The wind howled across the Himalayan peaks like it had a personal vendetta against exposed skin. Harry Potter trudged through the snow, his boots crunching with each step, wondering if this was some cosmic punishment for every time he'd complained about Potions class.
Because honestly? Snape's dungeon was looking pretty good right about now.
Ten years since Hogwarts. Ten years since he'd pulled his best dramatic hero moment and snapped the Elder Wand in half, thinking he was ending the cycle of violence. Instead, the universe had apparently looked at him and said, "Oh, you want normal? Here's immortality, super strength, and a tattoo you can't show your mates. You're welcome."
Harry flexed his hand, watching his fingers move with that unnatural grace that made him feel like a poorly CGI'd video game character. He could bench press a car now. Could sprint up mountains without breathing hard. Could turn invisible, raise the dead, and do wandless magic that would make Dumbledore rise from his grave just to give him detention for showing off.
Fantastic. Absolutely brilliant. All he'd ever wanted was a quiet pint and maybe a pension plan, and the universe had said, "How about you become a Greek god instead, you ungrateful wanker?"
Ron and Hermione had stopped writing after year five. The last owl from Ron had been painfully awkward: *"Mate, you crushed our kitchen table when you put down a mug of tea. Hermione says you're 'processing trauma through isolation.' I say you need a therapist. Maybe several. Hugo thinks you're a superhero. Please stop encouraging him."*
Fair point, really.
The village elder's directions had been mystical nonsense of the highest order: *"Follow the eastern ridge until you can go no further, then look with eyes that see beyond."* Which in Harry's experience translated to: "There's an invisible door here and we're not going to just tell you where because wisdom requires suffering or whatever."
He reached the end of the ridge and stopped, staring at more mountains, more mist, more scenery that looked suspiciously like a desktop wallpaper.
"Right. Eyes that see beyond. Because regular eyes are for quitters." Harry closed his eyes and reached out with his enhanced magical senses—the ones that let him see magic like thermal imaging. There. A fold in reality, tucked away like someone's dodgy browser history.
"If this is another trap," he muttered, "I'm going to be very put out."
He stepped forward.
Reality twisted like a pretzel on a bad day, his stomach did a triple backflip, and suddenly he was standing in a courtyard that looked like M.C. Escher had designed it during a particularly aggressive fever dream.
People in saffron robes were practicing martial arts that involved *punching holes in space itself*. Just casually. Like it was yoga.
"Oh, bloody hell," Harry breathed. "It's Hogwarts, but with less teenage angst and more existential geometry."
"Most visitors don't make it past the door on their first attempt."
Harry turned. A woman approached—bald, wearing robes that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe, and sporting an expression that suggested she found the entire universe mildly entertaining. Her eyes were ancient, but her face could've been anywhere from thirty to immortal.
"You must be the Ancient One," Harry said.
"I've been called that. I've also been called 'that weird bald lady who drinks too much tea,' but Ancient One sounds more professional." She tilted her head, studying him like he was a particularly interesting science experiment. "You carry an unusual burden, Harry Potter. Three artifacts bound to your soul, granting you power you never asked for, never wanted, and can't return because Death apparently doesn't accept refunds. How very... British of you."
Harry blinked. "You can see all that? Just by looking?"
"I can see many things. For instance, I can see that you've spent the last eight years, four months, and seventeen days brooding on mountains, learning ancient magic, and avoiding everyone you love because you're convinced you're too dangerous to be around them." She paused. "Also, you're thinking about tea right now. You're always thinking about tea. It's very predictable."
"I—how did you—"
"I'm mystical. It's literally my job description." She smiled slightly. "Also, every British person who shows up here is always thinking about tea. It's like a cultural constant."
Harry felt his jaw tighten. "I came here because I heard Kamar-Taj can cure any ailment. I want to be mortal again. Can you do that, or did I just climb a mountain in the snow for motivational poster material?"
The Ancient One's expression shifted into something almost fond. "You storm into a mystical sanctuary, demand we remove the very thing that makes you special, and you do it with all the emotional availability of a Victorian gentleman refusing to acknowledge feelings exist. Tell me, do all British wizards come with this much repression, or are you a limited edition?"
"Only the ones with cursed immortality and abandonment issues," Harry shot back. "So statistically, probably all of them."
She laughed—an actual, genuine laugh that sounded like wind chimes having a good time. "Oh, I *like* you. You're delightfully damaged." She gestured toward the buildings. "Walk with me, Harry Potter. Let's discuss whether mortality is truly what you need, or just what you think you deserve because you have guilt issues the size of Scotland."
Harry hesitated. "That's a very therapist thing to say."
"I contain multitudes. Also, I've read a lot of Freud. Terrible man, fascinating theories." She started walking, and Harry found himself following because apparently he couldn't help himself. "Tell me—when you broke the Elder Wand, what were you hoping would happen?"
"For the power to end. For things to go back to normal."
"And instead, the power became you. The Hallows merged with your soul, marking you as their master in a way that transcends silly things like physical objects." She glanced at him. "You wanted to end the cycle of violence. Instead, you became something that cannot be killed, cannot be defeated, cannot age, and cannot enjoy a quiet breakfast without accidentally crushing the furniture. The universe has a wicked sense of humor."
"Yeah, well, the universe can sod off," Harry muttered. "I've had ten years to appreciate the joke and I'm still not laughing."
"And yet you haven't used this power to hurt anyone. You've isolated yourself, studied seventeen different magical systems, mastered forty-three forms of combat, and become perhaps the most dangerous being on this planet. And you spend your time reading philosophy and avoiding your friends' Christmas cards." The Ancient One stopped, turning to face him fully. "Most would call that noble. Self-sacrificing, even."
"Most would be wrong. I'm hiding." Harry met her gaze, and for once didn't look away. "I'm hiding because I'm terrified of what I've become. Because I watched everyone I love grow older while I stayed eighteen. Because Hermione's daughter asked me why Uncle Harry looks the same in every photograph from the past decade, and I had to pretend I didn't hear her because what am I supposed to say? 'Sorry, love, I'm cursed'?"
The Ancient One's expression softened. "Ah. There it is. The real reason you're here."
Harry felt something crack in his chest. "Can you help me or not?"
She studied him for a long moment, her ancient eyes seeing through every defense, every wall, every carefully constructed bit of emotional armor he'd built.
"I can teach you," she said finally. "Whether that teaching gives you mortality or merely peace—that remains to be seen." She smiled. "But first, you'll need to master the mystical arts. Fair warning: our training is extremely difficult, occasionally deadly, and absolutely no one here will be impressed by your ability to turn invisible or raise the dead."
"Because everyone here can do that?"
"Because showing off is deeply frowned upon. We're very spiritually enlightened." She paused. "Also yes, literally everyone here can do that. We have a Thursday club."
Despite everything—the pain, the isolation, the crushing weight of immortality—Harry felt his lips twitch. "When do we start?"
"Immediately. Unless you'd like to brood dramatically on a mountain peak first? I can wait. I've got time. Quite a lot of it, actually."
"I don't brood," Harry insisted, following her toward the training grounds.
"Of course not, Mr. Potter. You 'strategically contemplate while staring moodily into the distance.' I'll make a note in your file."
And for the first time in ten years, Harry Potter almost smiled.
---
The Ancient One led Harry through corridors that definitely weren't obeying normal physics. Students practiced in courtyards, their hands weaving patterns of golden light that looked like someone had given wizards access to After Effects.
"So this is what happens when you take geometry and make it deeply threatening," Harry observed.
"We prefer to call it 'aggressively rearranging the fundamental fabric of reality,' but sure, let's go with threatening geometry." The Ancient One gestured broadly. "Kamar-Taj has stood for thousands of years, protecting Earth from mystical threats. Demons, dark dimensions, interdimensional beings with terrible personalities—you know, the usual."
"So like the Ministry of Magic, but people actually show up to work?"
"I don't know what that is, but based on your tone, I'm going to say yes."
They passed a training room where a man was literally *punching through dimensions*. His fist would disappear into a golden portal, then emerge from another portal to tap a student on the shoulder from behind.
"That seems unnecessarily dramatic," Harry said.
"We find that drama aids in memory retention. Also, it looks cool, and morale is important." She paused. "Mostly the second thing."
They climbed a spiral staircase that had more steps going up than coming down, which Harry's brain was filing under "problems for future Harry."
"Your room," the Ancient One announced, stopping at a wooden door. "Simple, practical, warded against interdimensional intrusions and sales calls. Bathroom's through there, robes in the wardrobe. We eat communally at sunset. Try not to accidentally destroy any furniture—I heard about what you did to your friends' table."
Harry winced. "Ron told you?"
"No, but you just did." She smiled serenely. "I'm very good at this. Years of practice."
"That's— you're—"
"Manipulative? Insightful? Annoyingly omniscient?" She considered. "All accurate. Change into robes. I'll introduce you to your instructors shortly. Fair warning: one of them is going to hate you almost immediately."
"Why?"
"Because you're exceptional, and he has *very* strong opinions about exceptional people getting special treatment." She turned to leave, then paused. "Also, try not to mention you're immortal right away. People get weird about it at dinner. Last immortal we had caused a whole thing."
"Right. No discussing my cursed existence during meals. Social etiquette. Got it."
The Ancient One swept away like she was floating, which she probably was because at this point Harry wasn't ruling anything out.
The room was spartan but comfortable—stone walls, simple bed, window overlooking mountains that were *definitely* not in the correct geographical location. The wardrobe contained robes in deep blue and brown that fit him perfectly, which was either magic or the Ancient One was just that good at eyeballing measurements.
Harry caught sight of himself in a small mirror. The Deathly Hallows symbol sat between his shoulder blades, a black tattoo that occasionally shimmered with its own light like it was showing off.
"You're a walking magical artifact," he told his reflection. "Brilliant life choices, Potter. Really stellar decision-making all around."
A knock at the door interrupted his self-criticism.
"Mr. Potter?" A crisp, formal voice that sounded like it had never told a joke in its life. "The Ancient One requests your presence in the courtyard."
Harry opened the door to find a stern-looking man with dark skin and an expression that suggested he took everything extremely seriously, including breakfast. He wore robes similar to Harry's, but with additional leather straps and armor pieces that screamed "I mean business."
"Master Mordo," the man said, not offering his hand. "I'll be overseeing your combat training. The Ancient One speaks highly of your... natural abilities."
"Nice to meet you," Harry said, extending his hand anyway because he was raised with manners, damn it.
Mordo looked at Harry's hand like it might explode, then shook it briefly. His grip was firm, professional, and ended quickly. "Follow me. Try to keep up."
They walked through more reality-defying corridors. Mordo moved with military precision, every step measured, every movement efficient.
"So," Harry tried, because apparently he couldn't help himself, "been teaching long?"
"Fifteen years."
"Enjoy it?"
"It serves a purpose."
"Right. Very chatty, then. I can see we're going to have wonderful conversations about feelings and life choices."
Mordo shot him a look that could've curdled milk at fifty paces. "The mystic arts require discipline, Mr. Potter. Focus. Dedication. They are not a game, nor a hobby for rich people with too much time on their hands."
"Good thing I'm neither rich nor treating this as a hobby, then. More of a 'desperately seeking cure for magical curse' situation."
"The Ancient One finds your humor charming. I do not." Mordo stopped at a doorway. "Master Kaecilius will be instructing you in theoretical sorcery. He's brilliant, innovative, and dangerously curious about things he shouldn't be curious about. Watch yourself around him."
The room beyond looked like a wizard's fever dream—books, scrolls, and three-dimensional magical diagrams floating in mid-air. A man stood at the center, fortyish, sharp widow's peak, eyes that gleamed with fierce intelligence and possibly madness. He was manipulating one of the diagrams, folding it in ways that made Harry's brain hurt just watching.
"Ah!" The man—Kaecilius—turned, his face lighting up like Christmas morning. "The immortal wizard! *Magnificent*. The Ancient One said you were carrying bound artifacts in your soul. I've read about such things—theoretical papers, mostly, some probably fiction—but I've never actually *met* someone who—" He stopped, really *looking* at Harry. His eyes widened. "Good lord. You're aesthetically perfect. Did the Hallows do that, or were you always this aggressively symmetrical? Be honest."
Harry blinked. "Uh. The Hallows fixed my eyesight and general scrawniness, so—"
"*Fascinating!*" Kaecilius circled him like a shark who'd found something interesting. "The artifacts recognized physical imperfection and corrected it. That implies consciousness. Intentionality. Possibly even aesthetic preferences, which raises *so many questions* about the nature of Death itself." He leaned in. "Tell me—and be very specific—can you *feel* them? The Hallows? Are they separate entities within you, or have they fully integrated with your magical core? Do they have opinions? Do they talk? Can you ask them questions?"
"I... I don't know? They're just *there*. Part of me. Like organs, but more judgemental."
"'Just there,' he says. '*Part of me*.'" Kaecilius laughed, absolutely delighted. "Mr. Potter, you've achieved something most sorcerers spend *lifetimes* attempting—complete metaphysical merger with objects of cosmic power. And you did it *accidentally* by breaking a stick. That's either remarkable luck or the universe has a truly spectacular sense of irony."
"Definitely the irony thing," Harry muttered.
"I like him," Kaecilius announced to Mordo, still circling Harry like he was a museum exhibit. "He has the haunted, existentially exhausted look of someone who truly understands that the universe is fundamentally absurd and possibly malicious."
Mordo's expression suggested he found nothing absurd or malicious about the universe. "He needs training, not philosophy."
"All good training *is* philosophy, Master Mordo. You should try it sometime—might help with that enormous stick lodged firmly up your—"
"*Kaecilius*," Mordo warned, his voice dropping dangerously.
"—pedagogical approach," Kaecilius finished smoothly, grinning. He turned back to Harry. "We're going to get along *wonderfully*. I can already tell. You have questions, I have theories, some of them are probably heretical. It'll be great."
"Great," Harry echoed, though he wasn't entirely sure if that was accurate. There was something intense about Kaecilius, a hunger for knowledge that felt uncomfortably familiar. Like looking in a mirror that showed you what you might become if you stopped caring about consequences.
"One more stop," Mordo said curtly, physically steering Harry away before Kaecilius could launch into what was clearly going to be a very long tangent about metaphysics. "The library."
They descended into a vast chamber that smelled like ancient paper, leather, and the kind of knowledge that could get you killed. Shelves stretched up into darkness. Harry felt immediately at home—it was like Hogwarts' library, if Hogwarts' library had been organized by someone with actual standards and possibly homicidal books.
A broad-shouldered Asian man stood behind a desk, carefully repairing an enormous tome. He looked up as they approached, his round face serious but not unkind.
"Wong," Mordo said. "Our librarian and Master of the Mystic Arts. Wong, this is—"
"Harry Potter," Wong interrupted, setting down his tools. "The boy who lived, now the man who won't die. I've read about you. Your magical system is fascinating—wand-based focus, genetic component, completely different theoretical framework from ours. Also, your education system seems deeply irresponsible. Teaching children to fight dark wizards? In a *school*?"
"You've read about wizarding magic?" Harry asked, surprised.
"We have books on everything, Mr. Potter. The question isn't whether we have them, it's whether we'll let you read them without supervision." Wong's expression was carefully neutral. "The Ancient One says you're here to learn. Master Mordo will teach you combat. Master Kaecilius will teach you theory and possibly several varieties of heresy. I will teach you wisdom—specifically, the wisdom to know which books will kill you if you open them incorrectly, breathe on them wrong, or look at them during a full moon."
"There are books that kill you?"
"Seventeen on the third floor alone. Twenty-three if you count the ones that drive you insane, which is arguably worse than death depending on your perspective." Wong returned to his binding work. "You may browse the general collection. Ask before touching anything that glows, whispers, or appears to be watching you back. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to read the Book of Cagliostro without supervision. Last person who tried is still speaking in backwards Latin."
"Noted," Harry said. "Any books on, say, removing unwanted immortality?"
Wong paused. Just for a moment. His hands stilled. "Several. All of them are in the restricted section. All of them require payment in ways you wouldn't enjoy. Blood, sanity, memories of your happiest moments—that sort of thing. The universe doesn't give refunds on cosmic curses." He glanced up, his expression softening slightly. "But we can discuss alternatives later. For now, focus on learning. Knowledge has a way of providing unexpected solutions. Also unexpected problems, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."
"That's what Hermione always said," Harry murmured. "Well, the first part. She was more optimistic about the problems."
"Then Hermione sounds like someone I'd enjoy meeting. Bring her by sometime if she doesn't mind interdimensional travel and existential horror." Wong returned to his work. "Dinner is at sunset, Mr. Potter. Try the momos—they're exceptional. Also, the tea is better than anything you'll find in Britain, so prepare to have your worldview challenged."
"Fighting words," Harry said.
"I stand by them."
Mordo led Harry back into the corridor. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows that definitely weren't obeying proper light physics.
"You'll begin training tomorrow at dawn," Mordo said. "Do not be late. The Ancient One may tolerate your humor and emotional unavailability, but I expect discipline, focus, and respect for the traditions that have kept this place standing for millennia."
"Understood, sir," Harry said, managing to sound only slightly sarcastic.
Mordo studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You have power, Mr. Potter. Tremendous power. More than most people will ever possess. But power without purpose is just destruction waiting for the right trigger. Here, you'll learn purpose. You'll learn control. You'll learn what it means to be more than just a weapon." He paused. "Whether you like it or not."
He walked away, leaving Harry standing in the fading light.
"Well," Harry said to himself, "at least nobody's pretending this will be easy. Would've been deeply suspicious if they were all sunshine and encouragement."
He made his way back toward his room, passing students who stared at him with open curiosity. The new guy. The immortal wizard. The walking magical paradox who looked like he'd stepped out of a cologne advertisement.
Same as it ever was.
But as he watched sorcerers practice their impossible arts, bending reality like it was made of playdough, Harry felt something he hadn't felt in years.
Not hope, exactly. Not yet.
But maybe—possibly—the faintest, most fragile suggestion that he'd come to the right place.
That maybe, just maybe, someone here could actually help.
Or at least teach him to punch through dimensions, which seemed like a useful skill.
"Tomorrow," he muttered, pushing open his door. "Tomorrow we see if they can actually fix me, or if this is just another dead end with better architecture and more philosophical bald people."
The Deathly Hallows tattoo on his back pulsed with warmth, as if the artifacts themselves were listening.
Possibly judging.
Definitely showing off.
Harry ignored them and collapsed onto the bed.
Dawn, he knew, would come far too quickly.
It always did.
—
The Ancient One stood alone in her private sanctum, high above the training grounds where the last light of day painted the mountains in shades of amber and gold. In her hands, the Eye of Agamotto hung heavy on its chain, pulsing with the barely contained power of the Time Stone within.
She didn't do this often. Looking into futures was dangerous—addictive, even. Every choice created branches, and those branches created more branches, spiraling out into infinite possibility. It was enough to drive even the most disciplined mind to madness.
But Harry Potter was not a normal variable.
The Ancient One opened the Eye.
Green light flooded the chamber as the Time Stone activated, and suddenly she was seeing not just the present, but the countless threads of what could be. Futures bloomed like flowers, died like mayflies, reformed and splintered in an endless cascade of possibility.
She'd looked before, of course. She'd seen her own death—seen it thousands of times, in thousands of ways. She'd accepted it. Had planned for it. Had identified the one man who could take her place, the one path forward that gave Earth a fighting chance against what was coming.
Stephen Strange. Brilliant, arrogant, broken, remade. The future Sorcerer Supreme.
That future still existed. She could see it clearly: Strange's car accident, his desperate search for healing, his arrival at Kamar-Taj. His training. His sacrifice. His role in the wars to come.
But now...
Now there were other threads. New possibilities that hadn't existed before yesterday.
The Ancient One watched them unfold, her expression carefully neutral even though no one was there to see it.
*Timeline 1: Harry Potter trains at Kamar-Taj for three years. He learns to accept his immortality, finds peace in purpose. When Kaecilius betrays them and summons Dormammu, Harry fights alongside Strange. Together, they defeat the Dark Dimension's ruler. Earth survives. Both survive. Outcome: Success.*
*Timeline 2: Harry masters the mystic arts within months—his enhanced learning making him dangerously proficient. But power without wisdom is still just power. He attempts to remove his immortality using the Darkhold. The spell fails catastrophically. Outcome: Harry becomes an existential threat. Must be contained. Earth survives, but at terrible cost.*
*Timeline 3: Harry refuses training. Leaves Kamar-Taj disappointed. Strange arrives as predicted, becomes Sorcerer Supreme as predicted. Five years later, during the conflict with Thanos, Harry appears. Without mystic training, without understanding of what they face, he tries to help. He fails. Outcome: Fifty-percent chance of total universal collapse.*
*Timeline 4: Harry stays. Trains. Learns wisdom alongside power. When Thanos comes, Harry is there—and his immortality, his unique fusion with the Hallows, creates an opportunity that didn't exist before. Outcome: Multiple paths to success. Casualties reduced by forty-seven percent in optimal scenarios.*
The futures splintered and reformed. The Ancient One watched timeline after timeline unfold, and what struck her most was not Harry's power—though that was considerable—but his nature.
In timelines where he gained power, he didn't seek to keep it.
In timelines where he could rule, he chose to serve.
In timelines where he was offered the position of Sorcerer Supreme, he refused—again and again, in a thousand different ways, he refused. He didn't want authority. Didn't want leadership. He wanted only to help, to protect, to finally—finally—find a way to be useful without being worshipped or feared.
*He's so very tired,* the Ancient One thought, watching a future where Harry sat alone on a mountaintop, ancient and young all at once, protecting a world that would never know his name.
*He's been a symbol for so long, he's forgotten how to be a man.*
She scrolled through more futures. In most—not all, but most—Stephen Strange still became Sorcerer Supreme. Still made the impossible choices that would define him. But in those futures where Harry Potter had trained at Kamar-Taj, where he'd learned to wield the mystic arts alongside his already formidable power...
The odds improved.
Not guaranteed. Never guaranteed. But improved.
Before Harry's arrival, she'd seen fourteen million, six hundred and five possible futures for the coming conflict with Thanos. In only one did they win.
One.
Now she saw fourteen million, six hundred and five futures plus variables. Branches that hadn't existed before. And in those new branches, those new possibilities born from one immortal wizard's desperate search for mortality...
"Three thousand, two hundred and sixteen paths to victory," she murmured aloud, her voice echoing in the empty chamber. "Still not good odds. Still overwhelmingly weighted toward failure. But better. Significantly better."
The Ancient One watched one particular timeline with interest:
*Harry and Strange, fighting side by side against Thanos on Titan. Harry's immortality means he can take risks Strange cannot. He draws the Mad Titan's attention, survives blows that would kill anyone else, creates openings. Strange sees the path forward. They don't win—not there, not then—but they survive long enough to set other pieces in motion. Later, on Earth, Harry's ability to call forth the dead tips the balance. The spirits of those who fell rise for one final battle. Outcome: Forty-three percent chance of success. Catastrophic casualties, but survival.*
She watched another:
*Harry refuses to participate in the conflict. "I've fought enough wars," he says. "I've been the hero. Let someone else carry that weight." Without him, the odds don't change. Strange still makes his sacrifice. The Avengers still assemble. The outcome remains balanced on a knife's edge. But Harry lives with the knowledge that he could have helped. Could have saved lives. The guilt destroys what remains of his humanity. Outcome: Victory achieved, but Harry Potter is lost to despair. Within a decade, he becomes something dark. Something wrong.*
The Ancient One closed her eyes, processing what she'd seen.
Harry Potter was not the Sorcerer Supreme. Would never be the Sorcerer Supreme. His path lay elsewhere—not as leader, but as guardian. Not as symbol, but as shield. He would stand in the spaces between, catching those who fell, holding the line when others couldn't.
If she could guide him there. If she could help him find purpose in his curse.
"You came seeking mortality," she said to the absent Harry Potter, "but what you need is meaning. Purpose. A reason to embrace what you've become rather than running from it."
She thought of Stephen Strange—brilliant, damaged Stephen Strange, who would arrive in approximately six years if the timeline held. Strange needed to be broken and remade. Needed to learn humility alongside power. He would be Sorcerer Supreme because that was what he was meant to be.
But Harry...
Harry was meant to be something else. Something the mystic arts had never quite seen before.
A bridge. Between magic and sorcery. Between mortality and immortality. Between the world that was and the world that would be.
*If he doesn't destroy himself first,* the Ancient One thought grimly. She'd seen those timelines too. Harry, driven mad by isolation and power. Harry, making desperate bargains with entities that should never be bargained with. Harry, finally finding a way to die—and taking half of reality with him in the process.
"No pressure, then," she murmured, allowing herself a slight smile.
She watched one more timeline before closing the Eye. A distant one, years and years away:
*Harry Potter, still looking eighteen, still immortal, still marked by the Hallows. But standing in the ruins of what had been a battlefield, helping rebuild. Teaching young sorcerers—not to take his place, but to be better than he was. Smiling—actually smiling—at something Wong said. Stephen Strange approaches, older now, scarred by the wars they'd survived. "You ever regret it?" Strange asks. "Staying immortal? Never getting your mortality back?" Harry considers the question. Looks at the students he's teaching, the world they've saved, the future they've built. "Ask me in another century," he says. "I'll let you know."*
The Ancient One closed the Eye of Agamotto, and the visions ceased. The chamber returned to normal—just stone and sunset and the weight of knowledge.
"Well," she said to herself, "this will be interesting."
She had work to do. Harry Potter needed training, yes, but more than that, he needed guidance. Needed to understand that his curse could be a gift, if he learned to see it differently.
And she needed to ensure that when Stephen Strange arrived—as he would, as he must—there would be someone there who understood what it meant to be remade by power you never wanted.
The Ancient One descended from her sanctum, her mind already planning lessons, challenges, truths that would need to be revealed at precisely the right moments.
Harry Potter had come to Kamar-Taj seeking an end to his immortality.
What he would find, if she did her job correctly, was a beginning.
"Three thousand, two hundred and sixteen paths to victory," she repeated, stepping out into the courtyard where her students practiced their forms under the stars. "Still not good odds. But I've worked with worse."
She smiled then, genuine and fierce and perhaps a bit mischievous.
"Besides," she added, "what's the point of being able to see the future if you can't occasionally stack the deck?"
Somewhere in his room, Harry Potter was sleeping—dreaming, perhaps, of friends he'd left behind and a mortality he'd lost.
Tomorrow, his training would begin.
And the Ancient One, who had seen thousands of possible tomorrows, was genuinely curious to see which one they'd create.
---
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