Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

Death gestured again, and the surrounding whiteness shifted, revealing glimpses of… something. Shadows of people and places Harry didn't recognize—cities and castles, faces both familiar and unfamiliar.

"Maybe the Voldemort in your world didn't kill his horcrux, but there are other worlds, Harry," Death said. "Other lives. Other possibilities. You have two options now. Nurture the soul of Voldemort inside of your scar until it grows consciousness and repents—"

He snorted. "Fat chance of that happening."

Death's lips twitched. "Or," they said, "you can find one world in which he will kill that piece of soul for you."

"Voldemort helping me?"

"No, not Voldemort."

Harry frowned, his confusion deepening. "Then who?"

"Oh, you know him already," Death replied, their voice laced with cryptic amusement. "At least you've seen versions of him. He's like you, in a way."

The surrounding shadows shifted again, revealing faint images of a man Harry recognized all too well.

"Tom Riddle," Harry whispered, the name leaving his lips before he even realized it.

Death's smile widened. "Very good. Yes, Tom Riddle. You're tied to him now, Harry—his soul and yours, two fragments tangled together. And until you untangle them, you'll keep finding him. Repeatedly."

Harry took another step back, shaking his head. "No. No, I've done enough. I want nothing to do with him. I just want to be with them—my friends, my family. Don't you think I've earned that?"

Death's expression didn't waver, but their eyes softened. "Do you really want to move on like that?" they asked quietly. "You carry so much guilt, Harry. So much grief. Do you really think you're ready to rest? Or is that just another way to run?"

Harry froze, the words hitting him like a blow.

Death stepped closer, their voice gentler now. "This isn't a punishment, Harry. It's a chance. A chance to heal. To grow. To find forgiveness—for yourself and for him."

Harry looked down at his hands, the faint echoes of Voldemort's magic still humming in his veins. He thought of Ron, Hermione, Ginny, his parents—all the people he wanted to see again, the peace he thought he'd earned. But he also thought of Tom, of the piece of him still clinging to life inside his soul.

"What if I don't want to go?" Harry asked finally, his voice hollow.

Death tilted their head, as though the question amused them. "You always have a choice, Master. But if you stay here, that fragment will stay with you. Forever. It will fester, and it will grow, and it will consume you. Is that the peace you want?"

Harry closed his eyes, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He wanted to say no, to refuse, to finally let go. But deep down, he knew the truth.

He opened his eyes, meeting Death's gaze. "Fine. I will find a Tom Riddle to kill me, then," he whispered. "Where do I start?"

Death's smile returned, sharp and knowing. "That's the spirit, Master," they said, though in the next second his smile faltered. "But…"

Harry raised an eyebrow, his frustration mounting. "But what?"

Death's robes shifted like shadows caught in a breeze, their black eyes glinting. "I'm not the Master of Space. I'm Death. My reach is vast, but even I can't decide where your soul lands. That part…" They gestured vaguely, their hand trailing through the rippling whiteness. "That's out of my control."

Harry frowned, trying to piece together the meaning behind their words. "So, what? You're just tossing me into random worlds and hoping for the best?"

Death chuckled softly, a sound that was both reassuring and unsettling. "Not random. Resonant. Each world your soul finds will have a thread—a connection. A version of Tom. A version of you."

Harry's stomach churned at the mention of his soul. He crossed his arms, his tone sharp. "What do you mean, a version of me?"

"Ah," Death said, their tone growing lighter as though this part amused them. "The body you'll inhabit in each world won't be quite yours, not at the beginning. But it will be."

Harry's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"I'll send your soul, not your body, Master." Death stepped closer, their expression somewhere between delight and pity. "Don't worry, though. The soul always reshapes the body, Harry. So when you arrive in a world, you'll take over the remains of someone whose death resonates with your soul. At first, the body may look different—similar, but not entirely you."

Harry's gaze fell to his hands. "And then?"

"And then," Death continued, "the body will change. Over days, weeks—however long it takes—it will reflect you more fully. Your scars, your height, even the curve of your jaw. Little by little, the pieces will fall into place. Your soul and your body will align, and you will become whole."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration prickling under his skin. "So, what? I just… hijack someone's body? Someone who just died?"

Death tilted their head, unconcerned. "They're already gone. Their bodies are nothing but vessels now, waiting to crumble into dust. Better you make use of them than leave them to rot."

Harry glared at them, disgust curling in his chest. "That's convenient for you, isn't it?"

Death raised an eyebrow, their tone turning sharper. "Convenient for you, Master. Without this process, you wouldn't last long in these worlds. You'd dissolve into nothingness before your journey even began."

Harry looked away, his jaw tightening. "And how long does this… process take? How long am I stuck in one place?"

Death smirked faintly, the amusement returning to their voice. "That depends on you. You'll remain in each world for as long as it takes for your soul to grow stable. Months, perhaps. Sometimes a shorter time. You'll know when it's time to move on."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You mean I'll know when you decide it's time for me to move on."

Death's smile widened, sharp and knowing. "Oh, no, Harry. That choice will always be yours. You can't die unless you want to—not truly. If you wish to leave a world, you need only will it. But leaving too soon comes at a cost."

"What cost?" Harry asked warily.

"Your body and soul won't have time to fully resonate," Death explained. "You'll carry fragments of instability into the next world—pain, disorientation, confusion. It's better for you to stay. Let the body settle. Let yourself heal."

Harry scowled, but the logic was undeniable. "Fine. But how am I supposed to find Tom if I don't even know where I'm going? If you don't know where I'm going?"

Death's voice grew softer, almost tender. "That's the beauty of it, Harry. You don't need to find him. You'll always land near him. Your souls are bound, like stars caught in the same orbit. No matter where you go, no matter how far or strange the world may seem, you will find him. Or he will find you."

Harry looked down at his hands again, a mix of anger and resignation simmering in his chest. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of this. But Death's words rang with a terrible, unshakable truth.

"Why me?" he asked quietly, his voice almost breaking. "Why do I have to carry this? Why not just… let me go?"

Death's expression softened again, and for a moment, they almost looked human. "Because you are who you are, Harry. Because you care. Because you've always cared." They reached out, as if to touch his shoulder, but stopped just short. "And because if anyone can heal what's broken—both in him and in yourself—it's you."

Harry closed his eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on him. He wanted to scream, to argue, to refuse. But deep down, he knew the truth.

"Okay," he said, resigned. However, Death didn't answer back. Instead, when he opened his eyes again, the surrounding whiteness began to fracture, cracks of color bleeding into the void. Harry's breath hitched as the ground beneath him vanished, and he was falling—not through space, but through time, through something vast and unknowable. The last thing he heard was Death's voice, distant and echoing: 'Let's see what the stars have in store for you.'