Death, in all her ethereal beauty, stood before the cold iron bars of the lonely cell set high atop the highest tower of Azkaban. She regarded its occupants with a sweeping calculating gaze, her nose up in the air and wrinkled in distaste. A swarm of cloaked seeping shadows flanked her on all sides, and one particularly gruesome entity, with twin eyelids and five nostrils, held the excess of her robes away from the dirty stone floor, kneeling, and kissing its patterned hem.

"Greetings to you two." She said, her cold dark eyes and pale marble face blank and inscrutable.

Harry and Tonks decided against antagonizing their visitor, too much, but if push came to push, to not hesitate in putting her (or rather it, for the pronoun conscious readers) down quickly, and that they communicated this all in the span of one gaze and without complicated ape-like gestures or twitches, attested to the well-oiled war machine they once were.

"Who are you"

"Death."

Tonks and Harry exchanged another wary glance. Their visitor's grisly entourage led some credence to her claim, in their minds, but as far as they knew, this could very well be one of Voldemort's schemes, or perhaps their time among the dementors was finally catching up to their mental wellbeing.

"You see, when I hinted at escaping, I meant this place," he said, gesturing around them, "not life in general."

"Relax, I'm not here for your souls. That hardly requires personal attention, no. I'm here for something more…" imitating Harry, she made a vague wide gesture with her arms, "sinister." Her eyes burned with fire, lightning, and metallic smoke filled the air. "You dare scorn me, oh master of my hallows? You dare break my gift and throw it at my face?"

That made Harry pause. Was she talking about the Elder wand? The Death stick? The Deathly dildo? In what he reminisced later on as supreme stupidity on his part, he'd snapped the elder want after gaining its allegiance, the morning after the battle of Hogwarts. On one hand, he hadn't expected it, the famed, highly sought-after wand, believed to have weathered centuries and seen more wars than he'd titties, to break. Afterall, it barely had one nick on its surface. On the other hand, seeing that instrument of untold horrors break was mightily cathartic for himself and his friends, and the warm feeling had persisted till the first demons had started dropping out of the sky.

"If I remember correctly," he glanced at Tonks, who appeared to be having a moderately mild panic attack with every visible part of her body fluctuating in color, texture, and size. Hmm, the Targaryen hair looks good on her, he mused, before looking back at Death, "I threw it in a lake."

Death was unimpressed, and speared him with a disdainful look. "Look, why does it matter? It's not like you need a master. If anything, you look more like a mistress," Harry watched as her tits snapped to attention, or maybe madness was setting in, "with whips, handcuffs and cords. Can't you just let bygones be bygones and instead get us out of here?" Was it getting hot it there?

"Never you mind that. Things have a purpose, and let me assure you that the wand was never meant to be broken. You, Mr. Potter are an aberration. An unintended anomaly. Unfortunately, you are also my responsibility." She looked tired all of a sudden, as if the weight of the underworld had suddenly dropped onto her bare shoulders, "I could lecture you on what is and what should've been, about how the balance of the universe has tilted, and which, if left uncorrected, will lead to a full-blown war between immortal beings of untold strength, a war which would make even the deadliest of mortal wars look like a mosquito bite in comparison to the amount of blood shed. Then I can offer to make you my champion, and when you foolishly refuse, we can go back and forth until I wrangle your souls and your underpants from under your feet, or you can agree to my terms right now and I can make you suffer less, now and in the long run"

Harry and Tonks, the latter stiff as a white granite slab, exchanged yet another long and silent glance, bemused at the unexpected turn of the conversation. "Uhm, pardon me, dearest death, but what would that entail?"

Death hiked her robes and glided forward, approaching Harry and cupping his face, "Don't be too pretentious, darling, I get enough of that from old Shakespeare." He automatically leaned into her touch, preening. Her breasts were mere feet from his face and even less so from certain other parts of his anatomy due to a sudden influx of blood.

"Harry," Tonks snapped, her panic overshadowed by territorial aggression.

He leaned out of her touch, feathers ruffled and eyeing Death suspiciously.

"Do not be afraid, my child." She beckoned him forward smiling.

He was hit by another bout of tunnel vision, like that one time Dudders had had him smoke his spiked gutter pot, and feeling irresistible desire and want coursing through his veins, he closed his eyes and steadied his hammering heart. "Do that again if you want to go back home limping."

"How perspective!" Death tittered. "Maybe that's exactly what I'm looking for. Or maybe it's for you to remedy all the ridiculous mistakes you've made, feed your Dark Lord to his foul bunch of demons and send them packing right down the drain. Can I count on you?"

Thunder rumbled overhead and a flash of lightning lit her pale, earnest face. Without meaning to, Harry's heartstrings vibrated, and he felt a hand clench his own. "How do you suppose we do that?" Tonks asked.

"Why! we travel time, of-course." Said death, giggling at the gobsmacked expression on their faces.

Minions,

There you go, another chapter.

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