1 master of dying

title//Master of Dying

written by//Motherof4dragons

summary// Harry-

One minute I'm in Malfoy Manor, the next I'm being yelled at for dying.

Again.

Apparently I'm rather good at it.

It's honestly not that shocking. How am I supposed to stay alive, when it's three against an army and we're working off of faulty information?

When Mortimer said he was sending me back to go at it again, my main response was anger at yet another Old Man making decisions for my life.

Until I saw the headful of riotous curls on the other side of Death's hallway.

I don't care what they do to me, but they fucked up when they killed Hermione.

The next time I die, I'm taking Riddle and all of his minions with me.

********

STOP OR SHE DIES!"

Panting, Harry peered around the edge of the sofa. Bellatrix was supporting Hermione, who seemed to be unconscious, and was holding her short silver knife to Hermione's throat.

"Drop your wands," she whispered. "Drop them, or we'll see exactly how filthy her blood is!"

Ron stood rigid, clutching Wormtail's wand. Harry straightened up, still holding Bellatrix's.

"I said, drop them!" She screeched, pressing the blade into Hermione's throat: Harry saw beads of blood appear there.

"All right!" he shouted, and he dropped Bellatrix's wand onto the floor at his feet. Ron did the same with Wormtail's. Both raised their hands to shoulder height.

"Good!" she leered. "Draco, pick them up! The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!"

Harry knew it; his scar was bursting with the pain of it, and he could feel Voldemort flying through the sky from far away, over a dark and stormy sea, and soon he would be close enough to Apparate to them, and Harry could see no way out.

Harry could not contain his scream of terror and rage as Voldemort neared closer.

The pop of Apparition was near silent in the cacophony of chaos exploding around the room. Dobby appeared a second later, trembling out of sight of the snake-like creatures billowing charcoal robes.

Bellatrix, safe in her master's shadow, glides the blade across Hermione's throat, blood welling from the growing wound.

"Hermione!"

Hermione's name was still on his lips, his arms reaching out to save her, when Harry saw the flash of brilliant green light, and then felt no more.

"Avada Kedavra!"

~**~

I jerk awake from the dream with arms outstretched, desperately trying to close the distance between me and Hermione.  Ron's screams still echo violently in my ears, warring and mingling with Bellatrix's cackles.

My heart is thundering so fiercely it hurts, and bile rises in the back of my throat as I fight to keep it down.

It was a dream. It was only a dream.

 I fall to my knees as my stomach heaves the remains of last night's dinner. When I finally open my eyes, it's not to the vision of sick covering the rugs on a dingy tent floor.

Instead, it's to see smooth marble tiles, boxed in black and white.

"What the…?"

I scramble to my feet, reaching into my pocket for my wand. It's not there. I turn in a circle like a top, finally taking in my surroundings for the first time. It's a waiting room of some sort. Chairs are lined up in neat little rows, though all are empty. There's a partitioned off reception area at the front, with frosted glass and an unmarked door in either corner. Above the glass is a sign with black lettering reading, 'Death Inc. Your Time Is Up.' 

I twist on my feet again, taking in the other side of the room. A door lies in either corner here as well, with neon signs signaling Entrance and Exit only. I vault over a chair and bolt for the exit.

"Potter, Harry James," a bored voice calls, and I freeze in my tracks before whipping towards the sound of my name. The woman, dressed in blue doctor's scrubs, looks between me and the file in her hands before bursting into laughter.

"You again! I thought your name sounded familiar. Well, come with me. Mortimer will want to talk with you."

Mortimer?

I glance back and forth between apparent freedom and the back of the disappearing woman, and quickly make up my mind. I need to find Hermione and Ron. If I'm here, then they probably are too. Forgetting my intention of escape, at least for the moment, I follow the woman instead.

"What is this? Where am I?" I demand, jogging to catch back up with her. When she yanks the closing door open, I get the first look at myself. My hands are covered in dirt and blood, and I'm wearing the same clothes from my dream.

Dream?

As soon as I notice the grime, it disappears from my skin.

Bloody hell.

"What's going on?" I demand again, glancing left and right as I follow the stranger down the hallway. There are people everywhere, but I can't decide if I'm somewhere magic or muggle. People are dressed in everything from robes, to jeans, to a man wearing a suit of armor. There's no blatant use of magic, but I can feel it in the air. For all that it looks like an old office building from one of Aunt Petunia's eighties movies, the aura gives off an otherworldly feel I associate with Hogwarts, or the Ministry of Magic.

It's the closest feeling I've ever had to running through the Department of Mysteries. Hallways are lined with offices, then the walls fall away into an open floor space with cubbies. A few more feet, they close into hallways again. I glance at the desks, and the technology ranges from typewriters to computers so high tech I've never seen the likes of them before. One door, separated from the others, has a dozen stickers across the front, all with the same warning.

Keep Out.

The woman, who still won't answer my questions, leads me into an office at the end of the hallway, popping her gum between her teeth.

"Somebody's in trouble," she coos. I run my hands over my already messy hair, trying to smooth it into some semblance of order. I haven't shaved in days, and a coating of scruff covers my face. She's not looking at me though. She's glancing between me and the angry bloke behind the desk.

"Shut up, Sam. This isn't my fault! I'm not the moron who keeps getting killed!"

Killed?

I need to find Hermione and Ron and get the hell out of here.

No," the girl snarks, grinning ear to ear. She reminds me of Crookshanks when he's done something he's particularly pleased with. Usually having to do with eating a rodent. "You're just the idiot who keeps lettinghim get killed over and over and over again. I think I'll apply for your position when they post it on the internal drive."

The bloke behind the desk rises from his seat, straightening his robe as he does so. They're black and remind me of a judge's robes that I've seen on the telly, except they have a hood.

Almost like the Grim Reaper in the Hallows Tale. 

"Shove off," the bloke snaps, then literally pushes the girl from the little office. He slams the door behind her, and they can hear her laughter as she presumably moves back down the hallway. "Sit," he orders me, pointing to the chair in the front of the desk. They're nothing like the chintz wingback chairs in Dumbledore's office.

No.

Wooden and hard as rock and three sizes too small, I squish myself into the seat and the edge immediately starts digging into my thighs.

"What am I doing here?" I demand again, my temper beginning to rise.

"Dying. As usual. Master of Death my ass. Whoever gave you that title over in the Legacies department needs to be fired. Sure, you're a Master of it. A master at dying. I mean, you've done it often enough."

Eh.

Master of Death?

The Hallows

I sputter in my seat, wishing Hermione were here to explain whatever the fuck was going on. I'm sure I look like Ron whenever someone asks him about the Goblin Wars.

"Is this about The Hallows? What the hell is going on?"

"Oh, excuse me," the stranger remarks, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "Let me introduce myself." He puts a hand to his chest. "My name is Mortimer. I'm your personal Undertaker. Or I was." Mortimer points his finger in my face. "You're about to get me fired. Because you're 'Harry bleeding Potter.'" 

Personal Undertaker?

This guy is nuts.

I scan the room, looking for alternate escape routes.

Mortimer drops a file as thick as his fist onto the desk. He flips it open with so much force papers fly about his office. "Harry James Potter, Master of Death."

If you could see sarcasm, it would drip from the blokes' lips.

"Date of Birth, July 31st, 1980. Celebrated as The Boy Who Lived, The Man who Conquered and the First Gentleman of the Minister of Magic. Works as an Auror for several years before giving up the public sector and going private. You open a non-profit with your wife and build an education program to ease the transition from Muggle to Magic. Estimated date of death March 13th, 2158."

"E—estimated?"

Does that mean they win? They find the final Horcruxes and finally defeat Voldemort? 

My fingers start to burn, and I realize I'm gripping onto the arms of the chair so tightly my fingers have lost circulation.

"Yes. Estimated," the Undertaker growls. He smacks the opened folder on his desk with his fist. "That's when you're supposed to die. After living to the ripe old age of one hundred and seventy-eight and dying in your sleep with your soul mate." He checks the file in front of him, flipping through a few pages. "Some doll named Granger."

Granger?

"Hermione?"

I look around the office again, taking in details this time. There's a tall filing cabinet and a generic 'Hang In There' cat poster. This bloke is mental.

Or maybe I am.

Maybe I've been hurt, and this is all some sort of hallucination. Hermione is my best friend, not my soul mate. Yeah, I love her. She's the most important person in my life. Since the day I saved her life in that bathroom, she's been the one constant I can count on.

Plus, okay, she's beautiful. Anyone who doesn't see that is blinder than I am. It may have taken the Yule Ball to point it out, but I've been painfully aware of that fact every day since.

And maybe I've felt a twinge or who. Especially when it was just me and her in that tent. How many nights did they lay together, holding on for warmth and companionship? We can go days without feeling the need to talk to each other, but that's because we often already know what the other is thinking.

But we've never even kissed.

Never even thought about it.

She's Ron's girl.

Not mine.

Mortimer starts talking again before I can gather my thoughts to respond.

"Actual dates of death are as follows; 1993. Falls off a broomstick. How dumb do you have to be to fall off a broomstick?"

He must mean the dementor attack. That wasn't my fault! Dementors are evil! Let's see what happens when one comes on this asshole when he's fifty feet in the air! When I open my mouth to refute him though, Mortimer powers on without waiting for my response.

"Next date of death; October of 1994. Maybe you thought it would be cute to see what the inside of a Dragon looks like. Guess what? It's hot in there. Death number three…"

I tune him out, thinking about everything Mortimer has said.

If this isn't some elaborate hallucination, then I'm really dead. That doesn't come as much of a surprise. I always knew it was going to happen sooner rather than later. The likelihood of my defeating Voldemort and living to tell the tale were slim.

I'd always hoped, at least, that if he killed me during a duel, I'd at least take him with me.

Which means what happened at Malfoy Manor wasn't a dream. It really happened. That means—

"What about Ron? Hermione?!" I demand, throwing myself from my chair.

"Cool your horses," Mortimer grouses, gesturing for me to sit back down. "I don't know who they are. They aren't my problem. Right now, all I care about is you, and getting you out of my office. Permanently.  Preferably before my bosses find out you're here and with enough time to lose your intake form. Hopefully by the next time you die, you'll be someone else's problem."

I don't bother sitting down. My always simmering anger is finally working its way to the surface.

"I'm sorry, Sir," and I can't help it if it sounds like I'm talking through ground glass. "I'm not sure I understand."

Mortimer growls in frustration, pushing away from his desk.

"Phenomenal cosmic powers, brains the size of a flobberworm. You know, I wasn't around during Merlin's time, but I've heard the stories about how often he died too. I'll have to do some research to see if there's a correlation between unlimited power and diminishing brain cells."

"Hey!" I exclaim, shoving my fingers through my hair. "Maybe if you explained what in the bloody hell was going on in English, instead of talking around in circles, I wouldn't be so clueless. Dying wasn't exactly on my agenda for the day. I didn't realize this was a task I had to study for!"

"Which is why you're back at my desk. Again! Because you rush into situations without thinking them through first!" Mortimer quips back just as fast. 

I scowl at him, jamming my fists into my pockets to keep from picking up the file and throwing it. The cat in the poster winks at me, and it reminds me so violently of Umbridge that I recoil in disgust. I almost trip over the chair behind me in my hurry to put space between me and the opposite wall.

"Okay," Mortimer says, clapping his hands in front of himself before pushing with his feet and rolling over his chair to the cabinet behind him. "This is what we're going to do. We're going to try this one more time. Only this time, you're keeping your memories. You're probably one of those people that learns by doing. You've died often enough. Maybe remembering the unpleasant experience will teach you how to avoid it in the future.

"Oh!"

He drops the papers he'd pulled from the cabinet onto his desk before knocking the drawer closed and yanking open another.

"I need a form 24B too. I'm going to yank that Horcrux from your scar. That'll help you out."

At his words, I collapse heavily into the seat again, my knees going boneless.

This is too much information, too fast.

I'm a Horcrux.

Of course, I am.

My hands drift to my face, fingers outlining the memory of my parents' death. It makes so much sense. The connection between me and Voldemort. He literally marked me as his equal. The Parseltongue. The fact that I can feel his emotions. A piece of Voldemort's soul, the vilest wizard to have ever walked the earth, resides inside me.

My eyes water with the need to be sick.

Can a dead man puke twice in one day?

Mortimer claps his hands in front of my face, and I jerk my head back to glare at him.

"Sign here."

Mortimer places a form on the edge of the desk then hands me a pen.

"This is a retainment form, giving me permission to send you back to the living with your memories up to this point intact. I could put your soul into your infant body, and you'd remember this conversation."

"Please don't," I reply automatically, and Mortimer chuckles under his breath. The sound reminds me of a Weasley prepping a prank, and it gives me an uneasy feeling.

I swipe the pen across the page, unused to writing with ballpoint instead of ink and quill. I've almost forgotten the convenience of it. I make a mental note to buy a pack and a pad of paper if I ever get out of here.

Which sounds like it will be sooner rather than later. I rub at my eyes with my finger and thumb, pressing into the sockets and trying to skiff off the headache blooming there.

"You said you could put my soul..." I start, trying to gather my thoughts. "My consciousness? I still don't really get it." Mortimer scoffs at my right side.  I don't rise to the bait. "You could put it anywhere in the timeline?"

"Yup," Mortimer smirks, popping the ending p sound with his lips.

"When will you send me back to then? Malfoy Manor?"

The Undertaker's seer is a thing to behold. Malfoy himself would be proud.

"Just so you can die again in five minutes time? I don't think so. Don't worry about where you're going. Just concentrate on staying alive. I've got a right sweet location in mind for you. Young enough for you to learn from your mistakes, but still old enough for you to have a good wank and not feel grossed out about it."

I pretend a blush isn't rushing up my throat. I'm dead for Merlin's sake. I shouldn't be able to blush.

Mortimer shakes a new paper under my nose.

"Next form is the removal of private property documents. It just says that I can yank that Horcrux from your head and you won't hold me or Death Inc. responsible for any damages."

 I pause with the pen hovering above the form.

"Damages? Are there liable to be damages?"

I think back to the fight the other Horcruxes put up as we attempted to remove them from their confines.

Now I'm the container.

"Nah. It's simply for legal to cover their asses. But, once we get that snake out of your head, you might notice your Occlumency works a lot better. I recommend you lock your thoughts away in vaults instead of using walls as barriers, but that's just me. Your file says you should be a natural Occlumens. Course, the last eighteen years has taught me that the file is full of shit.

"While I'm thinking about it, better not let Old Voldy hit you with the killing curse. You had a freebie, from him at least, with his soul clanking around in that scar. Any time he tried to off you; he'd always end up taking out that piece of himself. But with it gone, I don't know whether your mother's protection will still work. Better not take that risk."

I hesitate a second time, this time with the pen already touching the signature line.

"Why would I want to get rid of it, if it protects him from killing me?"

"You want Voldemort to kill you once, then to get back on your feet so he can go at it again? Cause if we don't do it now, that's the only way you're losing it. Or, you know, maybe your soulmate can run you through with that sword you've been lugging around."

Good point.

I drag my name across the paper without hesitation this time.

Lightning shoots through my forehead, my scar burning with the fire of a thousand flames. The pen drops from my fingers to the floor, and I open my mouth to cry out, hands already cradling my skull. But just like that the pain is gone, leavening my head somehow lighter than it was before.

I run my fingers over the lightning bolt, now nothing more than a scar, and attempt to breathe without screaming at Mortimer.

"If I had a freebie from him, who killed me this time?

He looks at his papers again.

"Looks like he hit you first, then she hit you about a second later."

Bellatrix.

Bastards.

Mortimer scoops up the forms from the desk before depositing them into the over bursting file. He starts to pace along the tiny area behind his office furniture, one arm wrapped around his middle while the other taps on his chin.

"What else? What else?"

It hits me again, that this is real.

Really, in the grand scheme of things, the fact that I'm sitting in a tacky office having a conversation with one of Death's representatives shouldn't be such a surprise. I've traveled through time once already, after all.

But it's a surreal experience all the same.

One I'm almost bursting to tell Ron and Hermione.

I peek at the holder sitting on the desk, twisting to get a better view. I move the newly dropped pages to the side, to better see the meat of the file. Date of birth. Date of Death. Profession. It even has a list of allergies.

Note to self. You apparently have a Gluten intolerance, whatever that means. 

Soul Mate, Hermione Jean Potter-Black (née Granger. aka Mi, 'Mione, Minister of Magic, One Third of the Golden Trio, Golden Girl, Gryffindors Princess, Bond-Mate.) 

It goes on to list details that no one should have about their own life in advance. I shove the folder away again. I don't care what Hermione thinks. Too much information is a bad thing.

"Where are the other Horcruxes located?" I ask, finally using my brain.

"Don't have a clue," Mortimer replies without breaking his stride.

"What are the Deathly Hallows?" I try again, and all Mortimer does is shrug.

"What good are you then?" I demand, shoving up from the chair with heat lacing my voice. I stop an inch away from Mortimer's face.

"You tell me to stay alive when I'm the most hunted person in all of Britain, and the only thing you give me to help with that are three measly years of memories and Occlumency! Thanks, for that, by the way. I'm sure Snape will be thrilled! I'm starting to think the problem here isn't that I'm an idiot. Maybe the issue is that you're incompetent!"

I snap, putting my hands on Mortimer's desk and scream in his direction.

"I'm tired of half-truths and incomplete stories! Maybe if someone gave me enough information, I wouldn't have to run into situations without thinking it through first! If people wanted me to stay alive, then maybe they should bloody tell me what I'm up against! You claim I'm as strong as Merlin, but no one will fucking teach me how to use it!"

I'm panting when I'm done, sweat beading on my brow. Mortimer shoots me a contemptuous glare but doesn't refute my accusations.

"Give me a minute, okay. I'm thinking! There's only so much I can do from this end. All I know is what's in the file. I'm a paper pusher, not a tactician. Ooh! Get yourself one of those." Mortimer points in my direction. "Bond with a house elf, too. You need all the help you can get. Make friends with the Goblins. A little inter-magical species cooperation never did anyone harm."

Mortimer stops his pacing and grabs the lone intake form off his desk. He rips it into a pile of infinitesimal pieces, and with a snap of his fingers, lights it on fire.

At my bemused expression, Mortimer shrugs self-consciously. "It's why I don't snap very often," he says. He wiggles his fingers in the air. "I light shit up."

Okay then.

Mortimer tucks the file under him arm, then opens the office door.

"After you," he says, waving his arm in an old-fashioned gentlemanly way.

I jerk my head at the abrupt dismissal. 

"That's it? We're done? Just like that. There's no other help you can give me?"

I don't want to be dead, but with the burdens waiting heavy for my return, I'm not exactly jumping to be thrown back to the wolves either. Mortimer closes the door again, still on the inside.

"Look, Potter. I'm sorry I called you a moron. I'm stressed, alright. I was passed over for a promotion last month, and as you can see, Sam is chomping at the bit for my job. You're very smart. You'd have died ten times over if you hadn't. Super powerful too."

He sounds like a car salesman.

"There's a reason Voldemort marked you. He could probably smell it on you, or something. Didn't you hear all those titles I rambled off for you? Hold on." Mortimer flips open the file again, flicking through pages until he finds what he's looking for. "See?" He turns the paper so I can see it but then back again before I can get a good look.

Mortimer reads it out loud.

"Harry James Potter, Bond-Mate, The Boy Who Lived, The Man Who Conquered, Master of Death, one third of The Golden Trio, The Hero of Hogwarts, The Deliverer of Damnation, and The Death Eaters Bogeyman. Though, your guess is as good as mine on that last one. I asked around, but no one could explain it to me. Point is, Potter, Legacies wouldn't have given you all those titles, if you weren't strong enough to earn them."

The Undertaker pats me on the back, the action making us both cringe. He stops after two smacks.

"So, go out there and break a leg! Only, don't actually break a leg. Cause, you know, a broken leg will slow you down, and if you can't run away from danger then—," and Mortimer makes a slashing motion across his throat. "You good?"

All I can do is stare. It's like having a conversation with Grawp.

"Good," Mortimer says. He opens the door and grabs me by the front of the shirt and hauls me bodily from the office. "Out the way you came, Potter. I'll show you to the exit. Try not to look suspicious."

I slow my step for half a heartbeat, letting Mortimer take the lead. We pass through the first hallway, and I glance at the open space and attempt to look as nondescript as I can.

A headful of riotous curls catches my attention.

"Hermione," I yell, and the body to whom the curls belong freezes in her tracks, face whipping in my direction.

Hermione.

Abandoning my march to wherever Mortimer was leading me, I take off at a run towards the opposite hallway.

"Harry!" Hermione yells, tripping over her own feet in her rush to get to me. She launches herself into my arms, airborne for a solid three seconds before she crash lands into my chest. Her arms go around my shoulders, and she scratches at my back as she digs her fingers into my shirt, holding onto me as if our lives depend on it.

"You— "she stutters. "You—."

Words seem to fail her, as she pulls away to look at my face, only to bury her head in my chest once more. She tucks in perfectly under my chin, fits snugly against my body.

"They told me I'd died," she sobs, her tears already dampening my shirt. "And you're here too. I'm so sorry, Harry. I failed you. I'm so sorry!"

I try to comfort her, to run my hands over her shoulders and back. I whisper into her hair that she was perfect, and brave and brilliant and all the things I'm not. I failed her, not the other way around. She never would have died if it wasn't for my fuck up.

Mortimer's hiss into my ear is a harsh fall back into our current reality.

Dead.

Hermione and I are dead.

"Dude!" Mortimer blasts. "I told you to act cool. So, what do you do? Bring down the eyes of the entire department. Thanks a lot, moron. Now I'm totally going to get fired."

I ignore the bewildered expression on Hermione's face, turning with her still in my arms to look into Mortimer's face.

If I'm really that important to this bloke, then it's time I start using whatever leverage that gives me.

"This is her! This is Granger. She died with me this time. If you want me to succeed, I need her too. She's got to come back with me. It's the only way I know how to ensure I live."

To ensure they both live.

"Granger huh?" Mortimer says, looking at Hermione still ensconced in my arms.

"What? What do you mean go back, Harry?" Hermione questions, her tears forgotten as she attempts to follow the conversation.

A woman in a Hawaiian shirt and flip flops comes walking up, looking amused at the display in front of her.

"This one yours, Valdis?" Mortimer asks, gesturing to Hermione.

"Sure is. Just ran her through processing. She was all set to go on."

Go on? No. Absolutely not.

"I'll take it from here, thanks. Can I have her folder?"

Valdis looks between Mortimer and Harry, quickly assessing the situation.

"He looks familiar," she says, her tan giving her an ethereal glow.

Mortimer rips the folder from her hand and grips onto the back of my shirt, hauling me away from the hubbub of the open desks. I choke as my collar digs into my throat, then I smack the Undertaker's hand away and start to follow on my own. Hermione laces her fingers with mine, firing off a thousand questions that Harry can't answer.

"What's going on? How did you get here? Who is this guy, Harry? Where are we going? Are you okay? I'm so sorry Harry."

We dip into a darkened room, and Mortimer pulls up a drawer on a cabinet identical to the one in his office.

"Sign here, Ms. Granger. It's a retention form for your memories."

"Uhhhh."

I squeeze Hermione's hand, and she grabs the pen from Mortimer's grasp and signs the form without further complaint. She's barely risen from leaning over the table before Mortimer is on the move again. He's almost running this time, and Hermione is jogging at my side to keep up.

"I'm sure management has been alerted to your presence, Mr. Potter," he huffs. "Thanks for that by the way. You better be right about this."

"I am. I— "

I don't get the chance to finish my thought. Mortimer pulls open the door with the Keep Out signs plastered across the wood, and without warning, we're roughly shoved through