The World of the Dead.
The moment he passed through the archway, Cyrus felt his body become weightless, as though the shackles of flesh had vanished, leaving only a light, drifting soul to carry him forward.
In his ears, it was as if a lullaby began to play, gently coaxing his consciousness into sleep.
He wanted to resist the force, but it seemed useless. Almost instantly, he lost all awareness.
When he opened his eyes again, he immediately realized he was lying in a gray wasteland.
He lay quietly in the sand, the Invisibility Cloak still draped over him. The wind had stirred up the sand, burying half of his body.
As he sat up, the grains of sand slid off him with a rustling sound.
"So this is the inside of the archway… the world of the dead?" Cyrus brushed off the sand and stood up, surveying his surroundings. He had to admit, this scene was very different from what he had imagined.
He had thought the world of death would be dark and terrifying—scorched earth charred by dreadful flames, skeletal remains scattered everywhere, the air hot and humid, suffocating.
Of course, the dead no longer needed to breathe.
But what now lay before him was something entirely different.
There was nothing terrifying in sight—just a gray desert.
There was color here, but the tones were pale and muted.
Standing atop a sand dune, he looked around. The distant sky was also gray, and a light breeze carried fine grains of sand that rippled like waves as they passed by his feet.
"Is this really the world of the dead, though?" he couldn't help but ask again.
He didn't see any terrifying monsters here. No souls of the departed. And certainly not the legendary Death itself.
So, how was he supposed to find Death?
Cyrus frowned. The magical eye Grindelwald had left him was still under his magical control, searching for any trace of the unusual.
But he found nothing.
Perhaps the powers of the living held little sway in the realm of the dead. Even though Cyrus now possessed the greatest magical strength, what he was facing… was a god.
"The Elder Wand's power means Death can't defeat me in a direct duel," Cyrus understood this clearly, "but that doesn't mean I'm truly stronger than Death."
The Elder Wand's power came from Death's own gift. It didn't grant Cyrus the ability to truly defeat Him. But since Death had once vowed that the wand was unbeatable, He could not break His own promise.
Just like how mortals could see through the Invisibility Cloak's magic, yet until the third brother chose to take it off himself, Death could never claim him.
Thinking of this, Cyrus instinctively tightened his grip on the wand.
But now, staring at the endless sea of sand, he didn't even know which direction to take.
"There's no way this place is completely empty. At the very least, Death must crave my soul," Cyrus muttered to himself.
With that thought, he relaxed a little. Even though he knew that Death's appearance would certainly mean danger, he had long since prepared himself to face anything.
So, he pulled his cloak tighter around him, chose a direction at random, and began walking.
He walked farther and farther, his figure growing smaller and smaller, until at last, it vanished completely into the wind and sand.
...
Meanwhile, back in the real world—
After finishing a full day of classes, Ginny sat in the common room, staring blankly into the fire.
At that moment, Harry and Hermione walked over. Lately, all of them had been a bit on edge. The O.W.L. exams were putting enormous pressure on them—especially since so much of the term had already passed, and every professor was relentlessly emphasizing how important the exams would be.
In truth, they all clearly understood how important the exams were—this could very well determine their future paths.
"Professor Snape said if we don't get an O in Potions, we won't be allowed into his advanced class next year," Hermione said worriedly.
Among them, she had the best grades, but she was also the most anxious.
"Oh, please, there's no way you won't get an O," Ron said with a look that screamed, If you don't get an O, then something's seriously wrong with the world. "You're top of the year. If you don't get an O, then no one at Hogwarts will."
In fact, looking at previous years' results, at least the top 20% of students generally managed to score an O.
"I don't really care," Harry said. "I'm fine not taking his class."
He didn't have much interest in Potions.
Truthfully, Harry had a decent talent for Potions. Even with Snape constantly targeting him, he still managed to earn an "Acceptable" in the original timeline. But a good teacher isn't just about improving grades—they should also inspire a student's interest in learning.
And clearly, Snape failed in that regard.
"But if you don't get into the advanced class, you won't be eligible to take the N.E.W.T. in your seventh year. And if you can't take that, you won't be able to become an Auror after graduation," Hermione always thought further ahead than the rest.
"Then I just won't be one," Harry said. In this timeline, he wasn't particularly interested in becoming an Auror either.
At least so far, he hadn't seen any Auror who had done anything especially impressive.
Originally, the person who should have inspired Harry the most was Barty Crouch Jr. disguised as Mad-Eye Moody—but this time, he never even had the chance to appear. And Harry had never met the group of Aurors gathered by the Order of the Phoenix, either.
So to him, Aurors didn't seem all that appealing.
"But still, you need to think about what you want to do in the future," Hermione said. "You can't just graduate… and that's it. Even if you want to help Cyrus, you still have to be good enough to do it."
At the mention of Cyrus, Ginny noticeably flinched.
"I think I'd rather become someone like Dumbledore or Cyrus," Harry said after thinking it over. "But I don't have their kind of talent. Maybe… maybe I should just become a Quidditch player?"
"What?!" Hermione looked genuinely shocked.
To her, becoming a Quidditch player didn't even count as a proper aspiration. She didn't think an athlete could contribute meaningfully to the development of the world.
It all seemed like child's play to her—an utter waste of time.
"Flying around on a broom all day—what's the point of that?"
Hermione's words clearly annoyed both Harry and Ron, though Harry didn't get angry. Instead, he said, "It is meaningful!"
"Because a lot of people care about Quidditch, so that makes it important!" Harry clearly wasn't just speaking on impulse. "It's an extremely popular sport in the wizarding world. I'd say at least seventy percent of wizards like Quidditch—and most of them are absolutely crazy about it."
"I know that, too, but so what?" Hermione asked.
"So, if Harry becomes a famous Quidditch star—like Krum—then more people will like him," Ron added. "And those people will care about his opinions. If he openly supports Cyrus, then his fans will be influenced by that."
"Fine, let's say you're right," Hermione said, slamming her thick textbook onto the table and putting her hands on her hips. "But what makes you think you can become a Quidditch star? You're already in your fifth year, and you've never even won the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup!"
Harry immediately struggled to keep his expression in check.
"That's not my fault, okay?"
"I always win!" he tried to argue.
In truth, Harry did have real talent for Quidditch—but every school year, there always seemed to be some unexpected incident that prevented the matches from being held properly.
And fifth year had no chance either.