Author Note: Yes. It's another story about Harry as Master of Death. No, it's not an alternative universe (besides Bellatrix Lestrange being alive - just imagine Molly Weasley's crowning moment of awesome without killing her; it takes half the fun, but oh well). Yes, I haven't finished it.

Warning: Death. Not so much gore, me thinks. Mental torture. No big. Happy (?) end. Do swear-words constitute an M rating? I didn't think so. Allusions to rape and miscarriage. Talk about suicide. (This sounds dark! It isn't! I wanted to rate it humour!)Went a bit darker than planned. Nothing explicit.

Disclaimer: Most of the characters used in this and the following chapters belong to J.K. Rowling and various other owners more famous than me - I don't own the idea, and am not making a profit from it either.

Beta: Mrs. Bates93 - Thank you, you are wonderful (tihihi - I've always wanted to say that...) All remaining mistakes are mine.

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Cheating Death

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I. Prologues of Sorts

o0O0o

"One has to pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while one is still alive."

– Friedrich Nietzsche

o0O0o

All stories are true.
All stories are true.
All stories are true.

They are. But – if all stories were true, then all stories would also be lies.

The wondrous thing about stories is that both facts are not mutually exclusive.

See the thing is a story can be both the truth and the lie. They are not two different sides of the same coin, but different coins altogether: I can tell the truth and still lie, and I can lie and tell the truth.

Let me tell you a story about love, compassion, charity, belief and pity. Of terror, fear, hubris and pride.

All the ideas mankind can have and do have – but divide the world into pieces, and those pieces into even smaller pieces, until you cannot divide them anymore. Will you find love? Will you find truth? Will you find mercy? Will you find pain?

o0O0o0O0o

Story-telling isn't just a trade. It's an attitude to life and all things, my father used to say. Stories are like mirrors, mirrors of ourselves and within stories we comprehend due to the distance how stupid we are acting.

He was a great story-teller, he could charm people, keep people together, make them believe.

Great with words, he was, a great man; and probably way to great for me, because I was just a silly little girl who couldn't for the life of me form coherent sentences.

I was forced to tag along, yes, but I wasn't praised nor anything else, for all the things I did for him, nothing, because I wasn't able to tell stories, the essence of all he was.

At times I hated him, but he was not a bad man, just obsessed with his fantasies, his unicorns, and ideas. For ideas, he would have died. For ideas, he would have betrayed his own mother. But none of them ever came to him, in a strange act of justice, I was the one with the ideas.

I dreamed of fancy dresses and fights and burning Angels of Death and popes and children fighting for their lives and the depths of hell up to the mountain tops: I was a never-ending stream of untold stories.

We were the perfect pair.

Until we died.

.

Well.

He died. I – sort of – didn't.

O0O0o0O0o

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Somewhere, somewhen, somehow, a motherless child was abbandoned.

Maybe it was left on someone's doorstep, his parents killed in a mugging or in an accident, maybe they were murdered or perhaps they just lost him.

Somewhere, somehow, someone spoke of a prophecy – filled with the love of the mother, faith of the people and the hope of salvation – spoken thrice, for emphasis: "One day, you will be strong. One day, you will be wise. One day, you will be great."

This prophecy may as well have been about this child.

.

Somewhere, somewhen, somebody said: "If knowledge is power, then to be unknown is to be unconquerable."

As dogmas go, it was quite short, snappy and easy to remember. It was not used for one particular being, but it might as well have been about this.

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Somewhere, somehow, someone told the people to listen, to wait, and to judge at the least possible moment. And because the present always passes, the future never comes, and the past grows every single moment, the time of judgement will never come.

People did not listen very well. They do not listen to what is said, but they also do not listen to what is not said.

This was not true about this child.

o0O0o

We find ourselves in the lands of beyond.

Tales of the Hereafter, the next great adventure, the land of the West, have reached far and wide.

Many have tried to cheat it's door steward. Many have been caught, and have been punished. This is not their tale.

This tale is about those who succeeded – and have been cursed beyond recognition because of it.

o0O0o

Harry Potter only cottoned on to the fact that he did not age like his fellow wizards, ten years after becoming the Master of Death. First, he had not believed that the story of the three brothers was more than just a legend to explain three extraordinary objects, and later, he would have laid the blame of his different characteristics on wizard genetics. Still, he researched the legends about Death, his relationship to rule-breakers and the natural laws concerning magic and the dead.

Then, he panicked.

Because fifteen years later, he did not look one day over seventeen. He did not have wrinkles – or crow's-feet, as Molly called them. He did not have problems with his eye-sight, endurance, stamina, activities, aches, grey hair or any other liabilities commonly referred to as old age. Granted, he was only thirty-two, and he certainly did not feel old – but why did he still look like he was seventeen?

He did not look like himself at that age (thank the deities!), he had more muscle mass, more grace, more self-assurance than a teenager, but even so, he looked very, very young.

One time, Witch Weekly asked him what his secret wasfor staying as young and fit as he was. He had to force a laugh and said, "My family, of course." He had cringed at his stupid half-lie and expected to be grilled by Hermione – but it didn't happen.

She pulled him aside, the day he openly nodded to his school rival – Draco Malfoy (Which he had only done because the latter had gifted him with one original copy of 'One Hundred Years Of Solitude' – where Death orders a protagonist to sew her own death shroud. On the day she finishes, she would die peacefully and painlessly.) "Harry! What are you doing?", she hissed. "You are attracting attention!"

Harry, who was absolutely surprised by the ambush, shook his head puzzled. "Hermione, what am I doing?"

"You're not ageing, that's what!" She did not raise her voice, but she did not need to: Harry flinched anyway. "So you did realise, I wasn't sure if you had.", she continued.

Harry, who had been studiously looking at the paving stones, looked up insulted: "Excuse me.", he said coolly. "But I'd think I would notice that I'm not looking older! Maybe it's just... good genes."

"Ron and Ginny didn't notice–", she started, but was interrupted by Harry who waved his hand.

"Oh, please! They have noticed, they just haven't made the connections, it's normal to sometimes look a little younger than the rest – wait a few years, a few more wrinkles, some bags under her eyes and she will despise me from the depth of her heart.", he said that calmly, having not just yet made his peace, but slowly becoming accustomed to the fact that he would outlive all of his friends.

"She won't hate you.", Hermione contradicted him.

He waved her off again. "The girl who fell in love with the prince who rescued her from the dragon? Please."

"You sound resentful."

"I am! Fuck, Hermione! This was the last thing I ever wanted! I love her, I do, but I'm not blind to her faults! It's just – I try so hard to make things work, for the children and all, and work, and Ginny – but I'm so tired! I just want to...", he trailed off, because it sounded as if he wanted to die – and he did, somewhere in the near future, but it was all he could think about. "And then you! I only nodded at Malfoy! He gave me the book I have searched everywhere for! But you get all... up in my face!"

"It was totally obvious in that moment.", Hermione defended herself. "He was all... old, losing his hair – and you..."

This was torture for him. Surrounded by witches and wizards, Hermione quizzing him about the thing, he did not talk about, and not wanting anybody else finding out his secret. His breathing was so erratic, it must have been conspicuous. He inhaled slowly. They would all hate him. Again, he was a freak, just for a different reason.

"This is what I look like with glamours.", he confessed to one of his best friends. "They aren't very good, because I have to keep them up at all times, and I had to invent my own – I don't think there are legitimate reasons for wanting to look older. Please, can we..."

"You are– Harry, how old do you think you look..."

"Seventeen.", he answered, as he brushed through his hair agitated. "Like a very young seventeen. Remember how tiny I was? A bit bigger than that."

"Harry! Stop flirting with my wife and wave good-bye to your sons!" They were interrupted by Ron Weasley, and turned towards the train – Hermione glancing at him, silently telling him that this conversation was far from over.

He went to stand next to his wife, who may as well have been cheating on him, and daughter, who was a little genius – but so stupid at times – took a deep breath and tried to smile at his youngest son, whose biggest problem it was to be sorted into Slytherin.

If his children's biggest problems were where they would be sorted, perhaps all was well.

o0O0o

"Concentrate.", Hermione's voice washed over Harry's consciousness and was integrated into his mind. They were practising mental exercises, because the Invisibility Cloak had travelled 150 miles out of a Gringott's vault undetected. Harry had felt the urge to use it during work. "What do you feel?" There wasn't a You to speak of, more like wide open space. Feelings. Memories? Warmth. And electricity?

He floated in the sea – maybe a lake, was it a womb? It felt like the ocean behind Shell Cottage – and there was a half-light which was fading, a rhythmic beat; waves flushing in and out. The ground vibrated – a feeling not unlike watching Ron sleep.

It was hard to speak, since he did not hear himself. Three more lakes were integrated in the big lake – this was weird, they did not have a conscious per se...

"There's something...", he said with a heavy tongue.

.

Hermione felt rather than saw three objects appearing right in Harry's lap. Only two of them, she recognised. A cold hand clutched at her chest – only when she took a shaky breath, she realised, that she had stopped breathing.

A cloak. A wand. A ring.

"Oh, Harry.", she hiccoughed. "It always happens to you."

o0O0o

"Short of contacting Death, there seems to be nothing you can do.", Hermione concluded her research. "You appear to be completely immortal."

"But you can't contact Death. I tried. There's the Rite of AshkEnte – originally you need 8 wizards for that and 2 cc of mouse blood; I tried watching old wizards die, they didn't; went through the veil, came out on the other side... I tried writing a letter per owl post, but nothing came back! I feel like the Russian soldier.", Harry mumbled dejectedly into his arm.

"The Russian soldier?"

"You know, the story where a soldier puts Death in a sack, and nobody dies at all, until finally the soldier sets him free again. Then the soldier grows old, but death doesn't come for him. He goes to heaven and pleads for admittance, but he has sinned, so they don't let him in – he goes to the devil, but the devil fears it's a trick (or thinks that the soldier wants to overthrow him), and he has to wander the earth, and probably wanders still?"

"Ah.", Hermione nodded. "Arthur Ransome's fairy tales. I didn't know you had read that."

"Well–", Harry rubbed his scar, a little embarrassed. "I collect stories featuring Death – like with the three brothers? Partially because they might be useful, but I do enjoy them. Lily loves them, too."

"Yes. I heard her tell Rose about Jelena, the All-wise.", she smiled. "She also told her that there couldn't be a person more wise than you, but Jelena comes a close second.", she paused. "I have never seen someone more stupidly heroic than you."

Harry flashed her a crooked, slightly bitter, grin.

"You don't have to leave them.", Hermione told him gently, but he shook his head.

"No. Ginny is going to go mental – about me going dark, becoming the next dark Lord. She'll get better, but it won't be the same. She'll start – well. She's already two-timing me with someone older. Funny, isn't it? The norm is going for younger – but I guess if you have a seventeen-year-old husband, you'll want the decrepit sort. She is starting to resent me – I'd hate to have her hate me, too. I am starting to hate her, too. It's weird how you can hate and love someone simultaneously.", he sighed. "I'm staying for Lils, though. Until she goes to Hogwarts, I'll stay with Ginny. But Lily has told me already that if I'm unhappy, I should leave her – she's a bit like you. I've always wondered how I could father such a clever child."

"Maybe her and Rose were switched at birth.", Hermione laughed.

"I wouldn't have noticed the difference between an one-year-old and one-day-old anyway.", Harry said, as he started to laugh as well.

They were interrupted by Ginny coming home. She was wet, even though in London and all the surrounding areas it had been hot and dry all week – very good weather for September.

"Oh.", she said, looking wide-eyed and too innocent. "Hermione? What a surprise – Ron was telling me all about your hard work the other day. Aren't you glad one of your children is out of the house?"

Hermione scooted slowly off of the sofa and started to stand up. Harry, who hated the psychological game his wife was playing, put a hand on her arm and when she stopped, smiled at her – whoever had said Gryffindors couldn't be devious? "Stay?" he asked pleadingly. "I have made enough Lasagne to feed a Quidditch team. You don't mind, do you, Ginny?" He could see her eyes flashing, and was very grateful Hermione had been there, when Ginny came home.

After they had seated themselves, Ginny complained about the Lasagne – she was sick of Italian food. The last time he had made Lasagne was maybe a year ago. But he didn't say anything.

Likewise, he complained about their lack of proper wineglasses. (She had bought the latest bunch at Sainsbury's).

Whenever Ginny wasn't looking, Hermione glared at him. He smiled sweetly and waited for Ron to bring Lily home – a fact Ginny appeared to have forgotten.

Lily came flying through the fire-place and fully covered in soot, snuggled into Harry's lap, who greeted her happily.

"Hi Harry!", he came through the floo to immediately head towards his wife. They kissed.

"Hermione spent the whole afternoon with Harry.", Ginny told him smugly.

Ron looked up and around the table. "Yeah, I know.", he said. "Why? Did something happen?"

"No, nothing at all.", Harry said, calming him down. "Ginny just came home and was surprised."

"If that's all... we brought mum's pie!"

Dessert turned out to be much more amiable.

o0O0o

"Merlin's bloody saggy left–"

"Uncle Ron!", giggled Lily. "You aren't supposed to say that!"

"Lily! What are you doing out of bed!"

"Erm..." she looked around the kitchen at the adults, who were all trying to make her go back to bed. But then daddy would go away, like Uncle Fred (who had died, and that had made Uncle George so sad, sometimes he was in a bad mood still). "I'm thirsty? Can I have a glass of water?"

While she looked at her daddy – she should probablystart calling him dad – she sipped her glass of water. He looked a lot like Teddy did, most of the time. When he wasn't trying to impress Victoire.

She heard Ron whisper, "The Hallows really made you…"

"Yes, Ron," her daddy replied. "Now shut up."

"I'd say it's pretty awesome, mate, except it's really not."

"Thank you, Ron. That was almost profound. I am proud of you."

Well, at least daddy was smiling. "That had to count for something," she thought to herself, and went back to bed.

o0O0o

Harry was currently deciphering an ancient text featuring rituals about The Morrígna,when Ron stormed into his kitchen and dumped a stack of papers on the table he was currently working at.

"You won't believe this!", Ron was undoubtedly upset. "They're releasing the prisoners of Azkaban!"

"Wait– what?", why so soon? Hermione had held her hearing in front of the Wizengamot only a fortnight ago. "They're releasing them? But Hermione only–", Harry stopped what he was about to say.

"Hermione– what? What has my wife done? Is this about the gannet convention she was talking about all the time?"

"Geneva convention.", Harry corrected automatically. "It's a treatise regarding the treatment of war prisoners, among others." Harry laid down his pen. "Rewind – you were saying they are releasing the prisoners?"

"Yes.", Ron looked down at his papers. "They are asking for the support of the general public, call it a great step into the future of humanism – there is a slight quip against the goblins who haven't signed, blasted buggers – a statement from the chieftain of the merpeople in Scotland... ahh, yes. Most prisoners currently held in Azkaban are going to be released on the twentieth year on the anniversary of the defeat...yada,yada – Since halfway houses for wizards are not yet ready for inhabitants, we ask for upstanding citizens to volunteer as their keepers."

"Marvellous.", Harry said. "That's next year, isn't it? Well, then I'll be renovating Grimmauld Place – maybe we should rename the house, it's a bad omen – leaving Ginny, and moving in with the only female prisoner in Azkaban."

"Harry.", Ron said.

"What?"

"Please tell me you are not going to self-destruct. Please don't."

"Ron.", Harry said, as his brows furrowed.

"Just..", the addressed floundered for words. "You were... you are married to my sister. You are my best friend. You are the uncle to my children. Don't throw it all away just because you will live forever."

"I am not throwing anything away. Your sister won't even look at me. She comes home and in the middle of the night, when she thinks I am asleep, she goes somewhere. I don't want to know, since she comes home in the morning, smelling of... and then she berates me for never being home! She doesn't even know I quit my job! She doesn't notice when the glamours come off! Granted, it could be my fault, for not ageing, my fault for marrying her straight out of school, my fault for working a job I didn't want and took only because she didn't want me to stay at home! Do you know how much money I have? She pays for everything we own, because she feels like 'supporting herself' and not spending the blood-money of the Black family! She grows weirder every day – last Sunday she wanted us to go to church – I tell her I want to move out and she says: 'Fine, take the money out of my account.' She treats my like a god-damn boy-toy!"

Ron let out a guffaw. "And that's why you need Bellatrix the madwoman in your home."

"Eww!", Harry widened his eyes. "She's older than my parents! No!" He calms down a little. "No, I want one prisoner. A companion who doesn't have anyone. And they hand them out in pairs – same-sex. So if I want one, I have to take the single woman of the lot. Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Right.", Ron said dubiously. "Since being the Boy-Who-Lived and only wanting one prisoner would constitute an act of treason."

"They healed her, you know.", Harry told his friend. "The damage done to her mind was almost as extensive as to the Longbottoms. She lost three children in prison."

"She had children? In prison?"

"She didn't have children in prison. She miscarried. They suspect it was self-induced, too."

"What was self-induced?", Hermione had taken the floo to Harry's home, also laden with paperwork.

"Is my home a rent free office now?", Harry complained, while Ron said: "So listen to this. Harry wants to adopt a death-eater."

"Daddy!", Lily tumbled out of the fire-place. "Look at my scar!" On her forehead a lightning bolt was emblazoned. Blood dripped onto the floor.

"What is going on here!", Ginny began screaming – no one had noticed her arrival.

o0O0o

"I leave you alone for a few hours, Harry, and the house is a mess. Lily is a mess. It's like you're a teenager! You're worse than James!"

Harry was getting rather skilled in blocking out his wife's voice. In fact, nowadays it had a somewhat soothing tilt to it. He was filling out paperwork with the ministry to get his prisoner, and Gringotts, because they technically were a self-governing establishment with a priority of the clients' confidentiality, and they would give out the money to him and only him in various disguises. And then there was the divorce paper, she probably wouldn't sign, because it held a monthly stipend (for her) of 200 galleons.

"I find you at home, scribbling non-sense – are you listening to me?", she screeched.

He stood. Calmly, he said: "That's it. I'm going." He summoned his paperwork, banged it into a trunk, and summoned the rest of his things and some of Lily's that she would not miss, slammed the divorce papers on the kitchen table, and left the house.

o0O0o

It was maybe a little bit of a rash decision, Harry contemplated, standing at 2 am. at the front door of his god-son's apartment.

"Teddy! Open up, man!"

When finally Teddy opened his door, he was crumpled and scrunched up, clad in boxer-shorts and the proud owner of a Potter head. "Whazzit?", he yawned.

"Lily carved up her head. I'm divorcing Ginny. Also, I'm homeless. Can I borrow your couch?"

The poor boy blinked: "Whazzit?"

"Never mind.", Harry pushed his godson into the flat and into his bed.

Then he yanked his trunks inside, fell onto the couch in a ill-composed heap of limbs and clothes and proceeded to fall asleep.

o0O0o

Harry woke up to a cold spell and the radio blaring. The smell of coffee permeated into his nose. When he blinked, his eyes opened to his godson holding him a cup of coffee.

"Tea is out.", he said.

Harry softly cradled the cup of delicious nectar and took a sip.

"So.", Teddy began. "Care to tell me why my godfather is sleeping on my couch and Uncle Ron called, because apparently you want to adopt my great-aunt and divorce you wife?"

Harry dropped his glamours.

The reaction left nothing to be desired. Teddy stared. Then gulped. Then stared a little more.

"I don't suppose you found the fountain of Youth?" After Harry shook his head, he continued: "Philosopher's Stone? Poly-juice with hair from when you were sixteen? An ageing curse gone wrong? A portrait that ages instead of you? Iðunn' apples?" After all those questions were answered with a negative response, Teddy inhaled a breath. "Oh. Boy."

"Yeah.", Harry exhaled shakily. "Worst is, they think I moan about it too much. Who wouldn't want to be immortal? It's mankind's biggest dream! It sucks!"

Teddy flinched. "Erm... Have you tried, you know..."

"Killing myself? Hermione asked that already. I tried poison, tried hanging, tried drowning, tried freezing, ran into a couple of killing curses. Went through the veil a couple of times. I tried cutting myself, but it's really painful, and decided to stop there."

"So when I'm 130, you'll be seventeen still?", Teddy asked, faintly terrified that his godfather tried killing himself.

"No. I will be 147, but I will look seventeen. Probably. But until now, I haven't aged a day, so chances are..."

"And that's why you're going to adopt Auntie Bella?", Teddy asked incredulously.

"For goodness sake, it's called the Death-Eater Redemption Programme, and it was initiated by the International Confederation of Wizards regarding the Geneva Conventions! It's not adoption! I would much rather adopt you!"

"Really?", Teddy teased. "Because it sounds as if I'd have to adopt you in 50 years, so you'd still be able to get to your money."

"No, that's all been arranged already.", Harry said gruffly. "All of my children will get a trust on their 25th birthday. You too. It's about 75,000 galleons each." He hugged his legs. "I really have to get away from her – here, whatever."

"Harry?"

"Yes?"

"What does make you immortal? Was it your mother's sacrifice? Or can't you die twice?"

Harry looked at Teddy for a while. Then, obviously climbing several inner walls, he asked: "Do you know the tale of Death and the three brothers?"

When Teddy nodded, he continued. "The brothers were said to be the three Peverells – Ignotus, Cadmus and what's-his-face. Ignotus, the youngest, passed his gift, the cloak, down his family line", he removed the cloak from his breast-pocket, "down to me. The stone", he took out the familiar ring, "was framed and passed down to the Gaunt family. It was a soul-jar of Voldemort and I had to destroy it. The wand – the famous Death-stick", he laid his wand next to the two other priceless treasures, "was won from Grindelwald by Dumbledore, from him by Draco Malfoy, and I disarmed him."

"You are the Master of Death!", his de-facto son exclaimed.

Harry grimaced. "Unfortunately."

"Why don't you just destroy the Hallows?" Teddy wondered if his godfather's face could be stuck that way.

"They cannot be destroyed. In a way, they are tied to this place the same way I am. We think."

"Not at all? So if you drop them into Mount Doom, 10.000 years later, they'd be on earth again?"

"Yes. Indubitable. Of course, I could summon them in the meantime."

Teddy stared at his godfather incredulously. "I'd say that's cool, but it's really not, is it? Can they be won from you?"

"Hermione says we are a unit. And we will still be a unit, when someone steals a part of us."

"That's scary. Stop talking like that."

Harry gave a crooked grin. "I'll guess, it's only me that has to get used to the scary stuff, huh?"

"Yeah.", Teddy scoffed. "And your adoptee."

Harry gave a very small smile.

But at least it was there.

Author Note: (1) the Ginny-bashing ran away with me. Sorry. I don't like it if other writers do that, and then I'm doing it myself (2) I did a split infinitive. would like to know if it's obvious. Whoever finds it, and reports it, gets it changed. Or a cookie (3) Arthur Ransome is a British author and collected Russian fairy-tales, like 'The Soldier and Death' (4) Jelina, the All-Wise is a fairy-tale; I think of Estonia? (5) the Rite of AshkEnte is a Discworldian summoning of Death (or the people fulfilling Death's orders). Do it backwards... well, shit happens. (6) The portrait Teddy mentions is "The Picture of Dorian Gray", Iðunn's apple made the norse gods immortal (7) The Death-Eater Redemption is a competition by... Ralinde. I'm not writing an one-shot though, so I took the idea and ran with it (8) I wanted to categorise it as humour - anyone with me? It's a bit dark, granted.

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May I just add a rant how riddiculous the genre classification is? This story is Adventure and Supernatural, because come on? Searching for Death - I could not use anything else.

But - they are wizards and witches (Supernatural), trying to meet Death (Spiritual), and sometimes the tragic is almost commical, there's this great mystery how... yeah, there is Harry angsting about being immortal, drama between the characters, there is fantasy (what part of wizard have you forgotten?), there is friendship, sometimes a little horror behind the scenes - it has hurt and comfort, and there will be tragedies, sometimes.

How on earth do I categorise that?

Edit (July 6): This is now beta-ed.