They went by many names. Thanatos, for the Greeks; Osiris, Apophis and Anubis for the Egyptians (more Osiris, they weren’t often in the domain of judgment, and Apophis was more for the end of days, but having differing aspects was not new); Ah Puch for the Mayans; the Shinigami for the Japanese; Mictlantecuhtli for the Aztecs. Hel or Hela for the Norse; Kali for the Hindu; and more recently, Maman Brigette for the Haitian and New Orleans people. Those ones were fun, it wasn’t often they were depicted as a woman and Maman specifically was fun to be, she got rum as an offering. Not that they really had a need for drink.
But most commonly, of course, they could simply be called Death.
Death sat waiting on one side of the bridge, humming tunelessly to the trickling of the water beside them, and waited.
First to arrive was James, stumbling in. His eyes widened as he took them in and he made an aborted movement to flee before slumping. Good, he knew, then.
Lily came next and she immediately collapsed to the ground with a choked sob. Her husband hauled her up and gave soft platitudes and she steeled herself. Lily was always very strong, they noted, and it seemed that even dying could not take that from her.
They held out a hand to take them across the bridge when a third presence made itself known with a gurgle.
All three of them turned to the toddler, sitting on his own and watching them with bright green eyes and a fresh cut on his forehead and Lily choked.
“No, no, no,” she panicked, “it was supposed to work, you-”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
They leaned down over the baby and blinked mildly when their eyes met. Hmm, that didn’t happen often, if at all.
“What?”
They hummed as the baby waved one fist at them and stuck the other in their mouth, not glancing at the young couple.
“He’s not supposed to be here. He isn’t even dead.”
Lily choked on another sob, but this time one of relief.
James was audibly confused.
They straightened and turned back to the two people actually subject to their domain. “Let us cross the bridge.”
It wasn’t really a suggestion, and they knew it. They cast one last glance back at the baby.
“Mah!”
Lily stiffened and looked back with a smile. “Bye, baby. Live, ok? Promise me. Don’t come back here too soon.”
They escorted the two across the bridge to the other side of the river and came back to the real, living human baby on the shore. He had scooted himself to the edge of the river and was fiercely patting the waves lapping against his chubby feet.
They swiftly removed him from the potential of being swept away and ignored the small protests. They could feel the life fluttering in his chest and couldn’t help but muse on how the babe had gotten here in the first place.
“You really aren’t supposed to be here.”
The baby gurgled and tapped them where they would have a cheek if they were human and they decidedly did not jump a little.
“You should go.”
It took only two minutes for the baby to nod off and he dissolved in their arms, back, officially, to the land of the living.
“Most curious,” they whispered over the rush of the river, “most curious.”
They saw the child again four years later, give or take a few months. They observed as the five year old sniffled and looked around with a cautious curiosity.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
The boy jumped and whirled around, meeting their gaze with first fright, and then merely caution. Interesting.
“What do you mean? This is a dream, isn’t it?”
They merely hummed.
He waited a few seconds to see what they would do and then he went back to looking around, tiptoeing to the river.
“If you get swept in, you won’t come out.”
He startled again and narrowed his eyes. “Who even are you?”
They cocked their head.
He shuffled for a moment before stomping over with the confidence only a child could have before stopping a few feet in front of them and fidgeting.
“I’m Harry. Pleased to meet you.”
They regarded the hand thrust out in front of them before slowly grasping it gently. Harry shivered, but didn’t pull back.
“Nice to meet you, Harry,” they murmured, “most call me Death.”
Harry blinked, then shrugged. “Nice to meet you, Death!”
“You’re not going to run away screaming? Most try.”
“You haven’t been mean yet. Sure, you look a little strange, but Uncle Vernon says I’m a freak too, so I think it should be ok. I think it’s weird you’re named Death, but I don’t think people really get to pick their names.”
They hummed. “A wise insight. No, my name was assigned. It is perhaps more of a title.”
Harry seemed to consider then dismiss this, going back to crouching by the river and watching it flow by, occasionally giving a wheezing, liquid cough.
“Your ribs.”
The boy jumped a little and blinked up at them before lifting the billowing, worn out cloth of his shirt, revealing swaths of reds and pinks that were slowly darkening into purples and blues. One spot had a sizable indent where a bone was supposed to be.
Harry sniffed and dropped his shirt, looking away with a grimace. “Uncle Vernon was mad.”
They slowly began to understand. “You aren’t supposed to be here yet.”
Harry scowled. “You said that before. What do you mean?”
“This…it isn’t not a dream, I suppose. You are certainly not awake. But generally people only come here when they go to sleep forever.”
“You mean die? Is that why your name is Death? Or title, I guess.”
They blinked. “You are very well put together for a five year old.”
“I’m six! In, in a week.”
“Ah, forgive me. But yes, most of the time people only come here when they die. And you, Harry, are not dead.”
He was quiet. “Oh.”
They lingered in silence for what could have been hours before there was a slight snap and Harry flinched.
He lifted his shirt again in morbid curiosity and the divot was now gone and the bruises mostly green and yellow. He sighed, taking a fuller breath than he had before, with no sounds of fluid and he smiled.
“I think-”
He was solidly cut off as he disappeared and they chuckled a little to themselves.
Curiouser and curiouser, but they couldn’t say they had minded the brief company.
“Oh.”
They didn’t even look up.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
Nine year old Harry huffed. “So I’ve been told. How…um, how have you been?”
They smiled. “You’re very odd, Harry.”
Harry visibly deflated. “I can go.”
They hummed. “You don’t know how. I am not entirely certain either. But I did not mean what you are thinking, I can assure you. You are not a freak, I simply meant to say that your reactions to me are abnormal from what I am used to.”
Harry snapped his fingers. “Last time, you said, um, people usually try to run away and scream at you. That’s not very nice.”
“Like those children beating you up is not very nice.”
Harry flinched. “It’s fine,” he whispered, “I’m faster, usually.”
They hummed and walked closer, intrigued by how the child merely looked up at them curiously, and didn’t shy away.
They lightly extended a hand and brushed up against the back of his head, causing the boy to wince; not from pain, no, there was no pain here, but from remembering.
“I burned dinner. Aunt Petunia was mad.”
They filed away the lie; Harry had not burned anything, he had simply tried to beg for food. Still, they said nothing.
Normally they would have kept silent indefinitely, not used to communing with people, and allow Harry to drive conversation, but the boy was…understandably lost in thought. They struggled to recall how most initiated conversations…
“What…have you been up to since you were last here, at five-but-six-in-a-week?”
Harry startled himself with his laughter and slowly began to ramble about his life so far. He avoided most mentions of the house and talked about things he learned or did, things he had read that he either thought was really cool or didn’t believe because it seemed too cool, and they smiled.
As his rant was trailing off with a yawn every few seconds, they inspected the back of his head again, and besides the dried blood he managed to brush off, everything seemed fine.
Harry dissolved, slumped asleep against them until they were alone again.
They finished sending the professor across the bridge and smiled as there was a light scrape of a shoe on the shore.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
Harry brightened as he spun around. “Death! Did you know magic is real?! I got to go to a magic school this year, Hogwarts!”
“I See.”
Harry assumed this was merely an acknowledgement instead of them admitting they had been keeping up with his adventures. Still, objectively viewing events did not have the same flavor as Harry’s enthusiastic recounting, at times joyous, at times annoyed, and sometimes even angry, but so full of life.
“-and then we…we went to stop Snape from getting the stone.”
He faltered, memory coming back to him.
“But it wasn’t Snape,” they said softly.
Harry shook his head.
“Did I kill him?”
They cocked their head. “Which one?”
“Either? Both?”
“Quirinus Quirrel was recently escorted across the river.”
Harry shuddered and slumped.
“I didn’t mean to.”
They hummed at the whisper. “I know. But he was supposed to be here.”
“Not like me.”
“No,” they said with a softness that surprised them, “not like you.”
They sat beside him on the pebbly shore of the river as the boy traced one of the black stones.
“Does that make me a bad person? Since I killed someone?”
“Everyone dies. Most of the time.”
“Most of the time? Like Voldemort?”
They hummed. “I imagine that even he will one day die. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Time marches ever onward.”
“Then…why is he still alive?”
They considered, for a moment. Harry was, what, eleven? Almost twelve? They didn’t know the right age to tell human children things, but Harry was very accepting that people die at age five, so surely it wouldn’t be much longer anyway. It was probably fine.
“He split his soul many times. Souls can only cross the river if there’s nothing left on the other side, so I can’t take him.”
Harry grimaced. “So we have to put him back together? And how do you even split your soul, that sounds like it would hurt!”
“It does. It’s not something anyone can just do, and very few know how. It leaves you a shadow of your former self.”
“He was a wraith because he split his soul?”
“Yes. But you don’t have to put them all back together, you can just kill off each bit. It’s harder, of course, than merely killing a person, but it can be done.”
Harry made a noise of realization. “That’s why you said he’ll die anyway, eventually. Because you just have to wait for each bit to die.”
“Hmm, somewhat.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while before Harry swallowed heavily.
“If I’m not dead, why am I here?”
They smiled. “A few reasons,” they admitted, “but you’re close to Death.”
“I’m dying?”
“No. Not yet.”
Harry didn’t seem to pick up on the capital D they had used. In one sense, yes, he was close to death, as well, but more than that…
“You’ll wake up soon,” they mused, “and then I’ll have to see you again later.”
They blinked, startled, and looked down at the boy wrapped around them.
“Harry?”
“Thanks,” he whispered into the folds of their cloak, “for telling me things. And for saying it was ok.”
They rested a single cool hand on his back. “Of course.”
He dissolved and they let their hand drop.
“I would do all that and more,” they mused, “for my Master and friend.”
And what an odd thing it was, to have a friend.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know,” Harry gave a lopsided grin, “but I almost died again. Key word, almost.”
They snorted and flicked the remains of the diary off their hands, casting it into the river. “Yes, almost. Basilisk venom is the definition of deadly, I have found.”
“But,” Harry raised a finger, “I’m not dead!”
“No,” they smiled fondly, “you aren’t. Tell me of your year?”
Harry eagerly got into his second year.
The dementor found him on the train and they whispered through it, “not yet. Hold on a little longer.”
Harry lived and his patronus was beautiful.
They welcomed Cedric Diggory across the river, but the yellow clad boy stopped.
“Harry sometimes mentions another friend,” he said slowly, “one he didn’t meet at Hogwarts. He describes them a lot like you.”
They blinked. “My appearance?”
“No, your…feeling, I suppose,” the teenager smiled wryly. “You feel like Harry does.”
They hummed. “Yes, I imagine I do. Do you have a message you’d like to pass along?”
Cedric smiled sadly. “Yeah. Tell him it’s not his fault, yeah?”
Cedric walked the last few feet of the bridge without any help and they watched the spot where he had been.
“Was that Cedric?”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” they said automatically, “and yes, it was. He said-”
“I heard.”
Harry approached them, still on the bridge, and sat in the middle, folding his arms on the railing and looking out as the river flowed beneath them. They gingerly sat beside him.
“I look terrible,” Harry mused idly, voice barely a croak.
“A bit,” they admitted.
“I saw…I saw my parents.”
They hummed. “Priori Incantatem. The wand wasn’t used for much in between then and now.”
“You helped them cross too?”
“Mmm. There are very few things that can call the dead from the other side of the river. That is one of them.”
“What’s on the other side?”
They stilled. “Not something I can describe, I am afraid. Only those who pass can, but from what I can tell, it is peaceful. Static.”
They lunged and wrapped an ice cold hand around his arm to stop him from rising.
“I can’t,” he sobbed, thrashing in their grip, “I can’t-”
“Not yet,” they murmured, tugging him into the folds of their cloak, “not yet.”
The sobs slowly died into hiccups and they rubbed circles in his back.
“Not yet,” they promised, “live more.”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Did you catch him? When he fell?”
“Of course.”
They stared impassively at twinkling blue eyes.
“Death.”
“Albus.”
“Here to guide me to my next great adventure?”
“You know where to go.”
Dumbledore deflated a little. “Ah. You’re angry. I wasn’t aware Death had feelings.”
They ignored the prodding, hidden question. “Do what you will. Everyone crosses eventually.”
“Hmm,” the former headmaster twinkled, “then I think I will stay and see what there is to see.”
They practically punted the old wizard across the bridge even as he expressed interest in seeing Harry when he finally came to visit and they had had enough of the goat’s meddling with his Master.
Harry looked very tired.
His clothes were torn, his eyes had deep bags, and he was marred with streaks of blood and dirt.
And still, he smiled.
“I take it that due to the lack of your customary greeting,” he said cheerfully, “I am supposed to be here?”
They nodded.
Harry sighed. "We did get the last bit then, yeah? He’s mortal?”
They nodded. They had just slid the last piece in the river before he appeared, quick as can be.
“So,” he clapped his hands, “I guess it’s time to cross the bridge all the way, then?”
“No.”
Harry blinked, taken aback. “No? But…I’m dead. For real this time, all the way.”
“Yes.”
“And everyone dies.”
“Most of the time.”
They leaned down, leaving Harry entirely too confused, and picked up a river stone, tumbling it between their fingers. Harry’s eyes drew to it and he reflexively reached into his pocket and pulled out a similar stone.
Harry blinked and looked up, shocked. “Really?”
They smiled. “Really. Not everyone on the verge of death finds themselves here, Harry. Only ever you.”
“But…but I only just got the Stone and the Wand!”
“It could only ever have been you, Harry.”
They paused for a moment, taking in his dumbfounded stare, before they chuckled and held out a hand.
“I’m Death. Pleased to meet you!”
He stared for a moment before reaching out a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Death,” he said, “most call me Harry.”
They smiled broadly. “Now, I believe you have a few things you want to do.”
Harry cast one glance across the river.
“You can always come back,” they said gently, “and anyone you wish, the Stone will call for you.”
“More will probably die.”
They nodded. “It’s a war.”
“Could I…”
They shook their head and tugged him into a hug. Harry shivered only once.
“Everything dies,” they said softly.
Harry snorted. “Most of the time.”
“Most of the time,” they agreed wryly, “but the Stone can bring back anyone who does. Just the spirit, but…”
He nodded fiercely into their cloak. “It’s enough.”
They pulled back. “Well,” they said mirthfully, “go on. You have people waiting for you, Master.”
Harry grimaced at the title and they laughed and laughed and laughed, even once he was gone.
Yes, they mused, he could always come back, and he probably would.
They walked across the bridge.
“Until next time, Harry. After all,” they smirked, “everything dies. Most of the time.”
Death went by many names, yes, but the one they were most proud of was friend.