Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is for me to challenge myself as a writer, nothing else.

Summary: Harry and Death accidentally meet ahead of schedule.

Prompt: I looked at Death, and Death looked at me. "You're early," Death finally said. (I'm paraphrasing this prompt because I forgot to write it down word for words.) Prompt 2: "Uh, Mr. Reaper, sir? Do you still do the game for your life thing?" "That depends on the game. I am tired of chess." "What about golf?" (This I have edited to Quidditch instead of golf.)

Hello, Death My New Friend

By ThroughtheMirrorDarkly

Harry Potter looked at Death.

And Death looked back.

A great canyon of silence yawned between them, and the whiteness of the world surrounding them was blinding. It almost looked like a fragmented and distorted version of the train station. He could make out the size for Platform 9 ¾. "Well," Death spoke, with a voice like thunder and made fear vibrate through Harry from head to toe. "You're early."

Harry blinked, still rather disoriented. "I, uh, I pride myself on punctuality?"

Death snorted, narrowing his stark blue eyes from underneath the cowl of his scraggly worn hood. "You haven't been punctual in your entire life, Harold James Potter, as short as it may have been," Death accused him, with no real heat in his voice. He waved his hand, causing the scenery to change into a study. There were two plush velvet chairs and a table with tea tray that had a steaming hot cuppa and delicious little pasties on it. "Sit down, and have some tea. It will do good to settle your nerves."

"If I'm right, then I'm dead," Harry choked, a dread swelling up inside of him. "I don't think anything will settle my nerves anymore."

"Hn." Death looked like a man and ghost in the same instance. There was the visage—almost so translucent and easily to miss—of a man with a heavy set brow over power and piercing eyes, with an aristocratic nose and lips the shape of cupid's bow that were thinned out in displeasure. His hair was dark as night and his skin pale, but beneath his face was the outline of bones and shadows like the stereotypical grim reaper looked that haunted civilization for centuries. "This is highly unprecedented. A soul that visits my realm before their time? That hasn't happened since in nearly a thousand years."

"May…May I ask how I got here?" Harry questioned, the cup of tea clinking against the saucer in his unsteady hands. "If it's not my time yet?"

Death seemed amused, for a fleeting moment. "Such manners, even now with such fear and uncertainty. I suppose there is no harm in answer your question, but to explain I shall have to give you the vaguest idea of how the universe works. You see while free will exists, the ability to make choice and choose your own path, the power of free will must work within the parameters of the universe it resides in. Other universes have more strict rules than others, but all have a probable path—a probably outcome that Fate has set to happen. Of course, with millions of possibilities there is always room for error or deviation from Fate's plan. There are moments where chaos may uproot order, and others where order smothers the life out of chaos. These moments can cause ripples that change the outcome of the future. Your death such as it was is such a moment."

"How do you mean?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Your uncle was never meant to kill you, Mr. Potter," Death told him, with a disturbed look on his face. "The probability of that happening in this universe was so small and insignificant that it never registered as a true possibility. And it shouldn't have. I have files and paperwork that must be changed and adapted when these moments of change happen, to make sure the machines that run the planes that Fate and I inhabit run smoothly. Do you know why you being here is so alarming?"

"Not exactly," Harry said, a slight flush on his cheeks. He always felt ashamed when he didn't know things, or couldn't quite pit up on things as quickly as Hermione or the others. His mind always swirled with the implication that his uncle had murdered him. He had always known the Dursleys disliked him, but rarely if ever did their abuse turn violently and physical. It was more neglect than anything else, not that that excused anything.

"Your paperwork did not update, Mr. Potter. In other words, there are forces at work that facilitated this change against Fate and I. You are not supposed to be dead. You are not meant to be here, and now we must figure out what to do about that?" Death commented, his tone almost idle.

"Uh, well," Harry scratched the back of his neck, nervously. "Mr. Reaper Death, sir? Do you still do the game for your life thing?"

"That depends on the game. I am tired of chess," Death huffed, rapping his knuckles along the table top.

Harry mentally sighed with relief. He wasn't good at chess, so he was happy that wasn't an option. "How about a game of Quidditch?" He suggested, a tad hopeful. He was good at Quidditch, so it was his best option to earn back his life.

Death opened his mouth, but then there was a sudden ding. A letter in a golden envelope poofed into existence in the air between Harry and Death, and hung there suspended by nothing. Death looked utterly exasperated by the appearance of the letter, but plucked it out of the air and opened without hesitation. He slipped out the note and read it. And then his eyes did a double take, reread the note. His spine straightened and an unholy smile spread across his face, making him appear slightly maniacal. "Mr. Potter, it seems that I can give you some good news today after all," Death spoke, chuckling deep inside of his throat. "Fate has gone on strike."

"What?" Harry gaped. He didn't understand much of what Death had said about the universe, but Fate going on strike seemed like a huge deal.

"Fate hasn't gone on strike since the Dark Ages," Death hummed, looking excited and eager. "Apparently, Chaos and Discord decided to meddle with mortals and it led to some events which affected your uncle—"

"And that's what killed me?" Harry guessed.

Death nodded, sharply. "Indeed. Fate is very displeased. It seems that Order has not stepped in to reign the two in, and Fate has decided to flip the old codger the bird, so…that leaves us with one question."

Harry's green eyes narrowed. "And what question is that?"

"How would you like to be the next Champion of Change and shake a few worlds up?"

END OF PROMPT!

AN: I honestly have nothing beyond this planned, or thought out. This really just came to me when I read the two prompts that included Death, and I couldn't resist making this one shot. If anyone likes the idea and wants to take it and make a full fledged story, just comment below and know that I will definitely read it if someone decided to pick it up.

Read and Review! :D