Written for QLFC:

Falmouth Falcons, Captain

Round One: Write a character you've never written before (Death)

Also for:

Showtime, ABC Cafe/Red and Black: first love

Ami's Audio: life after death

Emy's Emporium: Write about a powerful man/woman/organization

Beta'd by Sophie, Bex, Sam, Lizzy, and Ami

Word Count: 1387

It almost seems cruel that things should end like this. In the back of his endless mind, he's always felt that Minerva McGonagall should die on her feet like a hero, her grin broad and her veins filled with the adrenaline that comes with the glory of battle. How is it possible for such an extraordinary woman to have such a plain ending—peaceful and quiet, so unlike the life she's lead?

Death pauses by the lake. Slowly, the dark mist that makes up his being twists and shifts until he becomes corporeal. His legs are long and lean, and his body is strong. He brushes his fingers over the sun-kissed flesh that covers his bones, observing his reflection curiously in the water.

It has been decades since Death has even thought of Dougal McGregor, but he still remembers the farmer's bright, smiling face. That's the trouble with immortality: he remembers each and every single soul he's ever taken. He thinks this guise will be best; though Minerva has not seen Dougal in nearly a century, her heart still calls out for her first love. A familiar face will ease her transition between worlds. With all the good that Minerva McGonagall has done in her lifetime, she deserves familiar comfort in the end.

Satisfied with his appearance, Death closes his eyes, allowing himself to melt into the shadows until he reappears in Minerva's bedroom. He steps out of the shadows, expecting to find her tucked beneath her sheets, sleeping peacefully. Instead, the old witch is at her desk, her eyes alert, as though she's waiting for someone.

When she spots him, her eyes widen, and a soft, barely audible gasp escapes her thin lips. After a moment, Minerva smiles, relaxing slightly. "I had a feeling we would be meeting tonight." Her slender, gnarled fingers reach into a tin on her desk, plucking a Ginger Newt from within. "I didn't expect you to have his face."

"You aren't afraid?" he asks.

Of course she isn't; he doesn't know why he would expect her to be. After such a long life spent shaping so many minds and touching so many hearts, that final journey into the next life must be a blessing.

Although the years have caused her spine to curve, she straightens her posture as best she can and squares her shoulders. Fire seems to burn in her dark eyes as she observes Death. "My dear, very little scares me anymore."

He almost laughs at that. My dear. Though many have greeted him as an old friend, he doesn't think anyone has ever addressed him with such an affectionate term in all the millennia that he's been collecting souls. The corners of his lips twitch, and he allows himself to smile.

"I assumed it would be Albus," she mutters, more to herself than to him, as she nibbles her biscuit, russet colored crumbs raining down and collecting on the weathered desk.

"It nearly was," he says. "I had some trouble deciding which would be more comforting."

He wonders now if he'd made the right choice. Perhaps Albus would have been better. Though the fire continues to burn in her eyes, there is no denying the pain in her lined face as she looks upon the visage of the first man she ever loved.

For several moments, silence hangs between them. Death watches Minerva as she finishes her biscuit and grabs a napkin to wipe her fingers clean. Her eyes meet his, and he waits for the question. Everyone always has that one final question before he escorts them to the next realm—Will it hurt? Is there life after death? Is my mother waiting for me?—and he is curious as to what hers will be.

With a wince, she curls her fingers around the tin and lifts it, pushing it toward him. "Would you like a biscuit, dear?"

"Like a—?" He blinks rapidly several times, shaking his head. Has he heard her correctly? He assumes so since she pushes the tin forward again, rattling around the remaining Ginger Newts.

A smile tugs at her lips. "Can't take them with me," she says with a shrug of her bony shoulders. "No use letting them go to waste."

Death hesitates, tapping his foot almost anxiously. He has so many appointments to keep. The thought that floods his mind is ridiculous and can cause so many obstacles in the long run. He ought to just reap her soul, carry her to the afterlife, and move to the next one.

Instead, he pulls out a chair and takes a seat, stretching out his long legs and gesturing at the tin of biscuits. "By all means," he says, "finish them. I have nothing but time."

"Won't that mess with your plans?" she asks, though she sets the tin down again and takes a second biscuit from the dwindling pile.

He smirks. "I'm sure my clients don't mind delaying our meetings."

"I would think such things are against the rules."

Death chuckles. Perhaps she's right, but he's lived for so long that he barely even remembers the rules anymore. Besides, it is merely a delay. In the end, as with those three brothers all those years ago, he will still take what is his.

"It's been so long since I've seen his face," she says, pointing in Death's direction with the half-eaten biscuit in her hand. "I was just a girl when we first met."

He leans back, studying her. "You were young when we first met too," he says. "I wonder if you remember."

She shakes her head, finishing the biscuit before grabbing another. A quick glance at the tin tells him that they do not have long left. Within the swirling, endless expanse of his being, he feels the call of souls who continue to thrive past their set expiration, but he ignores them.

"That Bludger to the head should have been fatal. It would have been, but I was not ready to take your soul."

She purses her lips, breaking her biscuit in half. "Why not?"

"In the years that followed, I asked myself that same question. Some sort of intervention, perhaps? Whatever the reason, I knew that you hadn't yet achieved your life's purpose."

Minerva scowls, biting into the halved biscuit with more force than necessary. "I wasn't able to play Quidditch again after that," she says sharply. "That was most uncalled for."

"Uncalled for?" he echoes, wondering if she's really scolding him. It's definitely the first time that's happened to him. "Your life was spared!"

She folds her arms over her chest, meeting his gaze and refusing to look away. "It would have been nice to have a long life filled with exciting Quidditch matches," she says stubbornly, though her lips quirk into a smile.

"A simple 'thank you' will suffice," Death mutters, returning her smile. "You built a legacy that will continue to live on long after you're gone."

Minerva turns the final biscuit over in her hand, brushing her nail over it. "You shouldn't have bent the rules for me," she says at last.

Death shrugs and climbs to his feet, smoothing his hands over his dark shirt and flattening out the creases. "I'm ancient, Minerva. It's nice to stop and have a rest sometimes." He watches as she takes her final bite. "It's even nicer to find someone worth stopping for."

She brushes the crumbs from her mouth and climbs to her feet. Her bones pop and crack, and she inhales sharply, gripping the back of her chair until her knuckles turn white.

"It's okay," he tells her, extending his hand.

With a smile, she wraps her fingers around his wrist, nodding. "I know."

"Just like falling asleep."

Death takes his free hand and rests it against her chest. Her heartbeat accelerates, thumping wildly. Minerva gasps and groans, her eyes widening as she collapses with a thud onto the cold tile floor.

Where the old, fiery woman had stood only a second before, a young woman with raven hair hair and curious eyes stands. The lines on her face are gone, and her body is no longer stooped and riddled with ailments. Minerva squeezes his hand, a small laugh bubbling from her lips.

"Ready?" Death asks.

She nods and offers him a radiant smile. "Take me home."