A/N: Since this got so much attention in just a couple of days... I decided it wouldn't hurt to add just a tiny bit more, even though it was just supposed to be a one shot. So have some more MoD!Harry and his hatred of paperwork (I totally agree with him there).


The dark-cloaked beings of indeterminate gender that were the minions of Death – the big one, the last, the End of All Things; yeah, that Death – were on edge. Why might not be immediately obvious, if one was not familiar with the inner workings of the Office of Death – one might not have even been able to tell that they were on edge, were it not for the miasma of tension that permeated the air around the empathic entities (after all, the hooded cloaks made it rather hard to check facial expressions, and mostly their body language conveyed only that they were very busy) – but if one just waited a few minutes, observing, the reason for that strain would become obvious.

Because within two to five minutes, one of these dark-cloaked beings of indeterminate gender would approach a specific door, very cautiously knock and enter. Sometimes the entrance of one of these beings would be followed by loud and venomous cursing, others by almost quiet groans of frustration, and then the dark-cloaked being of indeterminate gender would rush out of the room. Occasionally, this was followed by silence – more often, there was the sound of something breaking, or multiple somethings breaking.

As a consequence, none of these dark-cloaked beings wished to enter the office of The Boss, even if his frustration and anger was not directed at them. It was not the first time such a thing as this had occurred, and they were of the opinion that it would not be the last (even if The Boss very much wished it would be), but neither thought made the experience any more manageable. It was a storm to be weathered, though one could always hope that it would be a quick one.

Inside the office, utterly surrounded by teetering piles of paperwork, so much so that he was nearly unable to see the door (there were stacks as high as he was tall, not just on the desk, but covering almost every inch of the floor as well – surfaces could not be cleared fast enough to account for what was coming in), Harry Potter sat at his desk, fingers speared into his already unruly black hair, and wondered just what the fuck was going wrong in the universe this time. After the Loki Incident, he had thought the sentient beings of the mortal plane would be much more hesitant to cause the kind of chaos that resulted in his intervention, but apparently, they had learned nothing from the Asgardians. Then again, the Asgardians didn't even learn from themselves, so he supposed it shouldn't have been a surprise that others didn't either.

In the past six years, there had been one Incident after another, some on a small scale that he was able to take in stride and felt no need to investigate or directly interfere with, but others… those had inspired more trips to Midgard and surrounding planets (one in particular had given him a migraine that almost rivaled the instant download he had received when he had been forced into the role of the physical representation of Death, regarding how to destroy a being that had basically put itself into everything with an internet connection, without somehow sending the civilized world back to the Stone Age and causing more paperwork than he saved himself in the process) and more displays of power that failed to provide some perspective for the denizens of said worlds.

It was getting to the point where he wondered if there was something else behind it, some kind of madness infecting these people that drove them to pull this shit. Because honestly, if it were just them, he really didn't see how…

His clenching fingers stopped pulling at his hair as Harry went utterly still, the thought finally occurring to him – after six years of dealing with these messes – that maybe there really was something – or someone – behind it all. Very slowly, he lifted his head, the expression on his face stopping one of his minions in its tracks as it came to knock on the door. A wary pulse of inquiry reached him, and if he'd been a little less caught up in his sudden realization, he might have tried to smile reassuringly at it.

"I'm going out," he said instead, standing and reaching for his coat. As with nearly every time before, he could almost hear the being sigh in relief, which still impressed him – muteness aside, they managed to be extremely expressive when they wished to be – as he said the words. Without another word, Harry created a portal and disappeared.

As the portal closed behind him, the paperwork on his desk wobbled, making the dark-cloaked being of indeterminate gender's anxiety skyrocket, stilling just long enough that it relaxed again. It carefully placed the scroll it had come to deliver on a stack near the door and hastily retreated. Therefore, it did not see the stacks on the desk once again wobble, then fall inexorably toward The Boss's chair, covering it too in the paper burial shroud.


Loki, once again imprisoned in the cells beneath Asgard, visibly paled when he saw the silver and black lightning flashing just outside his little home-away-from-home, scrambling to press himself back against the wall, as if that would protect him from the being that soon stepped through the distinctive portal. He knew better, of course, but he couldn't help the instinctive desire to get away.

When Death looked at him, the quasi-immortal was reminded very forcibly of the day he'd appeared on the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier to single-handedly bring an end to the events that likely would have resulted in the deaths of thousands, if not millions, of humans just a few short years ago. It was with that same expression of barely contained fury that the being focused on Loki, making him wish for the tender mercies of his brother, Thor, and his hammer. At least he knew that any damage done by the Asgardian prince would not be so permanent as to follow him into the afterlife. This man on the other hand…

"I have a question for you," Death said, his voice as irate as that day. "And if you so much as think of lying to me, Loki Silvertongue, you will wish you had never been born. Understand?"

Gulping, Loki nodded, not one single thought of treachery in his mind.

"Who put you up to that stunt on Midgard?"

It was not a question he was expecting, far from it, but he was smart enough to answer immediately and truthfully – saving his own skin from this being was more important than saving himself from the other, since, again, the other could not mess with his afterlife.

"The Mad Titan, Thanos." If it had been possible to become one with the wall of his cell, Loki would have done it when Death narrowed his eyes at him.

"And why, exactly, did he do that?"

There had been very few times over the years that Loki had missed his brother, even fewer that he'd actively wished for the Thunder God's presence; this, however, was one of those rare occasions. Thor's bulk would have been a very welcome shield from this man's ire. "He wanted the tesseract." Would adding 'my lord Death' be inappropriate? Groveling didn't seem like a bad idea, but then again, who knew how Death preferred to be addressed?

Seeing the exasperated expression on the being's face, Loki realized his short answers were not serving the purpose of effectively redirecting his attention and hurriedly added, "I believe he intended to use it to draw the attention of one of the, um, other representatives of death. One of the females?" His voice rose at the end, an almost hopeful note turning it into a question.

"Oh really?" Loki kept his mouth shut, because while Death's eyes were still aimed in his general direction, it was obvious his attention had turned elsewhere. Again there was a narrowing of the End of All Thing's green eyes, a tightening of his jaw, and a sound almost like a growl that had the Trickster all but cowering in his cell.

"Fucking. Asgardians."


To be completely fair, Hel could not exactly be considered an Asgardian, but since she had been born to one, the label was an appropriate as any other Harry cared to give her. The realization that all of this – the chaos, the deaths, the general mass destruction across the universe and subsequent (fucking) paperwork – had been perpetrated by a man who wished to get the attention of one of the gods of death might have been a little funny under other circumstances, but at this moment, Harry was not in The Mood for it.

But knowing whose fault it was (in a manner of speaking) at least gave him an out – he didn't have to deal with it himself. All he had to do was send off a directive to Hel – all the gods of death listened to him, even if they had their own specific powers and domains – and she would take care of the problem. Perhaps she wasn't even aware of the problem – most of the lives Thanos had taken would not be sent to her realm, so it was always possible she had heard nothing about it.

That was the plan when he arrived back at his office. Until he saw what had happened to his chair in his absence. His chair. No. Not the chair. Everything else could be groaning and threatening to break under the weight of all the mess, but his chair was supposed to be free of it. Supposed to be. Yet somehow the paperwork monster had managed to vomit all over his precious seat, until it was barely visible under the white.

Spinning, a thought brought up the image of Helheim, specifically the throne room, and the Queen of Hel casually situated on her throne, laughing as she watched a scene in her mirror – one that Harry was absolutely certain would be causing him another mountain of paperwork to dig through.

The Master of Death snapped, his plan of merely sending a message for her to fix this dissolving the instant he realized she knew what was going on. For this, she was getting a personal visit. Maybe next time, Hel would think twice about leading a guy on.


A/N: As stated previously, inspired by the wonderful work by The Plot Bunny Whisperer, Deus Ex Machina. If you haven't read that yet, GO DO IT. HARRY COMMANDS THEE!