Harry Potter: Toji Potter

Harry's consciousness stirred in a void unlike any he'd ever experienced. It wasn't dark, nor was it light; the space was an amalgam of existence itself—a ceaseless swirl of possibilities, infinite and alive. For a moment, he was lost, his mind grappling to make sense of the boundless energy around him. But then, instinctively, he reached out with his will.

A flicker of intention became reality. The void trembled as shapes emerged. Towering pillars of black obsidian veined with threads of silver stretched upward, connecting to a vaulted ceiling adorned with constellations that pulsed like living stars. The floor beneath him shifted, becoming smooth black marble laced with streaks of deep crimson. The walls of the palace formed, etched with intricate, deathly designs—skulls, roses, and motifs that spoke of finality and beauty in equal measure.

Massive thrones appeared along the hall's edges, carved from bones that gleamed like polished ivory. At the far end, a dais rose, bearing a single, towering seat of power. It was wrought from an alloy that seemed to shimmer with the darkness of a starless sky, accented by veins of iridescent light. Harry knew this was his seat, the throne of the god of death.

Braziers of blue and silver flame lined the hall, casting an ethereal glow that danced along the surfaces. From the high arched windows, a panorama of a strange and vast realm could be glimpsed—a plane where shadows danced and death's calm embrace reigned supreme.

"This... is mine," Harry murmured, his voice echoing in the grand chamber. The words carried weight, and the palace solidified further, each detail radiating an authority that resonated with his very being.

Turning away from the throne, Harry's gaze was drawn to something hovering above the palace's great central courtyard. A sphere of impossible beauty floated there, contained yet limitless. Its surface rippled with colors beyond comprehension—hues that seemed to exist between moments of perception. Inside, shapes and forms shifted constantly, a chaotic ballet of divine energy.

Harry stepped closer, drawn to its presence. He could feel its power, a vortex of raw creation and destruction. The sphere wasn't just divine—it was the essence of divinity itself, a manifestation of the cosmic order.

He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing the surface of the sphere. It was warm, cold, soft, and sharp all at once—a contradiction in every way. Without hesitation, he plunged his hand inside, and the sphere exploded with light.

A flood of energy surged through Harry, tearing him apart and rebuilding him simultaneously. He felt every fiber of his being shift, refine, and evolve. His body grew taller, muscles reshaping with divine perfection. His bones hardened to an unbreakable core, his very essence becoming a symphony of power and elegance.

His hair, once messy, now flowed down his back like a cascade of black mess of spikes tipped with pure white. It shimmered faintly, moving as though stirred by an unseen breeze. His eyes, which had always been green, now blazed with icy blue light, nebulae swirling in their depths. They radiated not only sight but purpose—a light that seemed to illuminate the truth of existence itself. His pupils were no longer black but white, as if the light within him was too powerful to allow any darkness to remain.

His robes shifted as well, forming into a regal kimono. The fabric was an intricate tapestry of the night sky, swirling with deathly blacks and deep blues, punctuated by flecks of starlight. His aura burned with deathly majesty, the air around him heavy with a profound stillness that spoke of finality.

"Perfect," Harry whispered, looking at his reflection in the polished marble beneath him. He flexed his hands, feeling the power that coursed through his every cell. He was no longer mortal; he was no longer bound by anything as fragile as humanity.

As he took in the changes, a faint tug at the edge of his awareness caught his attention—a link, fragile but undeniable. He felt it pulse faintly, a connection to something or someone. He furrowed his brows, but decided not to delve into it just yet.

"Not now," he muttered, straightening. "There's more to do."

Harry took one last look at his palace, at the sphere now settled into the heavens above it, and he smiled. This place, this domain, was his. A sanctuary and a symbol of his newfound divinity.

With a thought, the world around him blurred. He was done with this introspection. It was time to return to the waking world.

As his eyes opened in the mortal realm, Harry felt his body, stronger and more attuned than ever before. His new form radiated power, the remnants of his transformation still visible in the faint glow of his eyes and the aura that surrounded him. He rose from the bed where his companions had watched over him, and the air in the room seemed to hold its breath.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, rushing forward. The others followed, their faces a mixture of relief and awe.

"Looks like I'm back," he said, his voice carrying a deeper, more resonant tone. He glanced around, taking in their expressions. "Let's not keep the gods waiting."

As they left the room to rejoin the Olympians, Harry couldn't help but feel the weight of his transformation. He was no longer merely a man. He was a god—a force of death, of endings and utter chaos with a ton of destruction mixed in.