Description: We have all seen the fics where Harry dies and finds out he let too many people die. Here's a different tack. Yet another one of my sugar-induced plot bunnies. Rated M for language. One-shot.

Intro: Harry has lived a full life and finds out a few things about himself. Yet another one of my sugar-induced plot bunnies. Blame my friends for giving me so much sugar. DH semi-compliant. It starts out a bit sad, but roll with it- my story gets better.

Harry slowly walked down Diagon Alley, his cane poking at the cobblestones. For a one-hundred-and-ninety-year-old man, the fact that Harry was walking at all was astounding.

"But as the late Madam Pomfrey said, I never did follow the rules of medicine," Harry wheezed. A few passers-by gave him strange looks, but it was understandable. After a hundred and seventy years, nobody really remembered who the Boy-Who-Lived was or what he did. He was the last one left. Ron had died almost sixty years ago, Hermione lasting another twenty before passing away to join her husband. Luna and her husband had been killed over a hundred years ago, mere seconds after finally discovering a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Actually, they had discovered two, but the things were nasty buggers when they were mating. Neville and Hannah had lived long and happy lives, passing the Leaky Cauldron on to their children. All that was left of that Hogwarts generation was the Boy-Who-Lived. And, of course, his wife Ginny.

However, even that looked unsure at the moment. Ginny was in the hospital, and it looked as if her time in this world was coming to an end. Harry had been at her bedside for the last month as her health slowly declined, leaving only when absolutely necessary. She had finally told him to leave, and he had taken the opportunity to clear his head, deciding to see the sights of Diagon Alley once more.

As he passed the local Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Harry stopped and thought about what had happened to the Weasley family. Arthur and Molly had died mere months after the final battle. Bill had suffered complications from his Lycanthropy condition and had died, after which Fleur had returned to France. Charlie had died as he had wanted to die, among his dragons. Percy had simply vanished off the face of the earth after the final battle, and was presumed dead. After Fred's death, George had lost much of his inspiration, and his products had suffered as well.

The two youngest Weasleys were perhaps the most successful, long-term: Ginny had Harry, and with Hermione's pushing, Ron had become head of the Auror Department in a matter of years. To their great disappointment, it had been discovered that Hermione was barren which had led to no small number of cracks about her carrying all those heavy books around at Hogwarts. Harry and Ginny's only child had moved to Australia to get away from the inevitable notoriety of being the son of the Boy-Who-Lived. He sent them a Christmas card every year, but it had still broken Ginny's heart when the boy had left.

As Harry continued walking down the alley, an owl swooped into view and dropped a letter, which sailed perfectly into his hand. He felt a spell on the envelope and broke the wax seal with pressure from his thumb. The letter opened and began to speak in an official voice.

"Mr. Potter, this is Healer Castor from St. Mungo's. If you could please…" Harry didn't wait to hear the rest before turning on his heel and Apparating directly into Ginny's room, nearly knocking a Healer to the floor.

"What's going on." He wheezed, leaning on his cane.

"Mr. Potter, your wife is dying." Harry felt a pressure behind his eyes start to grow.

"How long does she have?"

"Not long. Hours, maybe less." Harry brushed a Healer out of the way and gazed upon his wife's face. The hair was the same, but Ginny's skin had grown waxy from the sickness that was taking her life.

"Hi, Gin." She smiled, and Harry did as well in spite of himself. "How are you feeling?"

"About as well as I feel," She croaked, dragging a hand across her lips. "In other words, like shit. How long do the Healers say I have?"

"They say you're going to be just fine." She laughed, and Harry felt a pang go through him as he heard the rasping sound of fluid in her lungs.

"Bullshit. I'm old and dying, but I'm not quite deaf yet."

"Hours, at most. Ginny…" She held up a hand.

"Save it, Harry. You always were the last one to hang on. The Boy-Who-Lived. The Jackass-Who-Won't-Bloody-Die-Already." Harry laughed, and he saw a bit of the mischievous sparkle back in Ginny's eyes. "So, where's the firewhiskey?" When Harry stared at her, she pushed herself into a sitting position with a bit of a struggle. "I am entitled to a last drink, aren't I?" Harry shrugged, before rooting around in the bedside cabinet and finding the bottle of liquor that was standard issue in all St. Mungo's rooms.

"Never understand why they put this in here…" He poured them each a drink.

PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR

Harry tossed back another shot, feeling more lightheaded than he had in forty years. Ginny took a look at her shot glass, set it aside, and took a swig straight from the bottle. "Well, I think its time to cash in. Time to…it was cut the bullshit that the Muggles said, right?" Harry nodded. "Good. Let's cut the bullshit, then. Goodbye, Harry, I'll always love you." She pulled the covers up to her chin. "See you eventually, I guess." She closed her eyes, and her breath exhaled slowly. Harry sat there for a moment, unsure if she was really dead or just messing with him. He reached out and felt for a pulse, finding nothing. Then he felt a searing pain in his arm, pressure in his chest and a roaring in his ears…and then nothing.

Harry sat up, surprised mostly at the fact that he could sit up without most of his bones creaking in protest. He looked down and found himself looking as he had at forty.

"Oh, bloody buggering hell…"

"This is what most people call the Ground Floor, actually." Harry spun, finding himself face-to-skull with none other than the Grim Reaper himself. The figure spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent.

"Oh, fuck."

"Lemme just head you off. Yes, you're dead. Heart attack. Ginny's in Heaven. No, Sirius is not in Hell, although he does make frequent trips down there. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Neville, everyone else who fought for the light, in Heaven. Voldemort got his own circle of Hell. Any other questions?" Harry's mouth flapped open and closed a few times, before he shook his head. "Good. Now, you and I have a lot to talk about." Death stepped back a few paces, before taking a deep breath and shouting. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you've given me? Do you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your obsession with saving people! Each and every time someone around you was meant to die – Hermione, Ron, Fleur's sister Gabrielle, Ginny in your second year, Sirius in your third, Katie and Ron in your sixth – you prevented them from dying!"

"I'm sorry. Was it that bad?"

"You almost put me out of business! I could forgive you saving Cedric from Krum, because he died anyway, but it was still damn annoying! Every damn time!"

"But I didn't mean to-"

"You didn't mean to? Oh, of course not! You've been the biggest pain in my undead, soul-reaping arse since Hitler! But you didn't mean to, so it's all good!"

Harry had had about enough of this. "Now look. I don't particularly care about being a pain in your ass. So whatever you're going to do, get it over with."

The skull's grin somehow grew even larger. "Oh, good. I was hoping you'd ask that." From within his robes, Death pulled a long pole with a curved blade at the end. He raised it above his head, and Harry's eyes widened as Death gripped the scythe. Harry rolled to the side as Death brought the weapon down, before running. He heard the Grim Reaper running along behind him and ducked another swing from the scythe.

"How long do we have to do this?"

"Until the end of time!"

"Oh, damn."