Harry Potter, Headmaster of Hogwarts, gets over Death in waves. Sometimes he thinks he will never get over him, and it, and what happened -- and it aches, all over again. It aches like the first day they were no longer friends and the first day they were no longer lovers.

And when it hurts like he's made no progress at all, he tells Professor McGonagall to take over for the evening and retires to his study. He reads a book he already knows is good. He makes tea with too much milk and an embarrassing amount of sugar and he wraps a blanket around himself while sitting by the fireplace. Allows himself to reminisce about all the good times they shared together, ignoring all the bad, and when he thinks sadly he wants to go back to that, he scolds himself like a kind mother does to a child.

No, Harry. We don't do that anymore. Sometimes we want things we shouldn't have. You've already touched the stovetop. You know very well by now it burns.

Sometimes he cries because sometimes he needs to and that's alright. That's part of getting over it; getting under it, caught up in the motions, the ebb and flow of emotions and memories beyond your control.

In the morning, he puts the book back on the shelf and puts out the still burning embers of the fire. He takes his time sewing together his fragile heart with bitter threads of sanity. He dresses slowly and carefully and resumes his duties as Headmaster. He will feel terrible for a while. He will feel bad for a few days. And when he experiences joy again outside of Death and memories of them, he will be reminded that that's what life is now. Joyful. Joyful and full of life and no affiliation with Death, with magic.

And when he reads over paperwork of the new Mathematics Professor he'll think Death dotted his 'i's like that, and Death was the one that got me this position, he'll be able to just. Keep reading.

He goes days without thinking about him. Sometimes weeks, sometimes months. It is easier to do so some days than others.

Harry Potter gets over Death in waves... but he is getting over him.

.XOX.

At one point or another, every child has watched cartoons on the telly or woke from a vivid dream and thought that their world was not their own. Displacement. I cannot fly. I should be able to. Why am I not able to? And the world grabs hope by the throat and says There is no such thing as magic. Move on. Move forward.

The displaced learn. They become placed. Children grow and dream still but recognize that these dreams are only that. There is no world behind their eyes that they could belong to instead.

Harry Potter pretended he did that. He is all grown up. He is an adult. He knows fire bending is fiction and shapeshifting is silly. Silly and make believe.

There is no such thing as magic. He has moved on. Moved forward.

But though his hope has been grabbed by the throat, it has not been strangled. It lives on and Harry holds it close to his chest; hides it. What cannot be found cannot be killed.

He loves the world as it is. Of course he does. There is a lot to love. But there could be a lot more, also, and the idea is not one he will let be squandered.

Death takes his hopes and gives it irony. Gives it life.

He meets him while it is raining. Harry stands, umbrella in one hand and coffee in the other. Death is a broad shouldered man with short, tousled hair and no umbrella. He is not wet.

Harry almost does not take a second glance but he does, and it is a decision that turns out to be more than a glance.

"You're not wet," notes Harry. He tries to keep his voice even. He keeps his lips in a thin line to keep from smiling. His hope is not drowning but breaking water; and air is beautiful, isn't it?

Death looks himself up and down, seemingly surprised himself by the notion. "Huh," he says. "Apparently not."

"You should be soaked." He should. He should be dripping, cursing Zues, but he's not. He's dry. He is dry and he shouldn't be and that is weird. (Odd. Mystical. Dare he say it, magical.)

"Eh. Never been too taken with rain."

"Nor have I."

"Is that so?"

"Can you..." He has been preparing, dreaming of a moment like this all his life. Ask the genie for a wish. Ask a wizard for an amulet. Ask for magic and you shall receive. He has held on for so long and now, it is finally time for him to let go. And still, the words try to stick themselves in his throat.

He does not let them. "Can you do that to me, too?"

"Hm," considers Death. "I don't know. What do I get in return?"

Good question. And easily answered. Harry holds out his cup. "My coffee. It's good. My usual."

"Your favorite?"

"No," says Harry, pushing out the nervousness in his voice. "It is not my favorite."

"But it is your usual?"

"It is."

"Good enough for me." Death swipes the cup from him. He starts walking across the street.

"Hey -- wait," Harry calls, stumbling after them, pulling himself back on the sidewalk to avoid an oncoming car. "You didn't do anything -- hey!"

Death glances back, standing in the middle of the street. "I did. And more. Keep looking. You'll find what you're looking for, Harry Potter."

"What I'm looking for? -- wait, how did you know my na--" A car speeds forward, in the very lane death stands and he doesn't move. He stands there, eyes still fixed on Harry, coffee still in hand. "Move!"

He doesn't and --

And when the car passes, he stands there still, unscathed.

"Uh," says Harry, faintly. His umbrella has dropped to hsi side but even so he is not wet. Dry.

Death spreads his hands out in front of him. Look at that. Look at what I can do. Look at what I have to offer. "Will you keep looking?"

For what? he wants to ask. He thinks it a fair question. Although unnecessary. The answer is blatant: What he has been looking for his whole life. "I will," says Harry, voice stronger this time. "Will I find you?"

"Amidst other things," he says before disappearing into a puff of smoke, being toppled in the rain.

.XOX.

His hope is alive. He buys another coffee (not his favorite but his usual, good enough for Death and him) and drinks it with a skip in his step and a smile that breaks through his defenses effortlessly when he tries to hide it. Magic is real. Magic is real -- and he almost wants to brag. Take that! I was RIGHT!

Part of him greedily wishes for the ability to fly, to make fire appear between his fingers. He wants magic not only to be real but to be his. And for that, he chastises himself.

He will take what he is given. He will watch, even from afar, and that will be enough. More than enough.

And when magic reveals itself to him, nestled among the world he knows, like it always has been, only now Harry is permitted to see it, he is just that: Adudant in satisfaction.

In the night sky, there are twinkling dots apart from stars. They stretch and write messages -- sometimes not in language and often coded, but Harry had no want to read what one wishes to keep hidden. The ones that are free to see are kind, and telling, enough as is.

Luv u Katie c:

To Jurmu in Mexico: Wishing you well! Happy 21st!-- The Boys

Fuck Putin

To Hal S.: When I am free to choose, I will choose you. I can choose nothing else. My heart is a prison I do not want to escape.

Maybe a dozen messages at a time, forming and unforming, making new ones or repeating old ones, appearing in the sky.

They're letters. Magic letters! In the magic sky! Seen by all the world, sent by those everywhere. The sky is now more than a pretty picture; it is a caricature of love, hate, and emotions spread and shared.

It leaves him breathless for hours, laying in the grass. And among the grass, among the trees, too, he can hear, there are figures, lightweight and see-through, waltzing throughout the meadow. There are giants, barely seen, maybe a mile away, and there are people as small as his thumb.

Just when he thinks that that is the end of it, all messages clear from the sky and reform as only one:

Welcome home, Harry Potter. - Death.

Harry grins so hard it hurts his cheeks. He has a name for a face now. Death. How ironic. "Thank you, Death, he says, softly, even as he is unsure if he is being heard. "I am glad to be here."

I belong here.

.XOX.

The other members of the magical world are not as welcoming as Death. He walks into a store (where previously there was only a blank corner on the block there is now a two story building covered in bats) and stands at one of the shelves, reading over the titles next to an old man with snakes for fingernails.

He doesn't know how to pronounce half of the words, let alone what they mean. It is inconvenient that Death introduced him to the wizarding world so late. But he is glad to be here at all, so he taps the old man on the shoulder and asks how to pronounce "Ksoliv."

"Salvador," says the old man. He rolls his eyes and his tone is condescending and although Harry thinks it a bit rude, he supposes it can't be helped. "Kindergarten stuff, kid."

"Sorry," says Harry, opening up the book and flipping through the pages. "And thanks."

The old man looks him up and down with narrowed eyes. "You're new to here, aren't you?"

In more ways than you know. "A bit," says Harry, setting the book back on the shelf.

"And you don't look magical."

Harry's eyes light up. "There's a magical look?"

The old man pauses and frowns. "What's," he says, slowly, "your name, kid?"

"Harry," he says, brightly. "Harry Potter."

He stares at him. Then yells, spittle flying, "Then what are you doing here?! Get out! Get!"

Harry backs up, smile wavering, "Uh, sir, I'm not--"

"No! You're an embarrassment to the state, you hear? Get! Get out!"

Harry chuckles, confused, and says, "Okay!" Because what is he supposed to say to that? He knows where he is not welcome. Besides, there are hundreds of other magical locations, hundreds of other magicians.

But as he meets more and more he starts to notice a pattern: the old man is not an outlier. The second they hear his name, they stare at him like he is a wild dog rather than a stranger. Some ask if he is sure and if he is, they either leave or ask him to.

He wonders a couple of things. Why do these people know him, know his name? And why do people fucking hate him?

The answer to the first hits him when he watches the stars and their messages again: Death's letter. Everyone watching the sky at that time had seen it. His presence was all but announced.

But nothing else was. They know his name, and that's it.

...

They know his name... and that's not it. They know his name because Death gave it.

Is that it? Is it Death? Maybe. He will never know unless he asks.

That poses a different predicament altogether. Though he loves this world already, and is sure he belongs to it, it is still forgien to him. People hating his guts upon hearing his name is not helping.

So Harry tries something different: Giving a different name. It's rather telling how he hadn't thought of this until now, but Harry Potter's intelligence (or lack thereof) has never bothered him before. It has no reason to start now.

In the coffee shop three blocks from his house, filled with girls with purple skin and boys with third eyes and non binary bitches with seven arms, Harry grabs his order and asks a group of three if he can sit with them. "Sorry," he says. "I'm kinda new around here -- and it honestly sucks to sit alone, you know?"

"Can we be sure you're cool?" asks one of the guys. He has a deep and hoarse voice and is drinking a hot chocolate.

"Uh -- yes! I think?"

The girl laughs and leans back in her seat. "He seems cool. Take a seat, kid." She has hair that keeps changing color and no pupil or iris. She gestures to the empty seat and sticks out her hand once Harry's sat. "I'm Evelynn Pansy. That's--" she points with her thumb to the bald guy with eighteen eyes who asked if he was cool, "Sherlock Kyiv. And the loser here," a man with no skin, "is Falco Smith."

"Nice to meet you all," squeaks Harry, taking her hand and shaking it.

"And you are?" asks Falco Skinless.

"Ha -- Harold Johnson," says Harry.

"So you new to town?"

"To a lot of things," says Harry. "I was raised isolated from the magic world. So. I guess I don't know much about it."

Sherlock huffs. "Define much."

"To start," says Harry, scratching the side of his cheek, "I'd like to know how to write a letter."

"There's this thing called parchment and this even COOLER thing called a quill--"

"No," laughs Harry. "A magical letter." He pauses. "The kind that show up in the sky at night."

"Wow," says the girl. "You really don't know shit."

"It's not like I mean to--"

"It's fine," she says, waving her hand. "It's not a big deal. The 'magical letter' system is called the Valentino Trackstart. The President started it up who knows how long ago for love letters," and doesn't that sound sweet? Romantic? For a person's love for you to be painted across the nighttime sky, "and since then, it's been up for public use."

"What's it cost?" asks Harry.

"Depends. The longer you want your message to appear, the more it costs. There's also the option to keep it up until the intended recipient sees it, but this one can get really expensive. You head down to the post office -- on Maine Street -- exchange money for ink, write your message, and turn it in to them. Got that?"

"Mostly," says Harry. He hopes this is not too revealing of a question to ask but he has no choice but to ask it anyway. "Do they use pounds? Or is there... something else? That I'm supposed to use?" He'd been using regular British currency to purchase what he wants -- even at magical establishments -- but he's get to get in contact with anything involving the government.

Evelynn blinks at him, then frowns. She glances to Sherlock, who shrugs. "You have a... 'magical currency' account that you'll use."

"I haven't set one up."

"It is the cost of living. Trust me," she says. "You have one."

.XOX.

Two days later, he trusts her enough (and that's to say, not a lot) to head to the post office. He tries not to let his hopes escape his wits. He could very well get kicked out. He recalls other's reactions to his name and winces.

He can't give a fake name if he wants to get into his real account -- if he has one at all.

"Name?" asks the man behind the counter. He has no eyes and yet seems to see alright.

He swallows. There is still time to go back. But he wants to talk to Death, and this is the only way he knows how. "Harry Potter."

There is a twitch on their face and their tone is tighter when they speak again. Still, they do not insult him, or ask him to leave. It is good enough. Harry appreciates the money incentive.

He taps the screen in front of him. Harry tenses, expecting an error or a question. Nothing happens. "Duration of le--"

"Wait--" says Harry. The man stares at him expectantly. "I have an account?"

He does not answer that and Harry is given the impression that it was a stupid question. The man takes it as a different question altogether: "You are not close to bankrupt. If that is what you meant."

Harry feels dazed. "I'm not?"

"No, sir," he says, blankly. "You are far from it."

"Oh," says Harry. "Okay."

"Now, what would you like the duration of your letter to be?"

"Until he sees it."

Another tap on the screen. "To whom will it be sent?"

"His name is Death," says Harry. "I don't know his last name. Sorry."

He looks at Harry like he is crazy. When he sees Harry is not joking, he sighs. "To Death it is then."

Harry is handed a piece of parchment and a vial of golden ink. "Write your message with that and it'll show up tonight," he is told.

Harry doesn't know what to write. Hey, Death, why do people hate me? Hey, Death, I've missed you?

It sounds stupid. So Harry keeps it short and simple and vague to anyone unaware of the circumstances: D, Meet me where we met. 8AM, Friday. Thanks, HP.

.XOX.

Friday afternoon, Harry stands at the coroner with a cup of coffee in hand. It is 8am. He checks his watch continually, worried that his warm welcome by Death was more of abandonment.

He would be okay with that. If it was. He will love this world, his favorite world, regardless of Death's attributions. But it would be nice. To have a friend.

He is greedy that way. Things could always be nicer.

"You're stuck in your head." Harry jumps and swivels toward the voice, relaxing when he sees who it is.

"Death," says Harry, laughing. "You scared me."

Death shrugs. "Can I have your coffee?"

Harry rolls his eyes but hands him the coffee anyway. With all he was given, it is the least he could do in return. "I'm thinking," says Harry as Death starts chugging the coffee.

Death wipes his lips with the back of his hand, "I've noted," says Death.

"I have some questions."

"Ask them, then."

"Why does everybody hate me?" And then, as an afterthought: "Why does everybody hate you?" Because they must. Because they were given two bits of information: that Harry Potter has been "welcomed" into their home and that it was Death who did so.

It is not a lot of information to go off of, as far as Harry knows. But that's the thing. Harry doesn't know -- he doesn't know anything.

Death needs to tell him.

So Death does.

"I work with a very powerful man," says Death.

"The President?"

"Yes. I work with the President and the work we do is largely underappreciated. People do not like him and so they do not like me."

"That powerful man," says Harry. "Is your connection to him the reason why you were able to give me this? This world?" This thing I have been looking for for so long?

"Yes," says Death. "People do not recognize you -- and there is no common knowledge about your whereabouts from the Muggle -- non-magical -- world, but there is speculation in plenty."

Harry is hesitant to complain. Because he has nothing to complain about, really. He is in the world he belongs to now, where he has longed for as a child. Here, there is nothing to hide, to lie about, to disguise. Nothing except his name and that, that he can live with.

So Harry does not really want to complain. What he has now is nice enough and it is ungrateful to wish it nicer.

He tries, "Did you know there would be this strong of a reaction?" Did you knowingly send me into a world that would hate me?

"I did," says Death. "We did. People are naturally resistant to change. This does not change whether or not the bigtime is sky is only filled with stars or not. For not properly warning you, I am sorry. For making matters worse, I am sorry."

"It's alright," says Harry.

"It is not. Let me make it up to you," asks Death, grabbing Harry's hand with his own with his free hand. "Tell me, Harry. What do you want?"

Harry swallows. He wants to want nothing. But he wants something and it is complicated yet simple. "A friend. I'd like a friend." It comes out more of a question than a statement.

Death places a hand on his cheek, cradling his face with a fond smile. "A friend," says Death. "I can do that."

.XOX.

He slips into a routine fairly easily. He will drink coffee with Evelynn, Sherlock, and Falco. He will spend his afternoons with Death, who is content to show him the wonders of the world. The ghost opera. The floating city. His days are filled with adventure and when his days are over, he lies in bed and watches the stars for a message from Death. He always receives one. Sometimes two.

Evelynn asked him once about his magical property -- what, apparently, is known as the magical 'look' and Harry had panicked and said, "An eleventh toe."

"Unfair," said Falco.

Harry, still panicking that he was almost caught in a lie, said, very intelligently, "Uh?"

"Just an extra toe -- some humans have that, you know. It's like you're almost normal."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Almost. But -- I don't get it. Why would you want to be Muggle?"

"There is a cost of living magical," says Falco. "I guess I'd rather not pay."

People mention that a lot. "The cost of living magical." They seem sad about it. Falco seems the most unhappy with it.

Harry does not get it. He doesn't know what this price is, either, so maybe that's it. But he loves it here. Would love it if his skin glowed or if he had an extra arm or two. Why would anyone want the boring, fruitless life he was living before? If one of them asked, Harry would trade.

It is not just the price that likes to remain unspoken. People say the President this and the President that -- but no one likes to say the name. The concept of a President who does not like attention, being known, is forgein, and also, frankly, impossible, so Harry thinks it's something other than that.

Harry thinks it is an inside joke that everyone but him is in on. It is another consequence of not being raised here. Everyone knows this name but, adamantly, constantly, refuses to say it.

Evelynn is kind (kind enough) and tells him that, "It's a power trip thing. His name's not a right but a privilege. You say it... and you regret it. That's his policy."

"That's fucked," comments Harry.

"No shit."

Sherlock is selfishly honest. "I'll tell you," he says, "when your gratifaction outweighs the punishment."

And that, Harry thinks, is fair. He gets that. He wants no one to suffer because of him so even though the mysteries of the world pester him still, he stops asking.

He has moved on. Move forward.

He stops ordering his 'usual' coffee and starts ordering his favorite daily. It is more expensive, by almost three times, but his gratification, so to say, outweighs the punishment.

.XOX.

When Harry was a child, he stared at cartoons of superheroes. Men flying and shooting lasers from their eyes and women with healing hands. It is beautiful. It is fiction. Harry stared sometimes and when he wasn't staring, he lived to the best of his ability.

When the magical are children, they are sent, at the age of eleven to a boarding school called Hogwarts Academy. The official and full title changes on who you ask: Hogwarts Academy of Magicians & Magic or Hogwarts Academy for the Academically Prestigious.

During the day, non-magical staff, unaware of the magical, of magic, flood the school. They teach children math and science and english -- the same subjects Harry learned. It is a good school for Muggles during the day.

During the night, it is an even greater school for magicians, who the Muggle cannot even see.

Death takes him there one evening. Their arms hooked through one another, Harry wanders the halls, smiley brightly and waving to the kids. Most look at Death and do not wave back, but some do.

"Do all children from this world go here?" asks Harry as they enter the Great Hall.

"No," answers Death. "There are many schools like this -- though none exactly so."

"What do you mean?"

"This school is special. There is a careful balancing act here. Some find it unsafe. Others, a disaster in waiting."

"What about you?"

"Oh, Harry," Death coos. "It is my invention. It is proof of my abundance of magic, of future satisfaction. There will soon be one of these in every nation everywhere. And I want you, Harry, to be a part of it."

Harry tries to make sense of death's words and fails. It is like code, like the inside joke everyone else knows. It is something he just won't ever get. And he is okay with that. "Be a part of it how?"

Death stops them in front of the staff table. "I have pulled some strings. I offer you the position of Headmaster; of giving people the childhood you wished you had. Night or day, but you can switch this as will."

"Oh," says Harry. "Oh my god -- are you serious? Are you for real?"

"I am as real as the sun is bright."

"I'll take the night," says Harry. "Thank.. Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Harry," Death grins. "That is what friends are for -- what I am."

And then Harry realizes that he is in love.

.XOX.

Harry is buying a book on Juggalos when a man with camera lenses for eyes approaches him. "Harry Potter! I'm Nicolas Shawnee, journalist of Madison Times -- a pleasure to meet you in person -- and I was wondering if you have some time to spare?" Harry opens his mouth and Nicolas rushes on: "Great! Do you have any comments on the integration of the Muggle and magic? You're the first ever the President chose to expose and the public is wondering wha--"

"Sorry," says Harry. "I'm a bit lost." I have no idea what you're talking about. "What integration?"

"The President is making plans to give Muggles a chance to exchange their inherit magical currency for magic. And you're kind of the poster boy -- or you will be. Once this airs on Monday." He holds out a photo. "This is the photo they've decided on. Cool, isn't it? What do you think? Any comments?"

It is Harry, the first night he watched the Valentino Trackstart. His eyes are lidded and words echo from the pages, said to who Harry had thought was to be no one. I am glad to be here.

That alone is disquieting. But it is good also. He is given the reason why Death gave him access to magic in the first place; as the President's experiment. As a promotion. As a soon to be poster child.

"Comments," says Harry. "Comments... well, I guess... I guess I would like to say thank you. To the President and his administration."

Nicolas scribbles down his words. "Thank you, thank you, yes, yes -- anything else?"

"Integration is salvation," says Harry and as soon as the words leave his mouth he knows they are the truth. "It was for me."

.XOX.

Monday. That is how long it is until the article airs and his name and face are plastered everywhere, saying I AM HARRY POTTER. INTEGRATION IS SALVATION. It will also say I AM A LIAR.

He has not yet told his friends that he is not Harold. He never planned to. But now the truth is being squeezed out of him because if he does not fess up himself, then something else will. He will come clean on his own terms.

"I've got something really important to tell you guys." His fingers grip tightly to the sides of his cup. He reminds himself to breathe.

"Spill it, kid," says Evelynn.

"What's got you all knotted up?" laughs Falco. "You look like you killed a man."

Harry sticks out his tongue, laughing nervously. "No, no. I'm not... Sorry. I mean, I'm sorry. I'm not Harold. That's not my real name. So yeah. I'm sorry. I'm Ha--"

"Harry Potter," finishes Falco.

Harry blinks. "Wait. What?"

Evelynn relaxes. "What's it? Shit, kid, you had me worried there for a second."

"I'm still confused as to why you're not worried still now."

"We knew," says Sherlock.

"For, like, months now," says Evelynn.

"I am literally so lost right now," admits Harry.

Evelynn laughs. "I'm sorry, just -- who's magical look is an eleventh toe? You're a shite liar."

"Oh," says Harry, folding in on himself. "Sorry."

"Nah," says Evelynn. "Don't be. It's not a bad thing."

Harry smiles to himself. "Okay."

.XOX.

"If it isn't the face of integration." Harry buries his head in his arms groaning.

"Stop. You're embarrassing me."

"Integration is salvation," Death quotes, sing-songy.

"I know it was a bit much--"

"No," smiles Death, he kisses Harry's forehead. "It's perfect. The President and I are hard at work at getting the public to accept such a big change. You're been a great help. I promise."

Harry raises his head and grins at the reassurance. "I'm glad to be of service." It is the least I can do to pay you back. You have given so much. It is time I give a little, too. "But there was one thing I was wondering. A question I had."

"Then," says Death, "ask it."

"I was given access to magic to encourage the idea that other Muggles should also be. Right?"

"Along those lines, yes."

"Yes. Along those lines. I get that. I wonder, though.'." Harry says, "why me?"

"What do you mean?"

"There are six and half billion Muggles. So why was I chosen? Why did you reveal yourself to me? Me, in particular?"

"I am like you, Harry," says Death. "I did not let doubt choke my hope. I wanted to see if resilience would pay off for both of us. And," he adds, "I did want a friend."

And that answer is good enough for him.

.XOX.

Death takes his hand. "I want to show you something."

"Thne," says Harry, "show me."

Death sits on the bench and pats the seat next to him. Harry keeps staring at him. Death smiles, shaking his head. "Eyes up there, silly."

Harry turns to the sky. The lights, as always, are spread about, spelling out words and letters of love and friendship. It is the greatest marvel of this place and Harry stays up long past when he should to watch it every night.

Every night. But tonight, it is different. Tonight, the lights, every single one of them, join together, like when Death first welcomed him home.

It is... Harry realizes, it is a love letter. Death is using the Valentino Trackstart for its intended purpose.

My love,

I wish to call you that. My love. I have seen you far before we had met and though we have only been talking for a couple of months, I have loved you for years and known you for longer.

Your heart is resilient and my heart is yours. When I am kind, you are appreciative. With my position, with the hatred that clouds me like dust, I cannot say the same for many others.

I have willed the sky for you. I have willed Hogwarts for you; magic as we know it, I have controlled. For you I will move mountains. For you I have moved the whole world.

You belong here. You belong here because you belong to me and I to yo.

So my heart, dear, my love. Will you accept it?

And Harry says Yes. "Of course."

He asked fro a friend and got a lover and that is nice and ncer. He loves this place as it was and he loves it as it is now and he loves death and he loves to love.

He is so filled with gratitude. He will savor this world like his morning coffee. His favorite and his usual.

.XOX.

Harry's paradise is ruined in the span of half an hour. It is ruined like it was started; over coffee.

"... so he asked me to stab a man in exchange for seven years," explains Falco. Harry catches only the end of his sentence as he enters the cafe.

"Straight up? asks Evelynn. "Did you do it? For real?"

"No," says Falco.

"What? Dude, you're such an idiot."

"And they're such a cheapskate," scoffs Sherlock.

"Yeah, no shit! For seven years, you might as well hire a hitman."

"Not to intrude," says Harry, intruding, "But what are you guys talking about?"

"This bitch," Evelynn jerks her thumb toward Flaco, who shrugs, "got offered seven years to stab some dickwad in a Starbucks and he didn't take it."

"Seven years? Of what?"

Evelynn blinks at him. "Of magical currency?"

"Why is currency counted in years? Seems a bit backwards, if you ask me."

"Shit, kid," laughs Evelynn. "Forget that you're Muggle sometimes."

"To put it simply; everyone, Muggle and magical, has a set amount of time to live, right? Even if you're not subject to that information?" explains Sherlock.

"Right," says Harry.

"The President, in the magic world, has set up a system where you can trade your lifespan for currency. It's also why we have shorter lifespans in general; we are part magic inherently. It is the cost of living magical."

"Huh," says Harry. "I didn't have to exchange any life for currency."

"What?" asks Evelynn. "I mean -- dude, are you sure?"

"Yeah," says Harry slowly. "I'm sure."

"That's weird." notes Sherlock. "But I suppose it is part of the trial period for Muggles, freely given."

"No." For some reason that does not match up. That does not make sense. "I'd have been told about it, then, wouldn't I have?"

Death giving him the currency fits -- but still, there is something off.

You are not even close to bankrupt. Far from it.

"Is there a way to check your balance?" asks Harry.

"Uh, gimme a sec. I'll pull up the website," says Evelynn.

"Thanks. So. Is there a reason, by any chance, that life must be taken in exchange for magic?"

"The President collects it," explains Sherlock. "Though for what, it is not known."

"Wait -- how do you know that it's not a necessity? To give life to receive magic?"

"Because it was only implemented once God's reign ended. For a melinna, magic was free to those born with it. But once the President steps in, there is all of a sudden a price. There is all of a sudden a way to exchange lifefore to magic."

"Huh," says Harry. He frowns. "Is that why... why he wants to include Muggles in this, this system? 'The wider the net, the larger the haul'?" The idea of integration now seems so sinister. Integration is salvation? No. It is selfish.

"Yes," mutters Falco bitterly.

"I'm sorry," says Harry earnestly.

Falco huffs. "It's whatever, kid. It's not your fault."

But, thinks Harry, it kind of feels like it, doesn't it?

Evelynn hands him her phone. "Put your info here," she says.

"Oh -- thanks." Harry writes his first name, last name, address, birth date, mother's maiden name, social security code, etc, etc, until he is verified. A number pops up on his screen.

"Huh," he says again. A part of him is worried. Not a loud part,t but it is there, working its way to the front.

Because he is not smart but he KNOWS that he should not have that much money. That Death should not have that much money. That much life.

Evelynn glances at his screen. "Holy shit, dude, you're rich."

"Really? Let me see -- oh," falters Falco. "How...?"

"I don't know," syas Harry quietly. "But I have an idea. Sherlock. Are you sure that all this life is going to the President only? Not his administration? Just him?"

"I am sure," says Sherlock.

"Then. Then do you remember when you told me that you'd tell me the President's name if my gratification outweighed the punishment?"

"I do."

"Do you think that... that now would be that 'when'?"

"If I am following your train of thought correctly," says Sherlock.

"And you are," echos Harry.

"Then yes. Then maybe. And maybe is enough"

"What's his name, Sherlock?"

"Death, Harry. The President's name is Death."

.XOX.

Harry wants to make excuses. He is in love and that is what people in love do; try and defend things they shouldn't.

So when Harry comes home that night he does not accuse Death of being Mr. President, who charges people's life for no reason. "You can use their years to extend your own. Is that it? You don't want to die. Is that is?" Harry asks. It would be evil still and almost unforgivable, if the right words are not said, but not understandable. On its own, there is nothing wrong with wanting to live. There is desperation in his voice, in his argument. Death can surely tell, too.

And it would be so, so easy. To lie. To tell Harry exactly what he wants to hear. But Death does not do that. Death says, "No, Harry. I am a God. I do not need their lives. I do not live."

"You're God? You don't even... then why? Why -- I don't -- you're hurting people--"

"It's for you."

Harry almost throws up. "What in the fuck are you talking about, Death?"

"It's for you," says Death again. "I've lived all of eternity with the divine knowledge that I will one day wander upon my soulmate -- and with the years, I became doubtful, but never once, Harry, never once did I give up hope. I'm like you. We are meant to be. You must see I--"

"No," says Harry. No, I don't see shit, Death. Why would any of that have anything to do with you stealing the lifeforce of millions?"

"I have created this entire world with my love in mind, with you in mind. Can't you see? A sky fit for writing love letters! A school for magical children? It is for you. All of it. Everything I have done is for you.

"You may vilify my actions regarding magical currency but, Harry, because of that system, you have years beyond your use and always will. You will live forever. You will have more magic than you know what to do with. We will exist together, forever, in love, for as long as we want--"

"Take it back," says Harry.

"What?"

"Take it back!" shouts Harry. "Take it back! I don't want this!"

"I love you--"

"Shut the fuck up! Take it back! Make me blind to magic again! Stop taking people's life! Do it! Take me back!"

"This is your home," says Death, desperately. "This is your home. You belong here."

"Not at the expense of others!" yells Harry. "I don't need to live forever! I don't need infinite magic! I never did! What I had was enough! Why would you do this? Everything was nice! Everything was nice!"

"You will come around eventually."

"No," says Harry, shortly. "I won't. I'll kill myself and then you won't have a reason to keep doing this, and you can stop, right? You can just stop."

"I have built this entire world around you! For you! Do you not understand that? Do you not care?"

"No, Death! I don't care! Behold the field of fucks I give and find it barren!"

"Listen, Harry, even if you wanted to kill yourself, you could not. You have far too much life stored in magic, so the best thing to do is clear your head, my love--"

"Then I will throw myself into a vat of acid," snaps Harry. "I will not die. I will spend every second of my stolen life in agony."

"No!"

"Then you will take me back, " says Harry. "You'll let me take the day Headmaster position at Hogwarts. You will not push integration for a second longer. And if you know what's good for you, though I won't be able to tell from the Muggle world, you'll let the magicians exist without taking from them, too."

Death begs one last time: "Please. Do not leave me. I have done so much for you."

"Yeah," says Harry, bitterly. "I guess you shouldn't have."

.XOX.
Harry mourns two major things from his old life. The first is hope. He had hoped that the magical world would be better than the world, already wonderful, as he knew it then.

It was not. It was magical in the little things, in the wonders, but the system was broken. The system was the one he refused to thrive on. He could never exist in that world on terms entirely his own.

He did not belong there. He never did.

He mourns secondly Death. His idea of Death before the truth was revealed -- the one that wrote him love letters in the sky and kissed his forehead. He loved him as he knew him and the only problem was that he didn't know him at all.

No. He didn't know shit.

He mourns that Death because what there is now -- or what had always been -- was both a God and a monster. Is not in any way loveable or his love.

He mourns the little things, too. Evelynn. Sherlock. Falco. A little bit of them seeps into his way of talking, writing, laughing. It is interesting. He is a collection of the people before him.

He mourns the big things and the little things and he mourns in waves. It is sometimes hard to say he made the wrong decisions and sometimes not something that even has to be said at all; a fucking given.

He is patient with himself. He is kind. He wakes every morning and tells himself:This world is not his favorite. But it is his usual. That is good enough for him.