Harry Potter lay flat on his back, staring at the sky, feeling like he'd just gotten into a bar fight with a Hungarian Horntail. And lost. Badly. Every bone in his body felt like it had been drop-kicked by Hagrid.
But hey, Voldemort? Gone. Dust in the wind. His last Horcrux? Toast. Harry should've been celebrating, maybe fist-pumping the air like a Quidditch star who'd just won the World Cup. Instead, he just felt...tired. Like, "I-don't-care-if-I-ever-move-again" tired.
Someone—Hermione, because obviously—was sobbing above him, which was kind of sweet but also distracting. Ron was muttering something about "bloody hell" and "seriously, mate, don't die." Mrs. Weasley hovered like a mother dragon, and the rest of the Weasleys stood behind her, looking less like a victorious war party and more like they'd just realized the bill for this battle was way higher than expected.
Harry sighed. The world was safe. The prophecy was fulfilled. The Boy Who Lived had officially outlived his usefulness. He should've felt relieved, maybe even peaceful. Instead, all he could think was:
If I wake up and someone hands me another prophecy, I swear I will hex them so hard their great-grandchildren will sneeze Amortentia.
And then, just as he was starting to get comfortable with the whole "slowly fading into the void" thing—because honestly, it sounded more relaxing than anything else in his life—he felt a shift.
Like the universe had just flicked a light switch.
—
One second, he was lying in the middle of the wreckage of Hogwarts. The next? He was standing in what looked like King's Cross Station, if King's Cross Station had been designed by an interior decorator on hallucinogens. Everything glowed in that weird, ethereal way that suggested "magical dreamscape" or possibly "Luna Lovegood's idea of a casual hangout spot."
And in front of him stood Death.
Now, when most people think of Death, they probably picture a hooded figure with a scythe, maybe a skeletal grin. What Harry got? A woman. Or at least, something vaguely shaped like one. Tall, sharp-featured, with dark eyes that looked like they had seen every bad life choice in history. She wore an elegant black suit—somewhere between "CEO of the Afterlife" and "Fashionably Unimpressed."
And her expression? Peak British judgment.
"You again," she said, crossing her arms. "You do love making my job difficult."
Harry blinked. "Uh. Have we met?"
Death tilted her head, considering. "Technically, yes. Though you were a baby, so it doesn't count. And then there was that time with the Basilisk venom, and the time with the Dementors, and let's not forget the little resurrection stunt you pulled earlier." She gave him a slow, unimpressed once-over. "Honestly, for someone named 'The Boy Who Lived,' you've spent an alarming amount of time dying."
Harry cleared his throat. "Yeah, well, I like to keep things interesting."
Death sighed, as if he was the exhausting one in this conversation. "I suppose congratulations are in order. You did it. Killed Voldemort, saved the world. Very heroic." She said it like most people say, Wow, you managed to parallel park.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I don't suppose this is the part where you tell me I've earned eternal rest?"
Death snorted. "Oh, please. You, retire? No. I have a job for you."
Harry stared at her. "A job? Death is handing out side quests now?"
Death ignored that. "You are in possession of all three of my Hallows. That makes you the Master of Death."
Harry crossed his arms. "Cool title, but if this is about unpaid overtime, I'd like to remind you that I was not informed of any job responsibilities when I picked up those things."
Death's lips curved in what could almost be a smile. "Well, consider this your official offer. You have two choices. One, you move on—rest, be at peace, reunite with your loved ones."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "And the catch?"
"No catch," Death said smoothly. "It's a good deal. You deserve it."
Harry waited.
Death sighed. "Option two: I send you to a new world, fully equipped with your memories and magic. Fresh start. No prophecies, no Horcruxes, no Dark Lords trying to use your blood like a free potion ingredient." She smirked. "Well, presumably."
Harry blinked. "You want me to start over? In another world?"
"Correct."
"And why, exactly, would I do that?"
Death shrugged. "Boredom? Adventure? The fact that you'd rather die again than sit through a single minute of wizarding politics?"
…Okay. That was fair.
"Can I choose the world?"
Death shook her head. "Nope. Mystery box. But I promise, it won't be boring."
Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. "So my options are: eternal rest, or another round of 'Harry Potter versus the World'—now with extra dimensions?"
"Basically."
He should have taken the easy road. He should have chosen peace. But the truth was? The idea of an entirely new world, where he could actually live without the shadow of Voldemort over his head, was...tempting.
"Fine," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Send me in, coach."
Death smiled, and for the first time, it actually seemed a little fond. "Excellent choice. The Hallows will find their way back to you when the time is right."
"Great. Love cryptic nonsense."
A swirling portal appeared beside him, glowing like magical cotton candy.
Harry gave it a look. "And this won't immediately kill me, right?"
Death smirked. "No promises."
"Fantastic." With a last deep breath, Harry stepped into the portal.
As the light swallowed him, one final thought crossed his mind:
If this world has another Dark Lord, I am hexing Death in the face.
—
The halls of Starfall were buzzing. And not in the fun, "let's-have-a-feast" kind of way. More like the "something is about to go horribly wrong, and we're all just hoping we're not the ones who have to deal with it" kind of way.
Inside Lady Ashara Dayne's chambers, things were significantly worse. There was screaming. There was cursing. There was also a distinct chance that someone—possibly the maester—was about to get something heavy thrown at their head.
"Breathe, my lady! Steady now!" urged the midwife, a plump Dornishwoman named Anisa, who somehow managed to be both incredibly kind and deeply unimpressed by Ashara's dramatics at the same time.
"Steady? Steady?!" Ashara snarled, gripping the sheets with white-knuckled hands. "You try being steady when it feels like a kraken is trying to claw its way out of your insides!"
The maester—good old Maester Aldric, who had the unfortunate fate of looking like a man who had long ago given up on life—hovered at the edge of the room, scribbling furiously in his journal. "Subject: Lady Dayne. Current status: Furious. Predicted status: Still furious, but with an infant."
"Maester," Ashara snapped through gritted teeth. "If you write one more word, I swear on the Seven I will shove that quill so far up your—"
"I'll just… put this away," Aldric muttered, slipping the journal behind his back like a guilty child caught with stolen sweets.
Anisa, meanwhile, rolled her eyes. "Oh, you noblewomen. You always act like you're the first ones to ever give birth. Your mother did it, her mother did it, and guess what? She didn't whine about it."
"I bet she did," Ashara growled. "She was just too polite to say it in front of you."
Anisa gave her a knowing smile. "Mm-hmm. Less talking, more pushing."
And so, with a final scream that probably made every poor soul in Starfall reconsider ever having children, Ashara Dayne brought a very stubborn, very loud baby into the world.
Anisa held up the tiny, wailing bundle like he was a prize she'd won at the fair. "Congratulations, my lady! It's a boy!"
Ashara flopped back against the pillows, utterly drained. "Of course, it's a boy. Only a son of mine would be this much trouble on his way into the world."
Aldric peered over Anisa's shoulder and hummed. "A noble birth, to be sure. A Stark name would be fitting, given his lineage. Perhaps—"
"Perhaps," Ashara interrupted, giving him a withering look, "he should at least take his first breath before you start lecturing him."
Aldric blinked, as if this was a radical concept. Anisa smirked. The baby hiccupped.
Then the chamber doors burst open, revealing a tiny, furious five-year-old with a mop of dark hair and the expression of a boy who had been told one too many times that he was "too young to understand."
"Aunt Ashara!" Edric Dayne announced, striding into the room with all the authority his little body could muster. "It's true! They're saying Brandon Stark and his father are dead. They're saying there's gonna be a war!"
Ashara sighed and glanced at Anisa. "You see? This is why I never should've had a boy. They're impossible to keep out of trouble."
Anisa just chuckled and handed the baby to his mother. "Oh, don't worry, my lady. He'll have plenty of time to learn how to cause you even more grief."
Ashara looked down at the baby—her son. Brandon's son. His tiny fists curled and uncurled, his face scrunched in either outrage or sheer confusion at the concept of being alive. She felt a lump rise in her throat, but she swallowed it down.
"Cregan," she murmured. "His name is Cregan."
Edric squinted at the baby as if sizing him up. "He's all red and squishy."
"That's what babies look like, you little menace," Ashara said, brushing a finger over Cregan's soft cheek.
Edric considered this. "I don't like it."
"Well, he's not here to impress you," Ashara retorted, but she was smiling.
Aldric cleared his throat, determined to reclaim the moment. "A noble name. A Stark name. He will—"
"—be allowed to get some sleep before you start dumping expectations on him," Ashara interrupted. "Honestly, Aldric, do you ever stop?"
Aldric frowned. "That's hardly fair. My entire job is to talk and write things down."
"And yet, we all wish you'd do less of both," Ashara muttered.
The baby made a small, whimpering noise, and she softened instantly, rocking him gently. "You hear that, little one? Lesson one: Life is messy, and people will always expect too much of you. But you? You just do what you have to do."
Cregan yawned, completely unbothered by the heavy future being placed upon his tiny shoulders.
Ashara kissed his forehead, whispering softly. "You'll have to be strong, my love. The world is changing, and you will be caught in the middle of it. But you will shine, I promise you that."
Outside, the castle hummed with the whispers of war, of rebellion, of the fate of kings and kingdoms.
Inside, in this moment, there was only Ashara, her son, and the promise of what was to come.
—
Lady Ashara Dayne had survived many things in her life—court intrigue, ridiculous amounts of embroidery lessons, and at least one very dramatic near-duel between suitors who apparently thought her favor at a tourney was worth dying over. But childbirth? Childbirth was a whole new level of misery. It made even the most insufferable lords of King's Landing seem tolerable by comparison.
Now, though, it was over. The midwife and the maester had left to "give her a moment" (which she strongly suspected was just an excuse to avoid her sharp tongue), leaving her alone with the tiny, squirming bundle in her arms.
Her son.
Brandon Stark's son.
Cregan was warm against her chest, his little face scrunched up like he was already judging the world and finding it lacking. Which, fair. The world was a mess right now, and frankly, she wouldn't blame him if he decided to cry about it for the next few years.
Ashara ran a trembling hand through his fine, dark hair—so much like his father's. A lump formed in her throat. She had spent months preparing for this, steeling herself for the reality that Brandon would never get to meet their son. But all that careful preparation had done absolutely nothing. It still hurt like a blade to the ribs.
She pressed her lips to Cregan's forehead. "You're a Stark," she whispered. "Which means you'll be stubborn, reckless, and prone to throwing yourself into danger for the sake of honor. Gods help me."
The baby yawned. She took that as agreement.
Her gaze drifted to the open window, where the sky was beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. The sight made her chest tighten. Dawn. Starlight. Winter.
It was almost funny, in a cruel, cosmic sort of way. Their love had been whispered beneath the towering oaks of the Isle of Faces, stolen in moments between duty and expectation. It had felt like something out of a song—a Stark and a Dayne, starlight and frost, bound together beneath the eyes of the old gods.
And now?
Now, the only proof of that love was this tiny, fragile life in her arms.
A sharp gust of wind rustled the curtains, making the candlelight flicker. Ashara smirked. "That you, Brandon? Checking in?" She let out a sigh, shaking her head. "You always did have terrible timing. You couldn't wait until after I'd had some sleep?"
No answer, of course. Just the quiet hush of the waves crashing far below the castle walls.
Ashara closed her eyes, letting herself imagine—for just a moment—what might have been. Brandon, grinning like a fool, holding their son aloft like some victorious warrior showing off the spoils of battle. Brandon, laughing as Cregan pulled on his hair. Brandon, telling their son stories of wolves and swords and loyalty.
But fate was cruel, and the future she had once dreamed of had been torn away, leaving her with nothing but memories and a name whispered into the night.
Her fingers curled protectively around Cregan's tiny hand. "You have no idea what kind of world you've been born into, little one," she murmured. "But you'll be strong. You'll be fierce. And you'll make him proud."
Cregan made a soft noise, something between a sigh and a gurgle. Ashara smiled, brushing her thumb over his cheek. "You'll make me proud, too."
Outside, the sun was rising over the Dornish cliffs, painting the sky in shades of gold and violet. A new day. A new beginning.
Ashara tightened her hold on her son and let herself believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, the world wasn't completely lost yet.
—
Alright, so here's the situation: Cregan Stark, a whole few minutes old, was clearly not ready for an existential crisis. You know, that thing where you're basically still figuring out which end of your body makes the most noise, and suddenly, BAM! A flood of memories from some wizarding life you never asked for. Yeah, that was happening.
Now, look, if there's one thing you need to understand about Cregan—er, Harry, in a past life that apparently had zero chill—it's that he was, at the moment, incredibly busy figuring out the basics of existence. You know, like, breathing? Important stuff like that. So, magical duels and sword-fighting with destiny were definitely not on his agenda right now. But here they were, poking at the corners of his baby brain like mischievous ghosts at a Halloween party.
"Wait, what? I was Harry Potter?" he thought, already finding the situation absolutely ridiculous. "Can't even remember how to blink properly, and I'm already dealing with the aftermath of that life?"
And look, it's not like baby Cregan—sorry, Harry—knew exactly what was happening, but he sure had some strong feelings about it. The faintest flickers of green light haunted his blurry vision. Oh, and that voice? It was definitely saying something about "destiny" and "more than this." Cregan had to admit, if this was destiny, it was really bad at PR.
"Seriously?" his tiny brain moaned. "I'm just here trying to keep my head from bobbing like a malfunctioning toy, and now this?! Can't even deal with one life, and now I've got to juggle two? Typical."
His mom, Lady Ashara Dayne, seemed blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil of her newborn son. Or maybe she was just too busy being Ashara Dayne—a woman who made an entire castle look like a backdrop to a painting—and murmuring soft reassurances to her son as she rocked him gently in her arms.
"You'll do great things, little star," she whispered, her voice like honeyed warmth, though there was a certain edge to it that made her words feel like the start of an epic prophecy. "The world's waiting for you, and trust me, it's going to be an adventure like no other."
"Gee, no pressure, Mom," Cregan thought, rolling his non-existent eyes. "What, I just got here, and the world's already on my shoulders? Sure, yeah, I can handle it. But first… I'm gonna need a nap. And possibly some milk. I've earned this."
Ashara, completely oblivious to her newborn son's internal snark, continued with her gentle rocking, her gaze fixed on the window, where the first light of dawn was spilling into the room like liquid gold. The sun had just started its climb up the sky, casting a soft glow over Starfall's ancient stone walls. Outside, the world was waking up, fresh and alive, as if it hadn't been cursed by war and politics.
Cregan yawned. Well, baby Cregan did. It was that big, dramatic stretch-and-yawn combo that all babies perfect at around 30 seconds old. You know, the kind where the world's weightiest concerns are momentarily forgotten in favor of pure, unadulterated laziness.
But if you thought that was just any normal yawn, you'd be mistaken. The yawn had attitude. The kind of "I'm about to take over a continent, but first, nap" vibe that would've made even the gods of Westeros pause.
"Alright, alright, world," Cregan thought, fully embracing his inner snark. "You can deal with your destiny—I'll be over here in dreamland. Probably saving the world in my sleep, like I do in my other life. No biggie."
Ashara continued speaking softly, oblivious to the wickedly sharp commentary coming from her son's mind.
"The road ahead will be long," she said, "and you'll face more than a few battles. But I know you'll rise to every challenge, just like your father would have."
"Ah, yes, the *whole 'father' thing," Cregan mused mentally, as his little brain processed the idea of both being the heir to Winterfell and the reincarnated form of the Boy Who Lived. "Nothing like a little parentage to complicate your first few days of life. Is it too late to go back to that whole 'not being born' option?"
Ashara smiled down at him, but she couldn't have possibly known how much sass was being emitted from that tiny body.
She gave a soft laugh, her voice light. "Oh, Cregan, I do hope you don't inherit your father's stubbornness."
The baby's eyes flickered briefly open as if to prove exactly how much stubbornness he had in store for her. The second those little brown eyes locked on Ashara, Cregan knew one thing for certain: this wasn't just some random rebirth. Nope. He was destined to deal with all the legacy baggage of two ancient bloodlines. Wonderful.
"Oh, it's on, Mom," Cregan thought, feeling a sense of adventure—well, more like a mild headache—coming on. "Let's see how much trouble I can get into, shall we?"
But for now, the world could wait. The next few minutes were his. He curled into Ashara's arms, yawning again—a loud, exaggerated yawn that screamed, "You'll never know how important this nap is, Mom. But trust me, it's crucial."
And as Ashara Dayne whispered more soft promises about his bright future, Cregan Stark—reincarnated wizard, baby, and general snark machine—drifted off into a sleep so deep, even the gods of fate would have to wait their turn to tell him what came next.
Because, after all, every great hero has to sleep before saving the world.
Or, in his case, suck down some milk. Same thing, really.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!