Chapter last edited on: 12/1/19
One time disclaimer (For the whole story): I do not own the Harry Potter universe. JK Rowling does. There is also a bit of crossover into the Dead-like-me television series.
'Most' of the stories ideas and references towards 'Grim Reapers' and 'Gravelings' belong to the 'Dead like me' television series (created by Bryan Fuller)
Presenting: A Harry as an undead grim reaper story.
What happens when Harry dies but comes back as one of deaths Grim Reapers.
Gifted with the powers of death and immortality. Working with the devious Gravelings who's sole purpose is to bring 'death' to mortals at their destined ends, Harry now has to collect souls. What will Hogwarts be like with this new and deathly improved 'undead' Harry.
This is not a Harry as a MOD story!
Rated: Mature for Death and gore.
Time Lines: Hogwarts Era
Warnings: Violence, Coarse language, Suicide, Severe character death. (basically everything to do with death) Story may or may not follow canon.
Chapter originally Beta'd by: RPMcMurphy from 'Perfect Imagination and Herman Tumbleweed
Any future chapter (unless mentioned) will not be beta'd and any proof reading will be done my myself.
"Through death there is relief, through relief you gain understanding, through understanding... acceptance and though acceptance, eternal peace. Only then can you be reborn again. It is the reapers way."
- Lorelai de Mort, Master Reaper, The 'Thumb' of Deaths Hand, -
It was a normal summer's evening near the end of July.
Somewhere in England near a small park, in a little known place called Little Whinging, Surrey, two people are about to meet. For the first...and last time.
One, is a little boy of nearly eleven years. The other, a girl of sometimes eighteen years, other times... much older. Not that it makes much of a difference. Not really. Not since her age was frozen in perpetuity at the young age of eighteen, when in a freak accident, a toilet seat suddenly fell and hit her head after falling 33000 feet from a plane in the sky.
Not a good way to die let me tell you...
But...that is a story mentioned elsewhere and for another time.
Far more important is that one of them, the little boy, is running. Running away, trying to save his life, from the local gang of hooligans, led by his cousin.
This little boy doesn't know it yet, but like many others before him, he is already dead.
For you see...the girl, is a Grim Reaper and is trying to catch him…for one reason and one reason alone:
To claim...'reap' his soul before his destined time is up.
Why is that? How can I be so sure about this, you ask?
Well, early that morning Death itself made its next move in the everlasting game of life and death and decided, there and then, that it was his time to die. Simple as that, no questions asked. I tag you…you're it…you're out… dead…gone.
It sounds harsh. And yes, it is. Especially for someone so young. But, it is the way of things and nobody ever said life was supposed to be fair. Usually its not and for some, it's far too short as well.
Breathing heavily, completely exhausted and at his wit's end, the boy seizes a moment to stop and catch his breath. Slowly, wheezing heavily, tenderly favoring his battered body, he leans heavily against a near by tree. His eyes are wide open, his overtaxed body pumping ever dwindling oxygen to his brain at an ever decreasing rate as he takes a moment to frantically scan the immediate park area for any sign of the immediate treat.
Thinking that he had finally lost his 'unwanted escort', those part time park ruffians and full time school yard bullies, led by his dear cousin Dudley, he takes a moment to look at his newest wounds and groans pitifully. It doesn't take him long to realize that he is extremely bruised and bleeding from many cuts all over his tender, malnourished young body.
His blood-soaked clothes, cracked rib, broken arm and the new fresh deep gash along his right shoulder are testimony to that. Even now he is feeling himself growing weaker from blood loss as his 'time' draws near.
Shaking his head, he sighs. Slowly, trembling, stumbling, shifting his weight from foot to foot to minimize his sudden weakness, unwilling to give up just yet, he slowly starts to walk back home. If he could honestly call it that. Nobody should have to fear their home.
He is moving with extreme reluctance, knowing full well what to expect once he walks through 'that' door. A door of more trouble…more sorrow…more pain.
He really doesn't want to go 'there'. But what else could he do? What other choice did he have? he asks himself again for what seemed like the umpteenth time in his short and miserable life. He knew, if he didn't go to 'that' place... 'things' would only get worse.
Oh, he had tried to run away before. Of course he had. Multiple times even. But each time he had suddenly found himself back at 'home'.
All attempts to phone 112 or to ask for help had long since fallen on deaf ears and failed. All former attempts or reports made by his teachers, well meaning members of the public, from any and all child services, or indeed even visits from the police, to help him had all mysteriously disappeared, stopped or mysteriously found themselves misplaced time and time again. He had even tried killing himself once...only to find his wound mysteriously healed the next day.
It was a fact of his life. For you see, Harry, for that is the little boy's name, is not what you and I would call a 'normal person'.
Harry, for all of his wishes and dismay, is anything but normal. He is what you and I would call a Wizard. A living, breathing, magic using entity.
Unfortunately it was because of this very reason why his relatives hated him so much. In fact, they hated everything about him. 'That freakish boy' as they would always say.
Anything to do with that dreaded 'M' word…
They hated anything which could in anyway be classified as 'not normal'. They hated him so much that in their opinion he was dirt, even less.
Harry's bedroom was a dusty old cupboard under the stairs, just barely enough for him to squeeze into. All he ever owned were the few clothes which he always wore on his back, and even those were nothing but dirty old hand-me-down rags, passed down to him from his cousin, and always several sizes too large.
Toys? He had none.
Birthday presents... What was that?
Food? When he could get it, it was usually just a few meager scraps from the dinner table, hardly enough to feed Dudley's three legged, one-eyed pet hamster. The poor pet hamster which he had gleefully brutalized, only to blame it on Harry. No where near enough to feed a growing young boy such as himself.
Oh, I wast not like the Dursleys didn't have it.
They had lot of it. Dudley himself got three or four helpings for dinner alone, let's not even speak about breakfast and supper; of which Harry had none.
Breakfast? Supper? No way! Not good enough for a little freak like him, his uncle would say.
Even dinner was not always set in stone. For that 'privilege' he would have to work; do long hours of chores, while his spoiled cousin did nothing but sat on his fat arse in front of the television all day, usually stuffing himself with pizza and ice cream. That was when he wasn't out bullying children in the near by park with his friends. Even then Harry could only eat whenever he was lucky enough to have finished all of his daily chores. Most days he got no food at all. In short, he was their unwanted slave. No less, and definitely no more.
Little did Harry know this was all about to change…. and all it would take was his death.
Slowly his house, No!...their house…never his, came into view.
All so slowly, all so painfully, aware of what was about to happen to him the moment he stepped inside the house, Harry stumbled up the street, when suddenly...
"Hey look… there he is! The freak! Get him!" yelled the voice of his dear cousin, Dudley, from the other side of the lane.
Almost immediately, just long enough for the rest to identify their target, six other boys, all larger, older and stronger looking than Harry charged towards him.
In full panic Harry tried to run the last few steps to the Dursley's driveway and then to his slightly less painful 'freedom' at the hands of his merciless uncle only to stumble and fall. Had Harry been in full health he might have succeeded. However, he was not.
Already severely weakened and bleeding from his earlier dealings with the same boys he only just manages to stumble past the Dursley's gate before he is grabbed roughly from behind by one of the thugs and pulled back by the scruff of his oversized shirt, away from the 'freedom' of his relative's house, right into the depths and darkness of a few nearby bushes.
Harry never even had a chance to shout before his face and therefore his mouth was covered by a cloth held by one of the boys. No help would come that night for the weary and poor, unwanted, unloved and heavily in pain orphan named Harry Potter.
Nobody noticed a girl, shrouded in darkness, watch all of this happeneing with sad eyes from the other side of the road. It was not her job to interfere. Not yet. Her part had yet to come.
"It's always the young who die the most tragic deaths," she said to herself, sighing softly with sadness before she followed, silently.
Death had come to Little Whinging. It wouldn't be too long now.
Harry never knew how many punches he felt that night. He never knew how many times his cousin and his gang had kicked him, or stabbed him. He definitely didn't want to even think about where. It didn't take long for him to pass out from the pain and fall into Morpheus's blissful arms of unconsciousness sleep.
He had already passed out, long before the gang had started to 'finish him off', with sticks, stones and even a pocket knife or two, only to leave his battered, bloody, bruised, barely alive body behind, turned upside down, headfirst, in the nearest trashcan.
Miraculously, even then, he didn't die. His magic wouldn't allow it. Working overtime, throughout the whole ordeal his magic did its best to heal him. Always just enough to barely keep him alive. Only just enough for help to come. But this time... This time it never came.
Slowly it was failing, slowly but surely even it was giving up hope. It wouldn't be long now… but not yet. One last thing still had to be happen.
The next thing Harry knew minutes later was an overwhelming pain all over his body as he woke up and tried to crawl out of the waste after his trashcan fell over. Moaning pitifully, he next tried his best to stand up but couldn't.
Suddenly he heard the voice of the girl as she stood before him. Looking up wearily, afraid that she might be a member of Dudley's gang who had come to finish him off, he sees her holding out her hand to him.
"Hey there…let me help you," the girl said kindly, her face filled with sadness...and also what seemed like a bit of relief? He wasn't sure. It looked like as if she had been crying only mere moments before.
Only too happy to comply, feebly thinking that a crying girl wouldn't do him anymore harm, not caring who she was or indeed who he was talking to, and too weak to get up himself anyway, Harry gratefully accepted her hand. What's the worst that could happen, he thought.
Slowly the two made their way towards the Dursley's front door. Harry never bothered to ask or even wonder how or why she knew where he lived. He simply was in too much pain to ask, or even care.
"This is where I leave you," the girl said kindly. "It won't be too long now," she said just before she took a moment to run her hand down his shoulder in a particular pattern, a sort of grabbing motion as if grabbing something away from him.
Harry never noticed a sudden sliver of white suddenly leave his body as the girl touched him. Little did Harry know that it was his soul.
The next moment before Harry could even thank her, in the blink of an eye, she was gone.
Too weary and consumed with pain to fully comprehend what had really happened to him, Harry tried to quietly open the door, hoping to sneak inside without his uncle or aunt knowing, but found that it was locked. Sighing heavily, steeling himself for the next part of the show of what he felt was surely going to be the last page in the sad story of his life, he reached up and rang the door bell, then, his body slowly growing even weaker by the second, he collapsed on the steps of the Dursleys' front door.
Moments later the door opened to reveal the sneer of his uncle's huge, overweight fat and ugly face. But Harry never fully noticed as his uncle opened the door and screamed at him to get his lazy, good for nothing, butt inside. He hardly felt the man grab him and haul him into the house. He didn't hear his uncle swear about the blood…his blood which he was getting all over their expensive carpet.
He slightly felt the sharp pain of his uncles leather belt across his now bare back side, and only barely heard the man screaming at him for 'getting into fights' but by that time he was already too far gone to really care.
His last few moments of his life were fleeting images of himself being thrown head first into the small cupboard under the stairs which he called his 'room'. The last few thoughts of his life which swept through his mind were that is was thankfully... finally... over.
He welcomed Death...
And then... then he died.
And outside the Dursleys' property the girl smiled.
Her job now done, relieved that the boy's misery was finally over, she turned to walk away. She knew there would be no spiritual entity for her to take care of tonight.
Not this night…not for her…not anymore. Tonight a new Reaper would be born and she would at long last get her long deserved promotion. Her long awaited rest.
'Everything which has a beginning must have an end. It is the natural order of things', she thought with a smile as she saw a small white pearly gate appear and open up in front of her.
A few seconds later there was a flash of bright white light and then she was gone.
Somewhere in Scotland in a castle known by some as Hogwarts, School of Witch Craft and Wizardry, to others as an old dangerous ruin in the Scottish highlands, an old man named Dumbledore is sleeping, dreaming a wonderful dream of himself as an all powerful Emperor of the world. Suddenly he is roused from his deep sleep as numerous objects of different types and sizes in his office start to scream and whistle, signifying that something was wrong, once again, with his number one 'unwanted, but necessary evil' pawn, named Harry Potter.
Knowing full well who they were tied to, the old man grumbles to himself and contemplates whether he could safely ignore them and go back to sleep. After all it wasn't as if it the first time he had heard these sounds. He heard them quite often, in fact, nearly everyday. Then again... never quite this loud. It must be more severe than usual this time.
Releasing an annoyed shy, deciding that he couldn't safely ignore them, the old man curses the boy's name for what felt like a millionth time, ignoring the glare form a nearby portrait as he does so, then somehow, slowly, he wills himself out of bed.
Then it happened. Dumbledore had just managed to force one leg out of his bed, when another, louder alarm went off. It was a high pitched sound. The only sound having to do with his unwanted charge which Dumbledore actually feared. The shrill sound of death.
Swearing even louder than before, using words long forbidden by human kind, Dumbledore practically threw the rest of his body out of his bed and ran to his office. Reaching the offending item in record time, he swears again then runs to collect his wand from his bed side table.
Having successfully retrieved said wand he quickly conjures and puts on some robes. Then he races back into his office towards the fireplace. A quick incendio and a handful of Floo later and he was gone.