I've Had Ninety-Nine Lives (But I've Only Lived Once)

Untitled Part 2

Helena Ravenclaw

He is guiding her to a crossroads. He has died for her, but it is her turn to make a choice. She looks at him, her soul glowing translucent, curiosity in her eyes.

"Why do you do this? Why do you take our deaths from us?" She asks him these questions without judgement; she does not mind his experiencing death for her.

He considers his answer. For all the questions he has been asked, he has never been asked in quite this way.

"I have no choice," he replies, and the admission is heavy. It is the truth, though. He was forced into this position by chance, by fate - he doubts he will ever know who to blame.

They arrive at Helena's crossroads, and she looks at them in consternation before turning to him. He cannot make this choice for her, cannot choose her path.

"What are my choices?" she asks quietly, as though she cannot feel the regret that tethers her to the mortal plane. And perhaps she cannot; he never spoke to her about her choice, the first time he knew her, and it is not everyone who feels that regret so keenly that they cannot move on.

Just like the living, the dead are complex and unique, he knows this, and yet they always manage to surprise him; he has been doing this for millions of deaths, and they all blur together. Even in his life, the dead were rarely memorable, and dying for them hasn't changed that.

"You can move on," he says, "or you can return to the world as a ghost."

She looks at him. Asks, "What do you think I should choose?"

"I cannot make your choice for you," he replies. "I have taken your death from you, I will not take this from you as well."

He already knows what she will choose, knows that her presence is important in the future.

"If I return, will I see my mother again?"

"You will see her again no matter what you choose."

"I will go back, then. I would like to see her again before you die for her."

He leads her down the road that leads back. The end of it glows white.

"They always say not to walk towards the light," Helena muses.

"The life of a ghost can be lonely," Harry agrees, "most would not wish such an existence on anyone."

Helena steps towards the light. "Thank you," she says, "for taking my death for me." And then she steps into it.

Frank Bryce

"This isn't Heaven. You aren't God," says the Muggle.

"No," Harry agrees.

"But I'm dead, right? That creature killed me with the green spotlight?"

"Yes. You are dead. Voldemort killed you. I'm sorry that your introduction to magic was in the form of death. It can be quite beautiful."

He doesn't expect anything to come of it, doesn't expect Frank's curiosity.

"Show me."

Harry hesitates. This man is a Muggle, that much is true, but Frank is dead and can't hurt him. He has nothing to be afraid of; the man standing in front of him is not Vernon, and this is what convinces him to flick his fingers, whispering "Expecto Patronum " under his breath.

Prongs blossoms into being, pearlescent and elegant. Frank looks at the stag in awe, stroking its flank. Prongs' presence emits warmth, and Harry feels happy for the first time since he closed his eyes against the green that lit a forest.