When A Slaughterhouse Becomes A Home (selfcest/tomarry)

fourteen

Potter, before all this, before he and Harry were separate entities, went by only his last name still. He makes the decision when he is seventeen, almost eight, and dead. He walked into the Forbidden Forest to meet Voldemort and kill the shard of him that's stuck in him, Potter.

He dies, and meets Death, the Death from fairytale, the Death the ferries souls from the land of the living to the land of the not. He meets Death.

And Death is a tall, corpse-like figure that moves with stiff, uneven movements, like a dead body being paraded around on strings. Potter stands in the train station, watching its approach. And it is an 'it', not he a or a them. There's something about it that is deeply inhuman. It is an object, a concept... not a person, not matter how much it desperately wants to be.

"Hello, Harry," greets the figure. Its voice is a slimy thing, almost gritty in nature. "What a hero you are, to see you here."

"I'm no hero," Potter wants to answer, all his boyhood anger still intact. But he knows he is a hero. The correct, and most truthful answer is: "I'm not just a hero."

"No?" says Death. It tilts its head, a flopping motion rather than a graceful one. "Then what are you, little boy?

"I'm selfish," answers Potter. A pause, and then, "And I'm not a little boy."

"I suppose that's right. You're a man now, a man now for dying. Weeks away from eighteen, and already legally a wizarding adult. It would be doing you an indignity to call you a boy."

Potter ignores its ramble in the name of confession. "I wanted to die. That's why I stopped Voldemort. Because he needed to be stopped. And because I knew there'd be no coming back from it."

"But there is," says Death.

"There is?" asks Potter, but he is still unbelieving.

"For why else would I be here?"

"I assumed to take my soul," answers Potter.

"It seems you've already made peace with that," says Death curiously. "But no, your soul is yours to eat."

Potter feels the curdles of desperation rise up in him. He tries not to sound like he is pleading, but he knows he's starting to. "So -- so I'm going back? I'm going back alive? But -- you can't be serious. I'm dead. I'm supposed to die. I want to die. I wanted it for such a long time. I stayed alive because I knew Voldemort needed to go, and I knew I was the only possible one to do it. So -- now that that's over -- I want to die. I deserve this release."

"No," says Death, simply. Uncaring. Unempathetic. Entirely inhuman.

And now Potter is just angry. Now he's just pissed, still technically a teenager and for sure acting like it. "I'll just kill myself when I get out of here," he says furiously and wholeheartedly. "You won't send me back to live. I won't allow that to stand."

"That's not going to work," says Death, shrugging with its disproportionate arms. "Sorry."

"That's not going to work? Why wouldn't it work?"

"Just won't."

"Why?"

"Hey, don't get mad at me," says Death, holding up its hands. "I'm just the messenger. This is more your own fault than mine, anyway."

"The Hell do you mean by that?" snaps Potter. He is seconds away from strangulation. His fists are gripped tightly by his sides.

"I mean it's not like I had anything to do with it!" exclaims Death, throwing its arms up in the sky and watching frowning, as they fall back to its side. "Look, kid--"

"Not a kid," reminds Harry harshly.

"Right, whatever. There's some dangerous things at play here, and I'm just a vessel for half of them."

Potter's confusion has only provided time for him to calm down. "Tll me what you mean."

"I mean," says Death, looking at him intently, "you're immortal, kid, and there's nothing either of us can do about it."

Potter stares at him blankly. Then tries for a smile, for a laugh, but barely manges it. For some reason he doesn't feel as if Death is joking. That terrifies him more than anything. "Immortal," he repeats. The word is dry in his mouth. "Why would I be immortal?"

"You collected the Hallows," says Death, astonished, as if all this is self exploratory. "That was on you, not me.

Potter sort of follows the logic, even if not really. "So if I give them to someone else, then they'll be immortal, and I won't be?"

"It doesn't work that way."

"Well, it should."

"But it doesn't. And outside of here, you'll be unable to talk about your status as the Master of Death."

Potter narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Why? Why would that matter?"

Death only shrugs. "It is to ensure that whoever is the Master of Death, stays the Master of Death."

Now that's an interesting sentiment that Potter has a feeling matters much more than it should. He just doesn't know how. But he will. Soon. Soon, he will try to go back in time and tell his younger self not to collect the Hallows, only to find that his mouth fills with slugs and his lungs forfeit all air and he is left, unable to give the warning he needs to.

He will figure out that this particular part of being the Master of Death matters most of all, and he will anger beyond measure.

There are more pacts to being the Master of Death -- more than Death will pop sporadically in to tell him -- but none that are explained then and there.

He is sent back . Back to the real world, back to the Battle of Hogwarts. They will win.

And then they are forced to live their own lives afterwards. He will turn to the Darkness in his quest to end his own life. He has wanted to die for a long time now. He has hung on long enough. He will do everything and everything in order to stop.

So when the question is asked, which came first, immortality or the Dark Arts, wanting to die or being unable to, the chicken or the egg, let it be known: the chicken.