A/N Just to be clear, my name isn't JK Rowling, so I don't own any of her stuff or the rights. I'm not Pratchett, and I just *kinda* borrowed his take on Death. The capitals are Death talking, capital "D" is the character, little d is normal death. Any inconsistencies are unintentional. This is my first fic written in just over an hour. Be kind. Please.
Enjoy
Death sighed. The thought of Death sighing is quite ridiculous to be perfectly honest, but to consider Him sighing ridiculous, I suppose you'd have to first come to terms with the fact that there Death was, in fact a person. As much as an immortal skeleton consisted of bones, blue fire and a rather thick woolen cloak can be considered a person, anyway, but the philosophical debate into whether or not the immortal skeleton swamped in a rather thick woolen cloak currently sitting in the ruined house of James and Lily Potter is besides the point. Death sighed.
The whole situation had gotten out of hand rather quickly, Death thought. With the benefit of hindsight, it was clear that allowing a bullied boy from a fanatical family of inbred and rather disturbed individuals to survive long enough to discover the wonders of magic was, in fact, a bad idea. Of course, then the boy had to kill all of his living relatives and create those damnable horcruxes, effectively tying Death's hands behind is back. There was nothing he could do. Without a complete soul, there was no way Death could reap Riddle, and the horcruxes had been made with magic so dark that even He dare not touch them. And then the war broke out, and Death had been running back and forth collecting souls everywhere. The rate at which people were dying was astounding, even to an ageless deity that had lived through both World Wars, several extinction level events, two ice ages and an alien invasion back in the Earth's early years that had failed spectacularly, despite the fact that the planet was uninhabited at the time. It was during this war that Death had realised that He was tired.
It was because of this war that Death found himself sat, at the bottom of the stairs in a house that nobody remembered and occupied solely by two corpses, a pile of robes, a crying baby and an inquisitive cat which was running itself along the deity's legs. He looked down at the sprawled body of James Potter, dead due to a prophecy he had no knowledge of, made by a Seer at Fates behest, and in a rare moment of sympathy whispered I AM SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS.
To any casual listener, the words would be easily audible, despite the fact the skeleton had no vocal chords, lungs or windpipe. The words just existed. By whispering them, Death just made them exist quietly.
With no further thought, he reached down, his ivory hand reaching down to - no through - the corpse of James Potter and lifting out a glowing amber orb. He held it up to his eyes, the amber showing that the soul was still young and had died before its time, and the soul simply ceased to exist, pushed through to the next life. Reaching down and lifting up the curious tabby cat, Death mounted the stairs, absently stroking the ball of orange fur as he walked.
The house was a mess. The roof had collapsed in several places due to the magical backlash, and rain was beginning to drift through the cracks. The nursery was at the far end of the hallway, the door had been ripped off its hinges by a casual curse, and the body of Lily Potter was just visible, with her feet in line with the doorway. The baby was still crying in its cradle. As he entered the room, Death saw the full extent of the damage. Lily Potter née Evans lay dead at the foot of her son's cot. Her once vivid eyes glazed over and permanently dull. A set of crumpled robes lay next to her, containing the last of the self styled Lord Voldermort's physical form Death had hoped that with the destruction of his body, he would be able to collect the remains of Tom Marvolo Riddle's soul. That was impossible on this night, however, as Death could tell from a glance that the wraith that formed the man's consciousness had gone, taking any pieces of his soul with him. The war had not ended on this night, it had just been paused. Death swore in Ancient Egyptian, something roughly equivalent to BUGGER. The cat jumped out of his arms and fled at the sudden curse.
Ignoring the still sobbing child, Death lent over the prone form of Lily Potter. As with her husband and billions of others before her, he lifted up her soul and held it before his blazing eyes. Each soul was unique, and they came in every colour. The rare few could see these etherial tones as the colour of the soul seeped through the hosts' bodies, forming a permanent aura. Each colour meant something different. Lily's was a brilliant pink, representing the love she felt as she died for her son, flecked with amber, like James', showing her strong will and determination even at the end of her mortal life. He closed his fist and sent Lily Potter to join her husband on the other side.
The baby stopped crying.
Turning his head, Death calmly regarded the young Harry James Potter. The boy looked at him with curious emerald eyes, the same shade as his mother, but younger, full of an innocence that the world had not touched and unmarred by the death and destruction around him. Death waved goodbye. The boy waved back.
YOU CAN SEE ME? Death asked, both amused and surprised. Most chose to ignore him, and therefore didn't notice him if he didn't want them to.
"Papa..?" The boy in question CHILD I AM NOT YOUR FATHER. HE IS DEAD. AS IS YOUR MOTHER. Feeling slightly stupid for trying to have a conversation with a child, Death turned to leave. The boy started crying again.
NO! PLEASE STOP..! STOP CRYING! Death said, trying to calm the crying child. The sound of a motor cycle's engine came from outside.
Death picked up the crying child, gently rocking him in his skeletal arms. He could sense strong magic pouring off of the child, and gently traced the lightening bolt scar. The child was special indeed.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs bought Death back to reality. Briefly forgetting that he could not be seen, Death fled, essentially apparating back to his domain. Sirius Black burst into the nursery, stepping over his dead friend's wife and looking for his godson. It was only after Death had returned home that he realised he had taken the crying child, and the tabby cat which had been running itself along his legs, with him.