A/n: This has Who Killed Markiplier references. It's not necessary to watch it to understand the story. And the WKM characters barely affect this so I don't feel a need to tag this as a crossover.For those who have watched though, you'd be able to get more of the references. This is basically Harry's descent into bubblegum pink madness.

Alternative title:

Harry MOTHERLOVING Potter

Harry knew he was supposed to be dead.

This wasn't the first time he thought that. Probably wouldn't be the last either given his track record. Not when the afterlife kept throwing him out. He should've died as a baby. Should've died in his family's hands. With the troll. With Quirell. With the Basilisk, and with everything else Hogwarts could've thrown at him.

He should've died while hunting horcruxes. While running and fighting and hoping. While he was drowning in fear and desperation as he embraced the killing curse and in turn, death, into his very being.

He remembered the relief he felt as the emerald curse sailed towards him. The way his shoulders sagged at the thought that finally, it was done. He was done. No more would be asked of him.

But like some cruel joke, he wakes up after. He comes back to his grief and worry, to a world that asked a child to lead them against a monster of their own making.

And as the years went on, over and over again he did more than toe the line that separated the dead from the living. No, he danced over it with a gleeful abandon that definitely wasn't healthy. And every time, when he comes back home whole, alive and breathing, knowing he shouldn't be, he feels a part of him is left behind into the abyss that keeps returning him to the land of the living.

Here he was, seemingly blessed by the very thing his once mortal enemy craved. And he loathed every minute of it.

He wanted to meet the family he never got to meet. He wanted to apologize to the people he felt he had failed. He wanted to be free of the worship. The pressure. The people's need for him. For his words, his advice, his guidance and decisions.

Until finally he got too tired. Too many pieces of him where gone, consumed by the gnawing black abyss deep inside his chest and he simply stops. He had stopped toeing the line. Stopped hopping in and out of it and simply dove deep into death's embrace. What followed gave a whole new meaning to the joke that had become of his life.

"I cannot believe it took you this long to die." The man before Harry was both devoid and pulsing with color. He looked like something from black and white television, with pitch black hair and a gray complexion that made Snape seem rosy in comparison. He was dressed in a tailored suit and sharp black shoes, holding his hands together in front of him as if about to conduct a meeting.

The man pulsed energy. A red and blue glow that surrounded him but whose colors didn't actually stain his skin, nor mix with each other despite overlapping in places. He had a no-nonsense expression on his face, with underlying hints of irritation and impatience that reflected his first words.

"Are you supposed to be Death?," Harry responds and the man actually smirks as he sits down, a chair materializing beneathe him, a long table before him stretching out to close the gap between him and Harry. He looks behind him and sees a chair similar to the one death's sitting on and shrugs, sitting down before the being.

"Some.., prefer to call me Dark," his lips twitch at this and Harry notes how the energy around him seems to pulse. "But indeed, I am.. Death, as you have called me. I have been waiting for you to return to my realm, to explain your situation to you though for some reason Fate has been.. pulling her strings to keep you from reaching me." The corner of his lips twitch downwards at the mention of Fate but remains relatively impassive.

"Is this why I won't seem to die?" Harry asks this bluntly, weariness fighting with relief at the thought of finding answers.

"Indeed," the deity hums, leaning forward. "You managed to collect the 3 items I have left behind on earth. The three things that.., tie me to the world. That keeps death constant for all."

"So the hallows were... real," Harry said a chill passing down his spine for some reason. He had of course suspected the involvement of these three items but to have it confirmed made him curse his own luck.

"Indeed. They were once personal belongings of mine." Death's eyes cloud with reminiscence as he thinks back.

"The first item was a simple cane that. I had reshaped it into a wand so powerful that it kept calling me back, to take those who stand against it, and those who wield it." Death's eyes were so far away at that moment and Harry wonders what the story behind these items were. He opts to stay silent and keep listening however.

"Next..., next was a mirror," and here Death actually pauses. The energy around him pulses and his voice lowers somewhat. "It holds the one who being who paid the price. The soul that sparked life, and in return was sacrificed to create death. They, gave balance to all of existence. I had shaped the mirror into a stone that held the power to bridge life and death, as the relic that technically held it."

"And finally the mansion," here his lips quirk into a rueful smile and Harry wonders why he turns and entire mansion into a cloak. "It was my... birthplace, if you will. A place within and without reality that could bend the rules of creation. Without it they would never have been lost and all would never have come into being. At least, not the way it is. I have condensed it into a cloak that still bent the world around it to it's will."

"And.. what exactly does happen if someone gets them?" Harry asked, curious but unwilling to pry about the history behind Death.

"Well, normally, they would simply go on life with these three very powerful artifacts at their disposal.., until such time that Fate pulls his strings and they are let loose into the world again," there is a growl when he mentions Fate and this time Harry was sure there was something there but he keeps quiet and waits for the rest of his explanation. "Except this time, it didn't happen. This time one of the items that tether me onto this world were.. damaged. Normally they would repair themselves, or return to me but seeing as you all three items at that time, it granted you the power to damage the wand. Permanently."

Dread pools at the pit of Harry's stomach as Death gives him a very flat look at this and he swallows. A small voice at the back of his head giggles madly at all this and his mind shatters even further. He let's out a small dazed laugh, edged with panic and wonders what he would do if all this time all his suffering was apparently the result of his own actions.

"But see, we can't allow that." Death's voice was gravelly at this point and Harry could tell he was annoyed. "And since Fate was watching over you then..., it was easy enough for him to... tie my essence with you instead."

"Excuse me what?" He didn't shriek. His voice didn't crack, not at all. But he couldn't deny how much hysteria had leaked onto it at this point.

"Exactly that little mage," another voice pops in and a man appears sitting on the intricately carved wooden arm of the chair Harry was in. He looked exactly like Death, dressed almost similarly except his suit's jacket and pants were a brilliant red made of a shiny material that looked like satin. That and he actually looked healthy, tanned with scraggly facial hair and a grin on his face unlike his counterpart whose expression has closed entirely upon the man's arival. "I'm Fate, by the way."

Harry gingerly takes the hand the deity exchanges, who proceeds to shock him literally with what seems like a muggle electric buzzer on his hand. He laughs deeply and makes his way across to Death who levels him with the most unimpressed look he could give.

"Aw cmon! It was funny!!" Fate protests and Death doesn't even dignify him with a response. "Daaaaaaaaark, it was funny!!!"

"You would do best to stop your whining, you petulant brat. I only have so much patience to deal with you before I decide to completely erase you from existence." Harry notices how Dark's voice begins to split the angrier he gets until it sounds like multiple voices speaking in chorus. The energy around him pulses but Fate simply grins, and like an idiot, attempts to wrap his arm around his pallid counterpart.

"Mark. Behave yourself," Dark cuts him and Harry has to pause at that and wonder if the two were twins. Mark and Dark, Fate and Death.

"As I was saying before this imbecile decided to barge in." He ignroes the other deity's indignant protest and turns back to Harry instead to finish his explanations. "I am tied to you, little mage. You are needed to keep the balance, seeing as you destroyed the wand. In essence, you have, instead become the wand."

"How do I stop this then? How do I stop being the.. relic or whatever it is that holds this bullshit together? I'm just Harry for fucks sake..."

"You are, just Harry," Fate responds instead of Death, eyes glinting as he focuses on him all of a sudden, his actions becoming sharper and more pronounced. "But you fail to understand exactly who 'just harry'is. Or maybe it's that you, yourself, do not know do you Harry? You were never given a chance. To be, just Harry. To not have to worry. To discover what you like, what you enjoy. How you want to be without regard for what others think or say. Perhaps, I can offer a solution that would fix Aaaall our problems."

Harry now understands why the seemingly childish man before him was Fate. He was slyer than any slytherin, managing to phrase what he wanted to happen in a way that Harry couldn't say no to. Or rather, wouldn't say no to.

"What are you planing," Death asked instead, eyes narrowing at his brother who goes back to grinning widely like an idiot.

"Why a do over of course!" Fate grins and that seems to explain everything to Death who looks his doppleganger in the eye for several long moments before he huffs and settles on his seat.

"You get the chance to go back, little Mage!" Fate informs him this with delight, eyes bright as he hops on the long table. "You get to become whomever you want to be. Relive life as you see fit, with all the knowledge and power you have gained. That means you know all your spells, know where the horcruxes are, aaaand, until you return my brother's wand, will get to keep it's abilities!"

"There are little caveats of course," here Fate's eyes glint and a sheet of paper materializes in his hand. "Nothing big really, just... little tasks here and there I need you to perform. Little mistakes to correct and in return you get to Live however way you want and die when you choose to." He finishes his pitch right in front of Harry, the paper on his hands folded neatly as he extends his hand for Harry to shake.

"Now remember little Mage. You have to earn the Hallows. Assemble them, before you can, again, summon my brother and return the power of the wand where it must be. So what do ya say buddy? Ready for the next great adventure?"

Harry comes to in the middle of the night his body aching and his head pounding. He attempts to sit up, only to hit his head against a ceiling much lower than he was used to, showering him with dust and exacerbating his already pounding headache.

He curls up instead, clutching his head. He feels like someone poured molten lava inside him and kept pouring and pouring till he was stretched thin around the mass of liquid heat. Like a warm bubble about to pop. He shivers and shakes and barely manages to move his head to the side before he vomits all over the cramped floor and his front door.

He keeps dry heaving, absently noting how his stomach barely contained anything in the first place. It takes a while before his stomach settles. He is spent, shaking like a leaf, keenly feeling how much he'd been wrung out.

Near blind from both the darkness and his persistent headache, he manages to ignore the near suffocating scent and it isn't long till he succumbs to exhausted sleep.

He wakes up to his grumbling stomach and an instinctive swish of magic informs him of the time and date. He was surprised to discover that it was 2 in the afternoon and even more so that he had been allowed to sleep in. He banishes the mess he had made the night before and he wanders out only to find the house empty.

Instead he finds his aunt's note on the fridge listing out all his chores for the day and what to cook for dinner later in the evening for when they arrive. He was thankful that she was in a good enough mood to leave him 2 slices of bread and a small clump of cheese that was enough to tide over his hunger for the moment as he thought back to what could have been the reason his relatives were gone.

It was easy enough to pinpoint, seeing as the day itself had been a highlight to his younger self. He had been alone, for the first time in a long time and he realizes how much he enjoyed it. He realized that day that it wasn't always the way it was with his relatives home. There were peaceful times. Quiet times when he could breath and not feel like he would be beaten up anytime. It had tided him over, till the letters came and his life was flipped on it's head. When he slipped his cage in exchange of a noose.

His chest feels funny at times like these. Like an electric eel was inside it, thrashing and zapping around his insides. Like melted candy that was dripping everywhere inside his chest cavuty and solidifying in places it shouldn't, crawling around like thick, burning sludge.

He snickers at the feeling as something buzzes in his head. It takes a while for him to focus enough to remember what he was thinking of. To hone in on where his thoughts were and away from the rapidly cooling candy in his chest.

He was thinking of his freedom. Of this day he discovered the word. This one Saturday when his relatives had been invited to an event in Grunnings. It had beed? Would be? Is being held over breakfast, stretching through lunch till the afternoon. Time was getting tricky to keep track of. It had gotten all, wonky and squelchy like peanut butter and jelly in between your fingers.

He ignores his rapidly deteriorating train of thought and instead chooses to belatedly thank Fate who seemed to have made sure that Harry would have time to reorient himself and recover. After all, he basically had several decades worth of memories and magical growth shoved into his ten year old body.

As he consumes his tasteless meal he sits down to inspect himself. He feels different. No longer as frail and stretched as the night before. No longer feeling like an oversized balloon that would pop at any moment. His magic was back to the familiar warmth it was before, perhaps even better. He remembers how after he had shattered the wand he had felt stretched as well. It had settled after a while and he had explained it away as magical backlash from breaking the elder wand, but Harry knew that ever since that day he felt like he was carrying too much magic. But now it seems that wasn't the case anymore. He felt comfortable, like he was in his own skin again.

He returns to the cupboard under the stairs, intending to test how well his magic responded to him now. He remembers his earlier, groggier moments and still feels like he has to convince himself it wasn't a trick. After all, he had dome wandless magic with ease and comfort as if he'd been using his wand. He wondered if it was because he was technically a wand himself, and flicked a quick cleaning charm at his cupboard when something made him pause. There on his bad laid a very familiar sheet of paper.

He focuses on the paper that seemed to be smiling at him. Mocking. Like it had all the answers and it won't give Harry. He had the distinct urge to burn it due to it's mockery and it takes a while for him to rationalize away the decision to randomly burn innocent pieces of paper.

Even though it was mocking him.

Right.

He insisted chose to pay attention to his magic. How his will to make the paper just 'go away' made his magic build up in him like a rearing unicorn. To Harry it felt like his magic was so wager to do his bidding. Like a little puppy promised with cuddles and treats if obeyed. A pink primordial mass inside him, keening to be let out. Perhaps it is too eager though, as only an amorphous mass of pink energy can be, and he accidentally releases a pulse of magic that escaped him, spreads out and proceeds to clean not only his cupboard but the rest of the house as well. It is most definitely pink, just as he imagines it. And smells faintly of cotton candy and almonds.

Not sparing it any thought besides noting the need to practice precision, Harry pursues the offending scrap of paper on his bed instead. Inside held two simple words.

He knew this wasn't his only task. It probably wouldn't even be the hardest but it scratches an itch at the back of his mind that drags fear out of the pits of his twisting stomach, quivering as it climbs up his chest to dance with his frantically beating heart before it escapes from him in a series of breathy gasping laughter edged with fear and hysteria. He doesn't understand his own reaction. Not when he had been considering this all morning anyways but to see it on paper, as an actual command, ignited fear within him and underneath it, a burning rage at being told what to do.

He rereads the scrap of paper in his hands again and again and eventually wills away the surprisingly intense emotions that came to him. He had thought after all this time that he had grown numb. That he had learned to supress himself well enough and that thought made him pause.

Perhaps it was time he stopped surpressing himself anyways.

Sighing resignedly, he looks back to the scrap of paper and this time grins sharply at what it reads.

"Run Away."

People were staring.

Not in the "Bless my soul, it's Harry Potter," way the wizarding world did. Or the "It's the Dursley's crazy nephew!" way Prive drive did as well.

As far as Harry can tell, this people should have nothing to look at. He had transfigured his clothes into something more, appropriate. He had cleaned himself up too, and even banished the smell of vomit that clung to him. After a thorough shower. So for all intents and purposes, they should have no reason to be staring.

From what he has managed to understand the staring seems to be at his face, or well above it. Either at his scar or his head and he knew it couldn't have been his scar. Not when it's all healed up after he sent a certain emerald green curse to his own face.

What did it say about him? How easy it was to muster so much hatred to fuel the killing curse. So much so that even after removing the horcrux from his head he was still swimming in it. Positively drowning at how much rage filled his heart. Only for it to vanish to nothing when he realized he succeed. Overcome by joy so sweet it clung to his insides like sludge.

The transition left him with whiplash and he knows for sure this was unhealthy. No same person flit through murderous rage to pleasant fulfilment in a span of seconds. Just as well, with what he'd been through, if anyone had the excuse to get all sorts of fucked up, it would be him.

Harry could've sworn he was thinking of something else earlier.

He passes by another person on street who gawks at his hair and Harry feels his hackles raise. His murderous thoughts must've been apparent on his face as the man hurries past him.

He wishes he could see that look of stark fear on the Dursleys instead, and the thought of which makes a nasty smirk spread on his lips.

Absently he recalled his last moments at the Dursleys. He needed some practice to finetune his spellcasting, so Harry takes time to randomly cast blasting curses of varying strengths till he got a hang of his power levels and how much magic to put behind his spells. Afterwards he decided to actually test his power levels as he moved to dismantle the wards Dumblydore left his prison cell.

The stares were getting to Harry. It wasn't till he noticed his magic gathering around him, as if to cast a spell that he notices just how badly though.

He sighs in relief when he found what he was looking for. A public loo.

He was simply looking for somewhere private to apparate, when he sees his reflection on the mirror.

So that's why they were staring.

He couldn't help but stare too. Even through the murky, dingy mirror he could see it.

He flicks a quick cleaning charm and stares blankly again.

There at the top of his head was a brilliant mop of pink. It wasn't eye searing barbie pink actually, or subtle burnt rose that's brownish. It was a pale pink that makes it stand out even more. As pale as Malfoy's hair but... Pink. Unapologetically so.

A chuckle was pulled out of his chest. A small "heh" that repeats itself till his laughing full bellied laughs. It was so pink. Something that wasn't "boy" from the Dursleys. Neither was it Dumbledore's "Golden Boy." Or the ministry's "Chosen One." It was him. It was just Harry.

As Harry appears into Diagon he absently notes how easy he feels. He feels comfortable in his skin. Like his magic has fully settled and none of the strain is gone. It has fully saturated him, even to his hair apparently.

He doesn't know what fate did to turn his magic pink, or maybe it was always supposed to be like this without the sludgy taint Voldemort left behind.

His mood darkens immediately, the dark sludge filling his chest again, rising up to his throat. It bubbles and burns like volcanic mud and something in him wants to let it loose so badly when he finally realizes where his feet has taken him.

The burn settle low in his gut, replaced by bitter nostalgia in front of some rundown secondhand bookshop that, once upon a time yet to come was a brilliant orange spot of colour in a war torn alley.

He smiled bitterly and went on his way down the alley, and wonders if he should live this life the way the twins he admired so much lived theirs. As their own people. No matter what their mother nagged them to do. No matter how others pressured them. They were their own people, screw propriety and expectations.

He always wanted to be "just Harry." How much of that was because of other people, and how much was because of himself? He cuts his musing short however as he finds himself standing before the pristine white facade of Gringotts.

Ah, to be able to enter gringots without the Goblin's hatred and scrunity.

Feeling his mood lighten, Harry begins walking again with a pop to his step and a smirk on his face.

Diagon was just as it was before Voldemort returned. Crowded, bustling, full of sheep lapping at whatever the Ministry fed them. Cowards and entitled nitwits. He giggles this time, despite his ire. They're nothing. They're entitled sheep and this time they could bleat how much louder they want, he won't be doing any shepherding.

He enters gringotts and was surprised when a nervous looking goblin approaches him.

"Follow me," the elderly goblin simply said and Harry simply shrugs and decides to follow.

The goblin leads him through a hallway holding doors to several offices before finally escorting him through the last one where another goblin was sat behind and ancient looking desk with a staggering ammount of papers.

"Boldfang," the goblin adresses the one who escorted Harry even though his piercing eyes were on the wizard himself. "You may leave."

His escort departs at that, closing the door behind him and Harry settles on the seat before the other goblin's desk as he motions for him.

"Mr, Potter, we have been waiting for you." He simply said. "Fate, as you should know, patrons us. He is, after all the driving force of wealth. He has left us instructions, to... aid you in your endeavors as it seems that he and Death have chosen to favor you."

He leaves gringotts feeling even lighter. So much so that he just might float away, like a little pink balloon drifting through the air.

He seems to have gotten used to associating himself with that color. A bright candy floss pink.

What would McGonagall think when she sees his pink mop?

What would Snape?

He snickered as he checked his enchanted wallet again, holding much more muggle money than a little boy like him should be able to spend in the next 3 months he'd be spending alone before being shipped off to Hogwarts.

He goes on an impromptu shopping spree. He is in need of a whole new wardrobe after all.

On whim he decides to throw away everything he himself was like before. No more nice, inconspicuous dark clothing. No more trying to fit in. He'd stand out anyways, might as well make it in his terms. If he's going to stand out, he'd do so on his own terms.

So he buys clothing to match his bubblegum pink hair. He buys cream and pastel button ups and denim trousers in varying pale shades and white. He then gets himself shoes for various occasions before settling into an inn for the night.

In the face of glamours and confundus charms, mandatory adult supervision was apparently a thing of the past.

He'd look for a more long term flat for the morning. Someplace he could ward through the roof and spend the rest of the summer before dismantling everything and moving on when school year starts.

But that was for the morning. For now he'd settle down for the night, warm and comfortable in this strange place. The world felt strange, in a good way. He felt lighter than ever before, pale pink and pastels and happier than he could ever be.

It sinks even more now. He was in the middle of London, somewhere no one knows, in a place no one recognizes him, of his own volition. He was here of his own accord, due to his choices.

This was his life.

This was Harry.