If I Should Die

Disclaimer: All rights reserved belong to J.K. Rowling (for the Harry Potter characters), Yana Toboso (for Kuroshitsuji characters), and to Mitch
Albom (for borrowing Dor). The plot, however, is mine. I am not making money off of this. This is just for fun.

Author's Note: I'll make this as short as possible. This fic is slash. I need a beta, (so excuse the grammatical errors), and plot suggestions, predictions, and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Updates are roughly once every two weeks (or three weeks… probably three weeks, although lately they've been every two weeks).

You readers have been so kind. I'm trying my absolute best to balance my grueling Engineering major (with a Physics minor), and make sure that my fanfiction writing is still moving along without trouble. You reward me with reviews, I reciprocate with updates.

Warning: GRAMMATICALLY FLAWED.

Flashback. Present.

Chapter 9

For as long as Harry could remember, the only upside to his prolonged existence were his abilities, and although he was no Hermione, he knew enough to be grateful for them, due to the dangers of his work.

Harry knew that they were present, not for him to enjoy, but to be practiced. And suppose, he understood. Really he did. The perils of an average day to him were astounding, and unfortunately, he could use all the advantages he could get. Ghouls, the Undead, summonings, demons, deranged individuals parading around as serial killers, (only to turn out to be aspiring necromancers), Harry had seen them all.

But even through the thick of his responsibilities and the weight of realizations with which no human mind could possibly comprehend or carry, he enjoyed his abilities. It was like getting to know his body, mind, and magic all over again – trying to find his limit, only to discover that he hadn't any, or at least any that he was aware of. Yes, his existence was long, but his abilities helped with making him feel what he actually was; Infinite.

And it was astounding that such a mundane event such as this, something that shouldn't even have touched him at all, made him feel for the first time, that he wanted to rid himself of it all.

His Alternate Gaze, Harry mused to himself as he looked to the far wall just behind Ciel's head, had to be the first to go. But alas! He couldn't just switch it off. He could merely enhance it, or turn it down a bit, maybe even use an inanimate object to distract others from noticing it too much, (i.e. his NeverWeather Lenses), but there was no such thing as a pause button.

There was no rest to be had from the painful supernatural reality that was shoved ruthlessly towards Harry's unready mind.

His ever stuttering, weary heart.

Because even with him looking away, Harry could still distinctly see his harsh features occluding the young master's physical attributes completely and absolutely. He even looked an entire head taller.

"You're him, I presume." Sebastian's inquiry sounded fuzzy in the background of Harry's awareness. They'd taken a backseat to the spectacle that were his current thoughts and feelings that's decided to take the wheel for now – hejustwasn'tready – and there was very little else around him that hadn't blurred itself into white noise.

As far as Harry's vision (and all other atoms of his bloody being) were concerned, Ciel wasn't even there at all.

He was.

And Harry wasn't ready.

He just. Wasn't. Ready.

But when had he ever been, really? And was it actually alright for his weak, shit self – you don't deserve him, you never did – to finally feel a little bit of relief? Was his undeserving self – you should've done something then, anything – really allowed to feel that little pinch of longing at the center of his heart, the odd twist in the area behind his bellybutton, much like being tugged along by a portkey, because surely he must have been transported to some other dimension, some other beautiful, lovely place where there existed –

"Draco Malfoy."

Harry didn't know what business he had, whispering the words so reverently, so sweetly, the way that he did then.

But what could be done about it, if he had already done it.

And so Draco was turning his head now, the way that he did those years ago; his fringe first – he'd left it loose towards the end, didn't he? – with his eyebrows drawn low over his furious eyes – they always did look a little angry, even when he felt absolute peace – and HARRY POTTER YOU HAD BETTER NOT LOOK BACK AT–

But of course he had already done it.

And he was just as handsome as Harry remembered.

More, maybe.

Absence had a funny way of going about, messing with your memories. Absence left them altered, filtered through some hazy lens that tricked your gut into believing that the person you remembered in your head was the same one you left behind, the same one Harry was looking at now.

Through that very same haze, Harry felt, more than saw, something that both set him ablaze and left drowning in arctic ice.

He's smiling, Harry thought.

It looked worn down and weary, not much different from the way Harry was feeling now, but it was there, that slightly lopsided involuntary tug of the lips that Draco hated showing off because it wasn't as symmetrical as his smirk, and it was aimed straight at Harry.

Harry's heart clenched because it had been so long, so long since someone had looked at him in the manner that Draco was doing now.

Those stormy eyes that contained a whole world of hurt, a lifetime's worth of sorrow, and more than a million letters' worth of unsaid words, weren't trained on the Master of Death. They weren't locked on the Boy-Who-Lived. They weren't holding the gaze of James's or Lily's son.

They were looking at Harry.

Just Harry.

: : : : : : : : : : Break : : : : : : : : : :

This was wonderful.

It was, really.

Heart sick Grim Reaper over here, had once again reunited with his lost love of a billion years in the form of a child, and isn't that nice? His Master could now be aptly classified as a certified pedophile.

How utterly saccharine, it absolutely melted his ancient demonic bones into molasses horse manure.

It was so nice, that Sebastian could hardly control his good stomach from graciously emptying a nice belly full of upchuck onto the marble floors of the Phantomhive Manor.

They were lucky that he only ate souls. He couldn't cough them up, lest he'd want to risk running this reality down with the undead souls whose contracts he's collected. But he wouldn't do that because then he'd be starving, and he'd have to feed.

Maybe on that Phantomhive swine.

Well, Sebastian mused, eyes roaming the hazy form of the specter disdainfully, that mightn't be such a bad idea after all. It'd rid themselves the trouble that was Draco Dogshit Malfoy.

Sebastian was man enough to admit to himself that he might've embellished the name a tad.

Sebastian coughed, bringing himself out of his reverie. "Master, I believe that questions are in order," he said curtly, hands behind his back. Because as much as he wanted to reach over and just flick the child's neck into an unusual position, thus ridding themselves of this possessed menace, he knew what today's main objective was. Identify the threat. Exterminate it. And if they had time to spare, possess Ciel's Contract, and devour his soul for the sake of Sebastian's ever growing appetite.

Never let it be said, the butler thought to himself with wry amusement, that Sebastian Michaelis was a demon of bad breeding and loyalty.

Because yes, he felt the way that he did towards the unwanted third person in the room, but he just couldn't quite bring himself to obliterate the light that had been missing from his Master's eyes, divine mission be damned.

Sebastian wasn't getting soft; he was just being sensible.

Which, admittedly, for a demon, meant the same thing.

: : : : : : : : : : Break : : : : : : : : : :

They'd been sitting in silence for a little over an hour now. Sebastian stilling into something like a statue looking into the fireplace, while Draco and Harry were seated cross legged on the floor, facing each other.

Sebastian had kept his cold demeanor towards Harry the second they entered the Phantomhive library, and although Harry had half a mind to ask him why, the other half wasn't sure if he was quite ready for the answer the young man would give.

So instead of having to face the hot burn of accusations he'd undoubtedly see in the deep garnet eyes, he situated himself across the shade of silver that had left him intimately frozen for years.

Harry was not the one to break the silence.

"I don't know whether I should congratulate you, or if I should be as horrified as you seem to be," Draco initiated, words slicing through the steadily growing silence.

"On?" Harry prompted, still unsure of himself and the words that might come flying out, should he let them.

"Look at yourself, Harry," Draco said, imploringly, expression unreadable as they roamed Harry's face. "I can hardly recognize you," he finished simply, eyes pained.

Draco's words hurt in ways that Harry couldn't remember ever feeling. What, exactly, was so different about his appearance that Draco seemed so bothered by it?

Sebastian watched Harry turn his hands over in his lap and examine them out of the corner of his eye. He could hardly control his tongue. The Master of Death, brought low to a level of concern by some undead abomination. He didn't know who held most of his ire; the immortal being who ought to be beyond such petty concerns like that of a past lover, or the ghost of a memory come to life for the sole reason of making everything more complicated.

"I hardly think I look that different," Harry rasped out hesitantly, "I'm still… Harry." The 'your Harry,' although left unsaid, was very clearly sent and received. .

And indeed, Harry didn't feel much different, abilities aside. He thought he looked quite regular, if not a bit older than Draco might've remembered him, but still. He figured some semblance of sameness stayed.

It was then that Sebastian cleared his throat, seemingly to say something, looking both parts smug and irritated. Smug because he knew something the other two did not, and irritated because Casper couldn't seem to help but look down his nose at the demon. The young butler shot the specter a glare upon noticing the dismissive sneer the blond threw his way, but otherwise kept his eyes centered on Harry. "He's still a soul, Master. However unnaturally kept from his destination, he sees you differently than he would, had he been alive."

Harry looked back at Draco's general direction, eyebrows raised, and asked with halting speech, "And how do you… see me, exactly?" He didn't know exactly what he meant with that question, whether he was referring to his physical appearance as seen through Draco's eyes, or as his… something else.

Draco turned his piercing gaze on him, silver eyes blazing with something that looked too close to disappointment, that Harry had to look away. "You're different Harry," Draco whispered lowly, "The Hallows are all over you, love. You stink of them."

The endearment "love" was said mockingly, making Harry internally flinch, but he calmed his building fury into something cold and precise, centered straight on his spine. Let his emotions be converted to something useful. Harry'll not have Draco seeing him cower because of a few choice words.

Yes. And I supposed you go about making it your business to sniff magical artifacts, Sebastian thought sarcastically.

"All strong magical being smell of something," Harry replied evenly, resolve solidifying, "That aside, you can't have expected me to have remained the same, considering the circumstances that took place before I was called to leave."

Draco chuckled low and ugly in his throat, shaking his head. "'Before you were called to leave', he says." His features contort to accommodate for the grotesque feelings he's about to let loose, Harry was sure. "You couldn't have been bothered to have left a note? Couldn't have sent a patronous saying, oh well, I don't know, I'm fucking leaving all your bleeding dead weight behind?!" Draco roared, hands clenched at his sides.

Harry sat, stiff as stone, and just as silent. He had nothing to say. He understood where Draco was coming from, he did, but saying so wouldn't do either of them any good. He had been nineteen before he left, though he felt far from it; the morale in state of affairs between muggle friendly magical folk and the purebloods were at an all-time low.

They had looked to him for leadership, for guidance, completely and absolutely. He tried to either steer clear of Ministry Officials all together, and on the rare occasion that he was confronted, he had done his best to try and ease the ill view the public had of the pureblood. It didn't do much good. Any instance he tried to be sensible about the treatment of the family members, either closely or loosely related to death eaters, there was a public uproar. They thought that because Harry wasn't all for putting all purebloods to death, it meant that he was in full support of blood purity. That he was the next coming Dark Lord.

He was always in the public eye. Someone was going to notice. While everyone else was aging, he was not.

If he couldn't sway the public into being reasonable about someone's blood status (that they obviously had no control over), how did he expect them to take into stride that he achieved what the Dark Lord could not? And surely, Draco remembered how Harry's closest friends, whom he's trusted with the entire wizarding Britain's lives on more than one occasion, as well as his own, reacted to hearing about Harry and Draco's... affiliation.

And what? Was he supposed to just pen out a nice little postage stating, "Dear Ron and Hermione, along with dating the youngest maelstrom Malfoy, I can also no longer die. Thanks for the mostly good times where you were decent friends, and I hope you grow old to be not as large arses that you are now, only to die a wrinkled permanent death that I will personally oversee. Goodbye." The idea was preposterous.

Harry knew he didn't make the best decision then, hell, but he knew it was the right one now. The right end, at the very least, even though it wasn't achieved by the best means. For the greater good, because damn it all! Harry knew intimately that he did have a decent teacher when it came to matters like that.

So he left.

Harry turned to Sebastian, just in time to see the young man give a slow blink. The apathy that was so clearly painted on the demon's face helped ease Harry's tense shoulders. Surely, given enough time, eons, probably, that he would eventually be as unaffected as Sebastian was to such a grave set of events?

Or maybe he'd always be like this, forever caught in the storm of silver who's center of calm will eternally be out of his reach?

Harry let out a miniscule sigh. This was supposed to just be business.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked evenly. The insufficient reaction from the previously said words had Draco slumping to his usual impeccable stance, though Harry could see that his eyes weren't as unaffected as the rest of Draco's body language might have someone think.

"You must know we searched for you, Harry." Harry did not, in fact, know that. The events must have fallen during the time frame when the other Masters taught him how to become one of them. "The perfect prodigal Potter loved and missed by all, intimately known by few, who trusted no one," Draco whispered mockingly, "Everyone looked for you. Everyone." The last word was said brokenly, sadly.

Everyone meant Draco, too, had been searching. Harry looked on steadily, though he felt the age in his bones begin to show. He felt heavier. That's what aging was said to do. That didn't make much sense because Harry simply couldn't get any older, but with this news, he suddenly felt older than Time.

"And that muggleborn friend of yours," Draco continued, "I always knew she was clever." Harry nodded in agreement. Where was this going? "And I suppose I can't be too surprised that you three always made it out alive every time, somehow. Even through the most difficult situations, you three were always barely scathed." Draco paused, switching his stance, and running his fingers through his hair. "Well, I know why now." Draco trailed off, staring at the far wall, refusing to look at Harry. "When that Granger girl gets desperate, she isn't just clever. She can be cruel."

Draco finally looked at Harry, eyes imploring for Harry to understand the words that were left unsaid, that he didn't want to say. Why? Was it horrible? Couldn't possibly be, it was Hermione. Harry looked on blankly, confused. What'd Hermione have to do with all this? Bushy haired, brilliant Hermione.

Sebastian cleared his throat, a quick cough behind a gloved hand. "Master," he said, voice low, "if I may?"

Harry's quick glance towards Draco's brisk nod revealed that the specter was just grateful for having been relieved of finishing the explanation. Harry gave a silent affirmative to Sebastian, and watched with cautious eyes as the butler opened his mouth to continue.

"Your Hermione, she's the one that did this to him," Sebastian finished, walking towards Draco's side to gesture at his overall hazy appearance.

Both onlookers saw Harry devoid of any reaction.

There must be some mistake.

"Your friend," Sebastian repeated, making a motion with his hands that gathered a faint red glow between his fingertips, "did all this." The butler then flicked his fingertips, and with a groan coming from billions of broken voices from some unknown source, dust and dirt came cracking through Draco's appearance.

Harry's eyes widened in horror – notreadyNotReadyNOTREADY – but Draco looked calmly back, sad.

That was all that was left. He didn't look angry. He just looked sad.

Odd translucent layers started to peel with the setting dust and smoke, and slowly Draco began to age all his years in front of Harry's eyes. Layer by layer, Draco seemed to be skinned until all that was left was the weathered paper remains of a man who's seen life in its ugliest shades.

But isn't that what happened, though? To all of them?

"How…" Harry whispered, watching as Draco's image flickered in and out of focus to reveal the anguished open mouth expression of the Phantomhive heir. His eyes were still wide open. They were slightly pink. The child, too was in pain. Everyone was hurting right now, and Harry needed to pull himself together. "How old were you when she…" Harry trailed off, still quite unsure. Hermione? His Hermione?

There must be some mistake.

Draco's cracked wrinkled lips did not move, but they tilted upwards in his usual smirk, as if reading the foolish denial in Harry's eyes. Sardonic and pitying, he whispered the reply of the age of which he had last seen life. "Twenty-two."

No.

Maybe ninety something in mortal standards, but they were wizards. So, what, maybe three hundred or so years? But not twenty-two.

There must be some mistake.

And with a gust of wind as dry as the desert, the image faded completely, leaving behind a crumpled child who fell to his knees.

Instinctively, Harry opened his arms, knowing somehow, that Ciel would come running brokenly towards him. For whatever reason, Harry had yet to figure.

Sebastian silently glided out of the library, probably to gather more biscuits and hot drinks, leaving Harry's arms full of a shivering, frightened, crying child and a lone thought ringing clear and loud between his ears;

There must be some mistake.

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