Master of Death, Lover Witches

In this world, Hogwarts begins at age 16.

"—uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"

With the peculiar feeling of a harsh landing despite not moving at all, Harry awoke. He was back in his body, back in the real world, just as he expected and feared. Sitting up, his surroundings confirmed the darkest of his thoughts.

The scent of a median-income-household. The sight of warped toys pushed into forgotten piles. Through a crack in the curtains Harry glimpsed an awfully straight road, illuminated by awfully ordinary streetlights. Number 4 Privet Drive was as painfully average as its occupants ensured it always would be.

Harry quickly sat up, dragging back his blankets and hopping onto the floor. He didn't notice the slight delay before his shadow followed him, too distracted by investigating the room.

It was unmistakably the one he grew up in… after the arrival of his Hogwarts Letter, when Vernon finally moved him out of the cupboard. That's where he expected to appear: the cupboard. It was how it worked the last time he was sent back. He didn't see why it should have changed now.

His body was different too. He looked down at muscled forearms trained by years of Snitch snatching. His build was mature and solid, the way it had been at the start of his fourth year. He had just recently turned nineteen. The Triwizard tournament was upcoming. Sirius Black was a (living) criminal on the run. Harry had never kissed a girl.

He dropped onto the bed, sitting at the edge and beginning to laugh.

His laughter grew in volume, and it didn't stop when a voice beyond the room's walls bellowed, "Quiet, Boy!"

Harry could not be quiet. Could not, rather than would not. He was back. Everything he did was undone, all the good and the lives saved and the happy endings.

Despite the smile on his face, he rather felt like breaking something. Preferably something that could scream as he did it. Perhaps a garden gnome?

But instead he just laughed, belting out chuckles until he felt he'd emptied all the air in his chest. And then he shut his eyes and started, finally, to think.

Thuds sounded in the hall. Moments later, the door was thrust open with force only a true lord of lard could muster, banging against the wall. Dudley's discarded gum wrappers were sent blowing about the room.

"What's with the racket!" Vernon Dursley demanded, utterly red in the face. "Even the neighbors will have heard you!"

He uttered the word neighbors as if they were the greatest arbiter humanity had ever known, waiting readily to dole out divine judgment. Your abused nephew made noise in the middle of the night? Straight to eternal damnation with you!

Harry had cracked one eye open when his uncle appeared, but he shut it now. "Please, Vernon," he said. "Some people are trying to sleep."

Vernon's mustache trembled.

"Is that what you call this?" he accused. "Laughing like a maniac in the middle of the night? Sitting up ramrod straight and claiming it's sleeping?"

"I never said I was sleeping," Harry said. "I said that some people were."

Vernon offered what was likely the wittiest riposte in the history of spoken language, but sadly it was lost forever, his lips moving without noise as Harry silenced him wandlessly.

He was eighteen again, with Voldemort still (somewhat) alive, Death Eaters on the loose, and the O.W.L.s on the horizon. None of those things scared him anymore.

What frightened him to the core, so much so that his body felt stiff, was thought of one hundred and fifty repeated years.

He wasn't vain enough to claim he lived a perfect life. But using what he learned the first time around, he truly felt he lived as well as he possibly could. He'd taught at Hogwarts and played Quidditch on the side. His friends reformed the ministry. His was the sort of life that would be written about in history books for as long as books were being written about history. He appeared in chocolate card decks— with three special variants!

But when he pictured himself retracing his steps and doing it all over again…

It made him feel cold, and small, and damp on the inside even though the room was quite dry. It would be living without excitement. It would be life without living.

So should he end it all?

Vernon was still speaking silently. Only now did his brain finally catch up to his mouth's lack of function. He clutched his throat with both hands, fear entering his beady eyes.

"Vernon?" Petunia called. "Vernon, dear? What's wrong?"

Harry rubbed his temple. If he took his life, he assumed he'd appear back in the station. He'd have to force his way past Death. Was that even possible? The Hallows had come to him… but they hadn't been enough. That was why he was here.

Petunia appeared in the doorway. "Vernon? I heard—"

Vernon spun to her, screaming something that might have been "Help!" or might have simply been "Aaaah!"

But of course it was silent. Petunia shrunk back, shielding her face.

"What have you done to him!" she wailed at Harry. 

She continued to beg and plead until her voice disappeared just like her husband's. They threw their arms around each other, sobbing and commiserating about their sorry state. Normal people were supposed to be able to speak! The Dursleys were normal people! What would they do now? Would Vernon ever close a drill bit deal again?

Oblivious (and uncaring) to his relatives' plight, Harry pondered turning his wand on himself.

If he lived until old age, he would still, at some point, die, and then he would face Death all over again. Wasn't it simply efficient to jump straight to the confrontation, if it was inevitable?

He'd taken lives. He'd even died before. Surely taking his own life couldn't be too much of a jump.

But everytime he considered it, whenever he felt close to making the decision, his hands would freeze. It took him a minute to realize the problem, but when he did, it was quite simple.

Harry Potter refused to die for nothing.

He didn't fear the end. At this point, he desired it. But when he walked into those woods in his seventh year, it was for the sake of everyone he loved. Whenever he stepped into danger, his first thoughts were always of others. He would be proud to die for a good cause. But suicide, even if it were pragmatic and rational?

It wasn't him. And he refused to let that become who he was.

So, with that decided, Harry circled back to the thought that started it all. What could he possibly do now?

His eyes scrunched and his lips pressed into a tight line. He began to hum— not a tune, but an absent noise to help him think better. Dudley appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looked to his parents, asking a question, but no sound came out. He hadn't been allowed the chance to get in a single word.

Vernon and Petunia wailed — silently — and pulled him into the group hug.

Should Harry eliminate Voldemort quickly again? He could do it. Of course, it would probably require missing a year of school, which would draw all sorts of unwanted attention. 'Boy-Who-Lived Goes missing!' was the kind of headline that could sit on the front page of the Prophet for months.

In the end, Harry pondered so hard, and was so puzzled by his deliberations, that his entire body rose up, floating multiple feet in the air.

In his last life, those that knew him well grew used to such displays. Magic was a part of him in a way it wasn't for other witches and wizards. When he was worked up, his magic refused to stay quiet, affecting the world around him in mild but obvious ways.

But the Dursleys were not wizards or witches, and they were not liable to grow used to such sights if you gave them a hundred years to do it. They all pointed at Harry's floating form, though without their voices to shout accusations or insults, that was all they could manage.

Should Harry just go to school, then? Live out this life the way he had originally? If he allowed himself to be taken to the Little Hangleton graveyard, he could even drag Wormtail back and expose him. Still, a full year of sitting through classes for children…

Perhaps it was poor form coming from an ex-educator, but he thought he might prefer the suicide plan. Maybe he could graduate early and go into Quidditch? He'd heard of footballers doing similar things, and he certainly had the skills.

Not that it would solve the genocidal megalomaniac dwelling in undeath to take revenge on him.

Harry groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. It was so frustrating!

And his magic, as always, responded.

Soon he was sitting on the bed again. Not because he'd dropped onto it, but because the entire frame floated up to join him.

Everything was leaving the ground. Dudley's discarded toys drifted from the floor to the ceiling. The frightened Dursleys lost their gravity too. Vernon reached down, swiping at the floor with a meaty arm, but there was nothing from him to cling onto. In both velocity and shape he strongly resembled a lost balloon.

The bottom line, Harry decided, was that this life did not have a purpose. Perhaps it was selfish, but defeating Voldemort just didn't light a fire in him anymore. He'd already beaten the man twice, and both times he lived long past it and saw just how much more there was to the world. Now that he'd achieved his flawless victory, if you will, old Tom felt like nothing but a cleared hurdle.

What were most people's dreams? Professional Quidditch? Been there, won the cup. Academic prestige? Honor students had pinned his picture on their bedroom walls for luck. Fame? Harry did that one before he was eating solid food. He couldn't think of a single thing left!

There was a great grinding noise. A moment later, the floor climbed a couple of inches. Their eyes widening comically, the Durselys swam through the air to the window. When they looked out they found their lawn as perfect as ever, minus the fact that their front step was separated from the house by a good distance of empty air.

Something in Petunia broke, and she began to beat her head against the pane of glass. Something broke in Vernon, too, but he had no interest in harming himself.

The portly man placed his feet on the wall and kicked off. Without gravity reminding him of his weight, he even achieved a respectable velocity. His route took him straight for his hovering nephew. On the way, he snagged a bent golf club from Dudley's wrecks.

Harry was still deep in thought when his uncle brought back both meaty arms and swung cold iron at his forehead.

It was an awfully silly thing to do. Everybody knows attempted murder is a bad idea when dealing with a thoroughly frustrated and extremely powerful wizard. Or, apparently, everyone except Vernon Dursley.

By the time Harry noticed it was over. Articles of junk from all over the room beamed toward Vernon as if summoned. A bent birdcage lodged itself around his head. He took a broken air rifle straight in the ribs, while a rocking-horse buried its wood face deep in his nutsack.

The club had bounced off of an invisible barrier, breaking Vernon's fingers in odd directions.

Finally Harry's eyes cracked open. He stared at his uncle, whose eyes had gone wide and filled with thin red veins. His bulbous cheeks shook as if made from gelatin, vibrated by a silent scream that launched flecks spittle. He sank slowly toward the floor— or he would've, had gravity not been malfunctioning. Instead, he rotated.

Vernon turned head over feet in slow cycles, cradling his mangled hands, screaming without sound. The sight was so tremendously absurd that Harry lost control.

"Hah!" he barked. "Hah! Hahahahah! Hahaha!"

He himself began to spin, gripping his sides. His mood changed in an instant. He laughed his throat raw, and everytime it seemed like he'd stop, he took another look at Vernon and doubled over again.

The house dropped onto its foundations with a resounding thud. Things hit the floor; including Vernon, right on his face. Harry's magic settled down nicely like a well-trained hound. Because he had it now: the answer to his problem. All it took was a single moment of absurdity.

"Thanks a lot for that!" Harry said, hopping to his feet and patting Vernon's raised rump (the highest point on his body). "I can always count on you for a mood lifter, you know."

"You can't—! How dare you!" Petunia cried.

The silencing had worn off. Vernon's mewling turned audible, and Harry was pretty sure he could hear a stream of something running between Dudley's legs.

"Cleary, I can," Harry said. He made sure to say it slowly and smile condescendingly, to help Petunia understand. Women love it when you do that.

Petunia began to cry. Harry turned away, whistling. He felt great. Now that he'd come to a decision, his head had cleared in an instant.

A grand purpose? He didn't need one of those. He'd had one — twice! — and achieved it both times. 

Why not use this life to just have fun?

Whatever seemed most entertaining, that's what he'd do. Just look at this. Already the Dursleys had been turned from nasty oppressors to a hilarious sideshow. What else could he do? The ideas he had for Snape alone would take him minutes to list out. It would be like the Maruaders, if they had unlimited power at their fingertips and left Wormtail in a ditch off the Hogwarts Express.

Harry grinned despite himself. And, opening his mouth wide, he shoved his hand straight down his own throat.

Petunia screamed again, but he paid that no mind. Rooting about his esophagus, Harry's fingers closed around what he was looking for. His hand dragged free a long wooden wand, its surface spotless despite the place it had been kept.

Harry wasn't sure why the Hallow insisted upon storing itself there, but he couldn't complain about the convenience.

"Fear not, Vernon," he said. "I'll help you!"

He swished his wand. Vernon's broken fingers unattached from his hands. All ten quickly inched away along the floor, moving like caterpillars. They slipped among the scattered junk and disappeared.

The pain was gone, but Vernon was staring at his digitless hands without the ability to tear his eyes away.

"All better!" Harry said.

He turned to Petunia and Dudley. A large dark spot had formed in the middle of Dudley's pants. Harry knew he'd heard pissing.

"Don't be like that Cousin," Harry said. "I'm going to make you happier than you've ever been. And, Auntie," he said, moving on to Petunia, "I hope you don't mind, but I'll be doing some remodeling. All interior, of course. The neighbors won't see a thing." He paused, thinking. "Unless I invite them over. That does sound rather fun."

Petunia's knees gave out. Rather than address his family further, it was at this point that Harry twisted toward the door.

There, halfway to the hallway, his shadow froze like a deer in the headlights. The entire action was awfully unauthorized, seeing Harry's feet were rooted half a room away.

"What do we have here?" Harry sang. "Come on out, and let's get a better look at you."

Despite looking as if it wanted nothing less, his shadow rose into view. The pillar of dark ooze distilled into a pale figure that looked disturbingly like Harry himself, only with eyes blacker than the night outside the window.

Harry smiled so wide it hurt.

O-O-O

On the afternoon of August 17, the Dursley's fireplace exploded.

Soot and debris cannoned across the living room, turning it into what looked almost like a war zone— and if it were a war zone, here came the wounded. Four wizards, three teenagers and one adult, stumbled out of the green flames that had been boarded over prior to their arrival, each with red hair that looked as if it could've been colored by a bad head wound. Ron, Mr. Weasley, and the twins slowly caught their breath.

Harry stood there, blinking.

"I'd forgotten they arrived that way," he said.

Coughing, Mr. Weasley said, "Sorry! Sorry! I can fix the mess, I assure you. Just didn't expect that. Blocked fireplace! That's a new one. Is it a muggle fad?"

As the smoke cleared, the redheads looked around. And as they did, their jaws dropped open.

The room was rather different than it had been just a day ago. All the furniture had been removed for space, including the couch and television (the Dursleys' most prized possessions). The carpet was only visible in rare spots. Instead, freshly laid, was a thick sheet of hay.

Golden bales were stacked against one wall. Harry himself rested against one, leaning his weight on a pitchfork tucked under his arm. A large pen had been erected over half the room, and inside it, on all fours, crawled Vernon and Dudley with bright pink pig noses. Dudley had been in the process of scarfing mashed-up birthday cake out of a trough when the redheads made their appearance, but now he huddled at the back of the pen with his father.

Harry thought they were settling quite well into the new role, all things considered. Almost as well as Petunia was taking to hers.

His aunt stood beside the hay bales. Her back was straight and her arms stuck out stiffly. A floppy hat hung down over her eyes. If it had been a flock of crows that appeared from the fireplace instead of a flock of Weasleys, Harry was certain they would've turned and flown straight back the way they came in.

"How are you doing, Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked when it became clear the Weasley weren't going to speak again.

"Are they… Are they quite alright?" Mr. Weasley asked, unable to look away from his relatives.

"Oh, yes," Harry said. "They're playing farm— it's their favorite activity. In fact, they were so excited to show you how good they are at it that they got into position last night. Dudley hasn't stood up once in the last sixteen hours, not even to pull his pants off when he goes to the bathroom."

"Gross," said the twins.

"Authentic," Harry corrected them.

"Your uncle is missing his fingers," Ron pointed out.

"Born that way," Harry said sadly. "Haven't I told you before? Thankfully, he found my dear aunt, who loves his nubby hands just the way they are."

Vernon let out a low and confused groan. Harry smiled to reinforce that it his way of agreeing.

"This kind of thing is quite normal in the muggle world?" asked Mr. Weasley.

"Playing farm?" Harry said. "Yes, of course! Most aren't as good at it as these three, mind. Just this morning the neighbors came over to watch. They were shocked, I'm telling you!"

"And those clothes of yours, too?" asked Mr. Weasley.

Harry looked down at his long, muddy overalls and the straw hat strapped against his back.

"You'll see a dozen dressed just like this on a single walk through London," he promised.

"Fascinating," Mr. Weasley muttered. "And to think, I almost picked a belt and sweater for my outfit to the World Cup. I would've stood out like a sore thumb!"

"You, uh, ready to go, Harry?" Ron asked suddenly.

He didn't seem to like the way Dudley was looking at him. His head did look rather like an apple, if you squinted.

"I've got to grab my trunk," Harry said. "Be back in a moment."

He retreated from the room. Arthur Weasley continued looking around, marveling.

"Don't you think the muggle world is fascinating, boys?" he asked. 

Fred and George exchanged looks. They turned solemnly to their father.

"This smells like a prank," said George.

"And I swear those noses are transfigured," muttered Fred.

"Nonsense! It must be that Makes Up I've heard about. Like a glamor, but muggles put on with their fingers!"

"It's make-up," said Harry dully, stepping back in.

Ron looked relieved to be leaving, until he noticed that Harry was empty handed.

"Er, what about your trunk?" he asked.

"What trunk?" said Harry.

"Y'know, the one you went to get?" Ron blinked. "You doing alright mate? Your eyes look a tad dark."

"I'm using contact lenses," Harry said.

"...Underneath your glasses?"

"Yes," he said seriously.

"Does your uncle have a tail?" asked Fred.

Vernon had turned away, crawling to the pen's opposite corner to put distance between him and the new Harry. As he waddled on all-fours, his shirt rode up, offering an awful view nobody ever deserved to see… but also giving a glimpse of a pink corkscrew tail.

"It seems that he does," Harry said, sounding surprised himself.

"How'd he get that one?"

"I wasn't told how to answer that question," said Harry.

"Told by who?" asked the other twin.

They had all turned to look at the inexplicable appendage, but their heads whipped around now as they heard a noise quite like a flushing toilet. By the time they looked over, a trunk had appeared in Harry's hands, and his eyes were green once more.

"Ready to go when you are!" he announced happily.

"What happened to the contact lenses?" Ron asked.

"I took them out!"

"Why?"

"To make you waste your time asking short questions."

"What?"

"Precisely."

"Shall we go?" said Mr. Weasley suddenly, looking as if a headache were coming on.

Harry marched across the room lugging his trunk. "Anytime you're ready!"

Ron was the first one into the flames after Mr. Weasley sprinkled the Floo Powder. George was next. Fred went last, and Harry was sure he saw him furtively drop a toffee into the Dursleys' food trough.

Before he stepped into the flames, Harry banished the candy far away. If he remembered correctly, one bite of it would engorge a tongue until the countercurse was applied. He couldn't be having that. Dudley would die if he ate it in this state!

And the Dursleys were so much more wonderfully miserable alive.

"They'll be quite alright?" Mr. Weasley asked one final time.

"As swell as swine," promised Harry.

The trough was designed to be self-filling, and Petunia would unfreeze long enough to eat every few hours. Plus, nothing Harry did was permanent. It would all wear off in a day or two…

And then the Dursleys would have to go outside and face the neighbors Harry had invited over just that morning.

"If you say so," said Mr. Weasley finally. Collecting himself, he faced Harry's relatives one more time. "It was good to meet you all! I promise, we'll take good care of him this summer."

Vernon and Dudley whined. Petunia, predictably, did nothing. Arthur Weasley smiled awkwardly and turned away.

The three of them left Number 4 behind in a puff of green flames— Arthur, Harry, and Harry's shadow. The Dursleys were left alone.

Within minutes, Dudley was back at the feeding trough.