I haven't scrolled through the HP section of FFNet for years, so if there happens to exist something similar to this, it will be a honest-to-god coincidence–this came out when I was thinking about what kind of powers a 'Master of Death' would have (soul-sucking Dementors came to mind), and it wouldn't surprise me if I weren't the first to come up with this. It sure sounds crack-ish enough to make anyone startle out a laugh.

Anyway! I fail at humour but I think this can count as 'crack', so enjoy the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

(PS: I tried to write this in British English, but...*squints* Not really sure how that went, so sorry if I it mixed up.)

The Dementors started to visit after Harry turned twenty.

Well, technically, a Dementor had been his first 'visitor' when Harry had been seventeen, just after the war, but that. Well. That hadn't ended well for anyone involved, and Harry had Patronus-ed its arse out of the country. They didn't talk about That Time.

(Actually, the first dozen or so of 'visits' started and therefore ended on that same line.)

After that and much, much insistence of Hermione to let them be and see what happened before kicking them out–Ron had spluttered and been on Harry's side, but Hermione's explanation about that kind of behaviour being unheard of and needing to be investigation had finally (grudgingly) convinced him...or at least made him curious enough–he tried to be more...civilized when the next Dementor appeared as sudden and creepily as they were wont to do.

When that happened, Harry had the momentary freakish image of a puppy going back to his owner with big round eyes and a stick in his mouth. He shook himself out of it quickly.

And so began one of the Most Uncomfortable Moments of Harry Potter's Life (and there were some quite remarkable moments to consider for the position, unsurprisingly), where Dementor and human had stared at each other for what seemed like hours.

And stared.

And stared.

And then Harry had awkwardly invited said hovering Dementor inside (and really, no sane person wanted to be faced with a Dementor of all bloody things the moment they opened the door to go shopping), and furthermore invited him to a cuppa. To which the Dementor had just creepily breathed in, as they did, and stayed floating in front of the Boy-Who-Lived, apparently still not trying (thankfully) to suck his soul out. Even the usual 'sense-of-utter-despair' that they seemed to exude from every...err, pore of their body had seemed curiously dulled to the point of being an uneasy afterthought.

In the end, that day Harry Potter found himself drinking a cup of freezing cold tea while a Dementor hovered over the table, its own cup of tea frozen stuck to the wood, the atmosphere of awkwardness (hopefully) affecting the both of them.

Hermione looked close to have a fit when he told her. Ron choked on his food.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It actually was when Harry was over twenty three that he started to understand the reason of it.

The first hint was the Dementors' monthly presence (and oh, hadn't Harry's neighbours complained about how freezing the whole block was in the middle of summer. And hadn't some of them come close to attempt suicide some months in...), furthermore increased in frequency when Harry decided to move out to a little mansion in the countryside that was, technically, an old property of the Potter House (or the Black. The papers were a bit contradicting in that matter) on the sole reason of avoiding single-handedly turning the block of apartments he'd been living in in Muggle London into an official 'Haunted House', all with grisly suicides, spectral horrors and freezing rooms in the middle of summer. The rumours had began to spread.

-.-

The second hint came some time later, after a lengthy observation of the Dementors' (still freaky) behaviours outside of the whole...hovering and guarding and sucking your soul out. (The term 'the Kiss' was aptly named, in that nothing could be more nightmare-worthy than being given a kiss from a Dementor.)

On the one hand, Dementors didn't seem to eat or drink any kind of substance. Or sleep, for that matter. On the other hand, they seemed to like dark places a lot. Harry wasn't entirely sure how it happened, but when one day he went down to the mansion's cellar in the search of some artefacts and books he'd been told by some helpful paintings he'd find there, he wasn't surprised to find a little horde (Pack? Bank? ...Flock?) of Dementors seemingly spending their time enjoying (? ?) the freezing and dark atmosphere of the place.

(On hindsight, Harry should've have realized then that there was something absolutely wrong with him when he barely blinked at the sight. As it was, he'd been more preoccupied in seeing if those books on ancient wards had been there or not.)

-.-

The third hint, and maybe the most disturbing one, came the day a Dementor appeared before him (nothing wrong here, there were even some that liked to follow him around, as weird as it was) and then opened his bloody cloak in front of him.

Now, this didn't end in the world's most horrifyingly awkward act of flashing ever (THANK MERLIN), but what Harry saw.

Well.

There was something morbidly fascinating in learning that Dementors' chests were creepily similar to a human skeleton's one, down to the rib cage and ribs, but horribly mangled and disfigured in a way only a very dark curse could do. And more fascinating was to learn that, on the side of said empty rib cage, where a heart would have rested if it were a normal human body, a light shined.

A familiar light.

As in, a 'soul that's been coaxed out of someone's body in an attempt of giving the Kiss' familiar light.

(Though obviously, this attempt had been much more successful than the one Harry remembered.)

Harry had paled, visions of Third Year and his disastrous first meetings with Dementors playing in his mind's eye.

The Dementor had come closer at Harry's silence but, once again, hadn't exuded that feeling of doom that came with someone slowly sucking the happiness (and life) out of you. Harry was too dazed to act, torn between flashbacks and utter bewilderment, so the Dementor had taken its liberties to get yet again closer, until Harry's face was almost shoved against the creepy not-really naked (Merlin he hoped) Dementor's rib cage.

Harry briefly considered asking the Dementor if he wanted him to scratch his tummy. Or...rib cage, he supposed.

He smothered that thought quickly.

In the end, Harry hadn't been sure what had made him do it, but that shining light had begged to be touched, grasped, and the Dementor had (probably) offered it to him, so his hand had moved without any real input on his part until it was hesitantly hovering over the rib cage, and then lowering itself and entering though the emptiness that was between the end of the Dementor's rib cage and the start of...Harry wasn't even sure he wanted to know what that was.

(In hindsight, having a hand inside a Dementor could easily be officially considered as the creepiest thing he'd ever done, and the most repulsing place he'd put his hand in (and here, too, he had too many competitors for the title...mostly thanks to his aunt's belief that Harry was to be the slave/handyman of the family and Care of Magical Animals). At the moment, it had seemed oddly normal.)

And then he'd cradled the light and taken it out from the dead cage with his bare hand, and he hadn't been able to do nothing but look at the soul, eyes wide in disbelief, even as the Dementor had let his robes fall back to cover him (thankfully) and floated back to the darkest corner in Harry's now-redecorated kitchen (notably warded to hell and beyond with anti-freezing charms).

And then the light had heated up in his hand, like a Lumos turning into an Incendio, and with a bright flash shot up to the ceiling, where it'd disappeared.

Again, Harry hadn't been concerned, or even creeped out.

(In hindsight, and hindsight was becoming his most mocking friend by then, the sense of calm and even satisfaction had been creepy enough on its own, and the biggest red flag to be ever raised.)

The phenomena repeated itself from there on, and Harry took to it like he'd taken to all other weird occurrences in his life before–bewildered, but too curious to stop it.

It was a known saying that Harry would be killed by his own bloody curiosity one of these days anyway.

(Hermione would pale and gape, and later floo him in a dishevelled state and with a frustrated scowl that said better than any word how her research had gone. Ron, for his part, would first frown in bewilderment at Harry's fond comparison of the Dementors to lapdogs, and at learning about the 'soul incident' look at him, whisper a horrified 'Merlin's dirty knickers' while awkwardly patting his arm, and then carefully avoid any kind of prolonged physical contact with him for a solid week in his freak out. Which, considering they were Aurors and partners, was a pretty impressive effort.)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Harry turns twenty-five, he finally understands. And proceeds to slap himself in the face.

Master, a Dementor says/hisses/moans. Harry isn't even sure what to call that sound. It fits well with the 'creature-straight-from-nightmares' that Dementors are supposed to represent, though. Your Stone.

Harry looks at the offered object with consternation, and bites back the curses.

The Stone of Resurrection. The bloody Stone of Resurrection.

Of course there's also...

Master, Master, another Dementor says, voice sounding somehow...younger, or more childish, of all things. Your Stick.

Stick and stones can hurt my bones, Harry thinks with a suffering sigh, looking at the two objects that, by legend, managed to do much more than hurt some bones.

He'd thought he'd been freed from all that when the war ended.

He'd thought this was all behind and buried ten meters under, next to Dumbledore and the most chaotic memories of his school years (and a great chunk of fifth year. Who was that 'Umbridge bitch', again...?), but apparently Harry had been too optimistic about it.

It explains so much, honestly. In the most screwed-up kind of way.

The Dementors wait expectantly (or, as expectantly as they can ever get) as they extend him the Stone of Resurrection and the Elder Wand.

And that's how the Master of Death learns what his title (and now job) entails.

(Honestly, his life.)