Cats and cosmic babysitters
Present Day.
Harry was halfway through repairing an enchanted quill—one that had somehow managed to write a sonnet about the importance of socks instead of the assigned essay—when a familiar presence crept into the room. He didn’t bother looking up.
“I’m busy,” he said dryly, holding the quill up to the light and inspecting its ink reservoir.
*“And I’m bored,”* came the rippling, velvety voice of Death.
The air shifted, and with it came the faint smell of ozone. A soft *thud* on his desk signaled the arrival of the smoky, feline form Harry had grown entirely too accustomed to.
“Go haunt someone else,” Harry muttered, still focused on the quill.
Death stretched lazily, its shadowy fur spilling like ink over Harry’s notes. *“But you’re the only one who truly appreciates my sense of humor.”*
“That’s because it’s awful,” Harry deadpanned, finally setting the quill down. He gave the cat a flat look. “Did you come here for a reason, or is this just another attempt to drive me insane?”
*“Both,”* Death purred, its glowing eyes narrowing with amusement. *“But if you must know, I’ve decided you’re overdue for some company.”*
“I have company,” Harry said, gesturing to the pile of essays. “They’re dreadful, but they count.”
Death let out a dramatic sigh, as though deeply wounded. *“You wound me, Harry. Truly. Do those essays have the ability to discuss the futility of mortal existence with you? Or—better yet—turn into mist at will? I think not.”*
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s like you don’t even try to be subtle anymore.”
*“What’s the point of subtlety when I can do this?”* Death asked, flicking its tail. The pile of essays erupted into tiny, shadowy butterflies that fluttered around the room.
Harry stared at the spectacle for a long moment. “You’re going to put them back, right?”
Death tilted its head, its expression mock-innocent. *“Define ‘put back.’”*
“You’re insufferable.”
*“And yet, here I am, your most loyal companion,”* Death purred smugly. It leapt down from the desk and sauntered toward the hearth, its misty form flickering in the firelight.
Harry leaned back in his chair, watching the creature with a mix of exasperation and amusement. Despite everything—despite the endless millennia, the weight of immortality, and the knowledge that he was constantly being monitored by this cosmic entity—he couldn’t deny that Death was… entertaining.
“Do you ever take a break?” Harry asked, genuinely curious.
*“Take a break?”* Death echoed, sitting by the fire and licking a paw. *“What would that even look like? Should I go on holiday? Visit the seaside? Perhaps try my hand at knitting?”*
Harry snorted. “You could knit a scarf. Something black and ominous. Very on-brand.”
Death looked up, its glowing eyes glinting with amusement. *“Oh, Harry. If I ever knit, it would be something far more dramatic. A tapestry of mortal folly, perhaps.”*
“Of course.” Harry shook his head, unable to suppress a grin. “Why am I not surprised?”
The cat stood, padding back to the desk and leaping up onto it. It curled into a smoky ball, its glowing eyes closing halfway. *“You’re welcome, by the way.”*
“For what?”
*“For livening up your dreary existence.”*
Harry chuckled softly. “If this is ‘livening up,’ I’d hate to see your idea of boring.”
Death’s tail flicked lazily. *“Oh, you’d be surprised. Now, get back to your quill or whatever mortal nonsense you were fiddling with. I’ll be here… supervising.”*
“Brilliant,” Harry said sarcastically, picking up the quill again. “Just what I needed. A cosmic babysitter.”
*“And don’t you forget it,”* Death purred, already settling into its misty nap.
Harry sighed, shaking his head, but he couldn’t deny that the room felt just a little less heavy with Death’s presence lingering.