Harry Potter And The Master Of Death

[One-Shot]

Knock Knock, Who's There? Death!

Forewarning: This is a rewrite, not a continuation; still jumpy.

Souls streaked everywhere, lighting the darkness with their bright illumination of prismatic colors. Here and there, they streamed everywhere within the realm of the dead. It was a sign of death - that death had taken lives, that death still existed, and that death kept balance within the chaos.

All things died but they may not necessarily face death. That is why souls come here, to this realm, waiting for the time of finality where they are to move on from their current existence. That is the purpose here: for all souls to eventually face a true death.

There was no exceptions to this rule, not even to the one called the Master Of Death.

And so he watched from his throne. To the souls flowing endlessly in and out of his domain, to his loyal keepers upholding the ways of death, to the sands of times that ticked ever onward... The Master Of Death smiled, the hour-glass besides him was almost completely empty. He released an amused chuckle and rose from his seat. All heads turned towards him. Leaning back onto his throne, fingers entwined, he made one last sweeping gaze of his wonderful domain and then slowly closed his ancient eyes.

Just like that, the Master Of Death had silently vanished without a trace, as though he had never even existed.

Quickly and quietly, he was beyond them all now; he had finally met his death.

The eyes of the many keepers lingered on the empty throne. Though their profession revolved around death, they did not revel in it, they had merely accepted it as a natural course. The keepers were still mortal like any other and death could always still be a very emotional affair for them. Wordlessly, they slowly returned to their work and departed elsewhere for their duties.

One keeper, however, was interrupted from leaving.

This peculiar keeper was certainly an oddity amongst her fellow keepers. Many Keepers Of Death were either born, created, or chosen for this role. But this one had the strangest of luck to have been accidentally become a keeper all on her own. In a manner of speaking, it could be said that fate had an eye on her... and she believed it too.

That's why she clicked her tongue when she saw the Symbol Of Death floating behind her. Even before she had become a Keeper Of Death - in official capacity or not - unordinary things always seemed to happened a lot around her. "How troublesome..." she muttered to herself. "Come on then," she said to her new partner as it shifted into a scythe and she took it into her hand, "I expect something new to happen within the hour."

Her words proved true when a different entity had no later entered her domain.

The new Master Of Death made a disgusted face as she felt a headache coming. Within the realm of the dead, there was little difference between being the Master or a Keeper. But, within the greater community, being the Master Of Death meant being in a position of higher-rank and that came with being involved with the other players.

The visitor greeted her rather cheerfully, "Hello, hello! Congratulations on your promotion, Miss Master Of Death! Do you mind if I call you Miss MOD? Miss Master Of Death is a bit of a mouthful."

"No," she responded sharply and placed a hand on her hip. She really wasn't in the mood to deal with him, "And if you don't want to have to address me by my formal title, you will skip the pleasantries and state your business."

The guest was fast to clear his throat. "Oh, well, right then, to business. Um, my boss, the Master Of Fate, said she had a proposition for you. She wants your help with a little experiment."

She looked at him with a curiously raised brow. "An experiment? Of what kind?"

"Well, I don't know the full details but it would involve you acting as a guardian ange-"

"Hold it; your boss wants me, the Master Of Death, to babysit someone?"

"If you put it that way... Y-"

"No," she scowled, "I refuse."

"But-"

"No buts," she turned around in a dismissing manner, "In case your boss forgot, I am also a Master. Not only do I have some important matters to take care of now, we're not allowed to descend into the lower realms for anything short of a cataclysmic disaster. Tell the Master Of Fate to find someone else to play alo-OUCH!" A sound - a voice - struck her very being and she gripped her head in slight pain. "BLOODY HELL!"

The visitor made a very worried face, "Ah, are you alright?!"

"More or less," the Master Of Death winced as she rubbed her forehead.

"Was that..."

"Yes, that was my boss."

"Oh, um, did it...?"

She frowned at him, "No, no one needs to die today," and briefly paused, "You can tell the Master Of Fate that I'll be play her game."

The visitor's expression brightened up all at once, "You'll participate in the experiment? Truly?"

She scowled at him again, "Don't make me repeat myself."

"Right, I'll tell her right away!" He waved good-bye, "If you'll excuse me!"

With a quiet fwoosh, her guest readily jumped back to his home territory.

With no one else around to watch her, the Master Of Death covered her face and grumbled at her scythe, "I blame you for this."

[...]

Voldemort was many things: a Dark Wizard whose name is whispered in the shadow, a Lord who struck awe and terror within Britain's Wizarding Community, a charismatic man with followers who lived or died at his merest whims. He supported the pureblood agenda, his agents were slowly infiltrating the government and controlling it, he was such a powerful wizard that even the great Albus Dumbledore was not assured victory against him. Those who have met him would call him an entity beyond simple men.

But Voldemort was not a person driven truly by ambition.

No, it was fear at his own mortality that drove and frightened him.

What use was fame, or power, or dominance, or anything else, be worth if it would all disappear upon his death? He did not want to become a mere footnote in history - that was completely unacceptable! He wanted to become legendary, the everlasting ruler of all magicals who had conquered even death itself!

And yet it took little more than the words of a seer to rattle him with dreadful fright.

'...The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...'

A cold pressure had gripped his heart.

All that he had achieved was doomed to failure because of a mere prophecy? No! He is Lord Voldemort and he will not allow some hackneyed seer to decide his fate!

And so he searched and searched and searched for the child who would play a part in his future demise and narrowed it down to two: the baby Potter or the baby Longbottom. No, perhaps that was a bit incorrect. Why did it have to be either the Potter or the Longbottom? Why not just kill them both! But who first? Potter then Longbottom or Longbottom then Potter?

It did not take long for Voldemort to choose that he wanted to make an example of the Potters first.

The family was hiding out near the outskirts of Godric's Hollow, safely protected by the Fidelius Charm. Clever, but not clever enough, for their secret was out.

The Dark Wizard licked his lips as he quietly set up the anti-apparition wards around the cottage. Soon the hunt would begin and those defiant Potters would no longer be a pesky thorn in his side.

Voldemort's entrance into the household was loud and flashy. Hexes blasted through the living room window and scattered the surprised family; James Potter hid low against the barrage as he grasped for his wand, while his wife ran upstairs to protect their child when their floo had failed to work. Soon enough the wall was blown apart and Voldemort strolled in to continue his torrent of dangerous but not completely deadly spells.

Oh, no, he wouldn't make this too simple for them and end it so quickly - he would play around with them first and remind them why he was the darkest wizard of their time.

The two men traded spells with one another, James on the meager defense and Voldemort on the cruel offense. Flashes and bolts of various colors zipped and zoomed at the battling participants with destruction eager to follow their trail.

James felt that the fight had dragged on for hours but in truth it had only been a sparse few minutes since their had duel begun. But Voldemort was a busy man and - as much fun as it was - he could not waste too much time fooling around with his frantic prey. An eerie green glowed at the tip of the dark wizard's wand and James knew that Voldemort was now getting serious.

As Voldemort destroyed the last sizable object that offered decent coverage, James was forced to roll away and expose himself out in the open. He tried to quickly let loose a stunning charm but the debris from his shelves had pummeled him from above just as he was uncurling from his roll. His concentration was broken and his aim went askew.

The Dark Lord kept in his chuckle as the Potter's spell missed him by a wide margin. A quick disarm and the man was rendered useless without his wand. A fast banish then sent the man hurtling towards what remained of the living-room wall in blunt pain.

Voldemort strode forward and jabbed his wand just an inch away from the Potter's forehead, wand glowing green, as he held the killing curse on the tip of his tongue. He stilled his beating heart and watched with utter glee as James Potter's visage morphed into that of pure terror and despair. Yes, such panic! Such fear! This was the moment he was waiting for!

The sound had barely left his mouth before the dark wizard felt himself grabbed by the back of his cloak and then thrown away like some cheap rag-doll. In a fluid movement, Voldemort swiftly responded and pushed himself off the floor, wand snapping toward the person who had managed to somehow both sneak up and interrupt him.

The newcomer was dressed in the darkest black that Voldemort had ever seen - so dark that it was akin to a shadow coming to life. He could make no discernible features about their face since it was hidden perfectly beneath their hood. None except for the eyes... those burning avada-kedavra-green eyes that peeked out from the abyss and sent a shiver down his spine.

Fear was quick to be flee from Voldemort as he forcibly clamped down on his emotions. The logical part of his mind noted that he had played around with the Potters for far too long as the first of their rescuers had just now arrived. There was no more time to waste, he needed to kill the Potters before the rest of the Order - and especially that accursed Dumbledore - could arrive.

With practiced ease, Voldemort silently expelled a killing curse towards the newcomer before flicking his wand to James Potter and unleashing a second bolt. With no time to marvel at their corpses, he turned around and gave chase for the remaining Potter and her child.

At least, that was the plan before it was shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Leaving so soon?"

A taunting female voice called out for from behind him. The Dark Lord could scarcely believe that he had somehow missed and twirled as he fire another killing curse. What he saw next absolutely shocked him to his core. She had caught the killing curse with her the tip of her finger. No, judging by the size of the bolt, she had caught all three of them! Voldemort did not even have time to properly react as she childishly flicked the spell back at him.

"Catch!"

Voldemort's world exploded. Pain incomparable and unimaginable flooded his body as he was being flayed alive layer-by-layer, his iron-clad will broke, and his unfocused mind could not tolerant the levels of damage assaulting his senses all at once. For the first time, Voldemort felt what it was like to die as his soul was forcibly torn from his mortal flesh - his body destroyed without a shred.

However, Voldemort's unstable and sinful soul managed to survive the process. It began to drift far away from the cottage, far away from Godric's Hollow, far away from magical society to seek shelter.

But the Dark Lord's soul had also left behind a little gift: a very fragile piece of his soul had splintered apart and sought refuge to recover. It could not enter the Master Of Death, nor James or Lily Potter... But the young Harry had no proper defense to refuse it entrance.

But what that tiny soul did not expect was its own fragility. Upon entering the soul of the young Potter, it squirmed as an unknown pressure began to squeeze all around it. If it had a conscious thought then it would have realized that it was simply too weak, an incomplete soul that was further wrecked by three killing curses - of course even the weight of a baby's soul was now too much for it to endure. Instead of feasting on Harry's soul to survive, Harry's soul had absorbed the foreign entity and grew stronger from it.

James Potter could only gape in astonishment at what his savior had done. By the time he had thrown away his disbelief, James found himself mysteriously sitting on his favorite armchair - living room completely fixed - with his guest sitting in the seat opposite of him.

"Who are you?" he finally scrounged up the voice to ask.

Though he could not see it, he swore that she had smiled under that hood of hers.

"Have you heard of the Tale Of The Three Brothers?"

James tilted his head, "The fairy-tale from Beedle The Bard? I... yes, I know the story."

"Good, that makes things simple," she replied as she cheerfully rose from her seat. Her pitch-black form began to shift and change, she grew three times her size, the swirling darkness around her transformed into fabric - tattered and transparent, skin and muscle peeled away to reveal pearl-white bones, and massive wings unfolded from the back to envelope the entire room.

Its inhuman neck creaked and cracked as it elongated like a twisting serpent. The skull stretched unbearably close to Jame's horrified face and it's killing green eyes boring into his own. It slowly opened its jaws and a sudden chill descended upon him.

"I am Death."

[...]

Sirius wasn't quite sure what to expect as he stepped out of the fireplace. His best pal had been rather distressed when they talked over the floo and had claimed that it was urgent. Now that Sirius was meeting face-to-face with him, he could tell that Prongs was clearly troubled over something.

"James, what's the matter?"

"It's... It's Peter, Sirius... He..."

Sirius frowned at the mentioned of their secret keeper. "Peter? What's up with Peter?" His frown deepened, "James..." he asked suspiciously, "What did he do? What in Merlin did Peter do?"

"He..."

"Out with it, James!"

Prongs' hands clenched down hard onto his best friend's shoulders, "He betrayed us, Sirius! He gave us up to Voldemort and went dark!"

Black blinked his eyes in surprise before retorting, "Are you serious, James?! Peter - that Peter, our Peter - turned dark? He was Marauder! Yeah, he was always the most cowardly of us but he was Marauder nonetheless; he's one of us!"

Potter glumly nodded his head. "I know, Sirius, but I can't think of any other way for Voldemort to have found my house. Not while we should have been protected by the Fidelius Charm..."

Sirius gave up his defense of Peter all too quickly. His mind was, if anything, capable of looking at things logically even while under stress or sudden surprise and he knew subconsciously - or perhaps instinctively - that there were little breadcrumb clues that Peter had turned traitor. He closed his mouth and looked around the house. The place was awfully quiet. His eyes widened slightly, "James... where's Lil? Where's Harry?"

"No, no, heaven's no! It's not what you think, Sirius. They're both fine, they're both upstairs trying to get some sleep."

"Oh." Sirius placed a hand on his forehead, feet stumbling lightly back. "Bloody hell! You said Voldemort knew and you looked so... Merlin, don't scare me like that, James!" He cleared his head with a quick shake and straightened himself up, "And, Peter, he... I'll... No, we, us, we'll find him James, but not now. If Voldemort knows then this place isn't safe anymore; first things first, we have to get you and your family out of here!"

A new voice chose to enter at that moment.

"That's already been taken care of, Mister Black."

Sirius turned towards the doorway that led into the dining room and found a stranger dressed in black leaning casually on it. She was a young woman, probably no older than twenty, with messy black hair framing her face. Her hair was tied into fairly thick but flowing pony-tail, which was unbelievably long seeing as a bundle of it rested by her feet. She looked oddly familiar. But what caught his attention immediately were those gems-like eyes that unnerved him with their subtle predatory gleam.

"James, who's this?"

The man apparently lost his voice trying to find an answer to that question; he looked plain flabbergasted and became just a tone paler than before.

The woman then chuckled, privy only to a joke that she knew. She pushed out of the dining room and into the living room, a cheerful grace to her step, as she stood looking up to him with a hand on her chin. "I was thinking of calling myself 'Grim' but I believe that is more fitting for you, Mister Black. So you can just call me 'Cypress'."

Sirius narrowed his eyes, he didn't quite like what she was implying with her mention of Grim. "Really? So you're going to name yourself after a tree?"

"Is that a bother to you, Mister Dog Star?" She grinned cheekily at him.

He made a wry face. 'I walked into that one...' And then took in a deep breath through his nostrils, "Alright, Cypress then, what are you doing here?" He paused to think, "Actually, what did you mean that the problem was already taken care of? How exactly are James, Lil, and Little Harry safe now?"

"Well, you can ask Mister Potter about that," she circled around them, a thin smile on her lips, eyes trained on Sirius before moving onto James, "Speaking of, I left a gift for the two you in the dining room. I'm sure you'll recognize him quite well, he was always a tad ratty like his nickname."

Sirius caught on well enough and rushed towards the kitchen, listening no more to the stranger's words. He didn't hear her parting words of 'as harmless as a squib now' nor the fact that she had quickly vanished from the residence without a magical trace.

Black found a somewhat pudgy man who was heavily bounded to a chair. The person was shivering in fear, eyes unfocused, sweat soaking into his ragged and worn clothes, mumbling words that couldn't be heard. His arms were tied up an over his head and his sleeves were rolled down to expose his bare flesh... or what should have been perfectly clean.

For, easily recognizable, on Peter Pettigrew's left forearm was a serpent slithering out the mouth of a human skull.

Sirius clenched his fists and roared. He hands lashing out to grip the man's collars.

"WORMTAIL!"

[...]

"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered to his rather unique guest as a way to break the ice. He was politely declined and the old wizard merely nodded his head at the refusal. Clasping his hands together, Albus Dumbledore wasn't entirely sure what to make of his guest - the one who had saved both the Potters and the Longbottoms.

She looked fairly normal - in fact, Albus noted, she bore some resemblance to Lily Evans Potter - but there was an inhuman quality to her. Especially those piercing green eyes that seemed to gaze upon one's soul - which was more than likely true.

The young lady called herself Cypress... No doubt she was referring to the Cupressus Sempervirens - the Evergreen or Graveyard Cypress in some cases - a tree that was often associated with death and the underworld since the times of old. Very fitting, considering her profession of a psychopomp.

She had - strangely enough - explained the structures of the afterlife, identified herself as something called a Keeper Of The Dead - apparently the closest thing to Death that beings would meet on this side of their Beyond, and even went off-tangent when she rambled on about the tales of the Brother Peverells being made of half-truths.

It was all rather brief and vague but Dumbledore had understood the gist of it.

The old wizard cleared his throat, a small cough into his hand, "Well, Miss Cypress, that is all very fascinating to learn but to what pleasure do I owe this visit? You do not seem to be here to spirit someone away. That is, heavens, unless I'm not as spry as I think I am."

The reaper chuckled as she crossed her legs, "Oh, no worries there, Dumbledore, you're still as lively as a wizard can be at your age." She clearly fiddled around with a small piece of jewelry on her hand, "Not unless you have the sudden urge to put on an obviously cursed ring, of course. Do you?"

Albus kept his grimace from showing, "No, I don't believe I have the specific nor sudden urge, Miss Cypress."

Her eyes watched him momentarily before she continued speaking. "As to why I'm here... 'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...' Who do you think that is? Choose carefully."

And Dumbledore did choose his next words carefully. "If I am not wrong, then I do believe that the prophecy is referring to young Harry James Potter."

"Indeed," her face was calm but her voice contained obvious disdain - though for what, Albus couldn't tell, "Fate has taken an interest in Harry Potter and Voldemort... You see, the two are destined to fight and kill the other." Her eyes turned sharp, "Thus, this is my first warning to you: Voldemort lives; between the boundary of that which you know as life and death, Voldemort survives as a meager shadow of his former self. But make no mistake, he will return and with him he will bring war."

"I see," Dumbledore looked down onto his desk, a shadow falling onto his face, "Then it is as I feared..."

"That fear of yours is correct," she answered with a snort, "Voldemort has successfully split his soul; unless you destroy all of his Horcruxes then he will remain forever bounded to this earth."

The old wizard shook his head in disappointment, "I had suspected as such, but to think that someone as bright as him has gone as far as this to gain immortality."

"Is it really, Dumbledore? History has shown us that the fear of death or the prize of eternal life - the power over life and death - has driven many of great men to depravity before... After all, even you just happened to quit earlier than most." Dumbledore was startled, his reaction was no different than having a knife twisted in his guts.

Cypress granted him a short moment of peace to regain his composure, a cold silence filling the room, before she carried on.

"And this is my second warning to you."

She leaned forward and declared in a hiss, "Harry Potter is mines!" her eyes burned with such power that they demanded the wizard's full attention - to even blink for a moment was to die. "War is coming and he will be ready to fight in it." Light disappeared as the shadows engulfed everything in the room. "But do not think nor believe even for an instant that he is your Warrior Of Light or instrument for the Greater Good!" An overwhelming stench of rot swallowed up the very air. "You will do as you must to prepare for this war but this line shall not be crossed! Cheat me and I shall visit upon you suffering beyond your meager comprehension." The very fabrics of reality became distorted all around her, twisting and churning, horrors clawed and thrashed beneath the veil - just begging to be released. Even the wizard's familiar, an immortal phoenix, trembled in primal fear. "Do I make myself clear, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore was only able to nod his head numbly, unable to trust that his voice not falter.

Time seemingly stopped for an instance, as if the world finally realized that something was amiss, and everything returned back to normal. Memories being the only evidence about what had even occurred in this room.

The psychopomp scrutinized him for a second longer before she calmly rose from her seat. "Good," she pulled up her hood, hiding her face once more, and gave a polite nod, "Then may you live a fulfilling life and die a peaceful death."

With a dramatic flutter of her cloak, she disappeared from his office.

[...]

"Come now, My Little Hare, I taught you better than that!"

"Lancea Sagittae! Lancea Sagittae!"

A barrage of spells between the black-clad woman and the raven-haired boy filled in the space between them. The two of them weaved and waved their wands like conductors orchestrating a grand and masterful symphony. Their identical shade of green-eyes glowed with surging power as they drew mana from the depths of their core.

"Lancea Sagittae! Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy! Lancea Sagittae!"

Harry's magical projectiles countered their opposite or splashed harmlessly over his aunt's instantaneous barrier. She stood in one spot, unmoving with a taunting smile, blasting away at him until he either found a way to win and slip through her defenses or he lost the magical and physical energy to keep fighting.

The entire backyard of the Pottage Cottage was their battlefield and Harry never kept himself still for long. Defense was not his specialty, his aunt was too overwhelming and he had to keep himself moving - keep himself on the offensive, always attacking, always counterattacking, never an opportunity to miss. It was a losing battle but a fun one nonetheless. A smirk was on his face. The thrill of the fight, the adrenaline of the challenge, the tingling sensation of his magic surging within his body, was all simply too exciting.

That is why Harry wasn't all too surprising at the sudden end of the fight.

The oldest trick in the book: levitating a stone to make him trip up. The airs in his lungs was knocked right out as her dense bolt struck him square in the chest and sent him flying.

Harry just laid on the floor, not even bothering to put up any more of a fight. The sound of snapping fingers soon reached his ear and he knew that his aunt had just cast her strange brand of magic, wordlessly cleaning him up and repairing the backyard with something that didn't quite feel like magic but couldn't be explained as anything but. He rolled onto his back, the gentle breeze brushing over him and cooling his boiling blood, as he breathed rhythmically and calmly.

The weather was very nice.

"I agree." His aunt spoke as though she had read his mind. Lazily she relaxed herself on the blade of her upside-down scythe, enjoying the modest sunlight with her nephew.

Harry slowly closed his eyes and asked tiredly, "Tell me a story, Auntie Cy."

The woman hummed, "A story, huh? I've told you just about every story I know..."

The boy opened his eyes and turned his head, "Really?"

She snickered, "Well, there was one story I was saving but it's awfully long. You could write seven books about it!"

"What's it called?"

"The Adventures Of The Girl Who Lived." Harry made a sound of amazement as he sat up and crossed his legs, giving her his full attention while he eagerly waited for her to continue. She smirked, clapped her hands, and a swirl of magic began to display whimsical images, "Once upon a time, there was a little girl who conquered death."

Over time, finishing just a few day before his eleventh-birthday, she told him the fantastical tales about the Girl Who Lived and her arch-rival Marvelous Riddle. She told about their trials for the Elixir Of Immortality, the battle deep underground with the Hidden Serpent, the release of the horde of Soul Stealers, the dangerous but exciting Adventurer's Tournament, the mysterious Guild Of Fire Birds, the conflicted Prince Of Poison, and their final grand fight over the mythical Phantasmal Tolls.

But there was still just one more tale left to tell, one more story that she had kept last.

Alone in the small hut that sat in the backyard, Harry's aunt hugged him tightly.

"Happy birthday and congratulations, My Little Hare!"

"But my birthday is tomorrow, Auntie Cy! Did you need something? You know Mums and Dad don't like it when I stay awake past my bedtime."

The woman laughed it off and let him go. "Don't you want to hear the ending to The Adventures Of The Girl Who Lived? I've been saving up just for tonight, you know?"

With childish wonder, Harry's eyes widen with an openly gaping mouth. "There's more? Yes, Auntie Cy, I want to hear it! Please tell me!"

She smiled as she sat him down, the fireplace softly crackling in the background, and spoke in a melodic voice.

"Many years after the defeat of the Marvelous Riddle, the Girl Who Lived had discovered that she had been thrice cursed from the Phantasmal Tolls. She sought for a cure and eventually happened upon an eerie river with water as dark as night. She summoned the master of the river and the spirit rose up from the depths.

She was not happy with the Spirit and its curses. And it wasn't happy with the Girl for destroying its Tolls.

'Give me your soul,' it demanded.

'No,' she answered.

For four days and nights, they whittled the others' life-force away with magic so terrible that they could make a demon tremble in fear! They were both powerful and evenly matched in spell-for-spell... But the Girl was only human; she was the first to tire out and so also the first to make a mistake. Soon she found herself wandless and drained, rendered helpless, as a fatal spell flew towards her. In that moment, she thought about how this adventure started: all because of those accursed Tolls. The Girl closed her eyes and waited for the end to come...

But then luck shined upon her and a miracle happened.

The Phantasmal Tolls that she destroyed had actually attached themselves to her soul and considered her their true master! Shielding her from the brunt of the damage, the fatal spell was reflected back to the Spirit - a shining light signaled its banishment from the mortal planes!

With the Spirit gone, the Girl's curses were instantly removed.

Thrice cursed with death, yet thrice she survived in her lifetime. Truly, she was indeed the Girl Who Lived. From that day forward, people began to call something new and something old... they revered her and feared her as The Master Of Death!"

Harry applauded in cheer, "Wow! The Master Of Death...! That's wicked!" He had so many questions in his head that he wanted to ask, so many exciting scenes he just wanted to repeat in joy, but he couldn't find the words to start and so he giggled simply with glee.

His aunt laughed with him, a wide smile on her face, but that soon became mild. "It's good to see that you loved the story, My Little Hare... I don't want to spoil your mood but I don't have much time left, so let's move on to your gifts now."

Harry titled his head. "Huh? Why? Are you going somewhere, Auntie Cy?"

She seemed to have trouble coming up with the words to say, "...Yeah, you could say that I was running on borrowed time. My times up, so I have to be gone before midnight, before your eleventh-birthday comes."

His face drooped and he charged forward, his hands wrapping tightly around his aunt as he buried his face into her chest. "No, please don't go! Please don't go, Auntie Cy! If you have to leave then I don't want to be eleven anymore! I'll stay ten forever! Don't go!"

The woman leaned back as she played with his hair, "In life, people come and go all the time. It's all a part of growing up."

"I don't want to grow up then!"

She sighed, "Come on, you can't stay a little kid forever. You have to grow up and become big boy so you can protect everybody important to you from the big bad wizard."

"T-The big bad wizard?" he sniffled, loosening his grip somewhat.

"Yup, you know him as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named..."

Harry looked up, "You mean...?"

"Voldemort."

Harry jolted, gasped as though he had heard someone say something naughty, "You said his name! You said his name! Mums says you're not suppose to say his name!"

She chuckled as she pinched her nephew's cheeks, "Well, aren't you just cheeky." He grumbled and lightly slapped the hands away. "You should get use to hearing that, My Little Hare, because Voldemort is your rival after all."

Harry paused mid-flinching, "M-My rival? But isn't Dumbledore his rival?"

"Not at all. Dumbledore's rival was Grindewald; Voldemort's rival is you."

"M-Me? Why me?"

"Because he saw in you a potential to become a powerful wizard with powers that he knows not."

The young boy shook his head, "I don't get it."

"You'll understand when you get older." She stopped, taking stock of the time, and - for what seemed like the first time ever - she pleaded to him, "For now, let's move onto your birthday gifts, kay?"

He weakly agreed to her request, unable to refuse when he saw his usually proud and wild aunt act so meekly, a subtle frown still on his face, "...Kay."

She stood up and conjured three swirling orbs of energy in front of her.

"These are... well, let's call them my heirlooms, alright? I want you to have them."

Her right eye closed shut and she gave him the first gift; a smooth ring with a familiar emerald-shade, fitted perfectly on his finger, "The Void Ring." Her hood was pulled up - her long-flowing hair disappeared from view - and she gave him the second gift; a sleek raven-black-colored cloak, wrapped neatly around him, "The Shroud Cloak." Her her arm went limp and she gave him the third gift; a polished bone-white wand, the size and weight was just right, "The Abyssal Wand." She patted him on the head, "All together they are the Evergreen Heralds. And, as for what they do... well, you're a Potter, aren't you? That's for you to find out."

Harry looked up and noticed that he could no longer see his aunt's face - her hood had obscured all features beside her single glowing green left-eye that lingered on him. He felt like there was a lump in his throat. "Auntie Cy?" He was all too aware of the now loud ticking of the clock that drowned out every other noise.

She hugged him gently and brushed aside his hair to kiss him on the forehead, "Happy birthday, My Little Hare." Without giving him a moment to collect himself or deliver an outburst, the woman simply vanished unceremoniously. A flicker and she was gone.

That night the boy eventually cried himself to sleep.

It wasn't a happy birthday at all.

[...]

Upon her throne in the realm of the dead, the Master Of Death slowly opened her eyes as though she had been in a deep but peaceful slumber.

As always, there was no one here besides her scythe and the uncountable number of souls flowing into the Beyond.

Somehow, she found the absolute silence to be rather deafening.

Author Notes

Hey, thanks for reading this one-shot... again!

I wasn't completely satisfied with how I wrote the one-shot the first time around, I decided to spruce it back up and here we are. So I would like to think I did a better job this time around.

The reason I didn't just overwrite the first-draft with this new version is partly because Fanfiction doesn't have the file anymore but mostly because I wanted to keep the first-draft as a quality-comparison thing.

Just in case it's still confusing, the Master Of Death has rules preventing her from simply finishing off Voldemort on her own or simply causing spontaneous death to all of his followers. Basically, there's a limit to how much she can interfere because this is an experiment - a game.

The Void Ring dispels/negates any illusions/transformation but requires touch to activate, it also allows the wearer to slip through wards but requires any equal amount of magic to perform. The Shroud Cloak - when the hood is up - allows the user to be completely silent, travel through and between shadows, and become invisible during the night. The Abyssal causes all spells cast with this wand to be black-colored and chaotic-looking that instill an unexplainable sense of apprehension or fear against opponents. They also all have the additional ability of never being lost/stolen and can only be used by their owner (aka Harry Potter).

If anyone wants to adopt (or do whatever) to this idea, then please feel free to do so.