Summary:

If you're looking for 'pleasant', Death is always very pleasant and agreeable. It's Life who's the brutal one. [Death!Harry] [Life!Tom] [God!AU] [HPxTR] [Drabbles]

Disclaimer:

I don't own Harry Potter.

"Welcome, newly deceased. As you may or may not be aware of, you are currently dead, and in a soul form. Yes, dead. Yes, soul. And yes, I'm Death, destroyer of worlds and all that, although I much prefer to devour a nice cup of tea now and then. If you have experienced temporary amnesia, and-slash-or believe me to be a crazy kidnapper, then kindly direct your attention to the Void around you, the dying star being contained in the above lamp, and the various Magical Archways of Destined Fates (we-are-not-held-liable-for-any-physical-soulful-emotional-or-mental-injury-incurred-by-jumping-randomly-into-one-of-the-obviously-mystical-portals)."

Death, who was particularly fond of the human pseudonym 'Harry Potter,' paused in the middle of his standard introductory spiel, and bent down slightly to hear better.

The soul, a faint silvery blob of luminescent gas, wavered around the edges before firming up a bit, bobbing forward to brush against Death's ear.

Anyone not of divine or demonic nature would find it impossible to decipher the shivery suggestion of a whisper that was sighed out.

Even the more experienced and skillful gods ('gods' being the general term for those above a certain power range) would find trying to grasp the slippery little things an exercise of determination and patience.

As it was, he ('Harry Potter' is a human name, yes, but one mostly intended for males; thus, Death skipped over the gender-confusion and identity-shifting fuss common of gods, by deciding on a male form as his go-to image, helped along by the human perception of 'Death' as a masculine cowled scythe-bearer, not, for whatever inexplicable human reason, as a feminine one) was Death.

There was nobody more well-versed in the tricky, gentle art of dealing with souls than he.

"Ah, I see," he nodded, understanding dawning upon him. "My apologies, of course, but you must know how busy we've been lately. Terribly tired. I'd have noticed sooner otherwise. I'm backlogged on a few decades of reincarnation-processing paperwork! Still, better than the millennia-worth of paperwork some of my coworkers ignore, even if the automated reincarnation-machine seems to have an odd glitch about skipping the memory-wipe of around 1 in 1000 teenage girls. Really rather strange... I mean, the imps say they're working on it... oh, dear, I'm rambling again. So sorry. Anyway, I'll just fish out a spare form... I keep some in a dimensional pocket just for this occurrence... and... okay... please sign here, and here, and here."

The soul floated over the proffered translucent sheet of paper-like material, somehow managing to imprint a distinctly feline pawprint onto the highlighted lines.

"All seems to be in order, then. Right, we've moved doors again, so the Gateway is the third one on your left, go through that hallway, can't miss it, don't be shy of asking for help! The Furies are always manning the information desks. Be careful, now, Slasher; you've burned through 8 lives already, this one's your last one before the grand afterlife! Don't forget to mind your karma counts!" Death called cheerfully after the soul drifting towards the indicated hallway, who gave the impression of turning around and nodding, brushing against a pillar of the door-arch to produce another soul-whisper, one that equaled to a goodbye in 'meowese.'

.

He sighed, a content sigh, and spun around once before dropping bonelessly into a large cushy armchair that had just been materialized.

Death never really got tired of being Death, contrary to popular belief.

You meet someone new very often, you get to participate in a sacred and super-important process of the universe, you have all these nice perks.

It's a good, respectable job, being Death.

Not like he knows how to be anything else...

A woman's face poked through the Magical Archway of Destined Fates #501292, also known as the Clerical Bureau's Door of Sternly-Worded Reprimands and Strongly-Worded Requests.

Her hair, oddly feathery, fluttered and framed her aquiline features in various shades of mottled brown and suspiciously rusty-red fringes, as she monotoned, "Sir, The One Who Causes Too Much Paperwork has arrived. He is... waiting to see you, Sir. My sisters and I would be much obliged if you could go to the Lobby of Life and Un-Life and Death and Un-Death to remove him before he causes even more paperwork."

There was the faintest hint of a threat in the last sentence, though of course the Fury, ever cool-headed and devotedly-loyal, would never dream of threatening her much-respected boss whom she was quite fond of.

Um.

Never.

(... totally would.)

With a pained grimace, Death ran a pallid hand through his neatened hair, which automatically sprang into chaotic curls as he shifted to the more human-like form he favored when not 'on the job'.

At the same time, his fingers shrank away their skeletal tips, his skin grew marginally healthier, and there was an audible firecracker-noise as his bone structure rearranged itself.

He could always shift instantaneously, of course, but there was something much more... pleasant about getting something done hands-on.

(Well, magic-on, anyway.)

Something which 'The One Who Causes Too Much Paperwork' has never seen the point of, actually.

'And yet another reason why he pisses me off,' Death mentally scowled, already on his feet and striding towards the portal the woman was in, resigned to having to sacrifice his usual amiable mood in order to save the collective sanity of his employees.

"Thanks for telling me, Euryale, I'm on it," he informed the Fury, who obediently ducked her head back into the whirlpool-eque depths of the portal to make way.

'The things I do for the greater good,' Harry Potter sighed once more, before closing his eyes, thinking of the Lobby, sucking in a breath of air he didn't need, and letting the feelers of magic latch onto him and twist him inwards.

.

He landed precisely in front of the god he really preferred to avoid whenever possible.

Unfortunately, that same god was rather invested in achieving the exact opposite results.

"Hello, Death. Still playing at being human?" a coldly amused and insufferably beautiful face peered at him critically, slender hands clasped behind his draping robes, bowing half-way in a mocking parody of good will.

Gods were usually very aesthetically pleasing to the human perception, as humans had shaped gods with their worship and their belief and their oh-so-deliciously-hypocritical nature.

Death found it quite hypocritical, as well, of this god to call him 'playing human' when he himself in all his vanity was wearing the guise of a human.

Life had always been hypocritical, though.

And it was, once again, up to Death to be the comforting, courteous once, offering rest after the harsh ministrations of Life's whims.

So as much as Death wanted to strangle this god before him with a tendril of the shadows invitingly waving behind him, he resisted.

Instead, he smiled.

Peacefully.

Nicely, even, knowing that this would tick him off the most, along with what he planned to say next.

"Yes. I find it a very refreshing role. What brings you to my domain, Tom Marvolo Riddle?" Harry Potter politely greeted Life, internally snickering at the pretentious middle name the god had slipped into what would've otherwise been a perfectly plain and reasonable name.

Riddle never could persuade himself to be plain.

Upon hearing the name used, Life glared at Death reflexively, eyes the color of young trees and old earth slipping into eyes the color of bled blood and prickly roses.

The color of death.

Whereas Death, in response, merely tilted his head and gazed back with eyes the color of spring grass and renewed shoots.

The color of life.

.

(Off to the side, behind heavy-set desks, crafted from metaphysical wood and existing in at least 23 dimensions at any given time, three sisters huddled.

"They, like, so need to get over their UST and fuck already. Even The One Who Instigates Far Too Many Literary Debates agrees!" Tisiphone, who was self-proclaimed eldest, liked to be referred to as 'Tissy,' and could usually be identified by her ponytail and genuine interest in having a social life outside of work (as well as by her pervasive aura of extremely unprejudiced nosiness), complained with a polished pout.

Megaera, who was rather fixated solely on what concerned her economic prospects, demanded a tax on calling her by anything other than her full name, and could usually be identified by the actual bird feathers threaded into her already-feathery shoulder-length hair, glanced up from her phone and offered, "2 medium favors says Life realizes it after another decade, and Boss-man doesn't get it until another three centuries later.'

Tissy gladly took that bet.

The short-haired, quiet, and one-who-did-most-of-the-actual-work-around-here Alecto just shook her head at her sisters' bet.

"Troublesome," she monotoned, glancing over to the silent stand-off between the two personifications.)

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Also known as that one AU where everyone is a god of something, Life may or may not know he has a major obsession over Death, Death may or may not know that his employees and basically everyone he knows thinks they should just kiss already, and The One Who Instigates Far Too Many Literary Debates may or may not know about her not-too-flattering nickname among the Deathworkers.

Yes? No? Maybe-so?

Review: I'd be glad to hear what you think some of the characters should be gods of. I've already got Hermione, Bill, and Molly down...

Feel free to suggest characters who were dead pre-series as Death's employees, and what their roles should be.

(Plus brownie points for suggesting scenarios where I can fit in a 'live spelled backwards is evil' reference.)

And what did you think of the Furies? Not furious enough?

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-Review, please.-