Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN Harry Potter.

First story in this account. Had an old one but it got messed up. I may upload my old stories.

Please review.

All Harry Potter had ever wanted in life was to be normal. He wanted to be one of those 'every day is the same' type of people. And so far, his life had been the exact opposite. He didn't grow up to be a salary man with a wife and kids, no instead he became something he had never ever even thought of becoming. A wizard. A wand waving, spell casting wizard. And not just an average wizard, no, he was The-Boy-Who-Lived. Hyphenated and capitalized. Harry had been known to all of the wizards and witches around the world before he had permanently killed Voldemort, a Dark Lord and all around genocidal madman.

The Chosen one. Savior. Saint Potter. The-Boy-Who-Lived. Title after title, time after time, some how in some way Harry managed to fall into one dangerous life threatening plot after another. And quite honestly he grew tired of it.

So when Death offered him a way out, Harry gladly accepted. After all, he had no one left in this world. Hermione, the Weasleys, Teddy, everyone he was close to died. Eventually. Some in the war, others after. Years after, ageing and growing frail, while Harry remained alive and unchanged. Being the Master of Death apparently meant that he was immortal and invulnerable, the invulnerable part was proven the first time his life got too dark and an Avada Kevada sounded too seductive.

It was on an unususally dreary day that Harry felt that his so called life had, once again, become too much. He sat in his living room, draped bonelessly on one of the armchairs with his face tilted towards the ceiling. A pistol in his hand, the barrel pressed to the side of his head. 'If the Avada and a knife didn't work, then maybe a bullet can.' Harry took a steadying breath and squeezed the trigger. A brief black period and then he could see again. He felt like crying, screaming, breaking something at the injustice of it all. Why couldn't he have peace! It wasn't fair. He already gave most of his life to helping in a war that a teenager shouldn"t have had to shoulder. Since the time he was barely a year old to even now, people have been controlling his life. Why couldn't he have the power to at least die the when he wanted to.

"Damn, damned fucking git Death. Arsehole." mumbled Harry as his curse green eyes glared at the smoking gun in his hand. Maybe he should try again, just to feel the nothingness. It was brief but absolutely amazing. He had been gone, at least for a bit. "I could just try again and again."

"Master, you really shouldn't say such dark things."

Harry sharply looked to direction of the voice, his neck cringing in protest at the unexpected movement. There beside him, and sitting casually in the only other armchair in the room, was a middle aged man dressed impeccably in a three piece suit. His slicked back hair was black with bits of grey giving him a sophisticated look. Pupilless eyes, irises a strange shade of pale pink, stared at him.

"Death..." Harry growled, hostility coating the name.

"Yes." Death flicked his hand before holding it still, a small tea cup appearing in his grasp. "How are you Master."

"Like not much of a master if I can't even control my own death." snarled the Savior of the Wizarding World.

"That is hardly your fault, after all I am the one who refuses to take your life." said Death, calmly sipping his tea.

"What if I command you to?" questioned Harry, hope soaring as Death frowned.

"Then I will have to ignore that order." answered Death, nodding as though to affirm what he just said.

"Then why call me your master at all!" Harry clenched his fists as he shot up from his seat, prowled over to the fireplace, and stared at the flames in it. The shadows and lines of his face darkened and in a blink of an eye it seemed as though Harry had aged at the very least a hundred years.

"Hmm, maybe not Master but more like Companion." Death unsympathetically raised an eyebrow at Harry's depression.

"So what? You fuck up my chance at a normal death so that you can have some giggles from me!" Harry whirled around to yell even further but was taken back at the sight of a woman sitting where a man had been. Her short brown hair curled at the sides of her sweet round face and she wore a pleasant yellow sun dress. He would not have recognized Death had it not been the same pink eyes looking at him.

"Once you are my Master it is not so easy to throw the title away," said Death, ignoring Harry's dumbfounded expression with ease and continued to sip her tea. "but perhaps I can give you a more...fulfilling life."

"What do you mean?" Harry sighed, he felt so tired. He leaned against the mantle above the fireplace, one arm braced on the stone frame.

"Am I wrong to assume that you have heard of the MWI theory?" Death set down her teacup and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. She didn't so much as quiver as her form seemed to melt and crack once again. This time it became a child. It's gender androgynous, with darker hair and skin tone caramelized to a soft bronze. It's now pudgy fingers linked, legs starting to swing slightly as though unconsciously.

"MWI? Hermione mentioned something like before. The many-worlds interpretation hypothetically states that there is an infinite number of universes where something that could have happened here, but didn't, happened in another universe." answered Harry, taking the new appearance astride. "Basically everything that could happened actually did only that not in this present universe but in an alternate one and because of that the alternate is a bit, if not a lot, different than here."

"Quite so." Death's high voice merging with a sweet tone as it glanced up at Harry. Pink eyes wide with childhood innocence that seemed misplaced in the unusually grave face the child had on. "I have need for a replacement in one. A replacement for the Harry there."

"My parallel self." Harry muttered. "And what exactly does this entail?"

"There is only one thing you must do." Death said, its suddenly firm voice sending chills down Harry's back.

"And that is?" asked Harry.

"You must protect my Caller, the being that you humans have named Banshee."

"What exactly do I have to do?" 'There has to be some sort of catch.' Harry thought to himself as he stared at the once again changing figure in the arm chair.

"You shall watch over her, protect her from that which will harm her. Be her friend, her confidant." Death's voice changed from sweet to baritone as it took the form of a burly man with several tattoos along his muscled arms and neck.

"...fine," Harry agreed after thinking it over for several minutes. It wasn't as though he had anything better to do anyway.

"Then it so will be." Death nodded and then Harry yelped as he was suddenly sunk down into an inky puddle below him. Wetness surrounded him, flooding into his mouth and nose as he gasped instinctively. His lung felt like they were burning and constricting further into his rib cage. It hurt. Hurt as never before. Not even when he was tortured by rogue Deatheaters.

Fin

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