Chapter Text
Harry looked at the corpse of Voldemort as it fell backwards, the Elder Wand and Draco's hawthorn wand in his hands. The battle had fallen silent before the final duel, and it still remained so. Nobody on either side moved, as if time itself had frozen. As if the spell holding everyone was released, everything suddenly came alive with both the cheering of the students and DA alongside the cries of angered defeat of the remaining Death Eaters. This raucous celebration, however, masked several spells launched by someone from amongst the Death Eaters, followed immediately by cries of surprise and anger. Harry twisted, wand raised and caught his friends, Ron and Hermione, looking at him as an orange-red spell zipped past his shoulder. He could see the shock in their eyes before the spell landed between them, their attempts to bring up a Protego just a bit too slow. He saw the bloom of the fire from the explosion before he heard it, and heard it before he felt the shrapnel pepper his body with enough force to make him spin. His vision was a blur as he saw the battle for Hogwarts renewed once more, bolts of color splashing between students and Voldemort’s surviving followers.
He was still mid spin when he felt a sharp pain cut across his neck followed by a feeling of wet seeping onto his shoulder. He felt his knees buckle as something hit him from behind, the ground rushing up to meet him. He could hear the clatter of a wand hitting the ground somewhat distantly as his hand darted to his neck. He could feel the gash, too large to stem the bleeding. Everything started going out of focus as a blurry haze fell over his eyes, the sounds of the continuing battle muffled and slowly going mute. He didn’t feel it so much as see his eyelids close judging by the darkness encroaching from the top and bottom of his vision.
Light. Harry could see the telltale pink on the inside of his eyelids as light poured against them, yet he couldn't feel anything. Not the hardness of a stone floor, or the softness that one would expect of a bed. He did not even feel any clothing of any form against him. Puzzled at this, he opened his eyes and saw… nothing. Not in the sense of an empty field, or unending darkness. He saw an endless white of nothingness. He felt no gravity, but it didn't feel as if he was floating. As he moved to feel his face, he noticed that they were clean, as if he had been scrubbed of all the dirt of his final fight with Voldemort. When he touched his face, he felt no warmth from his skin, and yet it was not cold. It was merely there, like touching a pad of some sort. It did not feel like it was alive. He tried to turn to get a better look at the nothingness, to perhaps see if he was back in the Limbo of King’s Cross once more and find Dumbledore waiting to take him to the afterlife. Instead, he saw more nothing.
Was this what the afterlife was then? Was he just to float in this empty whiteness for all eternity? "Harry Potter." An ethereal, echoing voice called out to him. It was soft at first, and it seemed to come from everywhere. He spun around once more, feeling the ground beneath his apparently bare feet. "Harry Potter." It called out for him again, this time, coming from above him. He looked up but saw nothing. Yet it called again, louder this time, and from behind. "Harry Potter," the voice called once again, more insistent. He turned one more time and still saw nothing but the same overwhelming white light that pervaded every corner of this strange existence. He tried to call out to the voice, his voice uncertain and somewhat raspy, as if he had not spoken for years. "H-Hello?"
The voice called out to him, this time sounding as if it were right next to him. "Harry Potter." He turned and was gazing into two olive green eyes, a strange ring of gold around the pupils. The owner of the eyes had their face practically right up against him, and Harry stumbled backwards in surprise, falling onto his back. Harry looked up and saw a tall, young man who seemed to be in his mid to late twenties wearing a tailored Muggle business suit. The suit jacket and pants were a solid black, and his shoes were reflectively bright in the white space as if freshly polished. The man had straight, short, black hair that was swept to the side. A well-trimmed, reddish-brown beard and a large mustache that seemed to be its own separate thing sat upon the man’s face. He was slightly leaned forward, hands clasped low behind his back. His eyes looked down at Harry, his lips pressed together as if contemplating something, most likely the Boy-Who-Once-Lived sprawled before him.
Harry took in a breath to speak, but was stopped by the man before him. "Are you going to get up off the floor any time soon, Mr. Potter?" His voice still echoed throughout the area, but now it had less of an ethereal effect to it. It only sounded as if he were somehow speaking in rounds. Harry quickly scrambled to his feet, stuttering out a quick apology, only for the man to raise his hand to silence him. "There is no need for apologies, Mr. Potter. I did surprise you. It is I who should apologize to you. Now then, please sit. We have much to discuss." He motioned behind Harry, who looked and saw a simple wooden chair with arms one might expect in a principal’s office within a Muggle school. As he looked back at the man before him, he saw him proceeding to sit down as a highly ornate throne rose from the ground, covered in turning gears, clock faces, hour glasses, sun dials, and other assorted time pieces. A similarly ornate desk slowly followed in front of the man, made of a very dark wood with hour glasses that drizzled sand for legs. The top surface, Harry was, was etched with the face of a clock.
"I guess you really like clocks, sir," Harry joked, an attempt to ground his growing nerves in this strange meeting, his voice taking on that that echoing effect the other man’s had.
The man's lips turned into a smirk, not quite like Malfoy's trademark ones, but close enough that it left Harry somewhat unsettled. "I guess you could say that. Time is typically on my side." His voice was level as he spoke. The two seemed to stare at each other a long silence reigning supreme, with the mysterious man’s eyes boring into Harry, as if he could see all that he was and had been. Harry shifted uncomfortably under the man's scrutiny before the uncomfortable silence was broken by the man once more. "We have business to discuss, and you have questions to ask. Ask them, and I will answer you."
Harry's back straightened slightly before he spoke starting with what he felt was the most pressing of questions, "Where am I, sir?" The man leaned back in his chair, drawing his hands over his stomach as he continued to scrutinize Harry, somewhat reminding him of a bored predator watching uninteresting prey.
"You are where you are." The man was apparently not going to be helpful.
Harry tried again, trying to keep the mild irritation out of his voice. "But where is that sir?"
The man quirked an eyebrow up at that. His voice betrayed nothing of what the man may've been thinking regarding his scrutiny of Harry. "For lack of a better term, Harry Potter, you are in the Void, where all the Masters go should they be unable to pass on." The man was still as he spoke, almost like a statue.
Curiosity prickled at the back of Harry's mind, and he asked the obvious continuing question. "Pass on, sir?"
"To the afterlife, Harry." He blinked at that. So he was dead, or somewhere in between again.
"But what about Limbo?" The man chuckled at that, his lips curling into a faint smile.
"Limbo is not a place for the Masters. A Master is either dead or alive. There is not allowed to be an in-between."
There he was about the Masters again. What did that have to do with him right now? Was he talking about the Deathly Hallows? What would they have to do with anything? "A Master, sir?" The man simply looked at Harry, as if he had grown a second head, causing him to shift uncomfortably in his seat once again.
"It just occurred to me that I have not properly introduced myself. You may call me Bishop. I am the Master of Time, a member of the Masters, and the one assigned to... introduce you to a few things." He paused, letting what he said sink in before continuing. "The Masters are individuals or small groups of individuals who have somehow obtained complete power over an aspect of Magic or existence by fulfilling certain pre-requisites. We are, in effect, rulers of that aspect of magic."
Harry looked at Mr. Bishop, the gears in his head churning to process the information before he spoke up, somewhat confused. "But Mr. Bishop, I thought the title Master of Death was a myth." Bishop chuckled, whether at his confusion or how quickly he appeared to understand it, Harry had no idea.
"It both is, and it is not, and please call me Bishop. We are of equal rank. You are the Master of Death, and I am the Master of Time. That is a detailed question that I shall save for after any others you have" The man brought up his right hand, and flicked his wrist slightly, a glass of water appearing in front of the both of them followed by a bowl of crisps that slid towards Harry on its own. "If you have any other questions?" Bishop leaned forward, steepling his hands in front of his mouth, his glass of water between his elbows.
Harry leaned back into his chair, and thought for a few moments. What questions did he have that he wanted answers to right now? He was obviously dead, or somewhere between life and death, but what about his friends? Were they still alive? Harry opened his mouth to speak, "What abo- "and was promptly cut off by Bishop raising a finger out of his hand bridge.
"Your friends are dead, Harry. Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger were killed by a Blasting Curse fired by Travers. Ronald was killed immediately, while Hermione bled out in the ensuing battle. You yourself were killed by Walden Macnair using Sectumsempera. In the end, the Death Eaters still lost, but the casualties were greater than they should have been…" Bishop seemed to trail off in thought, his eyes going off to the expanse surrounding them, before snapping back to look at Harry. He barely had time to process the deaths of his two closest friends before the Master of Time continued. "Do you have any further questions?" Harry shook his head, and Bishop nodded. "Good, then get comfortable." They both leaned back in their chairs.
"Now, to explain the title Master of Death, you must know of the power behind Magic itself. Magic has never truly been tame, as it seems to be. It usually flows like a raging river, but the Masters guide it and control it. We are that which guides the flow and we hold unparalleled control within our domains. That said, we do not have Masters over elements, and we have overlap between our areas of influence." His eyes fell on Harry's, and they seemed to brim with life and amusement, a Dumbledore-like twinkle appearing in them. "Our areas are two such overlaps. Death, Time, and Life all have overlap. While your domain deals with passing, and you can take that which lives, so too can Life bring the dead back like you can… but neither of you can do so without my assistance and approval. I, on the other hand, must receive both your approval and the approval of Life to modify time should it bring the dead back to life. We do not approve of each individual death to occur, but we have some say in if people die or the like. We are essentially watchers of existence as it passes, mortal men and women ascended above it all, watching as things pass. There is no good and evil among us, and there is no plan among us. Morality has little effect or implication to us, as we effectively stand outside of it." Harry could barely comprehend that. They essentially had power over Life and Death, and they did nothing? People died and suffered because they did nothing. They simply stood by? They were human once, right? How could they stand aside like that? How could he stand aside when he could intervene? Bishop continued.
"That said, that does not mean we do not take special interest in some events that afflict humanity. Our apathy stems from our eternity.” He gave Harry a knowing look, and Harry at least had the sense to look sheepish. He didn’t think he could ever become so callous even if he’d spent a thousand endless years sitting and watching. “We only pass on should certain conditions be met: The first condition is that someone new takes the helm of our position, and the second possible condition is that mortals remove us without a replacement. From time to time, this happens by accident. An unknown consequence to rituals that Wizards use." Bishop paused to take a breath, and Harry raised his hand, as if he were in class. Bishop sighed, "I thought I told you I would not answer any questions until the end."
"Sorry sir, it's just something you said" Bishop looked at Harry, mild confusion appearing on his visage, and he nodded, prompting Harry to continue. "You're the Master of Time, right?" Harry asked.
"Yes… I am the Master of Time, with all that titles brings," Bishop answered, confusion crossing his face.
"Are the Masters like nobility of some kind?"
"I-I guess you can say that? In a manner of speaking?” Bishop’s head tilted slightly.
"And there have been many in the position of Master of Time?"
"Yes." A simple, firm answer.
"Why not just call yourself a Time Lord then?" Bishop slackened in his chair, his muscles releasing, a long suffering sigh escaping his lips, and his eyes boring into Harry with an expression that one could easily read as 'Are you serious?'
After a long, drawn out silence, Bishop spoke again, schooling his features into a straight face before they dropped into a scowl that Harry was certain would kill him if he weren’t already dead. "Because I'm not some juvenile gallivanting around time and space in a Police Box. I am the Master of Time. I control the ebb and flow of time for everything that lives and breathes. I can change history without paradox by breathing." Bishop paused and Harry blinked at the vicious tirade. When he opened his eyes again, the Master of Time’s entire being had changed. In that span, the young man had disappeared, once youthful skin now withered and sagging, face hollowed, and wrinkles furrowing deep as valleys. His beard spilled to the floor in a lifeless heap, the length surpassing even Dumbledore’s. Bishop hadn’t moved, his posture the exact same as before this transformation. "Now, do you have any other questions or may I continue? There is an offer I may make at the end, but if you irritate me further, it will end." The voice that ground out sounded ancient even by the most strict standards, the weight not of centuries but of incalculable millennia rising behind every syllable. The echo of youth could still be heard behind his words. Harry nodded, stunned by the display. Bishop cleared his throat, an almost hacking sound, and continued. "As I was saying… From time to time, a position becomes empty. Your position, as well as several of the positions of my colleagues, has been empty for the last thirty years relative to me. I say relative to me because I am a Master of Time. I know who my successors are, and regularly speak to each of my predecessors. We always are, just as we always are not, because of the nature of Time. You, on the other hand, are the Master of Death. Your title places you as the Reaper's handler. You may use him as a weapon against your enemies, or you would be able to if you were alive." Bishop paused again, letting his words sink into Harry's mind. He, Harry Potter, had the essence of Death itself at his command during the final battle. He could decide who lived and who died. And I failed to even do that right. I couldn’t keep my friends alive, let alone myself. Harry thought.
He was broken out of his somber thoughts by Bishop's voice. When Harry looked back, the being had resumed his youthful appearance with no sign of the ancient man he’d become. "That said, there is a third condition. The passing of the position to another Master until such a time as a new, proper holder comes along, should a situation necessitate such. Typically, a Master lives a certain period after achieving their position before being made aware of the job waiting for them at their end. You, however, were killed during what could be called a formation period. While your soul was being prepared to control the Reaper, you were killed. These complications open the third option to you. You may pass your title of Master of Death to another Master, though you run the risk of being destroyed in doing so, entirely incapable of passing on.” The thought of such hung. I wouldn’t even be able to see my friends in death? My family? Sirius? “Or you may have me attempt to correct the problem. The correction of the problem would take what feels like no time for a Master, but could be decades in the life of a mortal."
What was Bishop suggesting? He was giving Harry a chance to pass on and be with his friends and family. It wasn't a certainty that it would work, but would it really matter one way or the other? Still, the possibilities gnawed at him. "What would I have to do if I wanted to pass the title to you or another Master?" Harry looked down at the top of Bishop's desk. He didn't want to look in the man's eyes and see that twinkling that reminded him of Dumbledore.
Unbeknownst to Harry, the man's lips were twisted into a disturbing smile. "The same thing I would be asking for as payment for the offer I will make you." Harry looked up at the man again, The man looking to Harry like a grinning cat who just found a pinned juicy rat for himself. "My offer is this, Harry. I am the Master of Time, he who controls its flow. Just as I can speed the course of the river or dam it entirely, so too can I reverse its course. The Master of Life has already allowed me to give you this offer, and I am sure you will not refuse. I will rewind time. You will be brought back to just before your introduction to the Wizarding World, no earlier and no later. In return, you will make sure that the Master of Time who reigns during your time becomes the Master of Death. He will know what to do when the time comes, and he will assist you." Bishop let out a deep sigh, his eyes closed. "If you choose this option, I apologize well in advance for his behavior." His eyes snapped back open, glaring at Harry with a strange intensity, the twinkle gone. "That said, if you chose to simply give up the title, you would be sent back to moments before your death instead, only to die again, this time for good. The result would either destroy you, or send you to the afterlife, to your," Bishop looked as if he were going to be sick as he spoke, "next great adventure." Bishop visibly shuddered, as if the phrase itself were a nasty curse or hex. "Now, the choice is yours. Call for me when your decision is made." Bishop stood, his desk and chair fading from existence, leaving the glasses of water and bowl of crisps floating in front of Harry, as if the desk was still there, and he left, leaving Harry alone in the empty white space.
It felt like hours of him just sitting in that chair, staring at his clenched hands while he thought over what he'd do. He could continue as the Master of Death, living an apathetic existence with no real fulfillment that separates him from his friends and family for eternity. He could also take the gamble of giving the title up in what seemed like the standard process for the Masters... or he could take the offer and go further back in time. He would have to endure the harsh treatment of the Dursley's again, but he would have a chance to keep his friends alive this time around. His thoughts traveled to everyone he lost thus far: He thought of Cedric, killed when Voldemort first returned; To Sirius, killed by Bellatrix in the battle at the Ministry; to Remus, killed by Antonin Dolohov; of Dumbledore and his guiding hand in Harry's life, despite how manipulative he may've been; of Fred Weasley and the Weasley family in general, who he considered his own family; and of Hermione, who stood by him throughout everything even when everyone else turned against him; and even of Snape, who gave his life to protect Malfoy and himself. What would they say he should do? To Sirius and the Weasley twins, they'd probably tell him to go for the long run and pull one over on Voldemort, Sirius saying he should have had a long life. Remus and Hermione would probably try and weigh all the pros and cons of each option, with Hermione wishing she could possibly research anything about the Masters. Ron and Ginny and the rest of the Weasley's would probably tell him to take the long option, saying they'd still be there right with him, time and time again. His thoughts moved to Ginny, the last person his thoughts had been on before he’d gone to die by Voldemort's hand. Those thoughts alone might've normally motivated him, but if he did go back in time to try and fix things, he would have to deal with her shy fan girl stage, something he would not look forward to, should he make that decision.
After a long deliberation, Harry sighed. Only one option sat well with him. He may not like the Dursleys, but he could save the most people by going back. He would save Cedric, he would save Sirius and Remus. Fred Weasley wouldn't die, and neither would Ron or Hermione. He was determined to keep as many of them alive as he could. Standing, Harry called out for Bishop, who stepped out of the bright white light ahead of him like a phantom. "You have come to a decision." It wasn't a question. Bishop had a look that told Harry the other man... being had known the answer before he'd left him alone. He nodded, not needing to say anything more. Bishop knew what he gave him, seemed to know about his 'saving people thing' as Hermione called it. Bishop straightened up, his arms seeming to tense behind his back as he stood tall, towering over Harry, noticeably taller than Ron. Emerald green met olive green, and Bishop nodded once. "You will be meeting with the Master of Time relative to your own time shortly after you arrive. As I stated before, I am sorry about how they will act. While I am millennia old, they have experienced exceedingly less. Follow their instructions, however, and you should be fine." He held out a hand for Harry, the ethereal echo gone. "Good bye, and good luck, Mr. Potter." Harry firmly grasped the man's hand and shook it, before the immortal being stepped back. One moment, Harry was looking at the olive green eyes of a timeless ancient, and the next he was surrounded by swirling sands and floating, ticking clocks. He tried to jump but was held fast, looking around himself in a panic as the sands flowed upwards, slowly swallowing his body. He looked back up, finding himself alone as the hands of the clocks moved backwards, each tick echoing through his head continually. He opened his mouth to call out but felt the grit swarm past his chin and down his throat. Eventually, even his vision was covered by the grains, leaving him in complete, numbing darkness.