Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

Harry turned back toward the castle, where the defenders were holding the line. He couldn't stop now. Voldemort was dead, but there were still lives to protect.

Ignoring the pain, Harry moved forward, his wand raised. A group of Death Eaters had broken through a barricade, attacking a cluster of young students trying to escape. Harry shouted a Stunning Spell that knocked two of them out cold and shielded the students with his body as he drove the others back.

The hours blurred together. Harry cast shield after shield, hex after hex, throwing himself into the fight. He healed where he could, summoned barriers to protect the wounded, and pushed his exhausted body far past its limits. He didn't care about the pain or the blood soaking his robes.

Finally, the tide turned. The Death Eaters were retreating, their numbers decimated. Cheers rose from the defenders as they realized they had won. Hogwarts stood.

But Harry didn't join the celebrations. He felt the strength leave his legs and dropped to his knees, the weight of everything crashing down on him. He looked out over the battlefield at the faces of the people he had fought so hard to protect and felt a strange sense of peace.

It's done, he thought. They're safe now.

He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, ignoring the distant shouts of his friends calling his name. He turned just in time to see a Death Eater raise their wand, their face twisted with rage.

He could have dodged.

He didn't.

He didn't even raise his wand.

The curse hit him squarely in the chest; the impact sending him sprawling to the ground. His vision blurring as pain exploded through his chest and the world tilted. The sounds of the battle—shouts, spells, the clash of magic—faded into a strange, hollow silence. He felt himself falling, weightless and untethered, as darkness claimed him. Pain radiated through his body, sharp and all-encompassing, but there was no fear.

It was over.

-x-

When he opened his eyes again, the battlefield was gone. The pain was gone. Everything was gone.

Harry stood in a strange, endless expanse of white, the silence deafening. The whiteness wasn't empty, though. It pressed against him, cold and dense, like standing in a field of snow under a sky that didn't exist. He turned, but there was nothing—no sky, no ground, no horizon. Just him. 

And then there was someone else.

A figure emerged from the nothingness, dressed in flowing black robes that seemed to shift and shimmer like smoke. They had a face, but it wasn't quite human—too sharp, too perfect, with eyes that gleamed like polished onyx. It continued to change, first turning into a copy of his own, before changing into his mother's, his father's. Every time it changed to another, it gained a feature of them before discarding it. It stopped when it looked like a younger Sirius, just sharper. 

"Welcome, Harry," the figure said when the face settled in place, their voice smooth and amused. "You've made quite an impression."

Harry stared at them, his mind reeling. "Who... who are you?"

The figure smiled, and it was both comforting and unnerving, as if the being in front of him was just learning how to smile. "You can call me Death. After all, we're now close companions, aren't we?"

Harry's hand lingered on his chest, where the Death Eater's curse had struck. He felt nothing now—not the sharp ache of a broken rib, not the burning heat of magic tearing through flesh—just an unnerving stillness. Something in his soul told him he was dead and that the being in front of him was Death. Still, that explained little.

"I don't understand," Harry said, his voice quiet but steady. "I killed him. Voldemort's dead. It should be over. Why am I here?"

Death's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something in their dark eyes—amusement, pity, or perhaps both. "Oh, Harry," they said softly, almost like a teacher correcting a child. "It would never be that simple. Not for you, my Master."

Harry's gaze was confused for only a second before they sharpened, something like dread entering his eyes. "The Deathly Hallows. Is the story true, then?"

Death's smile was enough to answer him.

"So, what? I cannot die now?"

"Not as you are, no."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Did you think killing him would fix everything? That all the cracks would magically heal themselves?" 

Harry's jaw clenched. "I've done everything that was asked of me. I've lost everything. What more do you want from me?"

Death smiled faintly, tilting their head as they studied him. "You think this is about what I want?" They stepped closer, their robes trailing behind them like ink bleeding into the whiteness. "Maybe if Voldemort had killed you himself, he would have destroyed the horcrux, but he didn't, so no, Harry."

"So because he didn't kill me, I cannot move on?" he said bitterly, his voice rising. "I've done my part. I've sacrificed—" His voice broke, and he looked away, his hands curling into fists. "I've sacrificed enough."

For a moment, there was silence. When Death spoke again, their voice was softer, almost kind. "Yes, you have," they said. "More than anyone should have to. But the thing about sacrifice, Harry, is that it leaves scars. And some of yours and his haven't healed yet."

Harry's gaze snapped back to them, anger flashing in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

For a moment, Death didn't reply. Then, with a wave of their hand, the whiteness rippled like water, and Harry felt the stillness around him stir.

"Look deeper," Death said.

The ripple spread outward, revealing shadows of memories Harry had buried—painful and raw. Voldemort's sharp laughter was a constant and somehow it pulsed through him. There was a pulse of darkness. Small but sharp, lodged deep within him like a splinter.

Harry's stomach twisted. "No," he whispered.

"Yes," Death replied. "It's faint now, barely more than a whisper. But it's still there. A fragment of him. Of Voldemort. It clings to you, Harry, because it was part of you for so long."

"No," Harry said again, his voice shaking. "It's gone. It's supposed to be gone when I died!"

Death tilted their head, their black eyes gleaming. "It's not your fault. You destroyed most of him, yes. But fragments like that… they cling. Especially to souls like yours," they said. "But you can't move on while it remains. And neither can he."

Harry's breath hitched, his hand flew to his forehead again, as though he could feel it—the shard of Voldemort's soul still buried deep inside him. His stomach churned. "No," he whispered, before his voice regained his strength. "What do I need to do?"

Death's smile returned, sharp and knowing. "You deal with it, Harry, and then you can't move on. You can't rest."

"What about Voldemort?"

Death shrugged, the movement oddly human. "Souls like his don't find peace, Harry. Because Voldemort, as he is now, doesn't deserve rest. He's a fragment, broken and incomplete, just like the piece inside you. That's why you're still tied together."

Harry's knees felt weak, but he forced himself to stand tall as his mind raced. He thought of everything he'd endured, everything he'd lost, and now this. Another burden to carry. Another fight he couldn't escape.

"So that's it, then?" he said bitterly. "I can't even die properly?"

Death chuckled, a sound that was neither warm nor cold, but unsettlingly neutral. "Oh, you've died, Harry. Make no mistake about that. But moving on… well, that's a different matter entirely."

Harry glared at them. "Then what am I supposed to do? What do you expect me to do with this… thing inside me?"

Death's smile returned, sharper this time. "That's the beauty of it. You're not supposed to do anything. Not alone, anyway. That's where your journey begins."

"What journey?" Harry asked, his voice laced with exhaustion.