Author: The Plot Bunny Whisperer
Title: Deus Initium
Rating: K+
Genre: Humor
Summary: (Or - The Time Death Shanghaied Harry into Becoming Death and Got Away With It.) If he had known one hundred and eight years ago the trouble picking up the Elder Wand would cause him, he would have left the damn thing where it was. Admittedly, the chair almost made it worth it.
Pairing(s): None
Warnings: None, unless you count author insanity. Oh, and swearing, I guess.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't care, don't sue.
AN: A sort of prequel to Deus Ex Machina and any other 'Deus...' fic I or others end up writing.
Deus Initium
(Or - The Time Death Shanghaied Harry Into Becoming Death and Got Away With It.)
Harry Potter died rather anticlimactically at the ripe old age of one hundred and twenty-six. He didn't go heroically fighting whatever idiot decided he or she wanted to be a Dark Lord (or Lady) that year, as the was the popular bet amongst the witches and wizards of wizarding Britain. Nor was he eaten by a large and powerful magical creature terrorizing the country side, as his great-great grandson often speculated. It certainly wasn't some horrible debilitating injury or disease that caused his downfall either, a la Albus Dumbledore. And despite what his wife always tutted, he did not fall off his broom while performing ridiculously dangerous stunts, "And at his age, too!"
No, none of those things was the reason for his passing, though three seconds before he died he certainly wished one of them was. As it was, if he hadn't been dead already, he'd never live down choking to death on a peanut after reading the invitation from Dudley's great-great granddaughter inviting him to a party celebrating Dudley's great-great-great-granddaughter's acceptance to Hogwarts. (He still wasn't sure if it was shock from one of Dudley's descendants being magical, horror from the thought of Dudley procreating, or wistful imaginings of his Aunt and Uncle's faces had they known that caused him to inhale at the wrong moment.)
Having died once before, Harry had imagined all kinds of scenarios happening upon his final death. He imagined hopping on the train of the metaphysical Platform 9 and 3/4, whereupon he would be delivered to his Next Great Adventure. He imagined tunnels and bright lights, with his deceased friends and family waiting for him to welcome him home. And once he had a dream about playing poker with Dumbledore and Riddle in some sort of strange purgatory, but he tried not to think about that, because it was weird.
What he had not imagined was suddenly finding himself sitting in front of one of the biggest and fanciest (and most paperwork-strewn, which was saying something when one considered that one of his best friends was Hermione) mahogany desk he'd ever seen with a dark-cloaked being of indeterminate gender standing next to him, a young-ish looking man with finger-width bone-white and pencil-thin bright red lines on what was visible of his skin sitting behind said desk, and a large purple cup of his favorite kind of tea steaming atop a matching purple saucer in his hands.
"Um," Harry said eloquently.
"Finally," the man behind the desk exclaimed, throwing both fisted hands in the air in the universal sign of achievement with a somewhat unholy gleeful grin on his face. "Do you know how long I've waited for you to show up?"
"Um," Harry eloquently repeated. The man ignored Harry's inarticulateness and began shuffling around the various scrolls, files, folders, and loose slips of paper, seemingly unaware of the mini avalanche this caused on the other side of his desk.
"I am in desperate need of a vacation, you know. Six thousand years I've been stuck in this job, and not once have I ever been caught up with the paperwork. Seriously, you'd think it'd be easy being the physical representation of an immutable primordial force, but oh no, it's always "Some idiots started a war over a shiny rock and destroyed a small country, Zane"; or, "Another Egyptian priest raised an undead mummified army and destroyed a small country, Zane", or even, "Zeus and Jupiter got into another pissing contest and destroyed a small country, Zane." I mean, really. You'd think after a few million years those idiots would stop acting like six year olds and learn to share."
"Excuse me," Harry said after a fortifying sip of tea, "but who exactly are you, where am I, and why am I here?"
The man apparently named Zane looked up from his paperwork diving. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine at the gleam in his eyes, his Oh-Shit-Ometer having seizures in the back of his mind.
"My name is Zane, the old Master of Death. This is Death's Office, a pocket dimension of Yggdrasil. And you, Harry James Potter, are the new Master of Death... and my replacement."
A few long moments later, Harry's mouth clicked shut. Another long moment after that, he let out a strangled, "What?"
"Zane" cackled, and Harry's Oh-Shit-Ometer exploded in a gory mess of Doom. The self-proclaimed Master of Death let out an accomplished "Ah!" as he pulled out a black and silver scroll, which he then handed to the dark-cloaked being of indeterminate gender who had until that moment been completely forgotten about.
"Don't worry," Zane said. He stood up and was rounding his desk before Harry had had enough time to do more than become extremely worried about the sadistic grin on his face. "You'll understand everything in a moment."
He then poked Harry on the forehead, right between his eyes.
"Frglshlrpsh #&$%!?" was Harry's extremely articulate response.
When Harry came to, he knew far more about the universe than he ever wanted to know, and far more about the universe than he thought anyone should ever know. However, all the questions he would have asked (and all the questions, plus six more, that Hermione would have asked had she been there) were answered thanks to the sudden influx of an eternity of memories belonging to all the past Deathly Incarnations that had ever existed; Zane was long gone, the bastard; and the dark-cloaked being of indeterminate gender was still standing in the same spot in front of the desk, holding the silver and black scroll.
He also had a blinding headache and a serious desire to hunt down a certain previous Death Incarnation and gut him like a fish.
With an annoyed grumble, he pulled himself back to his feet and jerked in shock as he caught his reflection in the large black and silver framed mirror next to a closed door. He leaned closer for a better inspection, unsure if he was pleased with the changes. He had regressed in age about a hundred years, removing all of his age and stress related lines and wrinkles, his hair had regained its original black colouring, and the green of his eyes had lost the milkiness of forming cataracts he'd been complaining about for the last decade or so. Despite his youthful regeneration, however, he had also lost the tan he'd acquired from years of outdoor work, turning his skin as pale as moonlight, and an intricate black and silver design had inked its way across almost every available inch of skin except for most of his face; there, he'd only received two silver-edged black lines starting from between his brows in a 'v' like shape to his temples in a design similar to a pair of wings.
In the over-all scheme of things, he decided after a moment, how he looked was not nearly as important as what the hell he had just gotten himself into. This time through entirely no fault of his own, even! ... Well, maybe it was a little bit his fault. After all, he didn't have to pick up the Elder Wand after Voldemort committed suicide via attempted murder. He could have just left it there to continue its violent and bloody path of ownership.
With another grumble, Harry rounded what was now his desk and hesitantly sank into what was now his office chair. Two seconds later, he tried not to melt into a puddle of hedonistic ecstasy. He would have been content to stay this way had it not been for the empathic pulse of inquiry from the (again forgotten) dark-cloaked being of indeterminate gender still standing before his desk. Harry reluctantly opened his eyes and summoned the purple cup of still steaming tea with an absent wave of his hand.
"What?" Mutely, the dark-cloaked being of indeterminate gender held out the black and silver scroll. Harry opened it and stared. On a foot long piece of parchment marked with the same patterns as the design now etched onto his skin, were the words:
Dear Harry,
You now are The Death.
Congratulations.
The minions have the rest of your paperwork.
Please remember to introduce yourself at the next Divine Council meeting.
Love,
Zane
(PS: The Asgardians are morons. Just roll with it.)
Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. He counted to twenty, then did it again. It didn't help.
If he had known one hundred and eight years ago the trouble picking up the Elder Wand would cause him, he would have left the damn thing where it was. Admittedly, the chair almost made it worth it.
(Almost.)