So the Lord replied, "If I find fifty righteous ones within the city of Sodom, on their account I will spare the rest."

Abraham begs for thirty, for the sake of thirty loyal, godly men will he spare the city?

And eventually the Lord resides at ten. "For the sake of ten, I will not destroy it."

Abraham would find the city desolate; destroyed by sulfur and fire. He begs the Lord, "What about the righteous; the good who would die along with evil?"

But it is as it is written: There is none righteous; no, not one.

PART ONE

Harry Potter wants to live life on his own terms. He walks a maritime; the Durselys holding onto him by his strings like a rowdy dog's collar. Be stupid or be punished. Be passive or be punished. Be normal, normal, normal -- and Harry Potter finds these terms (not his own) are hard to follow. He is not stupid. He is not passive. And he is, to his dismay and reluctance and denialdenialdenial, not normal.

Who he is and what he wants sit in the hollow of his chest. He smooths over the fringe of his hair -- his freakish scar -- and smooths over the identity he oh so wants to form. He doesn't need it. He's not allowed to want it.

He is told he will die alone and it is admittedly the worst thing they've done.

When he is asked as a child, so lonely it is hard to believe he even lives with other people, what he wants to be when he grows up, the immediate and conditioned answer is on the tip of his tongue. Whatever the Durselys want me to be, sir. A runner, a cook, sir, they seem to really want me to be one, sir.

Passive. Conditioned.

But the truth (buried in the heart he must ignore or be punished for) is that he doesn't care about what he's to be. He just wants it to be his decision; his terms; from him. Not the Durselys or the teachers who turn up their noses at the version of him they believe exists or Aunt Marge.

When he grows up, he'll be his own person. He swears it.

XXX

Harry Potter meets Death the first time, officially, when he was one year and three months old. He will meet him later -- know him, be controlled by him, loved by him, confused by him -- but this is the one time he won't remember.

His parents are limp and dead by his side. He's wailing in a crib. A scar in the shape of an inguz rune stains his forehead -- bright and fresh and new... and wrong, thinks Death. Misplaced and wrong.

Death is here because death is here. The two corpses are attracting flies and attracting him. Death scoops the baby up in his arm. "What a sad sight you make," says Death, lowly. He turns toward the shadows. He's here because this scar is no ordinary scar. "Wouldn't you agree, Lucifer? Or is it God? You're starting to look quite alike, you know."

The figure laughs. It turns, toward the end, into a hoarse cough. He walks into the light until Death can see the lower half of his body. "You picked me out quick."

It is not like you were trying to be subtle. Or if you are able. "Who else would summon me? The rune is old magic."

"As old as us," they finish in a harsh whisper.

"I suppose that is why you summoned me, then?" asks Death. He rubs a finger absently along the baby's scar. He is still crying. Neither of them pay him any mind. "That old age of ours."

"My people are so obsessed with their youth they forget they themselves are aging." He chuckles. "Oh, the wrinkles come on so slowly, they're hardly noticed until they're there."

"But your problems with aging do not start nor end with wrinkles. Do they, Lord?"

He goes silent. He says, lowly, "No. They do not. I fear it is not merely beauty my people lose with time. Their good nature is, perhaps, the first to go."

"Where is this going?" asks Death. "You interrupt my job with your summoning and speak in riddles. Truthfully, not all things change with time. You're the same as you've always been.

"Oh, leave me and my riddles alone. It's not like you are any better."

Death shrugs.

The Lord sighs. He rolls his shoulders. "My people experience joint pain. Back pain. Knee pain, wrists -- another side effect of aging."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Mine," says the Lord. "And it is my fault, too, that I ache as they do. I age with the righteousness of this world. It is close to the end of its lifespan. But I cannot die as long as even one person lives."

"You come to me with a request, I see." Death grins wryly. "Are you in agony, Lord? Are you in pain? Hm? Aching like a child with a skinned knee? That's the only circumstance in which you would come to me for help. It is not like you have ever given up an opportunity to blindside me."

And it is foolish for you to assume I would not do the same.

The Lord clears his throat. "Do you not want me dead? It would benefit us both, I'd think."

Death tilts up his head. "You haven't the slightest idea what would benefit me."

"Flood the world," pleads (begs) the Lord. "You know I cannot. You know why."

"It's rude, Lord. That you boil me down to that singular function."

"What do you want? From me, what it is I can give you, show you, gift you in exchange? There is no price too high."

"I will only cause a Flood when I am sure there are no godly left. And, in return, you owe me favour," asks Death. He knows this is the only price bordering on too high. And that any deal made with the Lord will come with what it always has; a catch.

And the Lord knows that Death's only downfall is his lack of a better nature. Death's greatest enemy is himself.

Both are willing to bet on what they believe, what they know. Both are willing and both are able and so both do.

XX

The Lord, being so obsessed with his people (and the failure of them) has Death wondering what it would be like to have people of his own.

Or just one.

XXX

"Don't worry, Cedric," says Harry. He holds out a lumos on his wand. They're in a graveyard. "We'll be fine."

Cedric runs his hand over the top of a gravestone. "So the Cup was a portkey," he mutters. He laughs. "Who knew?"

Harry moves over to another grave, looking absently at the names. "I'm sorry I encouraged you to grab the Cu..." His voice dies in his throat.

"Harry?"

Tom Marvolo Riddle. (Betrayal. Voldemort. Meeting Death. GinnyGinnyGinny--) Harry says, choked and panicked, "We need to get out of here. Preferably, like, now."

But they don't get to leave that easily. Cedric does not get to leave at all.

Kill the spare, and then the spare is killed, and then Harry stands, paralyzed with fear, tied against Tom Riddle's gravestone.

Harry will want to say later that he tried to save Cedric, but the truth is he is helpless to the nearest authority figure and the nearest authority figure there was fear. Try as he might to play the hero, worthy as he is to have his name in the Cup, he's still just a boy who is not big enough to outgrow his cupboard.

Harry screws his eyes shut. They stay shut when his arm is sliced open -- a stinging pain -- and they stay shut when he hears a voice tell Wormtail to robe him.

They open when Voldemort caresses his face and says, almost a whisper, delight that's not shared in his eyes, "I can touch you now."

Harry stares, slack jawed and eyes widened and body tense. For all his years at Hogwarts, all the reckless adventuring that was never really his choice alone, he's not a Gryffindor. He has never grown into these robes and it is proven now, with a line of summoned Death Eaters. Harry thinks he might be the only person to see them presented without their masks and live to tell the tale.

That is, if he lives.

And despite everything, he doesn't want to die. He wants to live a life different than this, yes, all the time -- but death has never been on the table. He imagines Death's looming figure picking up his deflated soul, like he's done to Quirrel and Tom Riddle and...

Harry's head snaps toward Cedric Diggory on the floor. He arrives at the scene of the dead, thinks Harry. So where is he?

Harry scans the clearing -- Voldemort rambling on about power and disappointment and betrayal and Harry's sure he's not the only one fearing for their life -- and there, in his spectacular fashion, is Death at the end of the line. Voldemort hasn't noticed him. Probably because he doesn't want to be noticed.

Harry mouths, Help me, because he and Death are friends and that is what friends do. That is what Neville and Hermione do and what Death did -- before this and, evidently, only before this.

Because Death says nothing, meets his eyes, and smiles sadly.

This has to happen, Harry gets. Maybe Death has imagined this very scene a million times over. Maybe he already knows how it ends and hopes that changes.

Harry wonders if he is already dead.

Voldemort releases him from his binds. Throws him his wand -- far too arrogantly. "Duel me," he sneers. "If I win, you die. If I lose, you get to grab your little friend and return home."

Harry grimaces. His wound is bleeding -- bordering on gushing blood -- and his head is spinning and Death isn't helping. Why isn't he helping? Was the last two years of friendship worth nothing?

And Harry gets it. He gets his hypocrisy; 'I want to live life on my own terms but rely on help from others.' He understands it is not logical or sound.

And, now, he gets what Death is trying to tell him.

If you will not be helped, help yourself.

Harry pulls out his wand and mutters Avada Kedavra the same moment Voldemort does.

Their spells collide in a brilliant splash of color, but then it dissipated, like smoke sucked up a vent, and when it clears, Voldemort is dead on the floor.

Harry pants with relief, a half hysterical smile building on his face.

But then he looks to where the Death Eaters are. They are all dead where they stood. Marionettes with their strings cut.

Harry's not smiling anymore.

Death approaches him. An almost... sad expression on his face. Harry has seen Death lovestruck and silly and serious. He has never seen him sad.

Harry is overcome with the unmistakable feeling that he's done something wrong. Only problem is, he's not sure what he's done at all.

Harry gestures his still bleeding arm to the field. "What did you do, Death?" he asks softly.

Death shakes their head. "I protected you. It doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter what I did."

"You abandoned me out there," accuses Harry. He takes a step forward and barks out a laugh. "I could have died!"

"I needed to see something. To test something."

"Something more important to you than my life?"

Yes... and no. I needed to test if there was any righteous left... and, Harry, there are none; no, not one. "It doesn't matter now."

He sounds sad about it. Harry's not buying it. "Then tell me why."

"The world is ending. The world..." He shakes his head. Tears are in his eyes and Harry's anger melts to confusion, to concern. "I am ending the world. The Flood will last forever. No more forty days or forty nights. Over. So the Lord has requested."

"What are you even talking about, Death?" The Lord. A recurring character is Death's long, long life, which Harry has gotten bits and pieces of through their time together.

What Death is saying... It's a lie. It's got to be. A deflection. The world is not ending. Death would not do that to him. The Lord simply couldn't.

But...

But Death did this to him. Maybe he will do more. Maybe he is already in the motion of doing so.

"The Lord made a promise not to flood the Earth a second time. I am... a tool, of sorts, in this deal of ours. His tool."

"Are... are you being serious?"

"Yes, Harry. I'm so sorry."

"The Lord," says Harry, conflicted and confused and feasting in his small remaining bits of anger. It is ridiculous. But Harry thinks he knows by now when Death is lying, and Harry's seeing no tell tale signs, "promised that he would not flood the world again -- he said that. You said that. What are you doing?"

"That deal was made," says Death, sounding... heartbroken, oddly enough, even though he is the cause. "But I made one, too. A long, long time ago. And... this one, I cannot undo."

Harry Potter is not interested in whatever mystery Death is trying to make him bite. "If you can override one deal, then override the other. Why don't you just override the other?"

"I can't," says Death, voice breaking. "The end is coming, and I cannot stop it."

His sorrow matches Harry's rising own and it is weird how much regret one can have for actions they are currently taking. Harry ignores the tears running down his cheeks. He grabs Death by the sleeves of his robe. He accuses, "You're killing me. You hate me so you're killing me. That's why you left me up there in the graveyard."

"Oh, no, Harry, never." He swallows Harry up in his arms. Harry feels his blood smear on his cloak. "I could never hate you."

On his back, Harry feels tears. Harry returns the hug because Death is the cause of his distress... and his only source of comfort. He is still being controlled. His heart is not his own. "Then..." he says, quietly. "What are you doing?"

"What I have to," says Death, muffled and pained. "What has always been set in stone."

"... Death?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"I don't want to die. I don't want to die alone. Don't leave me while it happens. Okay?" This is how he wants to go out. He will never get to grow up, but he will get to be what he wants to be. Even for just that moment, even for just the last one.

Death goes silent. He pulls back and says, something in his voice rejuvenated, "You won't have to. You won't have to die. I have a favour -- how could I have forgotten? I have a favour. Now is the only time to turn it in."

"What do you mean?" Hope; cautious.

"I can protect you," says Death, smiling. "I can protect you -- you don't need to die. There will be... limitations, requirements, of course, I am not only owed favours; I owe them as well."

"But I'll get to live?"

"You'll get to live," says Death. He kisses Harry once on the forehead. "I love you. So you will live."

(I love you so you will live. I am the decider of your fate.)

But Harry wants to live. He is not eager to join his parents... and soon, the rest of the world. Harry will sacrifice his autonomy for his safety (like he has always done) and pretend it is what he wants (...like he has always done.)

Harry ignores the corpses at his feet. The graveyard filled with bodies not yet buried. Voldemort is dead. His Death Eaters have met Death and Harry just hopes it was not as painless as it looked. He ignores his heart telling him that Death is not his friend. Friends do not treat each other like this -- end the world and pretend you should be grateful (feel special) because you get to live.

He ignores those things, those feelings. They are dead. Harry looks to the sky, water droplets landing on his glasses. He locks his fingers in Death's and says, lightly, "It's raining."

XXX

Harry's peers seem convinced that God and the Devil A, exist and B, are separate entities. Which one Death is is up in the air and discussed both behind his back and, incredulously, to his face.

It's argued that the Lord could not flood the world, so this is the obvious work of the Devil. It is also argued that, since this bubble of Hogwarts defies the Flood, which, duh, the Lord couldn't have done, Death and his bubble must be the Lord; something divine.

Harry listens to both sides. No one talks about it with Harry, of course. Harry is... an odd case, and no one is quite sure how to deal with him. Most people resolve just to try. So Harry hears both sides not because they are discussed with him, to his face, but because he has learned to eavesdrop from the Dursleys and though he loathes them, not all skills are so easily forgotten.

Harry tells no one, says nothing... but personally, he thinks no one's got it right.

Death is not the Lord and he is not the Devil. If this is a biblical Flood, it killed them both. Death is -- in Harry's humble opinion -- both something separate and the fragmented pieces of the dead divine.

But it doesn't matter. That Harry thinks everyone has realized. It doesn't matter if Death both flooded the world and protected them or if he only did one or the other or if he did none at all -- it just doesn't. Because the terms laid are all the same. Because Harry Potter is at the center of it all the fucking same.

It doesn't matter. Rain falls. Hogwarts stands. Harry Potter's strings were never really unattached.

XXX

One weekend of his sixth year, Harry asks Death if only Hogwarts is under his protection. "You said you could protect some people with... um, the deal," says Harry. He tilts his head to the side, the fabric coming out of his hat being swept out of his eyes. "Did you just mean us?"

Death glances up from his book -- Harry can't tell the title. He suspects it is in Hebrew. "Hogwarts is the only sanctuary," says Death slowly. "The only one here and now, at any rate."

"What does that mean?"

Death shrugs, going back to reading. "It is not relevant, my dear. It won't be."

And Harry turns back to his homework, because, here, the word of Death is law. Harry Potter lives on his terms. What else is he to do?

XXX

Death, the moment the two of them arrive at Hogwarts, stares at the confused and horror-filled faces of the audience and states, very simply, "Voldemort is back. Now, he is dead, and we have much bigger problems. May I talk with Albus Dumbledore? The leader, I believe, of this fine establishment?"

People's panic does not die down at this. It is given life and reason and Harry's sure that he could have said anything else and people would have reacted better. Harry spots his friends -- worried sick, they are -- in the crowd and moves toward them. But Death grabs his arm and says, "Now, now. I need you for a moment."

"What...? But -- my friends--"

"Can wait a moment. The terms have been decided," Harry will learn later that this was decided when time was stopped... something that is scary to think that Death is capable of, "and I need to update you on them."

Albus Dumbledore, in all this glory, stands before them. Rain paints his robes. He seems not to notice. "Death," he greets, inclining his head. "And young Harry."
Harry's eyes widen. "What? How do you--"

"It's a pleasure," says Death. "But I believe there are things we have to talk about, aren't there?"

"As you've said." Albus tilts his head. "I do have one question, though, a single query."

"Shoot."

"Where is young Cedric Diggory?"

Harry grabs his arms around himself, like he can physically keep the grief (and guiltguiltguilt) from leaking out of his body. He'd begged Death to take Cedric back to the graveyard but Death said no -- and who was he to argue with the man saving his life? He was no one. No one at all.

He did not save Cedric when he was alive and did not recover him when he was dead. He is passive. Too passive.

"Oh dear," says Albus quietly. "I see."

"To your room then, old friend?"

Albus surveys the scene of chaos and feels the rain wet his face and says, "Alright."

Harry sits outside of the office for a good thirty minutes. Then an hour. He's soaking wet and hurt and is wondering if he should just go on and head to the Hospital Wing when the door opens and Death and Albus poor out. They look considerably less put together than when they went in.

Harry uses his arm to raise him up from the floor and winces. "What," he grits out, "were you guys talking about?"

Death grabs his arm in his hands. A wave of magic rushes over him and the wound comes away clean and healed. "The terms."

"You said you'd tell me them."

"You won't like them, I fear."

"Tell me," presses Harry.

And so Death does. "Your magic is to be used to replenish the bubble outside--"

"Bubble?"

"Around Hogwarts. To protect us from the rain. It is my promised Sanctuary. The result of my deal."

"So in exchange for my magic, we get safety? That was the lord's deal? That doesn't sound that bad."

Albus' expression, behind Death, goes dark.

"... Not quite just, Harry. My world, apparently, is law -- if I am disobeyed by anyone in Hogwarts, the bubble's stability will be questioned." Death sniffs. "I suspect it is an attempt to reach my... worse nature, to apply to it. So that, if my demands are too high, the Sanctuary ends itself."

"Why?"

"Hm?"

"Why would the Lord do that?" Harry backs up, glancing between the two of them. "No. Why would the Lord do any of this? Get you to end the world; agree to a Sanctuary within it; sabotage that Sanctuary? It doesn't make any sense. You know it doesn't."

"Politics are convoluted, Harry."

Harry waves his arms wildly. "Convoluted? Death, this is insane! Why did you agree to this?"

"I had to." He corrects himself: "I felt as if I had to. And now I can't undo it. You know this, Harry."

Harry looks at Dumbledore and looks at Death and knows that these people were supposed to lead him or help him or be his friend -- and now, in an attempt to escape control, he has walked right into it. Betrayal hurts the most because it comes from your friends and not your enemies.

Harry will ignore these feelings, the ones he doesn't need and is not allowed to want. This is Death's land. His word is law. Harry is in no position to disobey.

(Like he always hasn't been.)

Both he and Death take to their roles with an alarming degree of sincerity. Death, the one who implied that he would not and would never be tyrannical, is dead (no pun intended) set on proving himself wrong. For the most part, Hogwarts life continues as normal. Children go to school. Teachers teach. Those who are neither help out around the castle. Watering plants and mending clothes and training to become healers.

The rest of the world is dead or dying and they are just here, living. Life trudges on with some level of normality and the fact that they are alive and here is more than most can say.

So Death's control is minimal. So small that one could almost ignore it if you were lucky enough to pay attention. Or if you were not Harry Potter.

It starts small. Taking Harry out of class to replenish the bubble's magic is a necessity here. He talks with Death while it happens and feels, slowly, the friendship and trust they once had blossoming again. It is nice, how it starts.

Then Death starts taking him out of class not because the bubble needs his magic, but because Death just wants to hang out with him. And the teachers are not allowed to say no. Not to Death.

And that's how it starts and how it continues and even then, it is nice. Harry is content to ignore the ever changing tide of public opinion, the graveyard scene asked about time and time again and answered only with responses that never seem enough. With Death, things are easier. He is alright with Death taking him out of class.

Fine, even, when Death asks to join his class from time and time. Fine!  he'll say, he'll protest, when Death takes the place of whatever Professor he wants for the day.

But then it gets worse and weirder and he's not the first nor the last one to pick up on Death's change in attitude. It is bordering on obsession and no one else seems taken with ignoring his special treatment. They do not know how to talk with him, deal with him, with this.

Truthfully, Harry doesn't, either.

Harry eats only in Death and Harry's shared room. Their room -- ah, yes, it's shared. So is the bed. His meals are specially prepared.

His outfits...

His outfits are, too. Special frilly robes and a Muggle fairytale princess hat.

Harry will challenge nothing. That is the rule of the Hogwarts Sanctuary; you just can't.

Harry will think, though, about that worse nature the Lord mentioned. He will think (all to himself) that maybe, just maybe... he was onto something.

XXX

Harry's afraid. Afraid that his Aunt and Uncle will be proven wrong... and equally as afraid that they will be proven right. He's called to Hogwarts. Told that he is not freakish; he's magic. And isn't that better? Abnormality is commonplace in Hogwarts, in that world full of spells and potions he's been unrightfully barred from all his life. Here, he is a hero. Here, he vanquished a Dark Lord and Harry's not sure how all that happened, but he's sure he appreciates the warm reception.

The Dursleys had no idea what they were talking about. He meets Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom and decides that they were wrong about him dying alone, too.

He thinks he could grow to love them.

Throughout his first three years of Hogwarts, Harry adventures with the spirit of a champion too young to know every path he's taken is already well beaten in. He acts with his own regard and believes -- wholeheartedly -- that it stops there.

But when he unclouds his eyes, when Hermione makes one comment too many... he realizes that the ownership the Durselys had over him was not relinquished; only handed over and transferred.

The world has grasped his consciousness by its head and turns it in the right direction every now and again. He is a hero because he needs to be a hero; because every else needs him to be a hero. The Durselys wanted a villain and they got it and these people are different in the way that they switch the name around.

"It's weird," Hermione said, their first year, after Harry has killed a man (not a good or a great man; if any man at all), "that Dumbledore would show you how the very mirror that assured your victory worked. It's lucky. I'm glad."

Harry's too busy thinking over the figure he saw -- the one that appears that every time someone dies, the haunting cloaked figure; it would give him a look that even he can tell is lovestruck, kiss him on the forehead, exchange a few (if any) cryptic words before disappearing, stepping over whatever corpse lies between them -- to consider her point then. It will, however, stick, this silly idea that Dumbledore might have set something up.

Harry learns, in his second year, that betrayal is the worst because it doesn't come from your enemies, but your friends. Neville's been worried about Hermione -- "What if the Heir goes after her? And if you're not with her -- cause I'm... I couldn't take him..." -- and Harry thinks his new book friend will have some answers.

He does. And then some. And then he learns, with Hermione petrified and Neville a wreck and Ginny Weasley lying, dying on the floor, that Tom Riddle's as good a liar as he is bad a friend.

He's played right into his hands. (Into someone else's, too.)

Tom Riddle dies and Harry Potter doesn't, meaning he sees, yet again, Death hovering in the corner.

Harry asks questions. Gets answers. Doesn't understand them. He mentions Death to only Neville. He's told that Dark objects can mess with your head like that -- Neville's a born and raised Pureblood, because not all Purebloods are Malfoys, so this idea has been pounded into him since before he could walk -- but Harry's looked over and declared fine so Harry thinks it's whatever. Not a big deal. Nothing to mention again.

Harry, at this point, considers Death a friend. He begins looking at rituals, at some form of communication, and almost dies from fright when he discovers he doesn't need them.

Death appears when Harry asks him to; only when Harry is alone do they talk. He hovers -- in his own special fashion -- at times when Harry is not.

Hermione writes in her letters over the summer something worrying; something foreboding; something implies that she is suspicious and Harry should be, too. Harry's busy... but not too busy to notice that not everything she says lacks merit.

Then his fourth year -- and everything that comes along with it; the death of Voldemort; the results of Death's deal; the Flood -- happens and everyone changes. Dumbledore does not talk to him. He's given up on even trying to control him.

Previously a hero, the idol tossed around in children's stories, the boy whispered about in terms of He vanquished Voldemort, he's now an alien. He'd thought being involved in the incident that killed Voldemort a second time would double his popularity, but it seems it's outweighed by Death's arrival. (Though Harry would venture to call it a takeover.)

Most of the time, people can forget. Death is connected to the Flood and Hogwarts' bubble and Harry is connected to Death -- but sometimes, (most of the time), people can forget that latter fact. He is able to slip back into the Harry Potter they knew before; their friend; their respected idol.

But then Harry is drawn out of class to have the bubble renewed, or Death sits next to him in class, or Death takes over as a Professor for a day, and suddenly it is not so easy to forget. What is in front of your face cannot be ignored as easily.

Their hatred. His isolation. Wayward accusations that he caused the Flood, or kind ones that he caused the Sanctuary. None of them are fair. He is no God, no angel, no devil or demon. He wears a princess cone hat on his head (Death says it is a must-be because of the deal he made to preserve the Sanctuary, something that cannot be helped... but, at some point, Harry's started to doubt it), but he's not royalty, either.

But he is not in control of anything. Not what classes he takes or what profession he will grow up into or when he is even allowed in class. Not what he wears or eats or where he sleeps. And he is not in control of what people think of him.

Two people that remain unwavering in not their hatred of him, but their love are Hermione and Neville. He'd expected some drastic change in how they treat him after he arrived back from the Third Task with Death by his side and roaring rain. He'd expected it to be some big surprise when he tells them (privately; he gives no one else this fact) that he knew Death before the Flood, too. He even thought him a friend.

Neville winces at his confession. "You'd mentioned something like that, didn't you? Second year."

Harry swallows. "Yes. I did."

"I'll look into it," states Hermione.

Harry blinks at her. "What?"
"Death. What he is -- I'm not one to buy that he's actually Death," she says.

Neville rolls his eyes. "C'mon, Mione. Don't be so pompous. It's not that hard to buy."
"Magic exists, yes; alongside magical creatures, but Death? It's pure fiction"

"So that's where you draw the line?"

"Yes! And what of it!"

"It's a silly line to draw."

"You're the nonsensical one."
Harry did not expect this. This playful banter, this complete uncaring of Harry's involvement in him. Neville's regret. Hermione's dedication to do something.

Where is the abandonment? The disgust?

But then he thinks that that is an awfully unfair thing to think about someone. To assume your friends will leave you when you are given no reason to think so. And then he thinks that though the Durselys are long drowned, or will be, Harry treats them too much so like they're still alive.

He will not die alone.

Harry says, quietly, "Thank you," and their bickering stops. Hermione smiles at him, kind and gentle

"Of course, Harry."

XXX

The summer after Harry's second year, he's captivated. Behind closed eyes are snakes and teenage boys trying to kill him and (impossibly) a being that was not there at the beginning of the confrontation. In fact, it suffices to say that the being only arrived when someone died.

It is the same case as his first year, which he'd then deemed irrational. Something his mind, unable to cope at that moment with the guilt of ending another life, conjured up. A trick of the light. Just a shadow. Just the wind.

But he's abandoning that argument, that reasoning. The wind does not speak. Shadows do not kiss him on the forehead.

Before he was shipped back out to a home that does not love him, to people that consider his life a narrative, he packed his trunk with as many books as possible. On deities; on ghosts; on souls; on life. Rituals and blood magic and Dark magic -- whatever he saw in the Chamber, he wants to see again.

On his birthday, he receives some books he'd asked Mione for ("Seriously, Harry," she'd scoffed. "This is Dark magic -- it's dangerous stuff to be messing around with, and I'm in no way endorsing it." Harry has assured her -- lied -- that he was just in it for the theory.), some Muggle chocolate, sunflower seeds, and a card, hand-drawn and drawn poorly but appreciated (loved, if he is allowed to use that word) nonetheless.

The best gift he got was not Dudley's old sock or Hagrid's too-stiff toffee.

It is Death, popping into existence right in front of Harry's desk.

Harry's gapes. Then reaches -- fumbles -- for his wand, but Death laughs a low rumble.

"That won't be necessary. We've met before. Perhaps it is hard to recognize me in this light."

Harry studies his face, his outline, and his hand falls to his side before he could realize it. He gapes. "You're..." he starts, but then he realizes that he doesn't have a word for what he is.

"Death, Harry. My name is Death."

"Funny, uh..." Harry cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. "Funny name you got there."

"Says the one named Harry."

Harry exhales lightly. "What are you?"

Death shrugs.

Too vague a question. "Are you alive?"

Death hums. "In a way."

"... Why do you show up when someone dies? Are you evil? Neville implied you're probably evil."

"Hardly," chuckles Death. "I suppose the rune backfired. You aren't supposed to see me. It is interesting," he says, "that you do."

"Rune?"

"Your scar."

Harry touches his forehead absently. "So are you like... a ghost?"

"Think more along the lines of religion."

"Oh." Hermione would probably faint.

"I know you have many questions, Harry, and I'm open to answering all of them." He looks around Harry's room -- dirty and dusty; spiderwebs make themselves home in every crevasse possible... it is the room of a neglected child. For the most part, it doesn't even look like a bedroom. "But not here."

"How do I know I can trust you?" It's like Neville's said. Harry knows better.
Discovering the identity of Death has been a key interest of his. A figure that shows up upon the death of someone, kisses him sweetly on the forehead, tells him that he's a great kid...

It can't be so simple. He knows too good to be true when he sees it.

Death holds out his palm. A book appears in it. The Tales of the Beedle and the Bard. "Here," he says. "A few basic facts. You'll know the story you're looking for once you see it."

Harry takes it hesitantly. Still, "Giving me things doesn't mean I can trust you."

"I know. But it does mean you one day might. So, will you come with me? For a cuppa."

"Can't," says Harry, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm grounded."

"Since when are you so willing to obey them?"

Harry's frown deepens. Since when? Since forever.

It would be nice, though. It would be nice to take a risk (like the Gryffindor he is!) and get out of this suffocating bedroom.

But, no. Every summer, he cannot help but revert. These walls are his prison. They are also his home.

"I'm good," says Harry. He ducks his head. He's not good, sir, isn't that what he's supposed to be?

Death is gentle. He tells him, "Alright. I am here if you change your mind. Request for me again, and I will appear. I am not your enemy, Harry. I am quite the opposite."

And then he disappears, leaving Harry Potter with a book in his hands.

PART TWO

Harry is sitting with Neville Longbottom during Potions the moment that would change everything happens. They're playing a game. A fun one. Whoever can add the most random shit to Malfoy's brew without him noticing wins.

Harry remembers the scene vividly. It's a good memory. Most with his friends are.

Neville's taken his hat off his head and is wearing it. He knows Harry hates it and Neville loves it and, "Well, didn't the bloke say you only had to wear it around him? When he can see you, or whatever."

Harry had smiled weakly. "You can wear it," says Harry, reluctantly. "But if that bubble starts wobbling, it's an instant Ctrl-Z."

"Dunno what that means."

"Use context, Neville."

"Sorry, sorry."

Neville placed the hat on his head and they both sat in tense silence as they waited for any outward sign the bubble was collapsing. They collapsed in relief when there weren't any.

It is their routine. The moment Harry is out of Death's sight, they switch hats. It is a win-win.

Neville, thinks Harry, suppressing a snicker as he adds frogsweed to Mafloy's potion, which is turning a very out of the ordinary shade of green, is so full of great ideas.

I love him. I love them. My time with them is entirely within my con--

And then the door to the Potions classroom opens and Professor McGongall states blankly, "Harry Potter is in here, correct?"

Harry turned around in his seat quickly. He shares a glance with Neville and Harry's gaze darks. "That'll be a yes, Professor."

McGonagall sighs. Whatever patience (and love and adoration and something) she had for him, left over from his parents or his personality, has been abandoned. Harry fearing abandonment is not unfounded. She no longer calls him 'Mister Potter.'

She vanishes Mafloy's potion with a wave of her wand. Draco's shouted 'hey!" is ignored. "That's very dangerous, Harry Potter."

Harry shrugs, very pointedly not meeting Snape's eyes. "What did you need?" Please don't let it be--

"Death," says McGonagall. "He wants you in his tower. Twenty minutes." She eyes Nevill's hat on his head and adds, tiredly, "And put that back on."

The door closes behind her with a thunk. Harry smiles -- a hard thing -- before taking the hat off his head. He holds it out to Neville. "Here," he says, weakly. "You heard the lady."

Neville frowns and says nothing. He knows the rules. What is there to say? I'm sorry sounds so overused. Neville takes the princess hat off his head and Harry sticks it on his. All prettied up. (What does Death care if he looks ugly? Apparently, a lot.)

He leaves the classroom, throwing a peace sign over his shoulder and begins the short walk to Death's tower. Twenty minutes. It is plenty of time and then some. How kind, is thought bitterly and then abandoned.

Harry stops on the hallway connecting this Wing of the school or Gryffindor Tower. It is one of the only hallways where the walls are not completely connected. Harry leans on the ledge, looking over the grassy plains and Great Lake of the Hogwarts grounds. It is a good view. He sees the bubble protecting them move, slowly, in waves, responding to what must be miles of rainwater built up around it. If Harry listens closely, he can still hear it raining.
Harry watches the bubble. Then he narrows his eyes, pressing his glasses closer to his face, leaning his body off the railing a bit. Because what he sees is weird. A figure is walking under the water. It's walking closer and closer to the bubble. Harry has seen sea life of all sorts from this side of the bubble. Sharks and stingrays and things that look newer, evolved recently. But they all know, somehow, that the bubble is off limits, and they avoid it.

Not this time, not with whatever (whoever?) this is. They are walking closer and closer to the bubble and Harry sees hands pressed to the membrane of the bubble.

Hands.

Human hands.

Then they take one step closer and their body collapses -- and it is body, a human body -- right outside, into the Hogwarts grounds.

They're still. Harry's worried it is a corpse -- he's already seen enough of those for a lifetime and a half, thank you very much -- but then it shifts, sitting up groggily. It is a boy. A young boy. Five? Six or seven, max. He runs a hand through his hair -- something about the gesture giving Harry deja vu; he runs a hand through his own hair, almost in response -- and then he pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

He sniffs. Then his gaze wanders and wanders and it... It lands right, lands right on Harry. Harry blinks, staring.

The boy stares right back.

And Harry... he knows this face. His lungs are not moving and his face is slack and he knows this face.

Harry's running. Taking steps two, three, at a time down the stairs and stumbling at times before running faster and faster and by the time he makes it to the edge of the bubble, he is full on sprinting. He's lost his hat somewhere. Just this once, he cannot bring himself to care.

Harry stops six or so feet away from the boy, who is still just staring, a curious expression on his face. Harry catches his breath in harsh pants. He does not break eye contact.

He knows this face.

Because it's Harry's face.

XXX

Harry paces in the infirmary. The younger Harry sits with a blanket around his shoulders, a cup of hot chocolate warming his fingers, head following Harry.

Pomfrey is checking him over for any injuries. Death lies on the bed, watching Harry's anxiety with a mild expression on his face.

The younger Harry is exactly as Harry remembers himself when he was younger -- minus the scar, which does not match. This Harry's is a more Yr rune than anything.

"What do you mean he's me?" repeats Harry to himself, for what must be the millionth time. "I'm me!"

"Yes, dear," says Death. "But so is he."

"That doesn't make any sense."

Death shrugs. "Politics, you know. Convoluted."

Harry stops in his tracks. "Like this has anything to do with your Lordship politics."

"I've my theories."

"You're saying he's... what? A version of me, time traveled to our time?"

"That is one of them."

Harry groans. He collapses onto the chair beside the little Harry's. He looks at him and the little boy looks back. "It's uncanny," he mutters.

"I'm not an it, sir; I'm a he."

"I wasn't referring to you." Harry frowns. It is the first time he's spoken. His voice, too, has that young tinge of fear in it. Harry was not a happy child. If this child is him, chances are he isn't, either. "And don't call me sir. Don't call... call anyone here sir, okay?"

"What do I call you, then?"

"Harry," says Harry firmly. "Just Harry."

He nods slowly, then takes a sip of his coca.

"Well," asks Death. "Do you want to keep him?"

"Death!"

"What? It is a reasonable question."

Harry reminds himself to have patience -- he is required to be patient. "I understand," he grits out, "your perspective, but he's me. A version of me. I don't think it's appropriate to refer to him as if... as if he's some sort of pet or toy. We aren't keeping him; he's just staying."
Death raises his arms above his head, stretching. "Why not, I suppose," he says, mostly to himself. "I do want to see where he is going with this."

"...Who's going with what?" He furrowed his brows, looking at Harry and then at Death. "Do you mean Harry?"

Death rises from the bed, straightening his robes. "Don't worry about it, love. Have fun with your new son." He turns toward the door, and stops last second. "Oh, and with all the excitement, I'm sure you've forgotten. Come visit me in, let's say, fifteen minutes, will you?"

Harry says, obediently, "Okay, Death," and the Harry beside him eyes him oddly.

"Is he like them?" is asked quietly.

"Like who?"

"The Durselys."

Harry freezes and turns away quickly. "Erm," he says. No." He wasn't always. He used to not be. We were friends and that was good... but I guess power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

But it doesn't matter. I am sorry it doens matter.

XXX

This new Harry -- the one they've taken to calling Harrison, for clarification's sake -- trials Harry like a puppy. He wears the blanket Pomfrey gave him tightly around himself at all times. He is silent most of the time, taking the world in with an innocent and new expression. When he is not silent, he is asking questions.

"Why does that float?'

"Because it's magic."

"Magic's real?"

"Mhm."

"Am I magic, Harry?"

"... Yes, Harrison. You're magic. You're a wizard."

"But don't I have to be normal?"

"You are, Harrison. You are."

Neville and Hermione are particularly fond of the little guy. Hermione does not like children, as a rule -- too much mess, she says, and not enough sense -- but she has her moments.

Neville lets Harrison sit on his shoulders whenever he asks. He spins him around and feeds him grapes and sandwiches.

He will be the dad Harry never got to have. It is odd. But not bad.

The certainty of what happened is up in the air. Harrison does not speak much about the time between the Durselys and the time he arrived at Hogwarts -- and there is a gap, one or two months, give or take -- and Harry does not pressure him.

He knows this kid. He is this kid. And he knows he was never treated with care and knows this kid deserves it.

Harrison wraps his arms around Harry's waist one hand and whispers, into this shirt, that he's so much happier here. Hogwarts is his home.

Harry hugs him back. "I know," he says. He wants to say It's mine, too.

But it's not. It has not been for a long, long while. He doesn't say that, though. Harrison will have this because Harrison deserves this.

XXX

Albus Dumbledore calls him into his office one day. He wants to discuss Harrison's settling in, and when asked, Death doesn't reject the proposition, so off Harry goes.

Harry takes his seat, feeling out of place. This place looks and smells almost exactly the same. "It's been a few years," says Harry. "Hasn't it? Since I've been in here."

"Yes," says Dumbledore, looking at him over the top of his spectacles. "It has been a while, I suppose."

Three years, right? Since the Flood. Since you gave up on using me because what you were using me against just flat out fucking died.

I wonder what you have been doing ever since. Every old man finds his true purpose when without a simple one, don't they? What did you find, Dumbledore?
"You wanted to talk about Harrison?"

"Ah, yes, the youngin," says Dumbeldore, some real delight there. "I heard he's thrilled to be here, is that right?"

"Overjoyed," says Harry, "sir."

"Yes, yes, what a delight... With that rune on his head, I'd expected the worst, but... It seems he fits in very well here, yes, indeed."

Harry's not biting into this mystery, either. He doesn't care. "I have a question, sir. Since we're here." Since you've been intent on avoiding me. Since I am no longer useful.

"Of course, my boy. What is it?'

"How do you know him?" asks Harry. "Death."

"He is the overseer of all things in Hogwarts--"

"Not from here. Not from now. You knew him before. Like I did."

"Like you did?"

"Like I did. Before my fourth year. You knew him then, too, didn't you? You called him by his name."

Dumbledore hums, setting his shin on his interlocked fingers. "It's a rough story, my boy."

"I'd like to hear it."

"I was once religious. Me and... a childhood friend of mine. I do not know what made him special, but in our sixth year, the Lord contacted him."

"The Lord?" Harry's not even seen the Lord. He knows him only from stories. And now, he will know him from one more.

"He offered him a deal. Said that, soon, he might be in contact with Death. Provided a photo and everything. And said that there are many factors at play that just need a little push.

"When he does meet, however briefly, Death later. He asks what it is the Lord wants him to do and Death knows, of course, what it is the Lord wants because he has been wanting it for some time. He rejects it. He never sees either of them again."

"What," Harry asks, feeling as if he has cotton mouth, "was the deal, sir?"

"A favour," says Dumbledore darkly, "if he can push Death to Flood the earth."

"Did you assume I made that deal, sir?"

"I'm not sure what I assume now, my boy."

"I'm sure, sir," says Harry. "I'm sure of what you assume."

He thinks that after all these years, Harry did not change and Dumbledore did not. Death is the exception. He is not looking to make himself the rule.

But Dumbledore must know it doesn't matter if Harry made the deal or if someone else did or if it just happened -- it's over. It's said and done and no amount of avoiding Harry's presence can or will change that.

Dumbledore must know... and he's pretending he doesn't. Rarely, thinks Harry, are adults ever fair in their expectations of him.

XXX

Death calls Harry to their room. It is normal. What is not normal is that Harry is with Harrison and Death won't allow him to call someone else in to take Harrison out. "I am not leaving him unaccompanied," Harry'd protested.

"Then leave him here."

"What...? While you..?" Harry shakes his head. "That's--"

"Fine, then. He will be left here."

Harry's jaw clicks shut. He knows better than to voice his protests. "Harrison," he calls out, sounding softer and calmer than anything resembling what he feels. "Harrison, buddy. Will you look at the wall for me?"

Harrison blinks at him. Harrison does not look at the wall.

It is commonplace, what happens. He's dressed him up so he can dress him down and Harry tells no one of this part of his life, but it happens.

It is worse this time because Harrison did not listen to him. He soaks it up with eyes blank and almost unblinking.

He is a child. He has lived too many lives of violence and now, he's living through this, too.

Harry wears pretty robes and pretty hats and eats so his body will look pretty... but Harry has never felt more ugly.

After it is over -- and it felt like it would never be over... like it would go and on and never end -- Harry lies on the bed, limbs sprawled, robe loose. Death has left -- duties to attend to, he'd said -- and now it is just Harry and Harrison in this pretty room and pretty chair and pretty chair. "I don't get it," says Harrison softly.

"Hm?"

"Why didn't you say no?"
What an awful question. But he is a child who does not know better so far just looks to the side and sits up on the be. "I couldn't, Harrison."

"Why not?"

"You know what happens when anyone tells Death no." Harry shrugs. "Things happen. The Sanctuary comes crashing down."

"How do you know he's not lying?"

He was my friend. He is still something. I trusted him once. I just still sort of do now. "He's not, Harrison. I'm... sorry that you had to see it."

Harrison frowns. "What about our dream?"

"What now?'

"What we wanted to be when we grew up. Don't you remember?"

"Of course, I remember," Harry says harshly.

"To be our own person."

"I can't afford to do that, Harrison. You wouldn't understand."

"But that's -- that's what we've... always wanted wasn't it?"

Harry takes a deep breath, breathing slowly. "It," he says, "doesn't matter what we want, Harrison. We are passive or we are punished. We are complacent or everyone dies. It... it's not ideal. But it's all we got, if we want to live."

"Well," says Harrison, "what about that last part, then? The wanting to live. If that's all we got... we've at least got it."

Harry thinks about what he says and then decides that though he agreed to this to keep living, this is not life. Hogwarts is a purgatory.

Harry grabs his hand and asks the impossible from him. Perhaps it was wrong to ask -- wrong and cruel and inhumane -- but they both know that Harry Potter should have died the moment Voldemort tried to kill him. It is time to undo what was decidedly set in stone but never should have happened anyway.

Harry stops by the Great Hall before he leaves. Hermione and Neville are eating lunch. They light up when they see him -- him and Harrison. What did he do to deserve such loyalty? Such love? What an airhead is he, to have ever have doubted them.

But now it is the time and it is the end and it was wrong of them not to doubt him.

It's alright, though. It doesn't matter. It's quite convoluted, quite political, quite irrelevant.

He tells them he loves them -- that strong, infectious word. The Dursleys told him he was unlovable. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps that doesn't matter, either; he's loved regardless.

Harry's got to go, though, he tells them. It is not a lie. Snape wants to see him for detention.

Neville shouts, "Kick his ass if he gives you trouble, Harry."

Hermione bristles. "Neville!" she hisses.

"What? I'm not strong enough to. Someone's gotta -- that bitch has it coming.."

Harry smiles fondly. This is a good moment, a good memory that will be cherished even if it will not be cherished for long. Even if the circumstances are not ideal.

He tells them, a second time, that he loves them. Harrison squeezes his hand once and tells them that he'd have liked to one day. To love them.

They leave the Great Hall with a trial of lies. Harry does not even consider going to Death. There is no closure to be had there. He will do this on his own terms. They do not include Death.

Harrison asks if they can take off their shoes before they go. Harry says sure. The grass is nice against their toes as they take slow, careful steps to the edge of the bubble, to the edge of the Sanctuary that is a home for Harrison and prison for Harry. Though neither of those things matter. It's coming down. Home or not. Prison or not.

Filled with friends and enemies alike or not.

Harry stands in front of the bubble, one hand locked with Harrison's, the other pressed to the bubble itself. It is sticky against his skin. Harrison's pose is the same.

Harry releases a long, deep breath. The scent of grass fills his nose.

He will die.

He will not die alone

He will die on his own terms.

It is the best thing he could've asked for.

With one last glance at the boy beside him, separated by over two feet of height, and one last thought toward what he could've become, Harry takes one step forward.