Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

Harry's stomach lurched as he plunged through the void. Colors and shapes blurred around him—flashes of cities, forests, and faces that vanished before he could grasp them. The air roared in his ears, and the weight of something unseen pressed against his chest. It felt like being unmade and rebuilt all at once.

And then the fall ended, and he gasped for breath.

Pain flooded his chest as he inhaled, sharp and jarring, as though this body wasn't used to breathing. His lungs burned, every rasping breath a jagged knife carving through his ribs. He felt raw, exposed, like a newborn thrust into the cold. The air was damp and bitterly cold, clawing at his skin as he struggled to push himself upright.

When his vision began to clear, Harry found himself sprawled on the slick cobblestones of a narrow alley. His head spun as he blinked against the dim light of flickering streetlamps, trying to orient himself. He felt a faint tremor in his muscles, like his body wasn't entirely his own.

The sky overhead was unfamiliar—a muted gray streaked with pale clouds and the faintest blush of dawn. It should have been calming, but instead, it unsettled him. The scent of rain and smoke filled his nose, the acrid tang of blood not far behind. In the distance, he heard it: the crackle of gunfire, the shattering of glass, the muted chaos of a city waking to violence.

The echoes of the battle at Hogwarts were gone. The faces of the fallen, the roar of spells, and Voldemort's twisted sneer—they had been replaced by something entirely alien.

Harry pushed himself to his knees, every movement sluggish and heavy, his limbs resisting as if they didn't belong to him. His hands trembled as he braced himself against the wet cobblestones. The ground beneath him was slick, darkened with rain and streaked with something thicker and darker. Blood.

It was only when he glanced down that he realized the blood was his.

Dark stains spread across the front of the shirt he was wearing, centered around his stomach. His fingers brushed against the fabric, finding it damp and sticky. Lifting the hem, he winced at the sight of a fresh scar—pink and tender, as though it had just closed.

With a small clink, a spent bullet fell to the ground. It rolled once before coming to rest in a shallow puddle.

Harry stared at it for a long moment, his mind struggling to catch up. His breaths came in shallow gasps as he rubbed at his forehead, instinctively searching for his glasses. They weren't there, of course. His vision was sharp, clearer than it had ever been without them.

His stomach twisted. His hands clenched into fists. This wasn't his body.

Before the wrongness of it could overwhelm him, a piercing cry cut through the air.

Harry's head snapped toward the sound, his instincts taking over. A child's voice—high-pitched, desperate, and terrified. His heart leapt, and before he knew it, he was moving.

He staggered forward, his body still unfamiliar and unsteady. His legs felt heavier, shorter, as though they belonged to someone else entirely. His steps were clumsy, his muscles resisting him at every turn, but he didn't stop. The cry came again, louder this time, and Harry followed it, his heart pounding.

When he rounded the corner, the scene before him made him freeze.

A young boy no older than four or five crouched in the shadow of a crumbling wall, his small frame trembling violently. He was dressed in an expensive coat—fine fabric, deep blue, now torn and stained with mud. His dark curls clung to his rain-soaked face, and his wide gray eyes were fixed on the man sprawled on the ground in front of him.

The man was burly, dressed in a suit, and very obviously dead. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the cobblestones. A bodyguard, Harry realized grimly. The boy was clinging to the man's sleeve, shaking him desperately.

"Wake up, please!" the boy wailed, his voice cracking. "Please! I'll be good! I'll do my homework, I promise!"

Harry's heart clenched painfully at the sight, but his gaze flicked upward, scanning the shadows. That's when he saw it.

On the roof of a nearby building, a man crouched, a rifle trained directly on the boy.

There wasn't time to think.

Harry surged forward, and the Elder Wand was suddenly in his hand, warm and humming with magic. His movements were instinctive, his focus razor-sharp as he threw himself between the boy and the sniper.

"Protego Maxima!"

The words tore from his lips, and a shimmering barrier of golden light erupted around them. The sniper fired, the crack of the rifle deafening, but the bullet struck the shield and ricocheted harmlessly into the alley.

The boy stared up at Harry, his tear-streaked face pale and wide-eyed. "You… you saved me," he whispered, his voice trembling.

Before Harry could answer, the sniper fired again. The shield held, but Harry felt the strain of it deep in his chest. The magic surged through him, wild and raw, and he clenched the wand tighter, willing the barrier to stay intact.

That's when he saw it.

A second sniper, positioned farther back. The red dot of their scope hovered over the boy's chest.

"No," Harry breathed, his heart seizing.

He acted on instinct.

Harry grabbed the boy, pulling him into his arms and turning his back to the scope. He poured every ounce of magic he had left into the shield, willing it to hold, to protect.

The shot came. The shield flickered and failed.

Pain exploded in Harry's chest, sharp and blinding, as the bullet tore through him. He gasped, his knees buckling, but he refused to let go of the boy.

Another shot rang out, this one striking him in the back. The force of it sent him sprawling, his vision swimming with darkness. His magic sputtered, weak and erratic, but he clung to it with every fiber of his being.

He pushed all his magic to protect the boy as the alley fell silent. Harry's last thought was of Luna's words: "The stars will follow you."

-

When he opened his eyes again, he was surrounded by white nothingness. No sky, no ground, just endless, featureless void.

"Well, well," a familiar voice drawled, smooth and amused. "Couldn't stay away, could you?"

Harry turned to see Death standing before him, their form as shifting and strange as before. Though it was more solid, as if Death had liked the form of a younger Sirius and was only giving the last touches of which features to change.

Harry groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Great. You again."

Death laughed, the sound soft and melodic. "You sound almost disappointed. I thought you enjoyed our last chat. Don't you enjoy seeing me?"

"Not when it means I've died. Again," Harry muttered.

Death tilted their head, studying him with an expression somewhere between pity and amusement. "You've been here, what, a couple minutes? And already you've managed to get yourself killed. I must admit, you're consistent."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. "I didn't exactly plan on taking a bullet for a kid, but I couldn't just let him—" He stopped, his throat tightening. He cleared it, before asking, "What do you want?"

Death stepped closer, their black eyes glinting with mischief. "You, of course. Or rather, the whole you. Do you know how difficult it is to find you when your soul and body are still at odds? It's like trying to catch a fish with no hook."

Harry blinked, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Your body," Death said, gesturing vaguely at him. "As I said before, it's not entirely yours. And until it doesn't fully resonate with your soul, I can't help you in this world. Or the next. Or the next."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You can't help me, or you won't?"

Death's smile turned sly. "Does it matter?"

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Death raised a hand, silencing him. "Don't worry, Harry. This little mishap of yours is actually quite useful. A beacon, if you will. It helps me narrow down which version of you I'm looking for in this tangled mess of multiverse. So, thank you for dying so dramatically. It's made my job much easier."

"Glad I could help," Harry said dryly.

Death chuckled, stepping closer until they were nearly nose to nose. "You really do make this more fun than it should be. But don't get too comfortable here, Harry. You've still got work to do."

Before Harry could ask what they meant, Death placed a hand on his chest, directly over his heart. The touch was cold, but it pulsed with a strange, soothing energy.

"Back you go," Death whispered. "Try not to die again too soon. It's tedious."