Harry Potter sits in a field of his own creation. Sunflowers as big as his head surround him, ferns as long as his body are made into beds for the occasional visitor. This is Harry Potter's very own Garden of Eden, and he sits at the core of it; its creator.

When Harry was very little, he'd spouted flowers from his palms and make daises appear in his hair. Muggle as they are, as every except a few special are, his parents did not understand him. They leave him, a baby, in a wide, empty field; leave him for dead, for the rats. It is a cruel, callous think for them to do -- but Harry's heart harbors no room for resentment. Only for living.

He has always fought to be alive, stay alive, and live well. The same goes for when he was a child, a baby. Abandoned (left to die, for dead), he was expected to not even make it through the life. But Harry spawned moss and covered himself with it, a blanket, made fruit to eat, summoned deer and animals to care for him. He will survive, he repeats to himself three times a day, when, by some miracle (magic), he learns to speak. He will not die. He is stubborn, firm, and unmoving. He will not fall victim to the evils of the world; he will befriend it.

It's what he's done with every visitor since. Every person that has wandered into his forest, looking for the source of its seemingly inhuman greenery, or to harvest berries or mushrooms, hunt animals or people, Harry has endeared himself to them. Isn't he charming? Adorable, with plump red cheeks and flower crowns? The type of kid no one wants to hurt. The type of person everyone wants to help protect.

And when this line of defense fails (though this happens rarely), Harry has his trees to use as a effective offense. He summons bushes of thorns and spears and tells himself over and over again I will not die. I am a survivor and I will live.

There are several skeletons in the Garden of Eden, hidden in the bush, never noticed. Harry does not talk about them, and no one ever sees them to bring them up.

He is fifth-teen when the loneliness eats at him. Years of unspeaking companionship and only temporary human visitors has left him yearning for more. He wants to beg every person that enters his Garden. I have made a life here, he thinks. It's a good one, sustainable, free. Don't you want to stay here with me? Live my life with me, a friend, a family, a lover?

But every person looks at him and inevitably sees right through him. They think he is either a fixture of this forest, untouchable as God, or...

Or they see what Harry's parents did, all those years ago; something freakish and wrong, meant only to be observed from afar, left alone, and never to be thought about again. Harry is not angry. Always, he is merely sad.

A particularly kind tourist introduces him to the concept when Harry speaks of it: depression.

It sounds right, the way the word wraps around him and threatens to suck the life out of him. Harry Potter is depressed. Has depression.

And in the dead of night, under a blanket of stars and installations of his own creation... he does think I am not meant to be a survivor. I should have died then. I should die now.

And those these thoughts have latched onto him, have made themselves a home in his sorry head, he does not act on them. He is alive. He feels the great expanse of life eat his fingertips and knows he was never meant to be a creature that maims. Every skeleton in his Garden is but a forgivable mistake. These hands are meant to heal.

Harry Potter is depressed. Harry Potter has suicidal thoughts. Harry Potter is all alone. Harry Potter will live, despite.

He is nineteen years old when Death arrives.

He is a handsome man. There is an arrogant look on his face, but the way he carries himself, the strong hold of his shoulders, it can almost pass as mere confidence. He wears a suit, as opposed to Harry's burlap shorts, tied with vine holding them. His hair is light blonde. He towers at at least six foot two.

He contrasts harshly with the image of Harry. A freak boy and a normal man.

But, thinks Harry, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, he is decidedly not normal.

There is the fact that everywhere he steps, the grass withers and dies. It regrows moments after, of course, but the sight of it is unsettling.

He is also looking at the skeletons in the bushes with an exceptionally unbothered expression.

"Er," says Harry, hesitantly. "Hello?"

The man's eyes snap up to him. "I'm Death," he says immediately. "And I am getting the sense now that you are just like me, yes?"

Harry shift uncomfortably. Company, his mind whispers. But, also: Danger. He readies thorns just in case. "What does... what does that mean?"

"Magical."

Harry recalls the way the way his plants died under Death's mere presence. "Maybe we're both magical," admits. "But I don't think we are alike at all."

Death glances at the skeleton in front of him. "Really?" he asks.

Harry feels sick to his stomach.

"There's no need to feel bad, of course. I'm sure they deserved it."

Death can't know it, but that only makes Harry feel worse. "What brings you here?" What do you want?

"I am terribly lonely," says Death, sounding so, so sad. "I wish for some company. Company with people like me."

And though Death has the touch of destruction, notes skeletons with relatability rather than distaste -- and knows where those skeletons are for no good reason at all... Harry is unbelievably lonely. He says Okay.

Death smiles. Harry feels something blossom in his chest, but he is wrong to assume it is something good.

When Harry shows Death his farm of rollie pollies, Death frowns. "I hate bugs," says Death. Harry's smile wavers. "Can I touch them?"

"Oh, I'm not sure that's such a good id--"

But Death's hand is already out and reaching and by the time his fingertips brush their shells, the entire lot is dead.

Harry stares on, horrified. Then he turns to Death. "Why did you do that?"

And Harry expects some sort of apology, an 'I didn't mean to' or 'I didn't think that would happen,' but instead he gets a shrug and, "I told you. I hate bugs."

Death apologies his next visit, but Harry is unable to summon animals anymore. Something in his is deeply and devastatingly helpless.

After their seventh meeting, Death offers to move in. "I can tell you need the help around the Garden," says Death sweetly, backhandedly.

"I can manage my Garden just fine," Harry retorts, frowning.

Death blinks at him. "Oh, no one said you couldn't. It'd just be nice to have an extra person around the house, wouldn't it? What do you think?"

And for some reason, Harry wants to say no. Harry heart cannot take this, whatever this is

But he did want this, didn't he? Someone to choose him, to stay with him, to see him and say that's the one. Harry is being handed everything he has ever wanted. He has no room for denial, or complaints.

And it's not like Death is a monster. He is just different. Like Harry is. Harry looks at his collection of skeletons and knows he has no room to judge.

Death smiles. Harry says yes. He notes the next day his ferns go up only to his waist.

He continues hanging out with Death, living with him, but Harry notes that with each passing day he enjoys his company less and less.

He criticizes the way Harry Pours his coffee, the way he braids his hair, the clothes he wears. There is always something just off. He is not a man of contentment.

It hurts. For some reason, there words of a friend hurt even when they are small, unmeaning. But, I am not angry, he remind himself. I am a being of healing and peace and there is no room in my heart for resentment.

But Death is his polar opposite. Death is always angry. With him, at him, toward him -- there is no escape him his constant wrath.

And Harry is hurting. Harry notes that with his every step, flowers that die in Death's wake do not regrow.

"My powers," says Harry. "They're growing weaker. So am I." And it is true. He cannot seem to escape his head. Constantly he is thinking about an escape from this reality. If he cannot change his situation he must destroy it.

"Maybe you deserve it," Death mutters, under his breath and though it seems so small, seems careless and is followed up by, "I hope things get better for you," Harry's tiny heart breaks. Something fundamental in his cracks. I am not angry, he reminds himself through tears. I am just sad. And being 'just sad' is something he can deal with. he has been just sad for a very, very long time.

But when he awakes Harry Potter's Garden is dead and he is in despair.

Death is gone. He leaves not a trace, even his footprints blending into the dead landscape.

Harry's sure that the climax here was not small -- he is sure that it was an avalanche, a build up then break off. Or so he thinks. All he knows that in the morning, Death his gone and his Garden is dead, leaving only skeletons and dried up, horrid looking trees.

Harry collapses onto his knees, tears streaming down his face. He holds his hands out and tries to grows a flower, but nothing happens. He was abandoned for reason that no longer rings true.

And, yes, Harry Potter is angry. He is angry at his parents for leaving him and Death for ruining him and every visitor who saw a child all on his own and left him for dead, for the fucking rats.

Parts of him been chipped away over and over again, until there is nothing at all left except despair.

But that's a lie. There's more. There's that little incessant voice in his head that screams to him I am a survivor. I will live. I will not die.

So even though Harry's head has never been more fogged with thoughts of suicide... Harry rises on unsteady feet and begins to walk. He will not die. He will not let Death dictate his life and he will not sure as hell let him end it.

Harry Potter is free from Death. He will live differently, but forever.