The resurrection stone, said to bring back your loved ones from a perpetual state of peace and quiet back to a torturous reality, said to have been an attempt by death to spite the brother who just couldn't let go of his dead wife, was, really, truthfully, all of that. But it was also more. In the hands of its prophesied master, it would be a powerful tool, and last time, Harry had given it up without thinking about its potential implications.
Death, ever the clever reaper of souls, knew that Harry still had reasons, some personal, some moral, to not pick it up this time around either. His thickheadedness was of much notorious acclaim among the higher folk.
And hence, she devised a plan.
The house was burning. Wood and concrete all were going up in smoke, and in the middle of the fire-lit room, there stood a woman wearing a risqué clock of bone-white leather. Her eyes were burning sapphire, and her ears were furry. A smoking hot foxy specimen really.
Harry's jaw dropped to the floor, literally.
While he was admiring the figure before him, he had quite literally, turned into a skeleton. The various layers of his skin and flesh had peeled off and fallen to the floor, where they lay in a bubbling pool of his fat.
"Relax, my molten champion." She prowled toward him, baring her polished, white teeth, "Did I say molten? I meant mortal?" she grinned and stepped over the bubbling goo.
"What hast thou done?"
Harry couldn't believe it. He'd never spoken a word of Shakespearean English in his life, either in jest or for joy, and now even his thoughts were getting phrased thus.
"What hast thee done to me?" he raged and went for his wand, only to find it missing.
"You'll have to use something else if you're that desperate." The foxy lady smirked, gliding forward and reaching toward his pants.
Harry jumped backward and heard more than a few of his joints cracking menacingly. Good thing he kept a spare wand handy, coz he had it pointed at her, angrily spewing sparks.
"Dare thee move another step," he spat with gum-less teeth and lip-less mouth.
"Oh, is the good master angry? Am I going to be whipped?" she batted her eyelashes and demurely wettened her blood-red pouty lips.
Harry Potter had been called many names, but pussy-whipped wasn't one of them. The light darkened, the shadows lengthened, and the fire, it seemed to hiss. Or maybe it was just the snakes dropping out the sky. They looked forged from silver and speckled with diamonds the way they seemed to sparkle in the sudden twilight that filled the room. And was that a hailstorm?
Mere moments passed before the pale faced beauty was tied up and bound, and knocked up against the corner of the room. The fire had spluttered out, and the air was thick with the bite of a dissipated snowstorm.
"Now thou shalt talk." He said, glaring at the smirking damsel in a small dress.
"What shall I ever say, Mr. Potter. I was expecting to entangle with a rather different snake." She said, spreading her snake-bound hands in an attempted gesture of supplication.
Harry snorted a rather anachronistic snort.
"What," she pointedly looked at his uncovered bits, "you can't blame a woman for trying."
"Enough of that." He snapped, after casting a super powered finite upon his larynx. "I thought I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with you."
"But good sire, the bond we have is more eternal than the stars in the sky." Death pleaded, her mischievous eyes glittering with… something.
"Listen," He sighed and ran his fingers through his mop of untidy hair. Or tried to, before the realization dawned in his eyes that he was still a jumble of pointy bones. Not going to poke out his own eyes, he was not. He growled and advanced toward her.
"Wait!" she shouted, frantic. "If you do intend to ravish me, do it upon more proper bedding."
"That's it." Harry growled. He pointed his trusty holly and phoenix feather wand, which he had readily liberated from Ollivander's weeks back, between her eyes, making her look at it cross-eyed. "I've been good to you. I've shown you more respect than you're due and you still won't leave me alone. I'm going to save the world, but I'm not going to do it as your fuckin' lapdog."
He dismissively flicked his wand, dissolving the animated conjurings that had kept her bound into cigarette smoke, and magically waved her upright. "You've got your answer. Now reverse whatever you've done and get out of my sight."
Death was angry. She knew she was beautiful. She knew it and wanted to hear it, and she wanted his hands on her tits. And she wanted him to take up his rightful role as his master so she could spread discord and chaos among the mortals. Oh, and she wanted to whimper as he pounded into her and simper as he tickled her furry ears.
"You do not have a choice." She said in a cold voice, her eyes raging as she looked up at her insolent master.
"You'll find that I do," he shrugged. "it's a free world."
"You will abide." If her voice were fire, Harry would've gotten frostbite by now.
"No." said he, determined.
"You'd think twice if you knew what you were missing." She replied, slowly smirking.
As if taking that statement as her cue, a voice spoke out from the shadows, "Harry?"