Chapter Twelve

Harry had mixed feelings about this predicament. On one hand, he was beyond relieved that his foolhardy experiment had not ended with him having his soul removed. On the other, Death apparently did not know the meaning of personal space and was practically glued to him now. He wasn't complaining though; he couldn't even imagine what it must feel like to be able to touch someone for the first time after countless millennia of being unable to.

And despite the fact that Death was literally just skin and bones, he was a surprisingly good hugger. You know… if you ignore the sharp, bony points and the cold, clammy skin. It was going to be interesting to try and explain why he had their 'summoned hero' attached to his back like this, though. He'd been attempting to get down to the kitchen to make something to eat when Mt. Hermione had intercepted them and erupted spectacularly all over his sense of self-worth.

Death, the bastard, hadn't so much as bothered to notice that there was even anyone else in the hallway before announcing to all and sundry what the consequences to his actions could have been—he knew it had been reckless, all right? There's no need to keep reminding him about it!—and had been entirely unhelpful when Hermione was all but biting his head off in her (rather warranted) rant.

Harry had tried to listen to what Hermione was saying (yelling), he really had. But it was somewhat difficult to concentrate when Death was distracting him by burying his face in Harry's neck and experimenting with various positions of hugging as if trying to find the one that let him keep as much skin contact as possible despite his own voluminous robes getting in the way.

Harry sympathized, he really did, but he was pretty sure no one else in the entire house was going to take Death's rather needy actions with any sort of rational calm. Even Hermione was noticing it, and Merlin knew the girl had tunnel vision when she was lecturing about something.

"Er, Harry?" she ventured tentatively, having paused after a rather insistent You will not risk your soul like that again, Harry James Potter! to stare oddly at the strange sight Harry was sure they made.

"Yes, 'Mione?" he replied calmly, as if nothing interesting was going on at all. If he pretended not to have noticed what Death was doing, maybe she'd just let it go?

Hermione watched as Death untangled himself from where he was hanging off Harry's waist to wrap one arm around his shoulders and neck instead, draping himself even further over Harry's exasperated self like a rather intoxicated cat. Her hair seemed to be frizzing out in her distress over the situation, and if her eyes got any wider he would have worried she'd lose them.

"You…" she gestured rather helplessly, "And he…" pointed hand waving accompanied her gesturing, "Harry?"

"Are you all right, 'Mione?" Harry asked, genuinely concerned. It wasn't like Hermione to speak in broken sentences like that. Maybe she was tired? She did look like she'd been dragged face-first out of one of her books a few minutes ago.

Whether it was because of the subject, the awareness that someone else was standing a few feet away, or even the sound of Harry's concern, Death finally lifted his head and stared with his usual intensity at his friend. Harry couldn't see his expression from this angle, but it was obviously not comforting to Hermione.

"Is the book witch ill, my shell? She sounds especially disjointed this evening."

Hermione seemed a bit put out to be referred to as 'the book witch' rather than her name—or even a more flattering title—but concealed her grimace rather well. She had just opened her mouth to respond when suddenly Death was looming over her, peering down at her through slightly glazed absinthe eyes.

Harry paused in momentary shock. The man had just been wrapped around him like a pretzel; there was no way he could have untangled himself and moved over there that fast without Harry noticing. It was as if he'd simply crossed the intervening distance without physically having to do so.

"You are tired," Death announced with his normal, manic grin. "Sleep."

Hermione dropped like a stone, collapsing to the ground like a puppet with her strings cut. Harry winced slightly; these halls all had hardwood floors—that drop could not have been comfortable. But really, what could he have done about it? She'd dropped too fast for him to cast a cushioning charm, and it wasn't like Death could have caught her.

Well… he could have, but Harry was rather grateful he hadn't.

Death stood motionless for a moment, staring down at the unconscious witch, before he straightened again and began tugging at the sleeves of his robe, as if trying to work out non-existent creases in the fabric.

Harry blinked when Death slung an arm around his shoulders, having honestly expected him to launch bodily at Harry and resume hugging him again, and began leading him towards the staircase.

"Come, my shell," Death grinned, teeth sharpening back into fangs from where they'd been relatively normal only minutes before. "You are, regrettably, still mortal and are limited by the restrictions of your living body."

Harry stumbled slightly, trying to keep up with Death's long strides, as he tried to mentally translate what had just been said into understandable English. He was pretty sure Death was pointing out how Harry had been heading for the kitchen earlier, and was therefore likely to be hungry. Of course, Death could have also meant anything from subtly hinting at 'fixing' Harry's 'limitations' via some horrible necromantic ritual, to just poking fun at his 'silly mortal body' and all its inadequacies.

There was really no way to tell.

This did bring up an interesting question, though. Harry eyed Death speculatively as he was dragged bodily down the stairs, politely ignoring the way he was being manhandled like a life-size Harry Potter doll.

Could Death eat? Harry rather doubted he had to eat, being Death, but could he? Did he? Granted Death had only been in the house for less than a day, and there hadn't really been any meals that they had attended in which Harry could have watched Death for an answer, but now that he was thinking about it he found himself incredibly curious.

Harry glanced up from his musing to find that he had managed to completely ignore the entire trip from the stairs to the kitchen, and that the kitchen was not quite as empty as he'd been sort of hoping it would be.

Mrs. Weasley was standing by the oven, staring at them with wide eyes, and Snape was lurking in a corner near the door like the bat he resembled. Remus was half-way out of his chair, having apparently lurched from it as soon as Harry had stepped inside, his eyes solid gold and lips peeled back in a half-completed snarl.

Harry was taken aback at this extreme reaction, stumbling backwards in surprise. He'd never seen Remus like this. He'd actually rather thought Remus was so disconnected from his wolf that he couldn't get like this. He also rather wondered when Mrs. Weasley had arrived; she hadn't been present at The Summoning, and he hadn't seen any of the other Weasleys since he'd been brought here to participate in the ritual that had dragged the personification of Death into this reality.

He only realized his mistake when he'd finished stumbling back and felt the hand that had previously been resting on his shoulder clamp down like the claws of a dragon. He'd managed to momentarily forget that Death had been the one that brought him down here, and that the man… monster… other version of himself might react negatively to seeing Harry threatened in some manner.

Now that he was thinking more clearly, it was obvious that Remus wasn't snarling at him, like he'd originally assumed, but was rather snarling at the tall, pale form of Death accompanying him. He felt a bit silly about thinking Remus had so much as noticed his presence; with someone like Death standing beside him, the odds of someone so much as looking in his direction before having their attention diverted to the Obvious Threat were minimal.

Harry barely had time to finish processing this thought before he acted, not willing to have a fight break out or have Remus' soul ripped out of his body over a misunderstanding. He threw out an arm across Death's chest, the barring gesture more symbolic than actually restraining, and held up his other hand in a warding-off motion towards Remus.

"Whoa! Calm down!" Harry all but shouted, having to raise his voice as Remus had transcended snarling and was outright growling now, the sound surprisingly loud for such an unassuming man. "Remus!" Harry was really tempted to yell 'down boy!' but resisted. "It's ok. He's a friend."

Death's grip on his shoulder loosened—which was good, because Harry had started losing feeling in that arm—at the word 'friend,' and Harry could feel the form beside him relax and dismiss Remus as a threat.

"He smells like death, cub," Remus warned, voice low and gravelly but thankfully not growling anymore.

Harry glanced up at his companion in time to catch the cocked brow and fanged grin.

"How delightful," Death purred, steering Harry further into the room via the arm around his shoulders. "Did you hear that, my shell? I smell like myself."

Harry snorted and coughed into his hand, biting back entirely inappropriate laughter as he sat at the table at Death's gentle shove. He looked up and found Remus still hovering half out of his chair, eyes still gold and face frowning at the two of them. "Remus, it's all right. Really." At Remus' disbelieving glance, Harry decided introductions were in order. "Remus, this is—" he paused for a heartbeat as he debated how he should go about introducing their guest without inciting another panic attack in their resident werewolf,  "—the hero Dumbledore summoned from another world to fight Voldemort."

There. That was suitably tactful and not at all alarming.

"Yes. I am… quite the hero," Death murmured, obviously amused at Harry's attempt at subtlety. Had Death been within arm's reach Harry would have elbowed him, but the entity was currently walking the length of the room for no discernable reason Harry could find, except perhaps to make the current inhabitants even more nervous.

Remus finally sat down, his eyes more gold than amber, and started calming down again. "So Albus went through with the ritual, then?" Remus sighed, running a tired hand over his face. His expression was written with disapproval; obviously Remus had not agreed with this course of action, which explained why he hadn't been present. He turned his attention back to Death, who had returned to hover behind Harry's chair. "You have my apologies. I tried talking him out of it, but everyone knows how stubborn the Headmaster gets when he sets his mind to something."

Death grinned, making Remus flinch at the unexpectedly feral expression. "Do not apologize, lycan. This is the most exciting thing to happen to me in millennia. I'm quite enjoying myself."

Remus blinked, both at the name he'd been given and the insinuation that the 'hero' Dumbledore summoned was thousands of years old. "…pardon? I believe I misheard you. Did you say 'in millennia'? As far as I'm aware, only vampires could live that long, and while you smell like blood, you do not smell like a vampire."

Harry just sighed, figuring he'd given it his best shot, and if Death decided to tell Remus his name it was no longer his fault if he panicked.

Death's grin widened impossibly further. "Dear me," Death all but breathed, "where are my manners?" He swept himself into a low bow that was simultaneously mocking and elegant. "I am Death, the Pale Rider." Death's grin turned teasing at the edges. He swept back upright and lifted a hand, palm up. A large, heavy black book bound in chains and trembling faintly fell into his hand out of thin air, which he proceeded to open and skim through over a set of rimless rectangular glasses that were now perched on his nose. "Hm. I wasn't meant to meet you for another few years. I suppose I could make an exception though, just for you. I have always loved dogs."

Remus stared at him, horrified, before his eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted, hitting his head on the table as he collapsed.

Harry just sighed, resting his face in his hands as Death's hoarse, rasping laugh filled the room. So much for being subtle.

A small noise made him glance up at Mrs. Weasley, who had been halfway to the table with a plate of sandwiches and was now staring pale-faced at the laughing form of Death. Death just continued chuckling as the book in his hand dissolved into ashes and the glasses evaporated off his face, leaning over to pluck the tray out of Mrs. Weasley's hands. He set the tray down in front of Harry and patted him on the head.

"Eat up, my little shell." Death chuckled again before he abruptly dissolved into shadows and vanished into the floor. Snape, who had remained quiet and tense until now, visibly relaxed and glanced at the unconscious werewolf. A smirk twitched at his lips before he whirled from the room in a sweep of billowing robes.

Mrs. Weasley was still standing where she had been previously, hands still outstretched as if she were still holding the tray of sandwitches and eyes still fixed on where Death had vanished from.

Harry glanced at Remus, then at Mrs. Weasley, then at the dark corner to his right where he could make out a flash of killing curse green and a Glasgow grin, before shrugging and taking a sandwich off the tray.

At least he hadn't killed anyone.