Champion before the challenge.

Summary: Long before the Deathly Hallows were gathered, Death had chosen his champion. Ironically, out of boredom, and with every intention of taking his life one day. A game of sorts, a joke for a Human child who managed to 'slip' through death's grip over and over.

Death, unwittingly, had chosen his champion long before the deathly hallows came into play. Long before Harry had notions of his purpose, and long before Voldermort was even a thought.

Death, by virtue of their character was a bored existence. An existence of everlasting toil, of hard work, and harder work still.

It was thankless for the most part, and it was enduring. Death did not dislike its (quote, unquote) life. It had but could not remember a time before, and there would not be a time after. Once death was no more, there would be no more life. It was truly as simple as that.

The Peverell were an odd trio of brothers, so brilliant in their minds and magics.

SO bold too, as so few were when faced with their early demise.

Death played their game, allowed them his tools. His Hallows, and he enjoyed their run.

He especially enjoyed the company of young Ignotus Peverell. Such a cunning thing, for all his brothers' insistence that their youngest was but a wimp who could not face Death even after besting him. But no, Ignotus was the most cunning. He was the one to know Death, knew that tormenting it was no wise.

It was this cunning, this deep understanding, this humbling command of magics and wit that allowed Ignotus to live so much longer than his brothers.

Death would admit, that Ignotus gave him pause in thoughts of human cunning, and their power. When faced with millennia of cowering, sobbing, broken souls, Death had becoming so dulled to their colours. Even the magic users were dull though they sparkled against Death's cloak, and yet young Ignotus had relit that spark.

Oh people thought the cloak hid Ignotus, and it did in a way, but the cloak was a part of Death's soul, he would always be able to find it.

And so Death followed Ignotus around through his life, awed and inspired by the feats of magic, of prowess; of the wit that won him the cloak in the first place. But mostly of power and control and humbler love for his family.

And when Ignotus gave onto his child the cloak of invisibility, Death allowed the Peverell family to pass on the legend of its power to hide death. Ignotus had given Death many many years of interesting conversation, and observation. Death was busy everlastingly, he could spare one family their short human lives.

But with Ignotus, his dearest friend, in his arms and away to the next adventure of after-life, Death forgot about the Peverell family. He forgot their triumphs of death, indeed forgot that his cloak had ever been more than it was.

He forgot about the bloodline that held the first 'master' of a Deathly Hallow; in fact Death forgot that, by right of blood, Ignotus Peverell's family were the only masters left.

Death thought naught about this though, for many years passed and he met not one human or magic user whom compared to Ignotus in wit or prowess.

And so Death forgot about his champion, for his champion never collected the Hallows, and never completed the contract that Death so unwittingly created.

Then, a Halloween night many many centuries later, Death appeared on the second floor of a cozy home.

His job was so rarely interesting. Yet here, a great curiosity (even to Death) had taken place. Such a mess: death magic, and life magic.

And a young child.

Death looked upon the sobbing babe and grinned a little to himself. Yes, they thought, he would be the perfect master, I should name him my champion. His life is marked now, and I will have many chances to watch him struggle.

But Death had duties, and his sick little pleasure was gone with the call to another sorry soul. He would forget about Harry, in many ways, having not entirely been serious about the child's destiny. He had been joking, see, Harry was cursed now, the vessel of a soul, eating away at his own. It was a great irony to call him death's champion for simply surviving Avada Kedavra.

No, Death knew of the boy's destiny. It was preordained. It was written in his book for just seventeen years down the road. Though, there were so many branches at this point too. SO many chances for Death to snatch him away.

And maybe he'd have fun with this one.

But Death left without another thought. Perhaps he should have thought upon his strange promise.

For Harry could see him, new to life and new to Death. Young Harry Potter stared where the figure of cold and power had stood, had taken his mother away and blinked his screeches away.

Perhaps had Death looked more closely, he would have seen the Peverell wit and power churning in the young boy's core, and would have been more careful with his words.

The war was a busy one, wizards and witches always took more effort to separate soul and core from body upon death. So Death was distracted, ignoring the pathetic battles and spats between humans.

So he didn't notice the way his Hallows switched hands and slowly drew together.

None before had attempted to bring the Hallows together, none had the prowess or forethought to imagine the legend true.

But in one era, two believed the legend. A Potter of the Peverell line who believed in fear of another's faith. A Riddle of the Slytherin line, who believed because a fear of the Hallow's creator and a drive for the immortality promised.

Both Wizards were unknowing of the truth behind Death's deal, that there was never a Master of Death. That the eldest brother spewed those stories in desperation to be spared when his wand was taken, and madness when his own power was overwhelmed by the wand's own.

Death did not correct them, it was not their place.

In some ways Death was curious as to what would happen should his Hallows be reunited, brought together for the first time since their creation and since the Peverell line returned to dust.

Death felt it as soon as it happened and a great fury rolled over him.

His Hallows had been united.

Death's Hallows had been united under one young man, one drenched in death. A Peverell.

Death could feel the books changing, just a few hours before the boy was to die, before he was to become a man even.

Death watched the lines change, watched the boy's true name fall away in black ink as the golden ink of an immortal wove through his name.

The Master of Death had been born, and Death did not know it even possible.

Death had not claimed a champion, and if this legend were true it was only true on Death's word and choice. Yet there it was written in stars and the shattering of the prophet surrounding the infuriating child who had slipped passed him so often.

And then he though.

Death thought and he laughed hollowly in a way he had not in all remembrance.

A Peverell had united the Hallows.

The Boy-who-lived; the Man-who-conquered; the Master-that-would-ever-live. A child, Death had joked could never die, was his champion or likewise. A joke.

"…either must die at the hand of the other…" The boy had been a vessel for a decaying soul, and had lived despite being killed. They were to die together or not at all. The Dark Lord's o0nly wish was to live forever and he would have succeeded had he simply let the boy live…or succeeded in killing him for a third time. And yet the Lord had failed and the Boy prevailed.

A Prophecy was only active if acted upon and both Death and the Dark Lord had ensured the writing of Potter's life in stone with their actions.

Death watched with grit teeth, with closed eyes and a sighing back. He watched as the boy appeared in his domain, and it was testament to the boy's blood, to his power, to his wit that he didn't falter or question, that he simply stood and waited for acknowledgement.

The Peverell line were always made to be his masters, the first to create and hold the Hallows. The first to turn it down.

Now the last son, the last true Peverell ever to be born, had reunited them. Given them back to Death. Greeted Death as a friend, yet avoided him all along.

It was ironic. Death chose the Peverell's, honouring them as equal to itself. Death chose Harry, a twisted humour developing in him because of a cursed child.

"Welcome, Master."

"Good evening, Death."