Chapter Text
The cupboard was dark.
Not because the lightbulb had burned out weeks ago.
Not because the crack beneath the door had finally been blocked by one of Uncle Vernon’s old coats.
It was dark because Harry had stopped hoping the door would open.
Ten years old was far too young to understand despair properly. Adults liked to say children were resilient, that children bounced back.
But resilience did not stop hunger from hurting.
It did not stop Aunt Petunia’s sharp voice from slicing into him day after day.
It did not stop Uncle Vernon’s hands from grabbing too hard.
It did not stop Dudley and his gang from laughing as they beat him.
And it certainly did not stop the awful, crushing exhaustion that settled in Harry’s chest.
Harry sat curled in the corner of the cupboard beneath the stairs, knees pressed to his chest. His glasses were cracked again. His cheek still aching from where Uncle Vernon had shoved him earlier for “looking freakish.”
He was so tired.
So very tired.
Maybe—
Maybe if he disappeared…
Then everything would stop.
No more shouting.
No more hunger.
No more being unwanted.
Harry’s fingers trembled around the kitchen knife he had stolen hours ago.
The cupboard was silent except for his tiny, uneven breaths.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to no one.
Then he dragged the blade across his wrist.
Pain bloomed hot and sharp.
Harry bit down on his sleeve to stop himself from crying out.
The blood dripped slowly onto the floorboards.
And Harry waited.
…
The first thing William T. Spears noticed was the paperwork discrepancy.
A soul collection that was decidedly not scheduled for Surrey.
Male.
Ten years old.
William adjusted his glasses with a precise motion, expression flattening into disapproval.
Children were always troublesome cases especially one that were not scheduled for collection.
He stepped through the veil of death with mechanical efficiency and coming out in what appears to be in front of a boot cupboard under the stairs.
William dusted nonexistent dust from his pristine black coat, his death scythe gleaming softly beneath the dim moonlight shining from the window.
William opened the cupboard door and wrinkle his nose.
The room smelled of mildew.
Dust.
Blood.
And neglect.
William’s gaze fell upon the child slumped weakly against the wall.
Small.
Far too small.
Messy black hair, partially covered bruises along thin arms. Oversized clothes hung from his body like rags. His face was pale with blood loss, green eyes dull and glassy behind broken spectacles.
William had reaped countless souls.
He had seen murder victims.
War casualties.
Children abandoned in alleys.
But something in his chest tightened unpleasantly at the sight before him.
Harry looked up weakly at the tall stranger cloaked in black.
“…Angel?” he asked faintly.
William stared at him for a long moment.
“No,” he replied quietly.
His voice was usually crisp. Sharp. Precise.
Now it sounded strangely gentle.
“I am a Grim Reaper.”
Harry blinked slowly.
“Oh.”
There was no fear, just tired acceptance.
William hated that more than anything.
The boy swayed.
“Am I dead?”
“Not yet.”
Harry looked disappointed but was hit by a sudden bout of dizziness.
Maybe he should lie down. Sleeping might help because Harry knows by morning he would be worked to the bone once more.
Harry blinked sluggishly as he stared at the man dressed in black and wonders if he should yell for Unclr Vernon because there was an intruder in the house.
Harry blinked once, twice and his eyes closed for the last time as his body slumped.
Harry James Potter, ten years old, and he took his last breath on June 27, 1991 at 12:53 midnight.
William approached and gently nudged his death scythe against the boy.
The cinematic record began to play automatically.
William watched.
A toddler shoved into a cupboard.
Tiny hands scrubbing floors.
Cold nights without blankets.
Hunger.
Fear.
Isolation.
A little boy silently patching his own wounds because nobody else would.
And through it all—
No one came.
No one helped.
The reel continued.
Harry Potter smiling weakly despite everything.
Trying so desperately to be good.
Trying to earn affection that never arrived.
William’s expression slowly became unreadable.
Then the final memory played.
Harry sitting alone in darkness, whispering apologies for existing before cutting his wrist with shaking hands.
The reel ended.
Silence swallowed the cupboard.
William’s fingers tightened around his scythe.
Suicide was a grave sin among humans. Human souls who took their own lives were often punished severely.
But…
William looked again at the bruises.
The starvation.
The horrific loneliness.
This child had not wanted death.
He had wanted the pain to stop.
There was a difference.
William stamped Harry's file as complete. The dark haired reaper stared at the young boy and with a heavy heart brought out another stamp from his coat pocket.
With a sigh, William stamped Harry's file once more — CONDEMNED.
Harry's body jolted before emerald eyes opened into small slits as the boy frowned sleepily. “What’s happening…?”
William knelt before him.
Carefully.
As though the child might break apart.
“Harry James Potter,” he said softly, “your soul has been judged.”
Harry’s eyes widened fearfully.
“Ending one's own life is a grave sin. You are to become a Grim Reaper, condemned to reap souls as punishment until your sin has been forgiven."
Harry stared blankly.
“…What?”
And the transformation began.
Red threads spilled from Harry’s wound like glowing ribbons, the cupboard filling with scarlet light.
Harry gasped in pain, curling inward as dark markings spread across his skin like ink beneath water. William immediately caught him before his head struck the wall.
The child was burning with feverish heat.
“It hurts…” Harry whimpered.
William hesitated only briefly before pulling Harry against his chest.
“There now,” he murmured awkwardly. "I know.”
He did not know why he said it.
William T. Spears was not comforting by nature.
Yet his hand had somehow found its way into messy black hair, smoothing it back carefully while Harry shook in agony.
The reaper conversion was never pleasant.
For a child, it was horrific.
Harry clutched weakly at William’s coat.
“Please don’t leave me…”
William froze.
Something ancient and exhausted inside him cracked quietly.
“…I will remain,” he answered.
And he did.
...
When Harry awoke again, he was no longer in the cupboard.
He lay in an unfamiliar room with dark wood walls and shelves stacked high with books. Rain tapped softly against large windows.
A blanket covered him.
Warm.
Clean.
Harry stared at it in confusion.
The door opened.
William entered carrying a tray.
Tea, toast and soup
Harry immediately flinched backward instinctively.
William stopped.
The sight hit him like a blade.
Fear.
The child feared being hurt for taking up space.
William carefully set the tray down on the bedside table.
“You are not in trouble,” he said quietly.
Harry looked unconvinced.
William removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He had absolutely no experience with children.
None.
Unfortunately, it seemed the universe had assigned him one anyway.
“You require nourishment,” William continued stiffly. “That is soup. You are meant to consume it.”
Harry stared at the tray like it might disappear.
“…For me?”
William felt something deeply violent awaken at the realization that this question had likely been asked in genuine disbelief.
“Yes,” he replied tightly.
Harry reached slowly for the spoon.
Then stopped.
“…Can I really eat it?”
William turned abruptly away before the child could see the fury in his eyes.
“Yes, Harry.”
A tiny pause.
Then soft, watery sniffles.
William glanced back.
Harry was crying silently into the soup while trying desperately to stay quiet about it.
As though he had learned tears were dangerous.
William stood motionless for several seconds.
Then, with all the grace of a man approaching his execution, he sat carefully beside the bed and awkwardly placed a gloved hand atop Harry’s messy hair.
Harry flinched but immediately leaned into the touch.
Instinctive.
Starved for affection.
William’s chest ached.
“You are safe here,” he said quietly.
Harry’s small fingers curled weakly around his sleeve.
“…Really?”
William looked at the child who had died before anyone ever loved him properly.
And for the first time in centuries—
The meticulous, terrifying William T. Spears made a promise from the heart.
“Yes,” he said.
“No one shall harm you again.”
-End Chapter 1-