prompt #584 from hpfanfictionprompts (tumblr): " The Hog's Head hadn't been this busy since the Battle."
title based on lyrics from Kanye West's Stronger: "There's a thousand yous, there's only one of me."
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the HP world - all that belongs to JKR! Also, this does feature a pre-romantic relationship between two, er, beings who identify as male, so do with that what you will :)
Harry found himself beating a hasty retreat – yet again – through the winding streets of Hogsmeade. He hadn't had this much practice running away since Dudley's gang chased him around Little Whinging for a bout of Harry hunting. He felt like that was all he had been doing during these last hellish few weeks – fleeing. Fleeing from the hoards of witches and wizards that descended on him like thestrals on bloody meat. At least thestrals would carry him out of danger and not try to keep a Harry-shaped piece for themselves.
In the aftermath of The Battle of Hogwarts, as the wizarding world had taken to calling it, Harry's every step had been hounded the second he was outside Grimmauld Place. And now, with his hook up and subsequent break up with Ginny splashed liberally across The Daily Prophet and all other tabloids, he was also guilty of being single. The most eligible bachelor in Britain, the Witch Weekly had declared. George had snorted, saying that at this rate Harry didn't need a hole in his ear to run to the mountains and take up holy priesthood.
Quite frankly, staying celibate for the next century and a half was fast sounding more appealing than flooing into Diagon Alley. After all, he did have eighteen years of practice with the former.
Poor Ginny was not in a much better state; Hermione had even unbent enough about SPEW to allow her the use of Kreacher to shop for any groceries or other essentials while she barricaded herself within the Burrow.
Of course, that didn't stop his ex-girlfriend from kicking him out when he was 'moping about the house', saying he needed some fresh air before he drove her to drinking.
Even dealing with the goblins was exasperating, due to his recent stint as a thief in Gringotts, and a successful thief at that. Yet, for all that they were more insulting and churlish than ever before, they seemed to have gained a grudging respect for him, which they showed by increasing the speed of the 'one speed only' carts.
Odd creatures, goblins.
Hogsmeade was marginally better, by virtue of having a much smaller population coupled with the lack of Hogwarts students milling about.
However, when returning home from Hogwarts after visiting Professor McGonag – er, Minerva – Harry once again found himself fleeing from reporters. He cast a quick Notice-Me-Not charm and ducked swiftly into the Hog's Head, panting breathlessly.
Aberforth took one look at his pitiful state – his Dumbledore eyes cut through the charm like butter – and led him to the corner table before heading back to the bar in his usual gruff manner. Thankfully, the Notice-Me-Not held just enough for Harry to make his way to the booth unmolested, and the privacy wards slammed up around it once he slid inside.
"The Hog's Head hasn't been this busy since the Battle."
His wand was out and pointed in the direction of the voice before he registered the words. He had been certain no one had slipped into the warded corner with him, and Aberforth would definitely have warned him if someone else was occupying it.
"Who are you?" he demanded fiercely, taking in the person before him.
His first impression of the man – for the voice was too deep and silky to belong to any other – was overwhelmingly black. A black cloak covered the man from head to toe, and inky black eyes peered out from under the folds of his hood. The rest of his face was obscured in shadow, and even the air around him seemed to be woven with wispy strands of ebony. The almost paralyzing power flowed from him in dark, pulsing sweeps. Strong, dark hands were held up in a placating gesture.
Harry's frown only deepened.
"Ah, yes, straight to the heart of the matter, I see. I suppose you are enquiring about my name? Humans do have a curious fascination with naming everyone and everything, after all. However, one constant name, I have found, is really much too boring. Over the years I have been called Hel, Thanatos, Giltinė, Yama, Azrael, and many others, but," the man pinned Harry with an assessing and slightly mirthful gaze, "you may call me Death."
Harry's confusion had certainly not been cleared up; if anything, it had only intensified. "Death? As in, people dying sort of Death?" The poor man's parents either hated him, or had a truly morbid sense of humour.
"Yes." Dark eyes glinted in silent amusement as though laughing at a private joke.
Harry felt his irritation mounting and scowled hotly. Who did this man, 'Death', think he was anyway, mocking him as he floundered about in vain. Weird mystical deathly names and decidedly not-impressive – or attractive – aura be damned, he would Reducto the man if he so much as twitched. That would show the smug bastard.
"What do you want?" he snapped.
To Harry's growing ire, the humour in the man's eyes had not abated one bit. "I have been waiting to get a quiet moment with you for longer than I care to think about, Harry, but propriety deemed that I wait until you were no longer … attached to young Miss Weasley."
Wait – what?
"Are you a stalker?" He slowly lowered his wand. "You're not trying to kill me, then?" Not that that was much better, but at least his life wasn't on the line again. "You haven't tried to, er, cop a feel or been too creepy yet, so I hadn't figured …"
Death's eyes flashed dangerously for a second, and Harry shivered, getting the distinct impression that even if the man did not want to end his life – for which he was profoundly grateful – he was without a doubt a formidable and likely lethal … being. For 'being' was the only way to classify the overwhelming power emanating from him, as though in monstrous waves. As the heady force washed over him, he felt a tingling spark erupting down his spine and heat flushed through his body.
He almost groaned out loud in despair. It figured, of course his first object of attraction after Ginny would be a male, non-human, awe-inspiring entity that could probably kill him.
Hermione was right; he did have a death wish.
Right, well, first things first, he needed to calm his weirdly not-rabid or fanatical stalker. Maybe he had offended the guy when he said he wasn't scary? "Er, not that you're not creepy or anything, what with the whole Grim Reaper thing you've got going on – "
A rich, rolling laugher broke out from the man, and Harry glimpsed gleaming white teeth as Death's hood fell back.
"You know," Death mused, "I do not remember having such a delightful exchange since I convinced Ignotus that it was past time for him to die. It is rather refreshing to meet with a fiery temper instead of a pathetically lengthy list of regrets. These past centuries have been lacking good conversation I fear, though Severus was quite amusing in that caustic way of his when I picked him up."
The realization hit him like a bludger to the head, and Harry could do no more than splutter in wide-eyed shock. "Merlin, y-you- you're Death! Actually Death! What – "
He inhaled sharply as the implications of that statement set in. "I'm dying, then?" A faint note of hysteria broke through his would-be casual tone.
He could already see the tomorrow's headlines: Breathing Proved Too Difficult for the Man-Who-Vanquished-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named – when he heard an amused snort.
"Not likely," Death scoffed. "You do have a remarkably impressive history of denying me, and I do not foresee a future where that is inclined to change. The Boy-Who-Lived," he grinned at the wince he received, "has gained another praiseworthy title, after all, one that will no doubt aid in continuing your streak of death-defying exploits. Not the Man-Who-Vanquished nonsense," he smirked at Harry's befuddlement, "but Master of Death."
A horrified gasp escaped the teen, and he shook his head jerkily. "No," he whispered, a fine tremor travelling through him. "I never wanted – I left the stone in the forest! And the wand is back in Dumbledore's grave! You can have them all, even – " He swallowed resolutely. "Even the cloak. There can be no Master of Death without the Hallows, right?"
Merlin knew that the only thing keeping him going sometimes was the knowledge that he would be able to join his parents eventually.
"Harry, it was not my intent to cause you distress." Death seemed oddly hesitant. "Yes, you do hold the title of Master of Death, and no, it will not disappear upon taking back the Hallows – not that I could."
Harry wanted to scream. There had to be some way to destroy the Hallows! Maybe Fiendfyre? He was going to have to figure out a way to control it –
Death cut through his panicked thoughts. "The title does not change much. You will still live a long and presumably adventurous life, and you will die, no doubt surrounded by droves of loved ones. A little longer, a little healthier, maybe, but your life will end, as is the nature of all living things." He smiled reassuringly. "Excepting periodic visits from me and an added affinity for Death Magics, the title is merely a name."
By the time Death had finished explaining, Harry felt utterly wrung out of emotion and slumped tiredly in his seat. Tears of relief were prickling the corners of his eyes, and he let out a slow shaky breath. The possibility that he might not die, that he would remain behind as his friends and family all grew old and died, was one too terrible to contemplate.
How ironic that the thing he feared so greatly, Voldemort had literally torn himself up over.
Death regarded him curiously for a few moments, seeming to perceive his tumultuous emotions. Then, as though suddenly remembering himself he shook his head, an almost … predatory smile growing on his face.
Harry's eyes narrowed suspiciously. The abrupt change of mood was not at all comforting.
Death's smile grew wider. "I fear that storytelling was getting the better of me. We have yet to touch upon the reason for my visit. From what I have gathered, I understand that it is polite to inform you of my intentions before I begin such processes. Therefore," he cleared his throat, "I, Death officially declare my intent to court you, Harry James Potter."
Harry's mouth fell open in shock. "I – you – that – "
Death's eyebrow rose enquiringly, looking for all the world as though he had just commented on the weather.
"Oh, don't look at me like that!" Harry cried indignantly. "Merlin, give a bloke some warning. You just agreed that you're Death! And that I'm the bloody Master of Death. And now you say you want to court me?" Harry pressed a hand to his heart, trying to calm its furious beating. "You can't just spring something like this on me and expect me to just accept it!"
Death continued smiling serenely.
Harry's day was not going the way he had envisioned it. Some running away, seeing Minerva, more running, some hiding – that was all predictable. But this whole encounter with Death had thrown him completely off balance, like he was the butt end of a cosmic joke.
He felt a sinking weight in his stomach in realization. Of course it was a joke. Death, timeless, all-powerful, celestial being, court him? He was just a seventeen-year-old wizard whose only claim to fame was not staying dead like he was supposed to.
The wizarding personification of a cockroach, he thought bitterly.
Death's mocking had stung more than he preferred, thanks mostly to his loveless upbringing. For a second he had indulged himself in a pipe dream of comfort and fulfilment and love, which he squashed ruthlessly. He knew that finding someone that wanted him purely for himself was for all intents and purposes impossible, but there was no need to rub it in by taunting him.
"Is this your retribution for my 'impressive history of denying you' so many times – shocking me into an early grave?" His voice sounded watery, even to his ears. "Well, you've had your laugh now," he choked out hollowly, an old ache throbbing in his chest, "and unless you're really here to kill me, I suggest you leave."
Feeling suddenly drained and numb, he hunched forward and bowed his head.
A calloused hand covered his own carefully, and a thumb rubbed soothingly at his pulse. "My sweet Harry," Death breathed, tilting the trembling chin upwards and staring deep into his eyes solemnly, "I would never jest about my affection for you. An absolute treasure, such as I have never encountered in all my millennia, and yet you are unaware of how truly exceptional you are."
Blinking back his tears, Harry eyed the being before him warily. Death looked so earnest, like he would make Harry believe him through sheer will. Could he let himself be taken in by the gentle and honeyed words?
The war had taught him a lot, both about himself and others. He had come out of it with a need for peace and stability, and a fervent hope that he had seen the last of dark lords in his lifetime. Ginny, however, needed someone like Neville and Seamus, who had both emerged more battered and yet more sturdy and dependable than ever before. What she needed was a hero.
The problem was, so did he.
After having admired Dean's artist fingers and the Weasley twins' beater biceps on more than one occasion, it hadn't come as a tremendous surprise that of late he had been more attracted to the male physique, especially when with it came an added sense of safety and stability.
It would not be difficult, he realized, eyes roaming over the dark, chiseled features before him, to just take what was being offered. What would it feel like, to let himself to be taken care of and protected, for the first time in his life?
Death watched the emotions play out on Harry's face. The heartbreakingly vulnerable and yet oddly hopeful expression evoked in him a need to hold the beautiful wizard in his arms and never let go. Clearing his throat of the rare maudlin emotion, he forcefully injected some levity into his voice. "I must admit to giving my creative license free reign in plotting exquisite ways for the Dursleys to meet their end. A heart attack would be poetic justice for old Vernon, I thought, since he has done half the work himself, clogging his own arteries. And dear Petunia, maybe strangled to death by a garden hose?"
Harry's lips twitched upwards in spite of himself, and Death bit back a smug grin. "I reckon you'll do whatever tickles your fancy. After all, you're the one with aeons of experience coming up with, er, sticky ends. Give Dudley a chance though – I think he's really changed."
Death huffed exasperatedly. "Take away all my fun, would you. You are much too soft for your own good, Harry." He sighed in mock resignation. "However, I suppose that is part of your charm. It takes more strength than I possess to refuse those enchanting eyes, even if I wanted to," he added fondly.
Seven years in the limelight of the wizarding world should given him experience in receiving flattery but somehow his beloved Harry still couldn't take the compliment without his face going up in flames. Death couldn't do more than smile affectionately at the endearing picture he made, with averted eyes and pink cheeks.
He definitely wasn't prepared for what Harry said next.
"I accept the, er, courtship," Harry declared abruptly, eyes fixed firmly on the swirls of dust on the wooden table.
The silence that followed seemed to last forever.
He squirmed uncomfortably on the bench. Had Death just been joking? Or maybe he changed his mind? Harry risked a quick glance up through his lashes, only to stifle a snicker.
During their (admittedly brief) acquaintance, Harry had not seen the immortal being look ruffled. His composure had appeared to be unshakable – until now.
Realizing that he had been staring dumbfoundedly at Harry, Death coughed delicately.
"You accept the courtship," he repeated. "I mean, yes, of course. You accept the courtship." As the words sunk in, his mouth curved into an elated smile, and his eyes sparkled excitedly.
Harry rolled his eyes. Were dangerous and almighty beings allowed to be so captivating? Or so … adorable?
Suddenly, he realized he had overlooked a certain detail. A rather glaringly obvious one. He could already hear Hermione scolding him for 'running headlong into the situation like a reckless Gryffindor'. Well, she could hardly blame him, considering he was a reckless Gryffindor.
He looked up hesitantly. "Er … what does a courtship mean, exactly?"
Death's delighted laughter rang through the musty pub.
A/N: I've been reading HP fanfiction for years, but this is the first one I've written :) Now that I think about it, it's vaguely morbid of me to start by writing about Death. Probably not the most auspicious of beginnings, but oh well. Reviews are welcome!