Return of House Mudd

The Walk into Darkness

The grounds of Hogwarts were eerily silent as Harry Potter made his way down from the castle toward the Forbidden Forest. The distant sounds of battle—the crashes of spells, the screams of the wounded—had faded into a distant hum, leaving the air heavy with an unnatural stillness. Harry's footsteps seemed louder than they should have been, crunching softly on the gravel paths and then squelching as he crossed a patch of damp grass. Each step felt weighted, as if the earth itself sought to drag him down, to stop him from reaching his grim destination.

The forest loomed ahead, dark and unwelcoming, its gnarled trees forming a tangled canopy that seemed to swallow the last traces of light. The path into the woods was well-worn, but it felt foreign to him now, as though he had never truly understood the depths of what lay within.

His hand instinctively brushed the front pocket of his robes, where the Invisibility Cloak was tucked away. It had served him so well over the years, protecting him from dangers seen and unseen. But tonight, it would remain unused. Tonight, there was no hiding.

As Harry walked, his thoughts churned like a storm-tossed sea. He replayed the events of his life, sifting through memories that surfaced with startling clarity. He thought of the cupboard under the stairs, the Dursleys' disdainful faces, and the loneliness that had once seemed an inescapable part of his existence. He thought of the day Hagrid had burst into his life, shaking the world he thought he knew and telling him he was a wizard.

A wizard.

It had seemed so extraordinary then, like something out of a storybook. But as the years passed, the weight of that identity had grown heavier. With every new year at Hogwarts, every battle fought, every loss endured, the boy who lived had learned that his story was not a fairytale but a tragedy in the making.

And now, here he was, walking willingly to his death.

Harry shook his head, trying to dispel the dark cloud of regret that threatened to suffocate him. If he had only studied more, he thought bitterly. If he had spent fewer nights sneaking around under the Cloak and more nights poring over the advanced spellwork in Hermione's books, perhaps he might have been better prepared.

Perhaps he could have stood a chance against Voldemort.

But no. Deep down, he knew the truth. This was not a battle he was meant to win. The prophecy had set the stage, but Voldemort had written the final act. The Dark Lord had offered him a choice: surrender and spare the lives of his friends and those who had fought so bravely for him, or resist and doom them all to suffering.

Harry had never been one to let others suffer in his place.

The edge of the forest came into view, and Harry hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. This was it. Beyond this line of trees, Voldemort waited. His enemy, his tormentor, the man who had taken so much from him.

Harry's hand moved to the pocket of his robe again, this time brushing against the jagged fragment of mirror Sirius had given him. He withdrew it and stared into its cracked surface, half-hoping to see a comforting face staring back. But the mirror was empty, reflecting only his own pale, drawn features.

He closed his eyes and clenched his fist around the shard, feeling its edges bite into his skin. The pain was grounding, a reminder that he was still alive—at least for a little while longer.

When he opened his eyes, the forest seemed even darker than before. Harry drew a deep breath and stepped forward.

The path through the Forbidden Forest was uneven and narrow, twisting through dense undergrowth and between ancient trees whose branches clawed at the sky. Shadows danced and flickered around him, and the occasional rustle of leaves or snap of a twig made his heart leap.

He thought of the times he had entered this forest before—hunting unicorns in his first year, fleeing from the Acromantula in his second, seeking answers about the Resurrection Stone with Hermione and Ron. Those times had been perilous, but this… this felt different. There was no coming back from this journey.

As he walked, the Resurrection Stone's weight in his pocket grew more prominent in his mind. He had retrieved it from the Snitch not long ago, holding it for what felt like an eternity before slipping it away. Now, he considered it again.

His fingers brushed the cold surface of the stone, and a wave of longing washed over him. If he turned it over in his hand, he could see them—his parents, Sirius, Lupin. The thought was almost unbearable, and yet… it was tempting.

"No," Harry whispered aloud, shaking his head. "Not yet."

He would face this alone.

The trees thinned as he reached the heart of the forest, and Harry saw them waiting. A ring of Death Eaters stood in a clearing, their dark robes blending into the shadows, their masked faces unreadable. They were silent, their wands at the ready, their presence oppressive.

And there, at the center of it all, was Voldemort.

The Dark Lord stood tall, his skeletal frame shrouded in black robes that billowed around him as though stirred by an unseen wind. His snake-like face was alight with a cruel satisfaction, his red eyes gleaming with anticipation. Nagini coiled at his feet, her body a sinuous, menacing presence.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said, his voice a cold whisper that cut through the night like a blade. "The boy who lived… has come to die."

Harry stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He kept his head high, refusing to let fear dictate his final moments.

"I'm here," he said simply.

Voldemort's lips curled into a grotesque imitation of a smile. He raised his wand, pointing it directly at Harry's heart.

"Any last words, Potter?"

Harry shook his head. He thought of his friends—of Ron and Hermione, of Ginny, of Neville and Luna. He thought of the sacrifices they had made, the courage they had shown. He thought of his parents, of Sirius, of Dumbledore.

And then he thought of the faces he would never see again.

"No," he said softly.

Voldemort's smile widened. "Very well."

The tip of his wand glowed green, and with a flick of his wrist, he uttered the words Harry had heard so many times before.

"Avada Kedavra."

The world exploded into light and sound, a blinding flash of green that seemed to pierce Harry's very soul. For a brief, fleeting moment, he felt nothing but weightlessness, as though he were floating above it all.

And then, there was nothing.

Harry opened his eyes to a world of unbroken white.

The light wasn't harsh but omnipresent, surrounding him in every direction. He blinked, his heart pounding as he tried to orient himself. There were no walls, no ceiling—just an endless expanse of soft, pale light. Gradually, shapes began to emerge: smooth tiles underfoot, the faint outline of tracks, and distant arches suspended in the ether. It was a train station, eerily pristine, silent save for a faint hum that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"Where am I?" Harry whispered, his voice subdued, swallowed by the stillness.

Memories flashed through his mind—the darkness of the Forbidden Forest, Voldemort's cold voice, the flash of green light. A cold dread settled over him. Was he dead?

Before he could grapple with the thought, a figure emerged from the distance.

The man walked with an unhurried grace, his footsteps making no sound on the tiles. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding but not oppressive. His gray hair was neatly trimmed, and a short beard framed a face lined with wisdom and sorrow. What struck Harry most were the man's eyes—vivid emerald green, glowing faintly, like sunlight through leaves. They were startlingly familiar yet otherworldly, holding an ancient depth that made Harry's chest tighten.

Harry instinctively reached for his wand, only to find his robes empty. He stepped back, his gaze wary.

The man stopped a few paces away, his expression calm but inquisitive. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, carrying a strange, soothing weight.

"You look troubled," the man said. "That is to be expected."

Harry swallowed hard. "Who are you? Where am I?"

The man smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Who I am is a question with a long answer. But I will tell you this: I was once a prince, born to inherit a great kingdom alongside his elder brothers. Later, I wandered the world with my brothers, lost and searching. When we finally settled, we became known as the Peverell Brothers—or, as some called us, the Brothers of Death."

Harry frowned, the words ringing faintly familiar. "The Peverell Brothers? Like the story of the Deathly Hallows?"

The man nodded slowly. "Yes, though the tale you know is but a fragment of the truth. Our lives were far more complicated than the legend suggests."

Harry took a tentative step closer, his brow furrowed. "So you're… one of them? One of the brothers?"

The man's expression softened. "I am. But that was not always my name. The name I was born with—my true name—was Ignotus Mudd."

"Mudd?" Harry repeated, perplexed. "I've never heard of that name."

Ignotus smiled, this time with a hint of melancholy. "You wouldn't have. The Mudd name was a chapter in my brothers' and my lives that we chose to close. We left it behind when we took the name Peverell, seeking a fresh start, free from the burdens of the past. For a time, that name endured. But like so many others, it eventually faded. The Peverell line dwindled, until only one remained—a daughter who married into the Potter family."

Harry's breath caught. "The Potters?"

Ignotus nodded, his emerald eyes glowing faintly. "Yes. You, Harry, are the last direct descendant of the Mudds and the Peverells. Though over the years, your family lost our vibrant green eyes, your mother's line has returned them to you."

Harry stared at Ignotus, his heart pounding. "You mean… these eyes—"

"Are ours," Ignotus finished gently. "A reminder of where you come from, of the legacy that flows through your veins."

After a short silence, Ignotus regarded Harry with a solemn expression. "Harry, I should have begun by telling you something difficult. You have died."

Harry felt a chill run through him, though the air around him was neutral. "Died?" he echoed, his voice shaky.

"Yes. The Killing Curse Voldemort cast did its work. However," Ignotus raised a hand to calm Harry's growing panic, "death, as you have learned, is not always the end. You stand at a crossroads, a place where choices are possible. You may move on to what lies beyond, return to the world of the living, or—"

Harry leaned forward, his curiosity overriding his fear. "Or what?"

Ignotus hesitated, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Or you may go somewhere far from this world. A place where magic wills it so."

Harry furrowed his brow. "What does that mean? Another world?"

Ignotus nodded. "Indeed. To understand, I must tell you a tale. A tale of my brothers and me, and the world we came from. A tale that begins not in your world, but in a land called Westeros, a continent in another universe entirely."

Ignotus settled onto an unseen bench, gesturing for Harry to do the same. Though there were no visible seats, Harry found himself sitting on something solid.

"Long ago, my brothers and I were princes," Ignotus began. "Princes of the Kingdom of the Rivers and the Hills, a region rich with rolling waters, fertile land, and ancient traditions. Our family ruled with wisdom and strength, protecting our people from threats both within and beyond our borders."

Harry listened intently, his mind racing to picture this foreign land. "What happened?"

Ignotus's expression darkened. "War. War came to our homeland, as it often does in Westeros. Alliances fractured, enemies grew bold, and chaos threatened to consume the kingdom. My brothers—Antioch, the eldest, and Cadmus, the middle—and I were determined to save our people. But fate had other plans."

He paused, his emerald eyes distant. "We were ripped from our world, torn away by forces we couldn't understand. One moment, we were traveling to a potential ally; the next, we were here, in your world."

Harry's mouth fell open. "You were… transported to this world?"

"Yes," Ignotus said. "We were strangers in a strange land, but we quickly realized we possessed something rare: magic. Though it was different from what we knew, it flowed within us, waiting to be harnessed. We trained ourselves, becoming three of the most powerful mages of our time. People here came to know us as the Peverell Brothers."

"But you wanted to go back," Harry guessed.

Ignotus nodded. "Always. Our kingdom, our people—they were our duty. We could not abandon them. For years, we sought a way to return. We scoured ancient texts, performed countless rituals, and delved into the deepest mysteries of magic. And then, one fateful night, we succeeded—though not in the way we intended."

Harry leaned forward. "What happened?"

"We summoned Death," Ignotus said simply.

Harry's eyes widened. "Death? Like… the Grim Reaper?"

"Not quite," Ignotus replied. "Death is not a person, not entirely. It is a force, a presence that governs the end of all things. When it appeared, it was neither cruel nor kind. It simply… was."

Ignotus's voice grew softer, as though recounting a memory too heavy to bear. "We told Death our story, confessed our desperation to return to our homeland, and begged for its forgiveness for disturbing it. To our surprise, Death listened. And then, it offered us gifts."

"The Hallows," Harry whispered.

"Yes," Ignotus confirmed. "The Elder Wand for power, the Resurrection Stone for those we had lost, and the Invisibility Cloak for protection. They were not merely tools but symbols of our desires and our fates. And there was one more gift: a promise. Death told us that if one of our line were to unite the Hallows, they could cross the veil and return to our world upon their death."

"Why not just send you back directly?" Harry asked.

Ignotus's faint smile returned, touched with irony. "Because Death said it had no power over such things. That was the domain of Lady Fate, a force far more capricious. Death, bound by its own nature, could only give us the means to make the journey possible, leaving the rest to Fate's whims."

"And Lady Fate?"

"Lady Fate does not work in straight lines," Ignotus said. "She is playful, mysterious, and often cruel. By placing the conditions she did, she made our desire to return a problem for herself rather than for Death. And so, we lived our lives here, carrying the Hallows and the hope that one day, a descendant would fulfill the promise."

Harry felt the weight of the Cloak in his mind's eye, the Stone he had dropped, and the Wand now in Voldemort's possession. "And now that I have united them…"

"The choice lies before you," Ignotus said, his emerald eyes glowing brighter. "You may return to your world, or you may fulfill the promise and journey to the world of our birth. It is not an easy path, but it is one of great purpose."

Harry's thoughts churned. The war in his world was far from over, yet he couldn't ignore the pull of this other world Ignotus described. Could he abandon his friends? Could he refuse a chance to protect another kingdom as the Peverells had sought to do?

Ignotus stood, offering Harry a hand. "Whatever you choose, Harry, know this: you are not defined by the choices of those who came before you. The path you walk is yours alone, and the strength to walk it lies within you."