When We Were Young

C H A P T E R T W O

August 1st, 1937

Harry looked at the person- more like reaper- in front of him in shock, his jaw dropped and his eyes bugging out comically.

The reaper, who had introduced himself to Harry as Death, was looking at his master in amusement. Harry's reaction to him was not so different than his first reaction to him, one that was made a lifetime ago when he was 17.

His master was the same, and yet so significantly different.

Now, his master was not trained to be invisible and obedient. Now, his master had flourished, playing mortals like a fiddle and breezing through life- as he should.

Meanwhile Death was thinking this, Harry couldn't believe that he was meeting Death- or was it the personification of Death? Harry didn't know, but Death's early appearance in his master's life was a bit too much for the small boy to register, and he promptly fainted, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull and his body flopping gracelessly onto the dirt, where he had been gardening.

One of the supervisors gave a shout of concern, running to Harry and gathering the boy in her arms, placing a hand on his forehead.

How horrible! She thought, stroking Harry's cheek. The boy just turned 5 yesterday (the whole Orphanage gave a great celebration, and Tom hid away in his room, reading), and to get a fever now. . .

Of course, Harry's temperature was higher because he was under the hot August sun, gardening for an hour straight- but, of course, she didn't think of that.

Death sighed and faded into the other side of the veil and into his realm- a cool breeze sweeping through the gardens as he crossed, the temperature dropping a bit. He would have to meet his master again some other time.

¤¤¤¤¤

"Harry."

Harry stirred in his sleep, burying his face deeper into his pillow, sighing.

"Harry."

There was a cold brush across his cheek and Harry's eyes shot open. He looked straight at black, ratty robes, and he slowly looked further up until he saw a skeletal face with no eyes, the sockets empty and dark.

Harry gulped nervously, his heart beat racing and his small frame trembling.

"There's no need to be afraid, master," Death, in his dry, monotone voice, said in Harry's mind, fingering one of Harry's dark curls. "I would never hurt you."

Harry relaxed, oddly feeling as if he could trust Death.

"Who are you?" Harry whispered, hugging his pillow closer to his chest to try to fight off the coldness Death emitted.

Death laughed his signature bone-rattling laugh. "I have already told you, master. I am Death."

From there, Death told Harry of his first life- how he was currently remembering that life through his dreams. He told Harry of his lineage, of the wizarding world, and he told him bits and pieces about his life as Harry Potter, disregarding the fact that the boy would remember everything in years due time.

In time, Death became the only person Harry truly respected and cared for. Of course, he liked the people at the Orphanage, but all of them were a bit dense. Death was older than time, so powerful and full of knowledge, that it never failed to amaze Harry when Death told him stories about the medieval times and different parts of history that he accompanied.

And, of course, Death told Harry how to befriend Tom after he watched Harry fail in getting Tom's friendship after another year.

He had thought that his master would figure it out eventually, but at this rate, he wouldn't. Death had no doubt that his master was smart, but he lagged in some areas, and that was okay, because no one was perfect no matter how hard they tried to be. Not even him.

Death had accidentally released the Black Plague after testing it on a few rats. He never made the same mistake, not liking how many souls he had to deliver to the afterlife while the plague was in effect.

"How?" Harry asked urgently, his eyes wide.

"Drop all of your facades and masks. Be honest with him, and you'll have him wrapped around your pinky finger," Death advised, his bone fingers clinking against his scythe.

Harry contemplated that, baffled. Masks? Facades?

Then, he remembered all the overly bright smiles he gave, all the things he said to appease people when he wouldn't have normally said it in his head.

Harry put up the façade of an bright sweetheart, and he played the part perfectly. The only problem was that because he's been doing it for so long, it was automatic and he already had the mask on when people were in sight.

Harry decided to wait to confront Tom, dropping his façade around Death and saying anything that came to his mind. He didn't sugar coat anything and he gave his opinions- he stayed honest to his word.

After a week of practicing how to drop and put up his façade (not to mention learning which thoughts were his true ones and which ones he thought to appease people), Harry deemed himself ready.

Harry went to the small room full of of old, ratty books that the matron deemed a library, and tapped Tom's shoulder.

Tom slowly looked over his shoulder, an irritated scowl on his lips.

"I would like to be your friend," Harry said, not bothering with his usual overly bright smile and chirp of good afternoon.

"What? Aren't you afraid of being a freak if you hang out with me? Or are you so cocky that you think that because everyone bends the knee for you, you get a free pass?" Tom sneered harshly, his fists clenching.

Harry, to Tom's surprise, didn't get mad, but only gave Tom a small smile he had never seen come from Harry before.

"If you are what's considered to be a freak, then I would rather be with you than be normal and accepted."

Tom's sneer dropped at the sincerity in the boys voice, at the absolute truth in them. Harry's tone usually was so bright and sweet, that Tom couldn't bare hear him speak sometimes. Of course, he sneaked glances at the gorgeous boy, but that was it. He had never heard Harry use this tone of voice before- ever, and if he were honest, he was a bit smug that Harry used it on him.

"Sit," Tom commanded curtly, turning back to his book. Harry lit up like a puppy on Christmas day and dropped next to Tom on the off white, uncomfortable couch, beaming.

Tom was watching Harry from the corner of his eye, and he couldn't help but smirk when he saw the boy smile. This smile was different, too. It was pure joy, unfiltered and raw.

Then, Tom figured out Harry, in that second. He had dropped the sweetheart act, and he had the act up in the first place because he got treated the best that way.

How. . . cunning, Tom mused to himself, his smirk becoming a bit vicious. He couldn't help but wonder how beneficial having someone like Harry would be on his side. Harry drew people to him like flies to honey, they gravitated to him, and he used it to his benefit.

Very smart, very cunning.

Who exactly was Harrison Peverell?

Tom intended to find out.