Short Fic

The day Harry Potter became the Master of Death was supposed to be one of triumph. He had gathered the three Deathly Hallows—the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak—without fully understanding the consequences of such power. At first, life seemed unchanged. He married Ginny, raised their children, and shared peaceful years with his friends, enjoying the hard-earned victory over Voldemort.

But soon, Harry began to notice something strange. While the world moved forward, he didn't. The creases on his friends' faces deepened, his children grew older, and even Ginny began to show signs of age. But Harry? Harry remained the same. The mirror reflected the face of the boy who defeated Voldemort—unscarred by time.

It started as a suspicion, an uneasy feeling gnawing at the back of his mind. He could almost ignore it until Hermione, always the sharpest, voiced what everyone had been thinking but was too afraid to say.

"Harry... you're not aging."

He tried to ignore it, but with each passing decade, the gap between him and everyone he loved widened. His children grew older, married, and had children of their own, while Harry remained unchanged. By the time Ginny passed away in her late nineties, Harry had already begun to distance himself, unwilling to witness more loss. His friends and loved ones died, one by one, leaving him alone with the weight of immortality.

He retreated to Grimmauld Place, the home Sirius had left him, burying himself in study. Decades passed. With no family, no friends, and no connections to the outside world, Harry devoted himself to the vast library of dark and forbidden magic. He mastered every spell, every ancient and terrible curse, every form of sorcery lost to time. It kept him occupied as the centuries slipped by.

By the time he reached 400 years old, Harry noticed a terrifying change. His magic had grown beyond his control. His aura—the raw magical energy that radiated from every wizard—had become dangerously dense, to the point where it began to affect everything around him. Objects cracked and shattered when he walked into a room. The walls of Grimmauld Place groaned under the pressure of his magic, but he was powerless to stop it.

At 700 years, his aura had become lethal. Without meaning to, Harry killed the first person in decades to visit him, one of his many great-great grandkids his aura overwhelming her. After that, he withdrew even further, terrified of harming anyone else. The magical world soon grew fearful of him, branding him a threat. The Ministry, the Unspeakables—they all attempted to contain him, but Harry's power had long since outgrown anything they could control.

When magic itself failed to stop him, they turned to the Muggle world. Armies came, armed with guns, explosives, and weapons of war. Harry felt every bullet, every explosion, every blade that tore through his body. The Killing Curse ripped at his soul time and time again, but no matter how hard they tried, Harry's body healed, and his soul, bound to life, snapped back into place. They could not kill him. No one could.

As the millennia passed, Harry wandered a world that had begun to crumble around him. His aura, now impossible to control, began tearing apart the earth itself. Cities collapsed, forests withered, and the oceans slowly evaporated under the strain of his uncontrolled power. Humanity, both magical and Muggle, faded away, unable to survive in a world where Harry's mere presence was a force of destruction.

After 10,000 years, the Earth was silent. The last remnants of life had long since disappeared, leaving Harry alone in a barren, dust-covered wasteland. No animals, no plants, no living creatures remained. Even the atmosphere had been eroded by the force of his magic, and the planet itself was little more than a crumbling shell.

Now, he sat in the crumbling remains of Grimmauld Place. The once-proud house was barely standing, held together only by Harry's presence. His power had grown to such extremes that controlling it was no longer an option—anything that came within ten feet of him disintegrated, reduced to dust by the sheer density of his aura.

But after 100,000 years of solitude, Harry finally discovered a way to contain the immense power within him. Through centuries of study and experimentation, he learned to create multiple magical cores within himself, each one siphoning off a portion of his power to keep it from overflowing. It was a feat no wizard had ever accomplished, an impossibility by all known laws of magic. But Harry had long since surpassed the limits of mortal magic.

The moment he completed the process, he felt the pressure of his magic ease for the first time in millennia. The crushing force that had surrounded him all this time began to dissipate, contained at last within the many cores he had created inside himself. For a brief moment, there was peace.

And then, she appeared.

In the broken, desolate remains of Grimmauld Place, a figure materialized. Cloaked in shadows, her form ethereal yet unmistakably real, she stepped forward silently. Her face was hidden beneath a dark hood, but Harry knew immediately who she was.

"Death," he whispered, his voice hoarse from centuries of silence.

She stood before him, her presence cold and ancient. "You have walked the Earth for far too long, Harry Potter," she said in a voice that echoed with the weight of eternity.

Harry looked up at her, his eyes weary with the knowledge of countless lifetimes. "So… it's over now?"

There was a long, heavy pause, and then Death shook her head, her voice both gentle and implacable. "No. You are the Master of Death, Harry. Not even I can take you."

Harry stared at her, the enormity of her words sinking in. He had found a way to control his magic, but even after all this time, after everything and everyone was gone, the one thing he could never have was release.

Death lingered for a moment longer, then vanished, leaving Harry alone in the empty, silent world.