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Title: Dead.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen/Angst/Humour (kinda)
Warning: Repeated character death
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The Master of Death has to accept it in order to die. It takes a while.
AN: Written for my Trope Bingo table for the prompt 'Deathfic', and it was inspired by one of many conversations with the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silberstreif. Also, the title comes from a MCR song of the same name.
It’s taken such a long time.
At first, immortality was convenient. It meant that he didn’t have to worry about little things like not making it home after a raid; that he could raise his children with Ginny, see his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren grow up happy in a world he helped make a little bit better. But then, after his great-grandchildren died, leaving great-great-grandchildren that he barely knew, and their children, and their children in some cases – most of them old enough now to look older than Harry, who had just…stopped, somehow, after waking up in the forest.
The world he had helped make better had moved on around him. His story, Voldemort’s story, was now a thing for history class. Harry had even become a teacher for thirty years or so, so that he could do it; in the end, reading badly written essays about his ‘miraculous triumph’ had become too much.
Such a long time.
He started thinking about dying the day he looked around and realised that he didn’t know anyone anymore. That he was surrounded by people who were echoes of their ancestors, but their own people with their own lives, none of which really involved him. He was a relic of an age gone by. A museum piece.
He stepped out in front of a bus that day. An experiment. Both his legs were shattered, and he managed to dislocate his entire spine, but – barring a calm and peaceful darkness and a flicker of something that could have been a train station – he survived.
He told the Muggle hospital he recovered in that his name was Henry Jones, and that no, he didn’t have a family. He never received visitors.
Forever.
There was always something holding him back. At first, he knew it had been his family. With them gone – the ones he’d known and cared about, rather than nameless, faceless descendants – he didn’t know what else it could have been. It wasn’t fear. He’d never feared death, not even when he’d had things to live for.
He travelled the world. He was mugged five times in America and murdered three. Different deaths, different cities; death spat him back out each time. He was run over in Cairo, Delhi, Bangkok and Naples. Australia was a minefield of death-by-wildlife, but he survived every sting and bite without so much as a scar to tell the tale. In New Zealand, his parachute failed to open during a skydive, and he spent three months in intensive care after he was scraped off the side of the mountain. ‘Miraculous’, the Muggles called it, and they hadn’t even been around to see his limbs reattach themselves.
He signed up to fight in six different wars under six different names. He was a soldier in some and a mercenary in others. IEDs, anti-aircraft missiles, and average-Joe bullets added a few more deaths to the list. After a while, he’d stopped trying to die; he’d stopped trying to care about personal safety as well, knowing fine well that he’d wake up in a hospital with a system full of morphine regardless of what he what he did.
He was in a shipwreck. It took a year of swimming and repeated drownings, dehydratings, and sharks for him to reach land. New Zealand again; his skydive went better that time.
After a while, it became annoying. Then it became funny, and he made a list of all the ways he could think of to die while sitting in a McDonalds, filling a notebook as he snacked on soggy chips.
Forever and ever.
He learned that there were some ways he couldn’t die. He couldn’t eat or drink himself to death. He tried, but his body kept regenerating itself before he could. He couldn’t die of any diseases for much the same reason.
He learned that drowning hurt only in the beginning, and that there was little worse than recovering from severe burns. He learned that water could be just as hard as concrete if you fell on it right, and that jumping off high places turned your insides to soup. He learned that electrocution was fast, but made his hair even worse, and that internal bleeding was just scary.
When he’d ticked off everything on his list, it became boring. Humanity had become boring. They fought the same wars over and over, died in droves in disasters and plagues, destroyed the planet and then tried too little too late to fix it again. He realised, in his boredom, that in all the years he’d spent trying out deaths like cheap suits, he’d been watching humanity hurtle towards extinction while the sun turned red and huge in the sky.
The weather has changed and the sea has risen. The place where Little Whinging was is now completely lost underwater along with most of southern England, northern France, and the entirety of the Netherlands. He watches the sun burn duller and more dangerous; watches the panic truly set in. He gets mugged yet again - this time by a looter when he steps outside to get some chocolate he’s been craving – and stabbed in the liver. His latest assailant looks faintly surprised when Harry, too old and too tired to care, just brushes it off by wishing him a good afternoon.
The streets burn. Government burns. People laying blame on the people in charge – the ones who are meant to do something, though no one’s quite sure what. Harry robs Sainsburys on his seven hundred and eighty-sixth birthday because there’s no particular point in paying anymore, not now the staff are doing it too. He throws himself a dinner party for the hell of it, and climbs up onto the roof with a bottle of wine to watch the city be raised to the ground as the sun finally goes supernova.
The world vanishes in a scorching, blinding blaze of Gryffindor red, and the Master of Death raises a bottle to his lips in a final salute.
Finally.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen/Angst/Humour (kinda)
Warning: Repeated character death
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The Master of Death has to accept it in order to die. It takes a while.
AN: Written for my Trope Bingo table for the prompt 'Deathfic', and it was inspired by one of many conversations with the lovely
silberstreif. Also, the title comes from a MCR song of the same name.It’s taken such a long time.
At first, immortality was convenient. It meant that he didn’t have to worry about little things like not making it home after a raid; that he could raise his children with Ginny, see his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren grow up happy in a world he helped make a little bit better. But then, after his great-grandchildren died, leaving great-great-grandchildren that he barely knew, and their children, and their children in some cases – most of them old enough now to look older than Harry, who had just…stopped, somehow, after waking up in the forest.
The world he had helped make better had moved on around him. His story, Voldemort’s story, was now a thing for history class. Harry had even become a teacher for thirty years or so, so that he could do it; in the end, reading badly written essays about his ‘miraculous triumph’ had become too much.
Such a long time.
He started thinking about dying the day he looked around and realised that he didn’t know anyone anymore. That he was surrounded by people who were echoes of their ancestors, but their own people with their own lives, none of which really involved him. He was a relic of an age gone by. A museum piece.
He stepped out in front of a bus that day. An experiment. Both his legs were shattered, and he managed to dislocate his entire spine, but – barring a calm and peaceful darkness and a flicker of something that could have been a train station – he survived.
He told the Muggle hospital he recovered in that his name was Henry Jones, and that no, he didn’t have a family. He never received visitors.
Forever.
There was always something holding him back. At first, he knew it had been his family. With them gone – the ones he’d known and cared about, rather than nameless, faceless descendants – he didn’t know what else it could have been. It wasn’t fear. He’d never feared death, not even when he’d had things to live for.
He travelled the world. He was mugged five times in America and murdered three. Different deaths, different cities; death spat him back out each time. He was run over in Cairo, Delhi, Bangkok and Naples. Australia was a minefield of death-by-wildlife, but he survived every sting and bite without so much as a scar to tell the tale. In New Zealand, his parachute failed to open during a skydive, and he spent three months in intensive care after he was scraped off the side of the mountain. ‘Miraculous’, the Muggles called it, and they hadn’t even been around to see his limbs reattach themselves.
He signed up to fight in six different wars under six different names. He was a soldier in some and a mercenary in others. IEDs, anti-aircraft missiles, and average-Joe bullets added a few more deaths to the list. After a while, he’d stopped trying to die; he’d stopped trying to care about personal safety as well, knowing fine well that he’d wake up in a hospital with a system full of morphine regardless of what he what he did.
He was in a shipwreck. It took a year of swimming and repeated drownings, dehydratings, and sharks for him to reach land. New Zealand again; his skydive went better that time.
After a while, it became annoying. Then it became funny, and he made a list of all the ways he could think of to die while sitting in a McDonalds, filling a notebook as he snacked on soggy chips.
Forever and ever.
He learned that there were some ways he couldn’t die. He couldn’t eat or drink himself to death. He tried, but his body kept regenerating itself before he could. He couldn’t die of any diseases for much the same reason.
He learned that drowning hurt only in the beginning, and that there was little worse than recovering from severe burns. He learned that water could be just as hard as concrete if you fell on it right, and that jumping off high places turned your insides to soup. He learned that electrocution was fast, but made his hair even worse, and that internal bleeding was just scary.
When he’d ticked off everything on his list, it became boring. Humanity had become boring. They fought the same wars over and over, died in droves in disasters and plagues, destroyed the planet and then tried too little too late to fix it again. He realised, in his boredom, that in all the years he’d spent trying out deaths like cheap suits, he’d been watching humanity hurtle towards extinction while the sun turned red and huge in the sky.
The weather has changed and the sea has risen. The place where Little Whinging was is now completely lost underwater along with most of southern England, northern France, and the entirety of the Netherlands. He watches the sun burn duller and more dangerous; watches the panic truly set in. He gets mugged yet again - this time by a looter when he steps outside to get some chocolate he’s been craving – and stabbed in the liver. His latest assailant looks faintly surprised when Harry, too old and too tired to care, just brushes it off by wishing him a good afternoon.
The streets burn. Government burns. People laying blame on the people in charge – the ones who are meant to do something, though no one’s quite sure what. Harry robs Sainsburys on his seven hundred and eighty-sixth birthday because there’s no particular point in paying anymore, not now the staff are doing it too. He throws himself a dinner party for the hell of it, and climbs up onto the roof with a bottle of wine to watch the city be raised to the ground as the sun finally goes supernova.
The world vanishes in a scorching, blinding blaze of Gryffindor red, and the Master of Death raises a bottle to his lips in a final salute.
Finally.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-05-24 07:41 pm (UTC)From:786 years until supernova? That was fast, what did humanity do to kill the sun?
no subject
Date: 2014-05-24 11:15 pm (UTC)From:I may have slightly handwaved the whole sun issue because - not going to lie - I suck at things like that. But since this is an AU...humanity did something while Harry wasn't paying attention and ballsed it all up. He doesn't know, so we don't get to know. Tadah~ XD