Title: Living the Bad Ass Way
Crossover: Discworld and Harry Potter
Summary: There is more than one way to learn magic, and more than one place to learn it in. When an unexpected death occurs, Death himself encounters Harry Potter and takes pity on him. From a life of neglect, Harry forms bonds he never thought possible, and learns magic to boot. But from who?
Warnings: Child Abuse
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Imagine a book.
Click. Click.
The pages are thick, almost leathery to the touch. The words written on it are illegible, or at least to those who don't know how to read it. The markings they make on the cream-colored parchment are stark, so black they almost seem like a slice of the universe, so dark as to not even be ink. They might even be handwritten, though certainly not by any human hand.
Click. Click.
Imagine a library, the biggest you have ever seen. Bigger even than the tragic Library at Ephebe. Bigger even than the Library at the Unseen University, though saying such a thing within the hearing of one particularly possessive simian would lead to the culprit being dangled from the top of the Tower of Art. Nevertheless, it is true, and in this place, there is nothing but the truth, laid bare and shivering until the cold scrutiny of That Which Is At The End of All Things.
Click. Click.
Imagine another open doorway amongst a maze of doorways. Imagine the sound of many, many grains falling through the pinch of time, like the cacophony of the desert hissing in a bottomless cavern. Imagine lifetimers.
Here, the sound is deafening. To others, it may have sounded grating, depressing once realization sets in. To Him, it sounded like work.
Here, and here, and here. Time is running out for so many lives. It was his good fortune that he did not have to be present for all of them. Just a select few such as the monarchy, the magic-wielders, and…ah.
HOW INTERESTING. I HAVE NOT BEEN THERE FOR QUITE SOME TIME.
The sound of bone on marble fades away.
-.-.-.-...-.-.-.-
Imagine now a row of houses, all exactly the same. Cars are parked precisely in their driveways, the light of the sunset gleaming off polished hoods. The gardens are neat, and the hedges are trimmed to perfection. Death did not know what clones were, but the lack of individuality prevalent brought to mind the unpleasantness of the Auditors.
The blue glow in his eye sockets narrowed as he dismounted. Binky nickered softly, unfazed by the strange surroundings.
He could feel the strangeness in the air. It pushed against him slightly. It had been a long time since he had last been on this world. Seven years to be exact. Death was always exact.
He was also prompt.
The house in front of him had a large brass 4 on the door. It went through his chest as he walked in, not even bothering with the doorknob. Wood was not eternal, and in time it would be nothing. To an anthropomorphic being, someone who was outside the realm of time, it was like it wasn't even there.
Then he stopped in bemusement at the scene before him. If he could have blinked, he would have.
Since the first living thing had come into existence, he had been there. His presence was required for the universe to keep ticking, insomuch as it displeased the aforesaid living thing and the others that came after it. It was the Duty that had been entrusted to him, and he took a certain amount of pride in the fact that he did it well, with as little hassle to the concerned as possible. He had seen souls from all walks of life, from every rung of evolution. He had attended humans, dwarfs, trolls, goblins and cats, though the last aggravated him no end.
Still, in all his considerable years, he had never before attended to a walrus.
-.-.-.-...-.-.-.-
Harry stood to the side, face impassive. He'd learned long ago not to let his emotions show. Being punished for curiosity, sadness and even the rare bouts of happiness could do that to a person. So he stood in his corner of the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back, watching with blank eyes as his Uncle choked on a piece of meat.
His Aunt, on the other hand, was like a whirlwind. She went from pounding her husband's back to checking on her son, to trying to pry the huge meaty hands away from the gasping mouth and throat. She was screaming a mile a minute, and Harry wondered idly when she got the time to breathe. Dudley, of course, hadn't noticed a thing, his eyes on his loaded plate.
"Oh my God, Vernon, Vernon, don't- Diddykins, sweetheart – Vernon, darling, just breathe – ohnonononono –Boy, get me a glass of water this instant!"
Harry looked up from his perusal of the tiles and stepped forward to obey. He got a hard slap for his troubles.
"Here you are, darling – just try, ohohoh-"
His Uncle was turning very, very purple. His broom of a moustache bobbed like a separate entity each time his wife thumped him. A sledgehammer would have made more of an impression. Aunt Petunia was skinny, almost fragile. The only reason she could push him around was because he was smaller and even skinnier than her. But Uncle Vernon was built like a hibernating bear.
Harry silently took the cordless phone off the hook and gave it to his Aunt. She stared at it like it was an alien life form.
"Use it, you stupid boy, don't stand around like an idiot! You just want your uncle to die, don't you, ungrateful little freak?"
He caught the phone as it was thrown in his face and punched in the emergency number, the words washing over him like water off a rock. He had heard them before, had been hurt and crushed by the stinging barbs, but not any longer. He was numb now.
Out of the corner of his eye, a wisp of black appeared. He looked up.
Death looked down.
Green eyes stared into his bony skull with nary a trace of fear. There was a bright red handprint on his cheek from where the woman had hit him. Though he was small enough to be taken for a four year old, Death knew that the child was at least seven. He knew that, just as he knew the smaller walrus at the table was the same age, the horse-like woman was in her mid-thirties, and the currently choking walrus was going to die in a few seconds. It was his job to know.
"Hello, emergency services. What is the nature of your problem?"
The small boy tapped his Aunt's arm and gave her back the phone, then stepped back to peruse the strange figure again. Harry had never seen such a tall person. His head nearly brushed the ceiling. Or his skull, certainly. This person wasn't just thin. He was skeletal.
Harry found he didn't mind so much. It was nice not being the only freak in the room.
-.-.-.-...-.-.-.-
For the second time since arriving, Death found himself bemused once more. It was highly irregular, to say the least. Perhaps it was the tea that Albert was making. Immortal though he was, there was possibly no one on earth who could actually attempt to like deep-fried tea leaves.
The woman was rushing around like a headless chicken, her bony arms waving in the air as if she could paint a picture for the operator on the other end of the telephone. Her frantic behavior was understandable given the state of her husband – now sporting a faint blue tinge to his lips- which was perhaps why she held the receiver to her ear instead of the right way around. The little walrus was still oblivious to his surroundings, seeing as he was now on his third helping of chicken and mash. But the dark-haired boy stood still, like he was apart from everything happening, and was looking unerringly at him.
"What on earth-"
Death winked at the child, one blue light flashing off and on just for a second before turning to the blue shade that was wisping into materialism. Already the kitchen and the people in it were fading into the background, the shadow becoming more and more distinct, connected to the world only by an electric-blue line.
The scythe gleamed in the twilight.
VERNON DURSLEY.
"What? Where am I? Who are you?"
Death did not answer. Instead he watched the now grey tableau. The woman was now hysterical, and even her son had gotten the gist that something was happening that did not have anything to do with food.
"Am I dying? I refuse to die! Let me talk to your manager at once!"
Only the boy was still, but that ceased when the woman - Petunia Dursley, thirty-three, recently widowed – struck him so hard he fell to the floor. She was screaming blindly at him, the phone forgotten in her hand.
"Stupid worthless brat." hissed the shade of Vernon Dursley, disgust evident on his face. "Serves him right."
YOUR HUMANITY LEAVES MUCH TO BE DESIRED.
"He's nothing but a freak, a burden on our family! Don't look down your nose at me!"
Death's skull stared at him impassively. The scene around them shifted and suddenly, everything was dark.
"What the bloody hell is going on here?"
THE AFTERLIFE. YOUR AFTERLIFE.
"What the hell are you talking about, man? I demand that you bring me back to my family!"
IT IS FUNNY THAT YOU SHOULD MENTION HELL.
"…what?"
Shadows shifted, indistinguishable against the black sand and the midnight sky. What was Vernon Dursley began to look around, terror now overtaking the hatred. There was the whisper of sibilant voices, the slither of scales, and the rasp of leathery wings flexing, all invisible yet incontestably, undoubtedly there.
He did not feel anger or resentment. He was known for being fair, an equal hand dealt to all that walked the Last Mile. Nevertheless, Death's grin, ghostly under the curve of a stark moon, grew wider.
-.-.-.-...-.-.-.-
Harry crouched in the darkness of his cupboard, his forehead on his knees. His back and ribs ached, the low throbbing pain like tongues of fire through his body. He would have gotten worse if the paramedics hadn't arrived. The sound of the sirens had brought his Aunt to her senses, and he was unceremoniously dragged to the cupboard under the stairs and locked in.
Just in time too. He had heard the thunder of footsteps along the corridor, the squeak-squeak of wheels over the hardwood, the sobs and wails, and then the slam of the door. The screeching sound of tires was followed by the fading squall of the siren, and soon all of Privet Drive was its usual quiet self.
It was too late though. Harry had seen the tall man swish a sharp something at a double of his Uncle before they both faded away.
Diddykins was not allowed to watch horror movies, which meant he watched them all the time when his parents weren't around. He was an utter coward though, leaving all the lights on and surrounding himself with pillows and blankets and food. And he could never finish a whole movie. The minute the music turned screechy and creepy, he would hide under the blankets and put the television on mute. Harry had watched though, but warily, carefully so he wouldn't get caught. He wasn't allowed to watch anything under any circumstances, ever.
That man had been a skeleton. Harry had seen enough to know that. But he was the cleanest skeleton he'd ever seen, porcelain-white and vaguely shiny under the fluorescent light of the kitchen.
A soft click flooded the cupboard with soft, yellow light. There was the beginning of a bruise on his lower arm, but he ignored it. Bruises weren't as bad as broken bones, and he'd had plenty of those. He healed quite quickly, he didn't know why, but the first time he'd walked into the living room after having had his leg fractured, Uncle Vernon had taken his belt buckle to him, yelling all the while about freakishness and unnaturalness. He had tried to slow it down after that, but the fact of it was, all it took was a few nights' sleep and he would be better. He supposed that was something to be thankful for.
He looked at his hands, tracing the outline of his bones. He wondered what it would feel like to become a skeleton. It was probably quite breezy.
THERE YOU ARE.
Harry looked up, a mask falling over his expression. Death was impressed. Where the usual squeals and pleading should have been, there was nothing but this strange blankness. It was as if… Death looked at the boy's thin body, seeing past the clothes and skin, noting the bruises, scars and the healed-over bones. The grin seemed to dim a bit.
YOU ARE HARRY POTTER.
The boy blinked slowly, then nodded.
Death remembered everything about everyone. He could see any possible timelines, and all possible outcomes. There were no surprises, no secrets from Death. This was one of the times he wished this was not the case.
His eyes narrowed. He felt –or more accurately, since he had none of the glands that the alchemists so insistently claimed held all the appropriate chemicals that induced feeling- thought about feeling annoyed and protective. He recognized the dilemma. It was the same when he freed the souls of drowned kittens and abandoned children, the same as when he had seen Ysabell cry for the first time in the desert, when he watched the sleeping face of an orphaned Susan. It was a part of humanity that eluded him, the whole business of feelings, but no matter. It was not a matter of right or wrong, or even the fate of the individual over the world. Being human was a choice.
He chose.
-.-.-.-...-.-.-.-
"Susan ain't gonna like this, Master."
Two pairs of eyes, one sunken in wrinkled folds caused by excessive smoking and the consumption of fried everything and the other like miniature stars, looked at the lone occupant at the other end of the infinitely long dining table.
Harry didn't seem to mind the numerous inconsistencies of the house. In fact, he didn't seem to mind anything, not the strange trip between worlds on a prancing horse, or the cats winding around his ankles, or even the fact that Albert had fried him up a batch of porridge and a cup of tea. He had eaten about two spoonfuls without a single wince and was now watching the cats paw over a suspicious sausage link.
Albert was not a hard-hearted man. During his time at the University, a long, long time ago, the way to a promotion was through other men's shoes, so he was no stranger to pain inflicted or received. When he had first lain eyes on the boy though, his face was as close to appalled as it could get. His silence was unnatural in a child so young. Time did not flow here, but Albert had slept at least five times since their guest's arrival, and he hadn't seen a single expression yet on that pale little face or heard a word pass his lips.
Not a one.
HE IS A GOOD BOY.
And still, the Master had become attached in his own way. It happened every so often, and Albert was used to it by now. He hadn't minded Ysabell, because she stuck to her side of the house and moped around the romantic section of the library before getting married to Mort, who was also alright in his way. He hadn't even minded Death's granddaughter, proud though she was. She only visited once a while, and every time the Master had been pleased enough to try and work on the small things, like plumbing. But that was the problem. Death did not know plumbing. He didn't know what it was to be human either.
He thought that taking someone from the problem was tantamount to removing the problem itself, when everybody knew that the problem that was the problem wasn't usually the problem one ended up with when aforesaid problem was solved. It was all in the mind, in trained emotions and wounded thoughts. They would heal, painstakingly slow, over time.
And somewhere other than here, it would. Time would fly, and the world would pass and change. It was why he himself had chosen to come here, but it was not the place for Harry. The boy would not age, or grow to become a man, or heal. He would stay small and broken for as long as the universe spun. Knowing his Master, that would be a very long time indeed.
It was not his business though. It was worrisome that he was even thinking like this over some stranger.
Still…
If Susan Sto. Helit found out her grandfather had taken another child under his proverbial wing, angry wasn't going to be the half of it. She herself found it difficult living in a world where she had the power through walk through walls and see when other people's time Was Up. It put a serious crimp in her social life, she had said once, and both of them knew that she most likely would not tolerate another defenseless person being 'anthropomorphically screwed '.
"She's gonna go mental."
NOT IF SHE DOESN'T KNOW.
"He's got magic, master." It was true. He could taste the tang of metal in the air, though it was weaker than it had been. Harry had probably been taking care of the wounds he had received thanks to his Aunt. Abominable woman. "He's strong, almost sorcerer–level I'd wager, since his world's magic is so…different. He should be taught."
YOU ARE A WIZARD. OF COURSE YOU THINK THAT.
"Just common sense, Master. If you got it, then get stronger and slap someone with it."
AH.
Harry was sitting still. He was always still, until you told him to move or do something. He was as obedient a child as Albert had ever seen, and clever too, figuring out the Great Book on his third try. He even mucked out the stables by himself, handling the shovel and broom with the ease of long experience.
SHOULD I SEND HIM TO THE UNIVERSITY?
"Are you mad? What'll he learn in there? A university's no place for a growing boy. Besides…Susan lives in Ankh-Morpork, remember?"
AH. If Death could possibly look embarrassed, now would be the time. I SUPPOSE FOURECKS IS OUT OF THE QUESTION. WHERE SHALL I SEND HIM THEN?
"Well, there are those people…"
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