Riddle. Both of them had reshaped the wizarding world, for better or worse. Both had done whatever it took to achieve their visions. The difference, Harry told himself, was that he still had his morals, his conscience. He hadn't let the darkness consume him.
Yet, he couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that he had lost something fundamental in the process.
Ron and Hermione had moved on with their lives. They had families, happiness, normalcy. Harry could barely face the Weasleys anymore, haunted by the losses they had suffered in the war. Fred, Lupin, Tonks… the list went on. He couldn't bring himself to be part of their joy when he still carried so much guilt.
And love? He had tried, once or twice. But after Ginny, after everything, he couldn't open himself up again. Vulnerability felt like a risk he couldn't afford. So, he surrounded himself with allies, not friends, and colleagues, not companions.
The Station Once More
The clock on the mantel ticked softly, a reminder of time slipping by. Harry leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. The ache in his chest felt unbearable tonight, as if the weight of all those years had finally caught up with him.
When he lifted his head again, the room had vanished.
He stood on the smooth white stone of a platform. The sterile brightness of King's Cross surrounded him, just as it had all those years ago. His heart clenched in his chest as he turned, half-expecting to see Dumbledore seated on the bench nearby.
But the bench was empty.
"Why now?" Harry whispered, his voice echoing in the endless expanse.
He wasn't sure if he was asking the station or himself. The silence stretched out, vast and unbroken.
And then, faintly, came a voice. Familiar, yet distant. "Harry."
He turned sharply, searching for the source, his heart pounding. Was it Dumbledore? Someone else? Or was it just another echo in this strange place?
The station held its breath, waiting. So did he.
Capítulo 2: Chapter 2
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Chapter Two: The Shadow at the Crossroads
The air at King's Cross felt heavy, almost alive. It pressed against Harry's chest, filling his lungs with something more profound than breath. He turned, searching for the voice that had called his name, his hand instinctively brushing the wand holstered at his side.
That was when he saw it.
Emerging from the endless white was a figure cloaked in tattered black robes, its form reminiscent of a Dementor. But unlike those harbingers of despair, this being exuded something far more profound—a presence that Harry felt deep in his bones. The edges of its robes billowed softly, though there was no wind. Beneath its hood, where a face should have been, was nothing but a void. A perfect, infinite nothingness.
And yet, Harry knew immediately what it was.
"Death," he murmured.
The figure tilted its head slightly, as if amused. "You always were perceptive, Harry Potter."
The voice wasn't a sound so much as a sensation. It resonated in his mind, calm yet absolute, like the toll of a great bell.
Harry stood his ground, though his heart pounded in his chest. "Why am I here?"
Death took a step closer, its presence both chilling and strangely familiar. Harry realized why—it felt like the Deathly Hallows, the same eerie pull he had felt when he held the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility. It was as though this being had always been there, waiting.
"You are here because fate has summoned you," Death said.
Harry frowned. "Fate?"
Death raised an arm, its skeletal fingers barely visible beneath the tattered sleeve. "Fate, the weaver of the threads of existence, is not infallible. It made a mistake with you."
Harry's stomach twisted. "A mistake?"
"Yes," Death replied. "The prophecy that shaped your life was flawed. Fate did not account for Tom Riddle's horcruxes, for the unnatural anchors he forged to cling to life. He was meant to die that night in Godric's Hollow, at the hands of a child no more than a year old. Fate adored the irony—a baby defeating a tyrant."
Harry felt his blood run cold. "But he didn't die. Because of the horcruxes."
"Precisely. That oversight altered the balance of the world," Death continued, its voice devoid of judgment. "The chaos, the suffering, the scars left on the fabric of time—it all stems from that error. The balance has never fully recovered."
Harry shook his head, his mind reeling. "So, what? I'm just some cosmic accident?"
Death's void-like face seemed to regard him. "No. You are far more than that. You are fate's champion, the subject of its prophecy. The mistake was not in your existence, but in the circumstances surrounding it. And now, fate is preparing to meddle in your life once again."
Harry clenched his fists. "Why? Haven't I done enough? Haven't I suffered enough?"
Death did not answer immediately. Instead, it raised its hand again, gesturing toward the endless white expanse. Images flickered to life, like memories pulled from the ether: Harry cradling Dobby's body on the beach, the gleaming Elder Wand in his grip, the flash of green light as Voldemort fell.
"You have done much," Death said at last. "But the balance is still fragile. Fate cannot resist tilting the scales when it deems necessary. You are its tool, its champion, whether you wish it or not."
Harry felt a surge of anger rise in his chest. "So, I'm just a pawn in some cosmic game? What gives fate the right?"
Death's voice turned colder, sharper. "Do not mistake me for fate, Harry Potter. I do not weave the threads, nor do I decide who lives and who dies. I am merely the end of the journey."
Harry took a shaky breath, his mind racing. "Then why are you here? Why now?"
"Because fate's meddling will soon bring you to a crossroads," Death said, its voice softer now. "And I offer you a gift, a boon to face what lies ahead."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "A gift?"
The figure extended its hand, its skeletal fingers curling open. In its palm, something began to take shape, glowing faintly in the endless white light.
Harry stared, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't know what this gift was, but he could feel its significance, its weight, even from a distance.
"What is it?" he asked.
Death's voice echoed around him, final and undeniable.
"Choice."
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