A/N: If the tale of the three brothers was true, then Death was true then, wasn't he? I don't even know where this came from – it's a bit weird.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Do not call me kind. Do not call me barbaric. Fairness is all that matters.

When you were born to stay forever, you'd take the majority of your time to think. Impossible, you might say, but what if I weren't human?
I spend my time amongst them, always at the side of death beds. A dark cloak encloses on the bitten half-stage of death. Homeless souls are of my priority. And when the valuable beings flicker of something less of solid, they are caked in my arms.

Sometimes, I am even hearted enough to let the humans view their whole life before they are gone from earth. Curious, isn't it, when one goes "I think my life just flashed before my eyes."

I watch them too, you know, when I play their lives in front of the corpses… Some don't deserve their bitter lives to end like this. But then again, everyone deserves death. I know nothing of how they are passed on, just how I carry their souls and lift them up, and then they kick off and carry their journey without me.

Call me dark, though I am nothing of the sort, despite the lovely, black robe that coats my body. The darkest shade of black, it is. Is there even such a thing? You ask. Of course you'd ask; you're just a dim-witted human.

From the beginning of humanity, my job was to detach souls from their homes so they could be where they'd truly need to be. And even this year, a few centuries after Lord Voldemort's death, my job carries on.

It is like the humans are mocking me – killing most of their own so I am busy. There's no such thing as holidays for me, as you humans call it. Enough of my life, you say, but there is a point I am getting to, I assure you. Centuries and centuries I live, and I'm still living today. I am hovering behind everyone's shoulder.

I watched as humanity was born, progressed and evolved. The wars were the darkest of days, as I recall them like yesterday. Sometimes, I stay beside one human's side for the whole of eternity. Their eternity, I mean.

And I watch, amusing myself in those "films" humans create, featuring me with a scythe. And just when people almost stopped in fearing in me. I do not have a scythe or a skull for a head. I do not have tentacles that quiver underneath my robe. Though the robe is what the humans got right. I adore the robe.

I witnessed the separation of "muggles" and "wizards", and I stood by, solemnly watching as if the stars were aligned that day. Muggles and wizards differ in so many ways – even I say so myself, that wizards were placing themselves superior. I still see them the same – and they are. Dim witted, clueless humans.

Nevertheless, wizards and witches were my favorite types of human. Parting from the narcissists and the boastful men, a small amount take the true advantage to their full potential. Take Albus Dumbledore.

Just before he died, he could see me. He acknowledged me. Me, death. And his soul was standing, greeting me as if I was an old friend. Just for this, I viewed his life for him, and he cried on my shoulder. I didn't know of such a man like him could exist. Though my theory continued to tear itself apart as I approached other souls.

The tragic death of Severus Snape; no one deserved to die like that. He did not wish to watch as he couldn't bear seeing Lily with "that hopeless bastard" (mind you, I'm only repeating his words). We had the time of the world and he told me, about James, about Lily, about Harry. Beneath the feathers of my cloak, smiling swiftly. I sent him to Lily.

And those clueless, dim-witted conversations with the true souls of Regulus Black, Sirius Black, James Potter, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Lupin, Dobby, Alabastor Moody and Fred Weasley. I enjoyed conversing with the Weasley boy the most – as he was of the rarest type of humans that kept on smiling.

In each flashback of these people, the lives started to unbury the sand of Harry Potter, where he was most prominent. I began to follow him around, as were Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, bless them. Uninvited, I was, to Hermione and Ron's wedding but I could not bear to be away. Harry was there with his wife, Ginevra Weasley and the innocent little souls of their jumping children.

If I ever said I did not like the woman, it was because of the blindfold that covered my eyes.

He was different: that Harry Potter. Even when he wasn't that close to the treatment of my arms, I could see his handsome soul glowing underneath his flesh.

I watched him grow to be a wise man with a stiff neck and a smiling face. I watched him accept adorations from countries worldwide. I watched him conquer many things. But firstly, let us all not forget, I watched him as a baby, his eyes as wide as the dear of his mother's. I remember carrying Lily's and James' souls together.

And baby Harry even as he did not know, he was offering his soul as well. I didn't have the heart to take it. As what became of Voldemort, I did not get the chance to carry the remnants of his bitten off soul in my hands – for he flew straight up to hell.

I digress; however, the story is about my Harry Potter. My beautiful, young Harry Potter. Oh, how I'd love to meet him. Thick, godly raven strands for hair and a beautiful beam of green for his orbs. The kind of green that reminded me of the sticky grass Severus and Lily played in at the age of fourteen and the emerald in molted fire that Regulus set on to. And it didn't pass me to think that those orbs were dug out of a strong rainbow.

So many times it appeared as if Harry was running straight towards me. The boy's wonderful friends pulled him back to prevent it. Such a shame it was though. Do not call me selfish either; even I thought it'd be a waste of perfect life.

After years of smiling and distress, and tiredness and joy, the day finally came. A cruel headline was pinned up. "The Day of the Boy-Who-Lived's Death." At least he lived the happy life he deserved, some lovely young woman once said.

He was on his plain, plain bed. That was what fascinates me so…he had "all the money in the world" but he chose to purchase a small, quiet house that bored your eyes. Never let it be said, that Death understood prize.

Harry's children were balling their eyes out, even if they were old enough to be fine young men and woman. Ginevra was patting his hand, praying desperately though she was dying of old age herself.

If you could listen just hard enough, to hear the faintest of sounds, you could have heard the soft, single drum of Harry's heart before he died. His soul rose up from his body and I smiled; that was expected to be.

Harry was a grown man, but I did not hesitate to cradle him in my body. Harry Potter beckoned me to follow him to King's Cross Station. We shared a brief acknowledgement before I placed the record of his life, on the sturdy record box.

smiling,
brooms,
Lily and James,
Sirius and Remus,
Pettigrew,
cries of distress,
Voldemort,
the dull essence of existence,
Petunia, Vernon and Dudley,
the rough beard of Hagrid,
tears of happiness,
heated relationships with friends,
Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger,
Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore,
the defeat of Voldemort,
tears of happiness,

Kids…

Honored, was the feeling I had to witness such a life. We sat, cross legged and facing each other – he was oh so elegantly ignoring the job I had. We had a conversation. One of the best, in my opinion. Finally, I was to meet him.

So many times you came running to me.

"It was for the best."

I lived your life with you.

"Then I sincerely hope it was the best of entertainment,"

He said that with a smile.

Your parents had such light souls.

"Where are they now?"

Where you're about to go.

"Can you take off your hood so I can speak to you normally?"

What is normal? I say, when I take of my hood. I sensed it, that he feared what he might have seen. But the features of his soul relaxed as he saw me – the true me. No one has ever told me to take off my hood, in fear of a skull or demonic eyes.

"You look like a handsome human." He acknowledges.

I am nothing of the sort. My flesh was pale and sickly, topping off with cloudy grey eyes and flowing yellow hair.

But for that comment, I showed him what I truly treasure and what he truly treasures. His mother's record, his father's record, his godfather's record, Severus Snape's record and Remus Lupin's record. We cried together, and once again I felt the familiar feel of him in my arms.

There is something being born from the ashes the burning building left from the war. This was the best moment of my death life. I knew something was coming for me though.

This was where we parted. With his solid fingertips, he touched my frostbitten lips. Then he intertwined his fingers with Dumbledore to head for the world they're heading.

With pianist fingers, I touch my lips embracing the feel of disappearance.

Gone it was, the fascination of my life.

Gone he was, my beloved.

Don't call me uncaring, don't call me naïve. Don't call me dark, don't call me light.

For I am Draco Malfoy.

But call me death.