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Beneath the abyss, where Heaven and Hell painted the sky and the stars illuminated the floor, Death stood before her as 7 cloaked figures, each carrying a scythe in their boney hands.
She was in a plain white dress, standing tall with her head held high, her lips set in a defiant line, and her gaze unwavering, daring them to cross her.
"I have come before you, as a humble soul, imploring you to please release my husband," her voice strong and determined.
"We know why you have come," said the Third.
"And we will deny your request," replied the Fourth.
"We grow tired of your presence," stated the Sixth.
"We will not change our minds," avowed the Second.
Pansy took a step forward as she pleaded. "Please. Please have mercy on him. It has been 300 years. Has he not suffered enough?"
"No," answered the Fifth.
"Why? What sins has he committed for you to condemn him to a life of immortality?"
"He is unnatural," the First answered.
"It is of no fault of his own. He did not ask for it. He did not want it!"
If Pansy were still alive, her blood would have heated with anger, but no, she was just a lingering soul waiting for her husband. Her cheeks did not flush and her chest did not heave, but her nostrils still flared and her lips still snarled.
"He was just a babe when Tom Riddle marked him. He wasn't even a boy!" Her hand itched for her wand. It had been 300 years, and her soul still craved magic. "It is unfair! It is unjust! He has given up and done so much for the Wizarding world. What more do you want from him? What more can he give?"
"Silence!" The First struck its scythe in the air sending an icy breeze at her.
She glared at them. Her hands clenched at her side.
The Seventh raised its boney hand, "Choose your next words carefully, Miss Parkinson."
"Its Mrs. Potter," hissed Pansy.
There was a moment of silence. A moment, a slight hesitation of regret. Her anger always got the best of her.
But it was Harry.
And he is her husband.
"Please," she whispered. She looked above them and gestured toward the painted sky of Heaven and Hell. "Look at him. Just look at him."
Death gazed upon him.
He was no longer the young boy who cheated death. His hair was gray and unkempt. His green eyes was dull and cloudy. His skin was pallid and wrinkled, but the scar on his forehead remained pink. Harry James Potter was no longer a boy. He was a man waiting for Death's arrival.
He was in their bed, and he was clutching the pillow she slept on. He burrowed his face into her pillow and took a deep breath, inhaling her lingering scent. He coughed violently and tried to regain his composure.
As he settled, he gingerly touched her pillow and cast a stasis charm, preserving what's left of her scent. His eyes watered. "I miss you so much."
He brought her pillow to his lips and gently left a kiss. "Happy anniversary, my love."
Death gazed back to Pansy.
Her eyes pooled with unshed tears and with quivering lips, she pleaded once more. "Please. There must be something that can be done. I beg you. I—I'll do anything. Please!"
Death was silent.
The First stepped toward her. "A soul for a soul." Death offered her its hand.
"You will not harm him."
"He will be at peace," replied the First.
She took Death's hand and collapsed onto the starlit floor.
She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. If she were alive, she wouldn't be able to breathe. As she lay there motionlessly, she watched Death leave one by one.
The Seventh stopped and turned to look at her. Death walked toward her and stood towering above her. Death reached into its cloak and pulled out a red string. Death peered down at her. Its bone-like hand grabbed her wrist and tied the string around her finger.
"You once promised him forever," said Death. "And forever it will be."