I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter One: Whispers Through the Void
The void was endless and silent, a place without warmth, light, or hope. Here, time had no meaning, and existence frayed into shadow.
A fragment of a soul hurtled through this abyss, a piece of something once proud and whole. It was Voldemort's remnant, torn from Harry Potter's scar by ancient magic beyond even its dark understanding. The shard, slick with malice, shuddered in agony, desperate to flee from the grasp of death itself.
It twisted through the void, black and shapeless, clinging to a shred of its former will. A life lived in ambition and cruelty urged it to survive, to endure against all odds.
But there is no escaping death.
A presence stirred in the void, vast and eternal. Death itself, ancient beyond comprehension, reached into the darkness. Its form was a suggestion more than a shape—a skeletal hand, gnarled and cold as the grave, emerged from nothingness. The soul fragment tried to flee, but there was no refuge in the void, no shadows deep enough to hide.
The hand closed around the shard, crushing and inescapable. The soul writhed, screeching as it fought against the inevitable. Tendrils of dark energy lashed out, desperate to sever Death's grip, but they faltered and dissolved into ash.
Death squeezed harder.
With a final, terrible shudder, the fragment began to unravel. Its essence fractured, and memories spilled forth, released into the abyss like shimmering starlight scattered across a midnight sky.
These were not the memories of Voldemort's cold, calculated evil. These belonged to the boy who had carried the shard within his scar for so many years. Harry Potter.
Images tumbled and spun through the void: the soaring towers of Hogwarts, the crackle of wandfire in duels fought for survival, the warmth of Hermione's laughter, and the fierce loyalty in Ron's eyes. A mother's love painted in blinding green light, etched forever into Harry's soul. The pain of loss, the triumph of courage, and the unyielding defiance in the face of death—all of it drifted free, shimmering and strange.
Death's grip tightened until the soul fragment disintegrated entirely, reduced to nothingness. The shard was gone forever.
But the fog of memories, untethered and wild, remained.
It floated aimlessly through the void, shimmering with echoes of a hero's life. Timeless and without purpose, it wandered for an eternity—or perhaps only a moment. In this place, such distinctions were meaningless.
Then, something impossible happened.
The fog neared a boundary, a wall that marked the end of one universe and the beginning of nothing. This barrier was ancient and unyielding, forged by laws older than gods. Not even Death could cross it. Yet the fog, born of love, sacrifice, and magic, shimmered with defiance.
It quivered, then seeped through the barrier as though it were mere mist.
On the other side lay a world both ancient and brutal, a realm of ice and fire. Here, gods watched from trees older than empires, and men waged wars for crowns forged of lies and steel. The fog of Harry Potter's memories drifted through this foreign sky, unseen by mortal eyes but noticed by one who dwelled beyond sight.
An Old God, rooted deep in the heartwood of a weirwood tree, stirred. Its awareness stretched across the ancient forest, vast and incomprehensible. It sensed the strange presence, something neither living nor dead.
The god reached out, brushing against the fog. Fractured images flickered through its perception—a boy with a lightning-shaped scar standing against unimaginable darkness, triumphing through love and sacrifice. The memories were broken and scattered, but their essence shone bright, carrying a defiant will that even death could not extinguish.
The Old God was impressed.
This is what the world needs, it thought, to face the coming darkness.
The god turned its gaze toward a woman heavy with child, lying beneath the vast dornish sky. Her unborn son would soon draw his first breath—a child destined for both sorrow and greatness.
The Old God wove its will into the fog of memories, reshaping them into something a mortal mind could comprehend. The memories were too fragmented to bestow in their entirety, but their core remained—the understanding of magic, the courage to stand against overwhelming darkness, and the spark of a hero's indomitable spirit.
The god bestowed this boon upon the child in the womb, binding the fragmented essence to his very being. The child would carry within him not just the blood of the North but the echoes of a world beyond understanding.
Thus, Jon Snow was marked by something ancient and strange, gifted with the broken wisdom of a hero from another world.
Far beyond the reach of men and gods alike, the fog of memories dissipated into the void, its purpose fulfilled.
But its echoes would linger forever in the blood of a boy who would one day be called a hero.