Death's Childe

Chapter 1

Kind hands pressed a cup of tea into his slightly shaking hands, the smell undeniably lemon. The Hogwarts letter lied forgotten to the side, after he got afraid that he would rip it in pieces. It was almost automatically that Harry raised the cup to his lips to take a sip, only to spit it out moments later. The lemon tea must have been more sugar than water, which in all reality is how he always imagined Dumbledore to drink tea. That doesn't stop it from being absolutely disgusting.

Slightly less kinder hands took the cup back, and Harry couldn't help but wonder about the pettiness, and if he simply never noticed it in his own time. After a few initial blinks, he turned his eyes towards Dumbledore, to be met with ginger hair where he had grown to expect grey.

"Mr Arawn told me that you remembered your name. Miss James, is it?"

"I prefer Mr." Harry corrected quietly. Without the cup in his hands, they fell to writhe in his lap. Where he felt comfortable enough with Death, something about this Dumbledore - the Dumbledore that judged an orphaned boy, and helped create Voldemort by not offering help - didn't sit right with him.

"Miss James, I'm not sure if Mr Arawn informed you - I can see that your letter remains unopened; but you've been enrolled into Hogwarts, the finest magic school in Europe. The school year starts September 1st, and it's currently July 31st. As there's only a month left, I have a lot to do as deputy headmaster. While I appreciate that Mr Arawn brought you to me, I will not have time to care for you."

Harry had to clench his hands to not react unfavourably. Dumbledore knowingly misgendered him directly after he had given his preference, and then went on to boast about Hogwarts, only to finally imply that Harry would have to be put into someone else's care.

"Sir, I prefer Mr," Harry repeated, a bit louder this time. "And Mr Arawn said that I would stay here. With you."

"I understand that the amnesia is still affecting you, Miss James," Dumbledore sighed, as if it was a great tragedy that Harry insisted on being called Mr instead. "While Mr Arawn had good intentions, he as a squib couldn't possibly have any idea what responsibility I as deputy headmaster at Hogwarts have. No need to worry though, I have already made other arrangements for you."

Harry didn't bother to correct Dumbledore a third time. Instead he clenched his hands harder, until crescents drawn in red decorated his palms, and the furniture started rattling because of his uncontrollable magic.

"This behaviour will not be tolerated at Hogwarts, Miss James." Dumbledore sighed once more, an act that only infuriated Harry more. He was not the burden in this situation; he could not believe that Death had abandoned him to a neglective man high on power. This was not the old man that he trusted, the wise man he thought of as a father figure. This was a coward of a man who created enemies out of schoolboys. Harry could not have felt more disgusted at this revelation.

The furniture rattled once more before it calmed down, and Harry unclenched his hands.

"Who will you be sending me to, sir?" he asked, voice once more quiet. It would be bad enough when school started and he had to seek Riddle's company - he did not have to make Dumbledore into an enemy early on.

"A dear old friend of mine," Dumbledore was back to sounding kind yet pitying. "Bathilda Bagshot."

Harry's eyes widened slightly. He had been in Bathilda's home only months prior, back in his own time. While that hadn't ended well, he could not help but look forward to living in Godric's Hollow for a month - an experience he could not remember from his own past. He doubted the cottage his parents had lived in would be there, but neither would their graves as they were not yet born.

But wasn't Bathilda the great-aunt to Grindelwald? It was an odd choice that Dumbledore was making, but one that Harry found himself appreciating.

The thought of living in Godric's Hollow - close to where his parents would one day live - made his heart beat faster in his chest. Perhaps he could forgive Death for bringing him to Dumbledore, if he got to spend time in the town where he should have grown up.

"I don't have any things to bring with me, sir." Harry broke the silence that had settled between them. It was true, he only had the clothes that he were wearing; luckily enough, Death had not put him in a dress, but a shirt and pair of trousers that Harry could only assume fit into the Muggle fashion of the time. He did not have his glasses, and Death had not mentioned it, but the only explanation was that his vision had been corrected by the same magic that gave him the wrong body parts. It was likely for the best that he had no visible weakness if he had to befriend Tom Riddle.

"If Bathilda doesn't have anything for you, I can find you some of my sister's old clothes."

Harry politely looked down to not see the pained look that crossed Dumbledore's eyes at the mention of Ariana.

"I'm thankful for everything you've done for me, sir," Harry said, to not let them fall into silence once more. The words were true, though this was not the Dumbledore he would have chosen to say them to. "When will you bring me to my new guardian?"

"Now, if you think that you feel well enough for the trip. We'll apparate."

There was a beat of silence before Harry remembered that he was supposed to suffer from amnesia.

"Apparate?" he questioned. He tried to sound puzzled by the word, but the look in Dumbledore's eyes told him that his acting wasn't very convincing. Hopefully it would not make the professor suspicious of him; it was not his fault that Death chose his cover story and then left him.

"It's a magical form of transportation," Dumbledore started to explain, looking at him closely for any sign of recognition. "You picture the place you want to travel to in your mind, and then turn on the spot to appear there. It's a very advanced form of magic."

"Do I need to do anything?"

"You have to do nothing but hold onto me."

Harry nodded, and carefully got down from the bed. He grabbed the Hogwarts letter more as an afterthought than anything else.

"Oh, but I don't have any money, sir!" he suddenly realised, as he looked at the letter. The words came with a sense of deja-vú, which Harry did his best to ignore. If he remembered correctly, he would be able to meet Hagrid again in only a few years time, and hopefully be able to stop the Chamber of Secrets incident. It were far too early for such plans though - he had yet to even start school.

"There's a fund, from which you'll get a sum of money each school year. I'll leave yours with Bathilda."

Harry chose not to answer; he wasn't convinced that Dumbledore would have mentioned the fund unless he asked. Likely, the man would have expected Bathilda to be generous. Harry didn't want to take advantage of her; it was enough that she had apparently agreed to care for him for a month.

"Come now, Miss James. Bathilda is waiting for us."

Dumbledore gripped his arm before Harry could react with anything besides a flinch, and then apparated them both. The last thing that Harry saw was the horrid orange walls of the guestroom; then everything turned black.