Chapter Eight

Death stood quietly behind the irritated form of his mortal shell, standing head and shoulders above his—rather scrawny—height, eying the old wizard seated before them with an amused grin. The man couldn't see him, of course, since he was wearing his Cloak, but his shell knew he was there and that was all that really mattered.

Dumbledore had summoned his shell here for dubious purposes, and Death had no intention of letting his new—and only—friend spend any time alone with the man whatsoever.

"You wanted to see me, Headmaster?" his shell asked in a remarkably bland tone of voice. Death was rather proud of him; had it been Death addressing the man, there likely would have been screaming, decapitations, and/or maniacal laughter as he went about removing the right kidneys of everyone present.

Dumbledore stroked his beard in what was probably meant to be a wise, grandfatherly way… except for the fact that Dumbledore was neither wise nor grandfatherly, and the action only made Death's fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and strangle the man with his own facial hair. As if his shell could sense his less-than-peaceful intentions, one hand discreetly reached back and tugged sharply on his sleeve.

Death went still immediately, eyes locked on where his mortal shell had just pulled on the sleeve of his robe. He doubted the boy knew how very close he had just come to having his soul accidentally removed, but that did very little to change the fact that someone had just willingly touched any part of him—even his clothes. Death made a mental note to record this event for posterity.

"Yes… my dear boy, Miss Granger mentioned that the two of you had an opportunity to converse with our guest before he vanished?" Dumbledore paused, waiting for his shell to nod, before twinkling at him benevolently. Death manfully resisted the urge to reach out and pluck out one of those eyes and crush it like a grape.

"If by vanished you mean how he left after you addressed him like an unruly child, then sure. Hermione and I talked to him a little," his shell replied, just as calm as when he'd entered.

"Now Harry," Dumbledore began, peering at them over his half-moon spectacles as if they were somehow in the wrong, "I realize you seem to have grown rather close to our summoned hero, but surely you understand that he is merely here to perform a duty—it would not do to get too close to him. Don't misunderstand, my boy; I'm pleased that you've made a friend, but there is always the chance our visitor is, regretfully, Dark and may not be as inclined to aid us as we had originally hoped. If this is the case, it would be far more prudent to find a method of ensuring he does not join Lord Voldemort or betray any secrets he may have learned here."

Death bristled at the man's tone, noting that his shell was reacting similarly.

"And how, exactly," his shell began in a cool tone Death recognized as the mortal version of his own speak truthfully, lest I wrest your tongue from your jaw voice, "do you suggest we go about ensuring the cooperation of Death? Sir?"

Dumbledore frowned then, only briefly, but enough that Death was sure his shell had seen the angry, frustrated expression as well. "I highly doubt the man is being truthful in his claims, Harry," Dumbledore replied in his patented I'm-so-disappointed-even-a-first-year-would-have-known-this voice. "Whatever reason he has for being dishonest as to his identity is likely for nefarious means. I suggest you distance yourself from him until we can conclude beyond doubt that he means us no harm."

His mortal shell stared silently at Dumbledore for a long moment. Death wondered what the boy was pondering. He was thinking about how he very much intended harm to several people in this house.

"He removed the horcrux in my scar, Headmaster," his shell announced abruptly and with no subtlety at all. Dumbledore whitened as if he'd seen a metaphorical ghost, mouth opening and closing as if he had forgotten how to use his vocal chords properly. "He did this by touching it. I highly doubt an ordinary wizard could do such a thing." His shell paused, apparently waiting for some kind of reply, but from what Death could see Dumbledore was too busy staving off a mild heart attack to speak. Death silently prodded at the man's magic, attempting to incite the heart attack into being more lethal, but unfortunately the wizard recovered with few problems. "You planned on telling me about the soul fragment in my scar when, Headmaster?"

"My dear, dear boy," Dumbledore began in a sorrowful voice that Death believed about as much as he wanted to sink to his knees and call the old wizard Your Majesty, "I had not wished to burden you with such knowledge. I hoped to give you as normal a childhood as possible, Harry, and you could not have had such with the weight of Tom's madness resting on your shoulders."

His precious mortal shell scoffed in derision of this excuse, back straightening with indignation. Death felt his own anger seeping into the air around them, noticeably lowering the temperature. "A normal childhood, Headmaster? What part of being forced to live in a cupboard is in any way normal? What is normal about a child who doesn't even know his own name until his class laughs at him for introducing himself as Freak?" The boy shook his head, not even looking at the older wizard anymore. "Tell me, sir, what, exactly, is normal about being denied food, water, bloody hell even the most basic human courtesy, all as punishment for daring to breathe?"

Dumbledore, seeming to have regained his composure during his shell's angry demands, smiled condescendingly back at him. Death was positive that if the man had been standing closer to them, he would have reached out and patted his other self on the head. "Now Harry, there's no reason to exaggerate the situation. The Dursleys are your family, and it's incredibly immature of you to lie about them in such a hurtful manner." Dumbledore's eyes had the audacity to twinkle. "I'm sure your relatives appreciate the protection your presence in their home grants them, and if you would simply make an attempt to get along with them then you'd see that there's no reason to act out." His mortal shell was incredibly still as he listened to Dumbledore's little speech, and Death himself was as motionless as the grave. "I had monitors tied into the wards around your Aunt's home, my boy; they would have alerted me if any such things had actually occurred. Maintaining your story won't do you any good, Harry. You'll be returning to them in a few days for the remainder of the summer regardless, and perhaps you can use this time to mend a few bridges?"

Dumbledore smiled at them again, stood, patted his mortal shell on the head as he passed and digging out a lemon drop from the pocket of his robe to pop in his mouth as he walked away, humming.

His mortal shell didn't so much as twitch as his eyes followed the old man's progress out of the room. Death felt the Cloak's power drain away and stood silently beside his shell, black eyes staring down at the shorter form of his alternate self. Death wished at that moment, more so than in all the cumulative eons of his existence, that he could reach out and offer some sort of comfort to the young wizard beside him.

"…you'll stay with me?" came the small, tentative question of his broken shell, his frame beginning to tremble. Death inhaled, scenting betrayal and pain thick in the air around his little wizard.

A pale, long fingered hand hovered over his shell's shoulder for a moment before he flexed his fingers and withdrew it, peeling off his Cloak to drape over his shell's shaking form instead.

"Always, little shell."