Title: Death Is A Gangsta
Disclaimer: I own neither LotR nor HP. I don't own 'The Black Wizard' either. Either version of it.
Rating: This oneshot is either G or PG (K or K+), but I'll go with T or PG-13 overall be safe, since I may add additional Omakes for the story later on, and some may contain more adult humour. (I have a crack pairing Omake planned.)
Pairing: None for this Omake.
Warnings: Mild swearing, Fem!Harry, crack humour, angst, Omake of a fanfic of a fanfic. Yeah... Somewhat DH-compliant, but in no way epilogue compliant. May be construed as mocking towards the hip-hop lifestyle, though that is not the intent.
Summary: Harry has a rather surreal conversation in the afterlife. Manwë has an eye-opening one back in Valinor. Námo is Mandos is Manny, and Death is a thug. Fem!Harry, MoD!Harry, Gangsta!Mandos, Prankster!Mandos, Angsty!Mandos, Angsty!Protective!BigBrother!Manwë. Mentions of dimension travel. HP/LotR x-over, very AU.
A/N: So yeah... this is an Omake based off of 'The Black Wizard' by Hi Pot and News, which is a rewrite of Azraeos' incredible but unfinshed fic, 'The Black Wizard'. It started of as total crack, based on a scene that popped into my head, and ended up with lots of Mandos/Manwë brotherly feels. You don't have to be familiar with the story for this, since it is in no way canon to the story and takes place at least 2 years after the current storyline, and other than Harry, none of characters in this Omake have appeared (yet) in 'The Black Wizard'.
Harry woke up surrounded by white, butt-arse-naked. She glanced down and scowled, and the universe yelped in fright before hastily clothing her. She gave a sharp nod of satisfaction and started walking around, whistling. After a while she wound up in an empty King's Cross Station that looked like it had been attacked by the offspring of Mr. Clean and a house-elf. That is, with the exception of the dirty, wailing baby that looked like the love-child of Quasimodo and Shrek, lying under one of the benches. She debated picking it up, but something about it just felt off and she couldn't bring herself to touch it.
Suddenly she heard something jingling and looked up. There was a glowing elf-type dude with long, flowing black hair strolling up to her, wearing a white toga and a white sideways cap, dark sunglasses with white rims, and loaded up with gold bling.
He stopped a couple of feet away from her and grinned before lauching into his speech.
"Yo, whasup shorty? I'm Manny - Lord of the Dead and Doom and all-around hype-man. Props on the whole 'dying-to-save-the-world' gig - not that you're gonna be staying dead or anything, but it was really ill; all brave and noble and shit, foreals. That was hardcore, girl; you got mad heart.
"Let me drop science on ya: Franken-Baby over there is the horcrux that's been slummin' in your dome for 16 years, so if you just wanna leave it chillin' under the bench for now that's cool; I'll get rid of it later. I'll give it to ya straight: you ain't dead - not permanently that is - seein' as all your multi-dimensional freestylin's turned you immortal. On top of that, you pretty much just landed the whole Master-of-Death thing; what with your 'Gotta-catch-em-all' deal with my Hallows and the whole 'embracing Death like an old friend' gig. Talkin' 'bout that, where's my hug? Come on, babe, don't be cold; Manny's really not feeling the love here, yet."
He spread out his arms wide and stood there expectantly until she gave in and leaned forward to give him a loose hug, feeling very awkward and confused, and keeping plenty of space between them. Which, of course, he ruined by grabbing onto her and pulling her into a death-squeeze that made her wheeze and see black spots before he released her and continued to talk with one arm slung over her shoulder, steering her over to a different bench to sit down and catch her breath. She followed in a daze, beyond confused by an apparently gangsta Death.
"Anyway, babe, here's the deal; you can't die - well, you can, but it'll just mean you show up here to chill with me for a bit before heading back to your bod. Which I'm totally cool with, foreals; only immortals (Word: elves) can park in my crib, and while they a'ight, they don't know jack about Earth, and hip-hop really makes 'em freak out. And none of my Valar peeps take me deep when I act gangsta; they either get annoyed and refuse to talk to me, or they just laugh at me and mock me. So having an Earthly hottie like you come holla at me in my hood now and then means that I get to stop frontin' for a bit; actin' a little less godly-Vala and a lot more 50 Cent. I'll be straight with ya - that's pretty dope for me.
"I should prob'ly mention that you quit aging when you first started dimension-hopping, so you're never gonna look any older than you did back then. Sorry 'bout that, but I did make you prettier to compensate. Not to dis ya or anything, but you really weren't all that before, and now you're slammin'."
Harry jerked away from him, the insult breaking through her bafflement. She gaped and sputtered in inarticulant outrage, but he held up his hands, scooting back a bit on the bench and hurriedly continuing to speak before she could get a word out.
"Now that you know the ledge, it's time for you to peace out. Don't get it twisted; it's been real phat parlayin' with ya, but we've still got beef with Voldy going on and you know what time it is. So you ghost on outta here, turn it up, and represent! School old Tommy boy and no half steppin'; show him he better recognize before ya off him and send him my way. He's assed out and I got your back, so go on and go whyle out, and you wreck this thing!"
With that he jumped fluidly to his feet, grabbed her arms to haul her up, and gave her a backwards shove that sent her spinning back off to life.
As she lay on the ground and slowly took stock of herself, head swimming with all that had just happened, she privately resolved never to die again, no matter what. Death was just too strange for her to deal with.
***Meanwhile, in Valinor***
Manwë watched in resignation as Námo - or Mandos, as he was usually called when acting in his capacity as Lord of the Dead and of Doom; though in moments like this Manwë could only think of him as Námo - stripped off a bunch of strange accessories, cackling wickedly to himself.
"What did you do now?" he asked, sighing and massaging the bridge of his nose as a pre-emptive headache began to make itself known.
"Oh, I just had a little chat with our dimension-travelling Master of Death," Nàmo replied, giving Manwë an innocent look that fooled him not at all.
Manwë gave him a flat stare. "And what, pray tell, did you do to the poor girl?"
Námo pasted an injured expression on his face. "Nothing! Why in Eru's name would you think I did?"
Manwë just continued to stare at him.
Námo shifted slightly and coughed. "Really, Manwë; I just informed her of her status and the situation and sent her back!"
Manwë lifted a brow. "And the..." He wrinkled his nose, eyeing the gaudy pieces in distaste. "...Ornaments," he said delicately, "served what purpose, may I ask?"
The Lord of the Dead gave him a sly grin. "Oh, I may have been posing as a gangsta," he said gleefully.
Manwë closed his eyes and sighed, the anticipated headache blossoming into reality as he considered the implications of Námo's prank and the likely impression it had left on Harry. "Wonderful," he muttered. "She'll be very reluctant to ever come to Valinor, now."
Nàmo flapped a hand at him, unconcerned. "Oh, I told her the rest of you were boring," he said airily, turning around to dispose of the accessories. "Don't worry about it."
Manwë scrubbed his face with his hand in a weary gesture. "Honestly, Námo; must you always do things like this?"
Námo sighed, his shoulders settling back down into seriousness. "Manwë, listen; I understand that you and the others find it annoying when I do something ridiculous like this, but I'm the Lord and Judge of the Dead, and the Lord of Doom. I'm constantly surrounded by death, disaster, grief, and despair. I see the sins and failings of each person who enters my Halls and I judge them accordingly. I need a bit of laughter and fun in my life sometimes, to stave off depression. My pranks never hurt anyone, and they make it easier for me to do my job without being overwhelmed by all of the darkness I'm exposed to on a daily basis." He turned and lifted his dark eyes to meet Manwë's. "Do you understand?" he asked gently.
Manwë nodded, his eyes softening as he gazed at the oft-misjudged and most heavily-burdened of his brothers, before pulling him into a hug. Nàmo stiffened slightly, before relaxing into the embrace and wrapping his arms around Manwë's waist. Manwë tightened his arms and Nàmo buried his face in the crook of Manwë's neck.
"Oh, little brother," he murmered. An ache pierced his heart as he remembered how tactile Námo had been, back before he became Mandos, the grimmest of the Valar. How quickly the Ainur had forgotten their inital collective bewilderment and trepidation at Namo's appointment to his current position; he had adapted to the role so well, and with such ease, that none of them had really considered the strength, the level of fortitude such a job would demand that he possess. The sheer force of will it demanded that he exercise every day just to get up and go about his duties; to remain calm and rational and simply not give up on caring about people.
Manwë - along with the rest of the Valar - had never really noticed as Námo's hugs came less and less frequently through the years, and he could not remember the last time he had truly held his brother, though he suspected it had been before the fall of Melkor. It hurt to consider how awful it must have been for Námo to stand in judgement of his eldest brother; to serve as guard and warden over him. At the time, each Vala - each and every one of the Ainur, in fact - was consumed by his or her own pain, and none of them gave thought to Námo, when Mandos stood there so proud and stoic and cold. He closed his eyes in shame, then turned his face into Námo's hair and spoke from the heart.
"You are so strong, to carry such burdens without complaint and without any sign of weariness. We often forget the weight of the responsibilities you carry, such is your strength. But do not ever think you cannot lean on us, Námo. We are always here for you - I am always here for you, and there is no shame in letting me know when you are in need of rest or comfort. My arms are always open for you, little brother. I will never turn you away, Námo; I can always make time for you, whenever you may need me."
Námo's arms tightened in response, and his breath hitched. They stood together in silence for a while, renewing their old bonds of brotherhood, feeling for the first time in millenia like an older brother giving comfort to his younger brother again.
Eventually, they separated; Manwë with a persistant lump in his throat, while Námo looked slightly lost; younger than he'd appeared to Manwë since the early days of Arda, with an unfamiliar flash of vulnerability in his eyes. Manwë squeezed his shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile, and Námo gave a small smile back before his face smoothed out and hardened back into the now-familiar guise of Mandos.
Mandos stepped back and gave a brief nod to his brother as he prepared to return to his Halls. Manwë's smile turned bitter as he berated himself once again for the many ways he'd failed his brother as Mandos strode away.
He paused before leaving the room, and looked back over his shoulder at Manwë. "Perhaps you should ask Irmo to visit little Miss Potter in her dreams, and explain that it was merely a prank. Between her relationships with the Marauders and her friendships with those prankster twins, I think she might be inclined to view such mischief with a more tolerant eye than most," he suggested with a faint smile.
Manwë nodded thoughtfully. "That's actually a good idea. Thank you, Námo."
Mandos dipped his head in acknowledgement and left for his Halls and his heavy duties. Manwë stood still and stared after him for a while, silently reaffirming his promise to himself to be a better brother to Námo/Mandos from now on, and considering ways he might keep that vow.