Rain lashed the rooftops of Privet Drive, turning the suburban streets into shimmering mirrors. Inside Number Four, Harry Potter sat upright in bed, gasping—not from nightmares, but from memory. He remembered dying. Remembered the silence afterward. And then, the voice.\n\n"A second chance," Death had said, its form flickering at the foot of the bed like a shadow given sentience. "At life?" Harry had laughed bitterly, worn down by seven empty years of peace that felt like punishment.\n\nNow, back in his sixteen-year-old skin, muscles too small, magic too raw, he stared at his trembling hands. The connection was already there—a thread of cold warmth winding from his chest into the void. Death leaned closer, its smile almost fond. "Don’t worry, little king of ash. This time, you get to make it interesting."\n\nA howl split the night. Not from a dog. From somewhere deeper. Sirius was alive. The prophecy still loomed. Voldemort would rise.\n\nBut none of that mattered.\n\nHarry stood, walked to the window, and whispered, "Where shall we start?"