a/n: sorry for the long wait! ive been to the mental hospital twice and also just didn't have any ideas. have fun w this and please leave a comment!!

At the start of Harry's fifth year, Hagrid is missing. He is out on a super secret mission with one Madame Maxime -- lovers and partners in Dumbledore's greater plan. They find giants and fail to win them over.

At the start of Harry's first year, Hagrid breaks down the small shack resting on the middle of an island and proclaims the infamous line: You're a wizard, Harry. He sweeps Harry away to Hogwarts, to the world of magic he belongs to.

This is true. To a point.

The facts: At the start of Harry's first year, Hagrid breaks down the small shack resting on the middle of an island. He proclaims the infamous line. He sweeps Harry away to the world of magic he belongs to -- but not, it should be noted, to Hogwarts.

At the start of Harry's first year: Hagrid is sent on a super secret mission with one Harry Potter. They find giants... and more than what they were looking for.

Let me set the scene.

Harry Potter is eleven years old. He is scrawny and slim and weak. Every time a hand is raised he flinches, and everytime he thinks he's upset someone he cries. He is sensitive to a fault. He has a wand, but no experience in using it. He knows he's magic, but notes this with an obvious air of disbelief. He has no friends, except perhaps the half giant he is traveling away with. He has been told by a man he's never met, the Headmaster of a school he's never gone to, that they must win over the giants of the Snowdon mountains -- that Voldemort, who Harry doesn't remember but supposedly killed, has come back, and that he is needed more than ever.

From what Harry understands, he is a bargaining tool. He is somehow famous and somehow influential and most importantly useful. The giants, powerful adversaries and even more powerful allies -- will they say no to the very Boy-Who-Lived?

Hagrid tells this all to him as Harry is being fed birthday cake and sat by the warm, magic-lit fire. Harry looks at him with wide, confused eyes. "Why would they listen to me? I'm not good of convincing people of things." Most of the time. Except when he is. Except when power rushes his head and he in a fit of rage makes Dudley eat dirt, or forces Petunia to let him eat seconds at dinner. He does not mention this. He doesn't want to ruin any good first impression he rarely makes.

"Ye don't even have to talk," assures Hagrid. "You just have to be there, by my side."

He is essentially not just a tool -- he is equivalent to a purse dog, something to show off, something that exists as a sign of wealth to others. He just has to sit there and look pretty. He can do at least one of those things.

And to this offer, this absurd, potentially dangerous offer... Harry says yes. It is at least not the Dursleys. And if he dies, if the giants are not as fond of him as first assumed, then, well, alright. Alright.

He sits now in a carriage, carried by what Hagrid calls dismissively 'invisible horses,' wand in his hand and bag of supplies at his feet. He fiddles with the piece of wood as they ride. Knowing no spells, it is reduced to a fidget toy.

"Tell me more about spells," says Harry. "I want to know what people are capable of." In reality, he wants to know if he is as much as a freak as the Durselys always found him. He can control and hurt and in those dark moments he regrets later, he does feel powerful. He feels magic course through his veins and only those instances prove to him that, against everything telling him otherwise, Hagrid is not a liar.

And he would love to write off those abilities, those nasty, nauseating abilities, as just magic... but he also wonders if he is a freak among freaks.

Hagrid begins talking and Harry begins listening. They have a very long carriage ride ahead of them.

And when that ride ends and they begin unpacking their luggage, Harry has come to the conclusion that he is not freakish; he is just evil. Or a part of him is evil, something that makes him lose his temper and lose control and hurt everyone he hates. Hate, yes. He feels so much of it, even when he is his definition of 'normal.'

It is hard not to. He talks with this kindhearted half giant who has done more for him than anyone else he has ever encountered in only a few short days -- and he can focus on solely his annoying quirks, his too-thick accent and disgusting abominations of homemade food. His laugh. The way he simpers and sucks up and treats Harry like royality, as if he is trying to get Harry to forgive him for his admittedly shallow motive for bringing him here in the first place.

Harry hates him. Hagrid treats him with love and respect and could very well be the first and only friend Harry has ever head and Harry does not speak of it, does not want to upset anyone, but he hates him. He hates the Dursleys and his teachers and his classmates and Hagrid and whoever this Dumbledore fellow is. He hates Voldemort for killing his parents. He hates his parents for dying. He lives in fear of anyone finding out these feelings, of them hurting him because of them, of the shattering of his facade.

He is a creature of hate and fear. He feels both of these things when introduced to the giants, who is trying to win over for what is decidedly a good cause. So Harry bites his tongues, acts like he is not afraid of getting murdered, painfully and purposefully, and does exactly as Hagrid says. He makes appearances. He gives speeches that Hagrid or Dumbledore or whoever writes and shakes hands with some of the most obnoxious beasts he has ever come to meet.

He is a good kid. He tries to be. He does everything right -- not because he thinks it's the best thing to do, but because this is what he's done his entire life; go against his better nature. Hagrid reminds him constantly that he is doing a good thing here. He teaches him Light spells and history in return for his help and though all of it makes Harry hate him a little less... it is not enough.

Light magic is cool, he'll admit. He waves his wand and creates life, transfigures things, defends himself. It is wonderful, magic. But it is also dreadfully unfulfilling. Where is the rush? The egotistical feeling? The regret? This is not the magic he's used to. This is not the magic he likes.

He admits to Hagrid quietly one night over dinner that he doesn't think he's a Light wizard. Hagrid scoffs. "Ye defeated He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named! Of course ye're Light. Yer parents were, too."

Harry ducks his head. He wants to scream. You don't fucking know me. My parents? I hate them. I hate you. I'm nothing like the lot of you and I'll prove it, I'll fucking prove it! You think I won't? I will! I think I hate wizards too so maybe I'll go to Hell with it and stab your eye out the Muggle way! I"ll stab your eye out with a fork and we'll see who's dismissing who then!

He doesn't say this. He say nothing. He is weak and he knows it and he has been with giants long enough to learn that he cannot take even a half one of them. He has some sense of self preservation, even if he can't really understand where it's coming from.

He takes on the role of giant activist, Boy Who Lived, Light wizard Harry Potter. It is an exhausting one to fit into and most of the time, Harry follows through the motions of a day like he is on autopilot. His heart isn't in it. His heart isn't in anything. he is convinced he does not have one.

But he does.

He discovers this when he is sent on a task by Hagrid. He's to deliver some magical item to the leader of the giants, bid him a good day and then a farewell, and be done by sundown. It is a sign of goodwill and Hagrid trusts him with it. So Harry gets to it.

He carries it in a backpack and traverses the giant's village.

He notes the buildings, so large, and the livestock and Hagrid and his own shack in the distance.

And then he notes the head giant.

He is a rather small giant -- which is kinda like being a tall girl; not really saying anything. He is still some 50 feet tall. But unlike the normal features of a giant -- much like a blown up version of a human -- there is just black swirling void in the vague shape of a giant.

Harry swallows thickly. He knows a few things in his soul: this is the giant's leader... and this man is just like him. Harry swings the bag off his shoulder, takes out the device and holds it out feebly to the man. "Here," he says, voice both quivering and in awe. "It's a -- a winderbaolt. For plantations."

"Hm," says the figure. Harry shudders at the sound, captivated. He sees no mouth moving, but is sure nonetheless that he was the one to talk. "I've heard of it, yes. But I haven't heard of you."

Harry doesn't even have it in him to be slightly offended. "I've been here a few months," he says. He introduces himself the way Hagrid always tells him to: "I'm Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived."

He tilts his head. "The boy who lived, hm? Well, that just won't do."

Harry thinks he's going to die. He is only somewhat okay with it. "What won't?"

The figure sounds offended. "The lying, of course! But you do that a lot, don't you? Lie. I figure it is a habit hard to break, you poor little thing."

He shouldn't know that.

Why does he know that?

Harry takes a step backward, hand still clutched around the device and neck still craned to get a good look at the giant. "Who are you?"

"I'm Death," says the figure, squatting. He rests his arms on hi thighs and says, "And I think that for the Boy Who Lived -- self and otherwise proclaimed -- that you don't do a lot of living, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," laughs Death "Look around you. An errand's boy. Forced to serve no matter where you're located."

"I am not forced by Hagrid to do anything," snarls Harry, his fear forgotten in place of anger. He ignores the sharp sting of truth in his words.

"But aren't you? What is the other option, if you disobey?" Death shrugs. "You go back home. You go back to them. That seems pretty forceful to me."

Harry narrows his eyes. He wants to snap back You don't know anything but the problem is... he does. He knows everything. He knows that Harry is an angry coward. He knows that Harry hates his orders and wants to disobey but does not. He knows and now the problem is how?

"Who are you?" Harry asks again.

"I'm Death, I've stated."

Harry restates his question: "What are you?"

"I'm a giant."

"A giant and what?

Death is mocking him now, Harry's sure. "Whatever do you mean?"

Harry takes a step forward. "Most giants aren't all-knowing. What are you?"

The smokey void begins to dissipate. "Ask your half giant friend," he says as he vanishes.

"Ask him what?"

"About the story of the Beetle and Baird."

He is gone and Harry is alone. The device is gone from his hand the next time he looks at it. Harry is shaken to his very core.

He goes a few days thinking about the encounter. He thinks of everything that was said, replaying it over in his mind, thinks of every mystery afoot. He is afraid. That is normal. But he is also intrigued. This is something his heart is in, discovering more.

He tells himself to let it be. He is better than is, possibly putting himself in more danger. A being that powerful is not one to be meddled with. It would be best for Harry to leave the town altogether, actually.

But that would mean going back to the Durselys. it would also mean never seeing Death again, and that for some reason hurts more than anything.

So he does asks Hagrid about the bedtime story of the Beetle and Baird and Hagrid is happy to supply, if a little confused.

Harry comes out the other side with little clarity. It is hard to tell what Death was trying to tell him by reading this. Death seems more like a demon than a giant in this storybook, a trickster entity who is also all-powerful.

All-powerful. All-knowing. Something like a God, thinks Harry. And then in his head: Bingo. Death is, and does not merely seem like, something like a God. Half giant, half God, all fucking confusing. His heart has snagged this lead and will not let go of it.

The next evening Harry travels into the village. He knows against reason that Death will be here again -- knows also that this is the most excited he's been about something in a very, very long time. He does not know when last he felt joy, joy like this. It is nice and warm and fills him with the same sort of thrill Dark magic does.

Death is, as excepted, there. "You read the story," announces Death upon his arrvial.

"Your story," says Harry.

"Yes. Mine." Death sits on the ground, criss crossed in front of him. "Tell me, what did you think?"

And he wants, and will only accept, honesty here. Harry takes a deep breath, looking from the floor to Death's face. "I think," he says slowly, "that Death was a little... childish."

Death says nothing for a beat of silence. Then, "What?"

"Well," Harry rushes to say, "he was pretty... pretty petty, wasn't he? Some idiots cross his bridge and he wants them dead. That isn't a normal person's reaction."

"Consider," says Death, lightly, "that he is not a normal person? Nary a person?"

"I'm not saying pettiness is bad," says Harry. "Only that it is..."

"Only what?"

"Relatable," spits Harry, sick of it and himself.

Death chuckles, like he has finally drawn out the answer he wanted. "Yes. It is, isn't it?"

"We're alike," says Harry. "I think. I think we're very, very alike. And that's why you're... talking to me, I guess."

"You guess or you know, Harry?" scoffs Death. "Speak like you mean it. Do not coddle me for my sake."

"Alright," says Harry. "I know we're alike. I know that's why you're talking to me. But I also know that you're talking to me for the reason everyone else talks to me -- I am an opportunity for you. Only, I don't know what that opportunity is." Not yet.

Death laughs. "Clever boy," he notes. "I trust you will figure it out eventually."

"Will whatever use of me put me in danger?"

"Would it matter if it it?" A moment later, "But, no. It won't."

Harry looses the tenses in his shoulders. "Alright then," he says. "Alright."

"I have a query for you, Harry," says Death. "Do you know why you're so attracted to Dark things?"

Harry's breath hitches. "I don't know -- where did you hear--"

"Don't worry about it, Harry. You're above worrying about it."

Harry rubs his head but answers, tiredly "I heard from Hagrid that some wizards are naturally predisposed to the Dark. Their emotions are more negativity focused, more on the bad then the good, and that their hatred is reflected in their very magic."

"Very good," purrs Death. "You suppose that's why your Dark, then? Your anger is potent and your hate has consumed you. I would love to see you when your pent up tension is no longer pent up."

Harry frowns. "Don't speak about me that way," he asks, though gently. He has become use to this way of speak -- of talking about him almost like he isn't there, of this celebrity talk and third person narration on a life they don't understand -- but that doesn't make it sting any less. "But you're right. I'm evil. So are you."

Death gasps in mock offense. "I never said you were evil."

"But aren't we, though? Aren't I?" He thinks, knows, he is. He is a boy, too young to know how to change and too self consumed to want to, of vengeance. He lives with his thoughts 24/7 and knows himself better than anyone else; he is evil. He is not Voldemort, of course, but he's no Dumbledore.

"Do you think that's a bad thing?"

"I think it's just how things are. How I am."

"Good," says Death. "Because I want to teach you something, and willingness is imperative."

"Teach me what?"

"Spells," says Death simply. "Magic."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Hagrid's already teaching me magic."

"No," says Death. "Dark magic."

Harry blinks at him. "What -- are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious," scoffs Death.

"But -- Dark magic is forbidden." The obligatory response, the good boy one.

"That's what makes it evil, hm? And that's what makes us evil." He begins to fade away, much in the manner as he did last time. "Think about it," he whispers. "And when you're done with that, I'll be here. I am a good teacher, Harry; I know you'll make good student."

He is gone and Harry notes dully that he said 'when' and not 'if.'

He is suddenly and inexplicably resentful. He hates that this man, this beast, is so presumptuous. He hates his attitude and his appearance and, yes, he'll say it, the way he is so god damned condescending! I know this, I know that, very good, Harry, very good. He criticizes Hagrid for inadvertently controlling him but strings Harry along all the time. Every part of their conversation is planned out, meticulous. And Harry hates often and Harry hates now. He does not return to their meeting spot for two weeks, two months.

He is above worrying about very worrisome things? Fine. He'll worry about nothing, be nothing, drift through his things as a puppet of a person, an actor.

He is also a liar, like Death said, and he lies himself and everyone else often and all the time. In this period of isolation, he tells himself Death is dangerous. He tells himself what he is 'better than' is demonic, god-like entities trying to train him to be more evil. Those are the type of feeling he is supposed to be repressing -- even if he thinks they are fine, he has gone this far suppressing his real self and it's not like he's about to stop now. He tells himself that he will never be back there. He will tell his speeches and let his anger rest silently under his skin. He will be a good boy.

That's what he tells himself.

But it is a lie. All of it.

Harry is back at their meeting place by month three. Death appears in all his glory and Harry feels better immediately -- like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders and something light has filled him. This is who he is, secret meetings and plans to maim. Death is exactly like him. It is a good, good feeling.

"Hello," greets Harry, almost sheepishly.

"Harry. And here I thought you didn't like me."

Harry snorts. "You don't have to rub it in."

"What fun would that be?"

Harry smiles, genuinely. "It is good to see you again," he says, genuinely.

The routine settled in quickly: Harry completes his tasks for Hagrid during the day -- speeches, handshakes, negotiations in which he has become alarmingly and needlessly involved in, the usual -- and once he is done playing good, he packs a snack and tells Hagrid he's off to chill with the cows. He then takes to Death's spot and gets taught magic -- real magic, the type he's actually interested in. He is taught the protego diabolic and legilimus and blood maledection. He is taught hexes and jinxes and curses.

The Darker the spells he does, the more the lightening bolt scar on his forehead seems to hurt. he mentions it to Death, but Death (only this time ever) has no answers. Or at least he says he does. Death is his friend, but Harry finds he is not the most trustworthy of person. That's okay. Harry isn't either.

"You're a naturally powerful," notes Death, one evening as they are trying out new spells.

"Thanks," says Harry dryly, watching as blood drips down a cow, the things they use as target practice. "I just wish I was able to use them outside of here."

"You can already."

"Not without being labeled the 'Boy-Who-Should've-Died' I can't."

Death hums. "Maybe," he says, "you will live to to see a world in which you can use Dark spells, no judgment."

Harry eyes him questioningly. "You mean like Voldemort's world?"

"No," says Death seriously. "I mean one of ours."

Harry rolls his eyes. "You're just saying stuff at this point."

"I'd never."

"So, what, you want to rule the wizarding world?" It is an action fitting for a God, he supposes. But even though Harry is egotistical, he's not that egotistical. It's called leaving things be and it's something Death evidently needs to employ.

Death pets the top of Harry's head gently with his thumb. "No, Harry; not I. Us."

Harry blinks. He says nothing. He doesn't know how to feel about that. Most days, he doesn't know how to feel about Death. But he does like him, and most of his ideas, and he is his first friend. It means something. Their meetings are daily.

Hagrid talks with him one evening about Hogwarts. "How do you feel about attending, once this 'ole deal is o'ver?"

Harry cups his warm mug of tea between his hands. "I don't know," he admits honestly. "I mean," he scrambles to say, "I'd be starting a bit late, wouldn't I? It's already four months into term."

"You could start next year, if ye'd like."

"Of course," says Harry, but even so he feels a pang of remorse. He will miss Death once he is gone. it is hard for a giant to follow him to school, or heaven forbid the Durselys.

Harry is thinking about it when he next sees Death. He practices his spells, not really thinking about them. After his third horribly cut cow, Death vanishes the lot of them. "Okay," he says, "something's bothering you."

"Really," snaps Harry. "I hadn't noticed, thanks for pointing that out."

"Tell me about it."

Harry holds his arms over his chest. "Don't you already know? You do know everything, right? Isn't that a thing you do?"

"I think we both know you don't like it when I do that," says Death.

"Then why do you do it?"

"I'm not!" says Death. "I don't! Not anymore! So tell me what's wrong."

Harry slumps onto the ground. He places his arms on his knees and buries his head in his arms. "I'll be leaving you soon," he says, sounding as small as he is. "Negottations with the giants are almost set and done. I'll be going to Hogwarts next fall, and to... the Durselys after this. I won't be able to see you."

Death pats his head. "I've a way to come with you, actually."

"You're part giant," reminds Harry.

"Irrelevancies," dismisses Death, making Harry smile. "It is a good method. i'll show you it tomorrow."

"Okay," says Harry, still moody. "If you say so..."

"And," adds Death, "I'll be showing you one of the Unforgivables tomorrow."

Harry cannot help his gee. "Are you for real?"

"Always," says Death. "I'll show them to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," says Harry. His grin is blinding. "Tomorrow."

And then tomorrow:

Harry wakes, alive. Alive but empty. There is something missing in him. His heart -- that fragile, Dark thing -- seems to be gone from his chest. And his head. His scar aches painfully. He feels the large exspanse of nothing in him and is left only with fear -- this body is not his own. (This body is too much of his own.) It no longer fits right in his skin.

He rises unsteadily on his feet. He coughs, looking around him. His memory fights to evade him. To his knowledge: Death says it is almost time for something... though for what, who can say... they practice a new spell... what's the spell? Im... No, Crucio. He Crucios Death. Death... begged for it, begged him to do it. I need you to do it, he said, I want you to do it. Aren't you evil, Harry? Don't you just wanna go feral? Think of what an important skill this is to learn. All the vengeance you can take, all the fulfillment you can achieve. Live a little, Harry. The boy who lived needs to live a little.

He'd pleaded and harassed and -- though Harry wants to think he wouldn't torture his one and only friend -- he did it.

Why did he do it? There is something rotten in him, he thinks, to do that. He knows he hurts and it's all he's good at, all he really wants to do. His facade has fallen. It is evident who he really is and it's something he's long since come to terms with: a monster. He is a monster.

There is something rotten in him. But not anymore. He feels in his chest, in his worn out heart, no hatred. No grudges. No violence. No want to lie. He is left a flinching, fearful mess, all people pleasing with none of the Dark necessary to hide.

He does not know who he is anymore. Something in him was rotten and now it is dead and he has never felt so alone.

He is not alone, though. He hears the off putting gurgling of a baby and Harry's head snaps up.

Death, he realizes, holds him in his palm. Harry walks to the edge and leans over.

On the floor is a baby, wrapped in swindles. It is dying. And Harry aches for it, whatever it is. He knows instinctively that this boy is Tom Riddle and he is everything. He has grown to a full being and though it is not exactly full, it is corporeal.

"You're awake," notes a voice.

"Death," says Harry. His throat is dry. He tries again, "I... what happened to me?" Why do I feel like I am half-dead, barely a person?

"There was something dark in you," drawls Death. Something rotten. "Our work together fed it."

"Is that it?" asks Harry, sure he is having an out of body experience. Sure this isn't real. "I -- I need you to put it back. I need to feel -- right."

Death clicks their tongue. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Harry."

"What?" asks Harry, alarmed.

Death tilts his head. "It's free," he says. "We can't do anything to undo that."

"I -- no. There must be a way." He nearly sobs. "I can't live like this. I can't."

"Nor can you have it back." Harry feels tears run down his cheeks. He is a stranger to himself and knows now it should've been him that the Unforgiveables were practiced on, and it should've been the killing one. "But," says Death. "There is something we could do instead."

"What is it?" Harry all but begs.

"I," he says, "am also something wrong -- rotten, rotten's what you called it, right? I am also something rotten."

"What are you...?"

"You know what I am suggesting. I am suggesting... a fusion, of sorts. A replacement for you and a placement for me."

Harry fills his lungs with air. Even that motions feels off, anxiety inducing. He cannot and will not live like this. And thanks to death, he won't have to. "Okay," he says. "Let's do it." He runs his hands along Death's fingertips. "Please," he adds, quieter.

Finally, Death's face is give definition.

He is grinning.

Harry is placed on the floor and Harry sits on his knees, transfixed, as the smoke of Death's body moves into him. It floods his mouth and his lungs. And then, suddenly and without warning, Death raises his legs and stomps down on the gurgling baby.

Harry watches on, horrified. There is something rotten here. It is infecting him.

Harry's scar stops hurting.

Harry collapses on the ground, breathing hoarsely. He will be found there in the morning, deathly cold. When people try to look for him. Death is gone.

Two months later, Harry and Hagrid board their carriage, the support of the giants secured. The real fight against Voldemort has begun.

Harry cannot stop smiling.