Chapter Fifteen

"I brought you a gift."

Harry glanced up at the familiar voice of Death, spotting him standing incredibly close to his person as if he'd always been there, rather than simply appearing out of nothingness like he usually did. His eyes flicked over Death's figure, wondering what on earth the entity had decided to bring him, and noticed something very… odd.

"Death," Harry began, keeping his voice carefully neutral as he fixed his eyes on the top of Death's head. "Why are you wearing a tiara?"

Death reached up with a long-fingered hand and adjusted the… frankly girly crown he was wearing with a wide, manic grin. The piece of jewelry looked so incredibly out of place on Death's person that Harry actually pinched himself to ensure he wasn't dreaming. The spike of pain insisted he was not, but that was almost worse because that meant Death actually was wearing a tiara.

To be fair, it was rather pretty. It was silver, and shaped like a bird with its wings outstretched, centered with a large round sapphire. It didn't really match anything Death was wearing except his Cloak, and the being's hair kept coiling around the tiara like a nest of curious snakes. Harry bit his lip to stop himself from laughing, not wanting to offend Death's choice of fashion.

Ignoring Harry's question, Death reached out and grasped Harry's wrist, tugging him closer and depositing a square piece of some sort of leather in his hands. Looking down, it seemed Death had just handed him a scaled wallet. Harry had never even owned a wallet before, not having ever had any money or an ID to put in one. He certainly didn't need one now, seeing as how galleons wouldn't fit in a wallet and that was just about the only currency he bothered carrying.

But it would be beyond rude to point this out to the being who'd just given him a gift. "Thank you. I've always wanted a…" Harry studied the wallet closely, thinking the scale pattern looked somewhat familiar. "…snakeskin wallet?" he trailed off questioningly, hoping he was right. What else would he have made a wallet out of? Dragonhide?

"Yes," Death replied, seemingly pleased that Harry appreciated it. "I made it myself. The serpent who donated her flesh for its creation was truly delicious."

Harry paused. "…delicious? You ate a snake?" Honestly, Harry didn't know why he bothered being surprised by anything anymore. So Death ate souls and snakes, did he? There were weirder diets, he supposed. He couldn't think of any off the top of his head, but he was sure there were somewhere.

Death gave him a bewildered sort of stare, as if Harry had just sprouted an additional four heads. "Why would I have eaten the snake, my shell? Her souls were plenty satisfying on their own."

Harry mentally backtracked, now considering the fact that Death was apparently so hungry he was eating the souls of animals. Wait, did Death just insinuate that the snake had more than one soul? He repeated this question aloud, earning another wide, fanged grin.

"Of course she did, silly shell. I do not make it a habit to devour the soul of an animal without a reason. There's no flavor to them at all, no intelligence, no fire… animals are bland, tasteless things." Death's smile tilted at the corners into something vaguely malicious. "This one happened to be doubling as a horcrux, which gave an ordinarily plain soul a hint of pineapple."

Harry lifted a hand and ran it over his face, feeling a headache coming on. At least this made a bit more sense than Death going around randomly eating the souls of various reptiles. Another horcrux, then? Harry felt rather relieved that Death seemed perfectly capable—and willing—to track down and find these things on his own. Harry wouldn't have the first idea where to look for one, nor did he have access to basilisk venom or fiendfyre in order to destroy it in the first place.

"Does this have anything to do with why you're wearing a tiara?" Harry asked, not willing to let the subject drop. It was a tiara for Merlin's sake! He could have at least worn something a bit more… impressive.

"Oh, this?" Death smiled innocently, the expression surprisingly convincing despite the sharp teeth and writhing hair. He reached up and plucked the tiara from his head, turning it around in his hands as if it fascinated him. "I found this in the castle. The late Lord Voldemort certainly liked leaving bits and pieces of himself in the strangest of places."

Harry took a moment to process this, and then casually hid his smile behind his hand. So. Voldemort owned a girly-looking tiara, did he? And he used it as a horcrux? He'd always known the man was a bit mad, but really? What was it with Voldemort and jewelry? First the locket that Death had mentioned from Grimmauld Place, the tiara Death had walked in wearing, and Harry would bet ten galleons that new ring currently resting on Death's right index finger was one too.

Harry looked at his new wallet. Had Death just come into the room carrying three ex-horcruxes on his person? And wait, did he say late Lord Voldemort? Harry blinked, suddenly alert.

"Death, when you delivered my response to Voldemort, did you do something to him?"

Death frowned at him, putting the tiara back on his head and balancing it carefully, despite the fact that his hair immediately wrapped around it again. "Of course I did. Were you expecting me to leave him be? Why on earth would I have done that?" Death smirked then, the expression entirely too satisfied. "You'll be pleased to know, my shell, that Voldemort's main soul tasted pleasantly of rum. It was intoxicating." Death grinned at his own joke, and Harry resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that, apparently, Death had just killed Voldemort on a mere whim.

He wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that. He was glad he wouldn't have to kill him, now—he wasn't sure he had it in him to be a murderer, even for someone like Voldemort—but it was so very abrupt! Only a handful of hours ago, Harry had been mentally preparing for war, and now… his destiny was over? Technically he supposed the prophecy had been fulfilled. Death was merely an alternate version of himself, so Voldemort did die at 'the hand of the other.'

He huffed out a laugh as he wondered how he was supposed to explain to everyone what had happened to Voldemort. Oh, Voldemort? Don't worry about him. Death went over and ate his soul, so no worries. Yes. He could see that going over splendidly.

It took a while to sink in, but once it did, Harry sat heavily on the couch behind him. Voldemort was dead. Voldemort was dead. A hysterical, relieved laugh bubbled up in his throat, but Harry bit it back, not able to hide his slightly-crazed grin. The prophecy was fulfilled. His destiny was over. He could be normal now! And there was no way people could try and push more fame onto him for this, because he hadn't done anything.

"It's over," Harry said aloud, tasting the words as he spoke them. He knew it wasn't over, per se, since there were still Death Eaters out there, but that wasn't any of Harry's responsibility. His only duty had been the death of Voldemort, and that was over and done with! Dear Merlin… he could have a normal school year for once! He was almost more excited about this than about the fact that Voldemort was dead.

Death sat beside him on the couch, leaning back and stretching his long arms out across the back, looking amused and entertained at Harry's 'revelation.' "Technically, it's been 'over' for about three hours now."

Ignoring him, Harry collapsed back into the couch cushions in an ungraceful sprawl. The relief was making him slightly lightheaded, and he knew any minute now he was likely to do something undignified, like giggle.

Death reached up with one hand and lifted the tiara off his head, the coils of shadow masquerading as his hair uncurling from it rather reluctantly. Death sat the tiara on Harry's head without further fanfare, making Harry pause as he automatically lifted a hand to straighten it. Debating for a moment, Harry shrugged and ignored it. So he was wearing a tiara now. So what? Voldemort was dead! If Death wanted him to wear this tiara, then he would damn well wear it and wear it with pride.

"We have to tell the others," Harry said after a few minutes of silence, not bothering to really get up to go do as he had suggested. Death made a sort of agreeing noise, but he seemed too busy rolling his new ring between his fingers to really pay attention. "They need to know," Harry tried again, trying to work up the motivation to get up and go confront the Order about the death of Voldemort.

"It would be funnier to not tell them," Death pointed out blandly, betrayed by the wide grin pulling at his lips.

Harry sighed, shaking his head with a wry smile. Heaving himself to his feet, Harry mentally prepared himself to go and tell the first Order member he finds about Voldemort, then he was fully ready to retreat to his room and lock himself in. He had no intention of answering any questions; the Order had been ready to toss a sixteen-year old, half-trained wizard at the Dark Lord and cower behind him. Harry really couldn't work up enough good feelings to care what the Order thought. He had an obligation to tell them Voldemort was dead now—or as close to dead as he figured Death would let him get; he was valiantly trying to not think too hard about it—but not one to explain how it was accomplished. He'd let them pester Death for answers if they wanted them so badly.

Determined now, Harry marched for the door as if he were walking off to battle, feeling more than seeing Death trailing at his heels. He passed Hermione carrying a stack of books from the library on his way to the kitchen, where he was more likely to find an Order member, and absently noted her startled glance up at his hair. Ignoring his friend's off behavior and tentative question, Harry threw open the door to the kitchen hard enough that it made a satisfactory bang against the wall.

All eyes turned to him.

Harry felt his mind go momentarily blank. He seemed to have impeccable timing, seeing as how it was a full Order meeting in progress he'd just dramatically interrupted. Pressing on, Harry stepped into the room and locked eyes with Dumbledore, ensuring the old man would bear the full brunt of what he was about to say.

"Voldemort is dead," he announced in a voice daring anyone to contradict him. This was his moment, damn it, and he wasn't about to let anyone ruin it for him. "He has been for three hours, and he's not coming back this time."

Nodding, satisfied that his message had been delivered, Harry turned on his heel and marched right back out the door, feeling Death's fleeting touch to his shoulder as he passed. He aimed a quick grin at the being before heading for Sirius' room, already running through the series of locking spells he intended to throw at the door as he waited for the Order to get over his shock.

They would have questions, and likely not believe him. That wasn't any of his business now. He was officially his own man, and he wasn't going to let those people walk all over him anymore. He'd kick the first person who tried somewhere very unpleasant.

Death's grin was seemingly fixed onto his face as he watched the reactions of the Order to his shell's announcement and departure. The general consensus seemed to be that his shell was either lying or had gone mad. He wasn't about to contest the latter, but Death was not about to let these mortals make disparaging remarks about his shell.

"Do you doubt my ability to remove the soul of a mere mortal?" Death asked them, frowning at the lot of them. "This is, after all, why you summoned me here."

Honestly. You'd think these people would be more appreciative of his efforts. Not that it had been much of an 'effort,' but they didn't need to know that. As far as they knew, removing a soul required a long, tedious ritual accompanied by a ceremonial bloodletting. He figured he'd keep the fact that he'd basically shoved his hand through Voldemort's chest and ripped out his soul—very roughly at that, to cause the most discomfort—to himself… unless they annoyed him, then he'd be more than happy to demonstrate his technique.

Dumbledore shifted in place slightly, seeming torn between demanding answers, offering a lemon drop, twinkling brightly, or having another heart attack. "I don't suppose you have any evidence to reinforce your claim, my boy?" he settled on, his eyes bloody twinkling again. Death's fingers twitched with the need to remove them. Forcibly.

"Evidence?" Death repeated, one corner of his mouth tilting up into a grin. They wanted evidence? Did they expect him to produce a body from his pocket? Well… he absently reached down and patted his robe. He probably did have a body or two in there; you never know when you might need a corpse, after all. "The mortal's body dissolved into ashes upon the removal of his soul. What evidence do you expect me to provide you?"

It was one of the other foolish humans that replied, in as condescending and rude a manner as Death could ever remember being spoken to. "They're obviously lying, Headmaster," the man, wearing an unfortunate top-hat and cursed with prominent jowls, all but sneered. "The boy's gone round the bend, he has! He was wearing a bloody tiara, for Merlin's sake." The man looked around earnestly, oblivious to the fixed, predatory stare locked on him from the cloaked figure of Death. The others were not so oblivious, and were edging discreetly away from their unfortunate comrade. "We all know this man isn't death," he insisted, scowling at the worried, fearful expressions of those sitting nearest to him and somehow ignoring the oppressive, aggravated magic building in the room. "Just look at 'em!" A hand waved in Death's direction, and solid black eyes followed it as if contemplating ways to remove it from its owner. "He's likely one of You-Know-Who's Death Eaters, all dressed up like that. Are we really trusting this man without so much as a Vow to his name?"

The room was quiet on the heels of the man's impassioned speech. It was not a contemplative silence. Rather, it was the still, stale silence of an ancient graveyard.

"You require evidence?" Death broke the silence, his voice cajoling and anticipatory. "You believe that I am not Death? That I would lower myself to lying to worms?" Death chuckled, a smooth, slick sound that was the opposite of his usual rasping laughter. Abyssal eyes rippled like water as he grinned, his full attention fixed on the now-nervous form of Dedalus Diggle. "So be it. You shall have your evidence, mortal."

Death lifted a skeletal hand and slowly slid it through his own skin, his fingers going intangible as he reached into his stomach and grasped hold of the weak, near-mindless remnants of Tom Riddle. He pulled out his hand, fingers re-solidifying once they were free of his physical form, and dangling from his fingers was a haphazardly spherical ball of grey mist, black patches seeping like oil to drip upon the floor as it shuddered and whined in his grip.

The room recoiled at the sight of it, the stench of its decaying magic, and the sound of the quiet, animal-like noises of terror coming from its slightly pulsing form. Chairs were scraped back as the Order members leapt from the table with oaths and curses, wands appearing in hands as faces drained of color, their magic recoiling at the broken, damned thing currently sobbing in relief at this brief respite.

"Your evidence," Death rumbled, the soul flinching at the sound of his voice. Death curled his fingers more securely around it, before closing his hand into a fist, dispersing the cloud into trails of smoke that sunk back into his skin and returning to its punishment. There was no reason to repeat his devouring of it in front of these mortals. He was annoyed enough as it was. He was more likely to bite the soul in half than swallow it properly, and that would be too quick an ending for such an irritating mortal.

Death stared unblinkingly at the pale face of the man who'd called him a liar. "I trust," he drawled, "that that was satisfactory?"

Eying the gathered Order members, glance lingering on Dumbledore, Death grinned sharply, making several of them flinch. Good. They were beginning to understand. He met Dumbledore's eyes and smirked at the weak, fluttering feeling of magic attempting to read his mind. Foolish mortal. Had Death allowed that magic to connect to him, Dumbledore's head would have likely exploded under the effort of comprehending his existence.

It would not have been much of a loss, surely, but he had plans for this mortal. Plans he intended to keep from his delicate shell until he was sure the boy could handle the… darker aspects of his being. It was one thing to know and understand that an alternate version of yourself was the personification of Death. It was another thing entirely to accept that after countless eons of watching humanity destroy itself over and over and over again, Death had become a monster capable of cruelty on a level that the human mind cannot even fathom.

He'd give the boy some time to wrap his mind around the concept. Death was patient, after all. He could wait.

Pausing for a moment in case one of the Order worked up the nerve to ask him another question, Death turned to leave. He halted near the door, eyeing a small end-table resting innocuously to the right of the exit. He reached into his robe and pulled out a gold cup engraved with a badger, and absently created a single black rose to store in it. He set the cup-turned-vase on the end table and tilted his head at it.

Yes. Setting that there seemed appropriate.

Death grinned, and left the room humming a funeral march under his breath.