A/N: I wrote this for Banta as he's Secret Santa request. Here's his prompt: Harry attempts to force Death to resurrect everyone he cares about who died in the war; it doesn't end well for him, at all. I've tinkered with the plot a bit, and the new summary is the main story summary.

It's a Master of Death!Harry story, but with a unique twist. It's probably going to be a few chapters.

Thanks to Constans and CheddarTrek for their excellent beta work, and to my peeps at DarkLordPotter for the encouragement/critique.

For Banta,

Without further ado, I give you


Chapter 1

She writhed against me, moaning with pleasure as I trailed kisses down to her navel. Her eyes were glazed over with ecstasy as she gripped the bed sheet tightly. A few seconds passed, as I roughly kneaded her nipples with my hands. Her eyes were pressed close, tortured whimpers roiling in her delicate throat, her fingernails digging into my chest. Her hair was glistening a bright silver, slick with sweat.

"Fuck me," she begged.

I grinned. She gave a tortured, sensual cry as I slowly maneuvered my way into the dripping wet spot between her thighs. Her hips began to move in rhythm with my thrusts. The Weird Sister's new hit song Take Me, Charm Me played softly in the background.

Take me, Spin me

You can use your wand upon me

Charm me, Hump me,

Say the spell, have your way with me

A strangled moan escaped my lips as I strained to hold out against the rising tide that threatened to overwhelm me. To be fair, I did try. My very best too.

Fleur, I thought. It was too much. The sheer thought of her sent me over the edge, into the throes of a maddening ecstasy. I shuddered, rocked by the aftershocks of my climax.

She stiffened underneath me. For a few seconds.

"What the fuck did you just call me?"

Did I just say that aloud? Please, please tell me I didn't.

"I said, eh... fur?" I squeezed the thin, soft fur on the bed with what I hoped was a winning smile.

It was no surprise when the left side of my face exploded with pain as she slapped me. My left cheek's had quite some experience, but it's the other one I worry about. That's why I dislike left-handed women - my right cheek is such a softie. I blocked her wrist as it came back for the rematch.

She struggled against my grip, her breasts jiggling in a very distracting manner. "You son of a bitch!"

Interesting. She has quite the short memory. She sure as hell didn't call me son of a bitch when she was siphoning off my money before and after we got married.

"From what I hear my mom was quite a lady, thank you very much!" I yelled back. The mother insults are a very sore spot for me. After all, she did die so I could live.

She pushed me off, angry tears streaming down her beautiful face. Crocodile tears, mind you. I knew her too well to know she was hurt. Maybe a little bit.

She started grabbing her clothes where they were strewn all over the floor, while I watched from underneath the bed covers. Red lace underwear, red negligee, even the red slippers, all paid for by my money. I had half a mind to ask her to return them, I'm pretty sure the receipts are still lying here somewhere, and the sex clothes of the soon-to-be former Mrs. Potter should fetch a handsome sum. An angry jab of her wand sent them zooming into her bag, along with some more from the dresser.

She paused by the door, and threw me a glare filled with so much hate that good old Snape himself would have had trouble matching it, even on his greasiest day. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

"You are such an asshole! It's over!" She was fuming so much that the next words were a struggle, though I knew what they were. "I should have known, two divorces and I still can't believe I somehow fell for you."

Oooh, low blow. She didn't fall for me, well she did, kind of, but she started the flirting at last year's Annual Hogwarts Reunion party. So, naturally I blew her a kiss in reply, and had to twist out of the way in a tangle of bedsheets as a severing curse flew at my head. Lesson to remember kids - if you're going to pull a stunt like I just did, always make sure to keep the wand away from the psycho wife.

The beam of white light missed and struck the pillow, showering the area with white feathers. I snapped out my wand from off the nightstand, auror-style. A simple flick had her wand soaring into my open hand.

A smirk crossed my face. "Spousal abuse and all. Don't want to be ruining your chances for an alimony now, do you?"

I tossed her wand back to her. For a moment she stood there gaping, too stunned to say anything. If you looked hard enough, you could see the gears shifting in her head as she processed what her husband for all of two months had just said to her. I toyed with the idea of using a transparency charm on her head just to verify my theory. Nah.

In the end, she settled for throwing a lamp at me, and I ducked as the odd projectile slammed against the bed and crashed loudly to the floor, sending ceramic and glass shards flying everywhere. There was a loud slam, and when I looked back the bedroom door was quivering and Katie Bell was gone, sweet arse and all. Pity. I think if I could have gotten used to her too, if she wasn't so uptight.

Okay so I mentioned the name of my dead wife while shagging her. Big deal. Other guys do that all the time - I think?

It's funny, you know. She's just like the others before her. They all start out the same way, thinking they can mend me, replace Fleur. Even when I tell them they can't. But I am a fair man, and I wouldn't be considered a fair man if I don't let them at least try. So I do. If only for my amusement.

The small wooden gate swung open noisily on its rusty hinges. A stream of yellow light poured out from a window onto the cobblestone path. Apart from the chirping of invisible crickets, the house was almost eerily silent. None of the playful noise I had come to expect from Rose and Hugo's boisterous, raucous games. Old Molly was probably waiting to give me an earful because I was late for dinner. A small chuckle exited my mouth. She worried too much.

I nudged the kitchen door with my toe, the bag of groceries in my hand, weighing me down. I backed into the room and set them on the counter beside the door. The first smell that greeted my nose was not the fragrance of freshly-picked carnations and Enchanter's Nightshade that Molly had taken to putting around the house over the years. There was a whiff of something else in the air - something foul. I chuckled softly - must be Ron's turn at changing diapers.


Everyone sat arrayed around the homely kitchen table, Hermione with her back facing me.

"Hey Hermione, where do I put this?" I asked, pulling out several loaves of Goblin rye bread. "Oh and Fleur says she's sorry she couldn't make it, she just got a memo from work."

"Hermione?" Surely they weren't praying?

I turned and immediately the bags fell onto the floor with a resounding crash, upsetting the small cloud of flies that had settled onto Ron's face. A strangled, shocked gasp tore itself from my lips. Ron, Molly little Rose and Hugo, their faces were set in a rictus of utter horror.

"What the fuck? Ron!" I took a step forward, and my foot landed into something wet and squicky. Blood, a wet crimson pool of blood, all over the floor.

"No... no." I wrenched Hermione's seat around, and yanked up her wrist. More blood slathered over my hands.

"Rennervate!" I roared and there was a flash of red light. "Rennervate!" Her body glowed a mocking red. "Vulnera Sanentur!" The gashes on her wrist healed up, but she didn't wake. I dropped her hand in horror. "Ron, wake up! Wake up, you git!"

I gripped Rose's little body and gave it a mighty shake, and her red Weasley curls shook violently with the movement. "Rennervate!" The magic just seeped into her skin without any effect, she didn't get up. I half-hoped, half-expected her to jump up with a cry of 'boo, Uncle Harry!' Her body lay slumped in her chair, lifeless and unresponsive.

"Wake up Ron," I screamed, slapping Ron's scarred face. "Your family's dead, you fucking git!" Thin rivulets of blood and pus dripped out of his putrid, smoky eyes. "Rennervate, you idiot! Vulnera Sanentur!" His scars closed up neatly but body just flopped uselessly in his chair. His glassy eyes stared back at me, blank and unmoving.

"Wake up..." I sobbed. Tears streamed down my face, I could barely see anymore. "Please Hermione. Please..."

Hugo was perched on Molly's steady lap, petrified, both their eyes unblinking orbs of unimaginable terror and pain. Blood dripped from his tiny mouth, and Molly's wispy hair was streaked with more red than there had ever been in her lifetime, her neck was heavily bruised. Their deaths had not been quick or merciless.

"Vulnera Sanentur! Tergeo! Rennervate!" The small cottage room lit up with flashes of light, the only healing spells I knew streamed from the tip of my wand. The copious amounts of dark magic that lingered in the air shrunk back in the face of my potent anger and frustration, dried splotches of blood disappeared and slowly their wounds faded into faint scars.

I wiped the tears from my eyes with a furious swipe. They all sat there, stiff and unmoving, as if frozen in time. Trapped in a heinous travesty of life.

A sudden unadulterated rage gripped me and I whirled around, my blurry eyes searching, looking for some clue as to who could have committed this atrocity. Ron was an Auror, my partner, and while he was no Mad-Eye Moody, he was competent. It would have taken a lot to bring him down, and yet there were no signs of a struggle. My second family had just been massacred.

Only two chairs were empty, probably where Fleur and I would have sat tonight. Most of the food was cold and untouched. I wordlessly cast a Supersensory Charm on my congested nose, then lifted a half-eaten chicken wing and sniffed it. A faint whiff of something lemony. My tongue darted out and there was a sharp yet almost imperceptible taste of Hellebore. The food had been spiked with Draught of Paralysis, the smell had most likely been lost amidst the overwhelming aroma of food, until it had been too late.

I spotted a small square of white poking out from underneath a platter of scones. It was a piece of parchment. There was a short message on it, written in a rough script. A wave of nausea washed over me as I realised that writing had been done in blood.

I wonder what I need

to see if a flower bleeds

And what the potter say

when his love is taken away

I read the twisted poem once. A sea of brilliant, horrible clarity swept through my grief-addled mind. The note drifted to the floor from my trembling hands...

Fleur was french for flower.

A loud crack shattered the oppressive silence of the kitchen and in a whoosh of violently-displaced air I was gone.

Celestina Warbeck's 'A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love' streamed loudly over the Wizarding Wireless.

Oh, come and stir my cauldron

And if you do it right

I'll boil you up some hot, strong love

To keep you —

I shut out the lyrics, and i couldn't help the tears that welled up in my eyes. That had been one of Molly's favorite songs. Fleur hated it. They always argued about it. I gripped my wand tightly, hoping against hope, selfishly, that Fleur had not already shared her fate.

All the protections and wards I had layered over the house were gone, shredded apart with contemptuous ease. The front door creaked open at my slightest touch. Nothing seemed disturbed in the hallway, yet the air seemed laden with the weight of grief, as if the whole house was mourning with me.

A different flower lay on each step, marking a lonely, morbid trail on the stairway that led to the second floor. Each was tagged, in the same rough, bloody handwriting.

A pale lilac - for Hermione, who screamed like a banshee.

A blood-red rose - for Rose, whose screams rose.

A white daisy - for Ron, who wished he hadn't been born.

A yellow daffodil - for little Hugo, whose cries were so very shrill.

A honeysuckle - for Molly, who I strangled with my belt buckle.

The tang of Dark magic grew in the air with each step I took. The banister quivered under the force of my strong, sweaty grip. There was one more flower on the very last step. My feet felt like leaden weights.

A beautiful purple iris. I picked it up, for a second I wanted nothing but to crush it under my foot. I unfurled the tiny tag instead.

For Fleur -

The entry was fresh, the blood was still wet.

- whose life I did not spare.

My thoughts were a blur as I bolted down the length of the hallway, yet I hesitated when I got to the bedroom door, which was ajar. i didn't want to see, I wanted to turn and run away, run away and never look back.

I pushed open the door.

I let out a choked cry.

The room was in total disarray. Tables upturned, curtains slashed to shreds, a spot on the right wall was scorched black, our mirror shattered into a million pieces. A part of the ceiling had fallen onto the carpet. The bed was the only thing untouched.


She was still hauntingly beautiful, even in death. Her face was turned towards me. The velvet bedcovers were draped over the bottom half of her body. Her hair was arrayed in a shimmering silver pool around her head. Her eyes were closed, as if she was asleep. I could have been fooled, if not for the way her neck was bent at an unnatural angle, in a contortion even a gymnast wouldn't be able to match.

The mattress sank as I quietly, gently sat down beside her. Against her flawless skin, it was impossible to miss and I was suddenly seized by a fierce pride for her. Two of her fingernails were streaked with a thin line of red. She hadn't gone down without a fight.

I brushed away a strand of hair and lowered my lips to kiss her forehead. It was impossibly cool to the touch. I cradled her hand next to my cheek. It felt so heavy, her fingers were so stiff and soft but I didn't let go. Her pale pink lips were ever so slightly open. I could hear her unspoken whisper. She wanted me to hold on.

It was as if all the sadness, all the pain in the world had seeped into my soul and made it home, yet at the same time I felt so empty. I didn't cry, but my heart ached so much that I felt it would burst out of my chest. A part of me wished it would. I just stared at her face, her hand still pressed against my cheek and knew that an enormous part of my being had just gone with her. It was alright. We just sat there, trapped in a silence that even time didn't dare to break. Just her and I.

It was five hours later that the Aurors found us.

"I'm really sorry, Harry," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, giving my shoulder a tight squeeze. "No one deserves this."

My only response was to give him a wooden nod. Around us the investigative team was just wrapping up. Many of them were shooting me furtive, pitiful glances when they thought I wasn't looking, muttering out of earshot. I ignored them.

Kingsley was still saying something. He clapped my shoulder, and I resisted the urge to flinch at the gesture. "You listening?" He asked, a concerned look in his eyes. "I said, you can take a month off."

I waved away his concerns. "I'll be fine, I don't need a month off. So, how many are you putting on this case?"

"You're not on this case—," he began.

My lips curled up into a brittle smile. "I know what you think, but I can handle it."

He gave me a look that clearly said he didn't think I was any shape to get back to work. "I understand you want to —"

For a moment I felt an almost irresistible urge to punch his hard, black face in. He didn't understand. No one did. But I settled for scowling at him instead. "You don't, but that's alright. I'll see you in a few hours."

He shook his head, a stubborn look crossing his face. "Harry, you know I can't let you. Standard procedure."

"Fuck standard procedure," My voice was still controlled, showing none of the rising boiling anger I felt. "I'm taking charge of this case."

He shook his head, not backing down an inch. "No you're not. I know it hurts, what just happened to you, but you need to take a break to sort things out. I'm putting you on paid leave. Take a vacation. All expenses paid. Merlin knows you've earned it. Go to the Bahamas or something, it's nice this time of the year." A dark, hard look entered his eyes. "I promise, I'll find the bastards who did this."

It's funny, all that while I had asked to take a week off for a vacation with Fleur, but he'd always said no, some other time, that there was too much work to be done. And now, now he dared to —

"You mean we'll find them. I'm coming to work." I stepped forward, my green eyes challenged his brown ones, daring him to stop me.

"I know what it feels like to lose—" he began again.

"No you don't, you don't fucking know what it feels like." My voice came out in a low calm whisper, though my veins were practically throbbing with rage. "You've lost a co-worker. It's not quite the same you see. I've just lost a soulmate, a brother, a sister, a best friend, a partner, my godson, my wife, a mother. All in one night." I ticked them off with my fingers, like I was explaining something to a dim child. Kingsley's jaws were clenched tight at my tirade. I leaned in closer until my face was inches away from his. "So unless the same thing has happened to you, no you don't know what it feels like. I'm on."

"I can't allow it. You obviously need some help."

"Yes, you can. Just overlook the rules this once. Either way I'm taking charge of the case." Two of the Auror-Interns, brought along for observation were milling around, staring. Kingsley glared at them, and they made themselves scarce.

He turned to me. "You know just as well as I do that —"

"Please. This once. Bend the rules for a friend. "

For a second his eyes softened, and i thought he'd relent but then he shook his head tiredly. "I can't."

My resolve hardened with his refusal. "I don't care. I'm on the team."

Don't make me do this Harry," he said, a note of warning in his deep voice.

"Do what?" I asked calmly.

"I place you under enforced suspension until such a time as you are deemed mentally fit enough to return." His voice was filled with regret, but the look of determination in his face didn't pass. "Look I understand—"

There we go with the 'I understand' shit. Cool as you please, I brought my balled fist smashing down into his face. He was sent staggering, unprepared for the blow. I cocked my fist back again, and suddenly half a dozen Aurors had their wand pointed straight at me. Kingsley got up, massaging his jaw, the first hints of anger on his face, but he waved them down.

"I'm going to pretend that didn't happen. He said through gritted teeth. He reached out a hand.

"Give me your badge."

I considered not handing it over, but I did anyway. His fingers closed over it. He stared at me long and hard, before his expression seemed to relax into one of sympathy. "Don't do this to yourself Harry."

"Too late. Keep it." I was already walking back towards the front door.

"I'm really sorry Harry."

I didn't look back.

A thick, muddy liquid bubbled in the goblet. I took out and uncorked a small vial, careful not to upset the tiny flakes of red at the bottom, the dried blood I had scraped from underneath Fleur's fingernails. I emptied the miniscule contents into the goblet, hoping it would be enough. The Polyjuice potion frothed and hissed, before assuming a putrid green shade that smelled like bathroom scum.

I closed my eyes and gulped the potion, grimacing at the foul taste. For an instant, nothing happened. Then the skin on my face grew tighter, my scalp tingled, my limbs stretched out with crunching pops, my fingers lengthened painfully. It was over as suddenly as it had begun.

I opened my eyes, slowly, and stared back at my reflection in the mirror. Lank dark hair, a long, pale twisted face, cruel brown eyes, a hard jaw and a hooked nose. My chipped lips curled up into a grotesque, mirthless smile. I knew who I had to kill.

My conscience died a bloody death on the night I discovered Fleur's broken body in our bedroom. Armed with my trusty Holly wand, I got my revenge. The copious amounts of violence and bloodshed along the way were unavoidable.

Anyway, quite naturally, the Ministry decided they were going to throw me into that god-forsaken prison for my "crimes". Not that it would be able to hold me, mind you, but the remnants of the Wizengamot that still supported me, which coupled with the loud outcry from a public that revered the ground I walked on, was enough to stay their hand. Especially given that all I was doing was clearing the Wizarding World of the scum that still infested the dark corners where no one was brave enough to look.

For my freedom, the Ministry demanded I make some concessions. Losing my job as an Auror was easy enough - I only joined the Auror corps because Ron was in it and I had enough gold to last me three lifetimes.

However one of the odder demands was that I settle down with a man or woman, they weren't very choosy in the clause. They believed I was broken, and getting a wife would help me of the road to recovery. At least that's what the Daily Prophet put it. The world had taken to calling me The-Boy-Who-Broke, an invention of Rita Skeeter's , I believe. In a way everyone is broken, some more than others - I'm just awake enough to embrace the truth of it. So naturally I fought it every step of the way, but the same people who had supported me now wanted to see a fairytale marriage and the redemption of their jaded hero.

So I gave it to them. Albeit a twisted mockery that served my own amusement. If marriage was going to be my get-out-of-Azkaban-free card, then so be it.

Lavender Brown was first. She'd always fancied me during our school days and now I think it was the element of danger around me that attracted her most. That and the title of becoming known as the woman who tamed Harry Potter. Knowing the size of my vaults from her work at Gringotts certainly helped too.

I played along, we fucked on our first date, fucked on the second and then fucked some more. Every meeting was soon conducted with few words, degenerating into us ripping off our clothes like feral animals and engaging in mindless indulgence of the pleasures of the flesh.

By the way don't listen to what people say - indiscriminate amounts of sex can and will lead to chemistry; it did with me and her. For a while at least but enjoy it while you can.

Eventually marry we did, we gave the world the wedding they wanted, if only to spiritually cement what was rapidly turning into a lifetime of fucking. And Lavender was a kinky bitch, the things she made me do would curl your toes and make you groan with pleasure.

Except after just a week, that chemistry became a chore. What Fleur and I had before was a love too strong, too entwined into the fabric of my being to die with her death.

I longed too much for her. It was maddening.

Every time I kissed Lavender's luscious red lips it was Fleur's perfectly pink ones I tasted. Every time I sank my hands through her dirty blonde hair, it was Fleur's silver tresses that I felt rub against my callused fingers. Every time I stared into Lavender's brown eyes, I saw my face reflected in passionate dark-blue eyes that fit so perfectly on Fleur Potter's perfect face. Even assuming that I hadn't been in love with Fleur, she was still far too stunning from a physical standpoint, in a way few girls can come close to, let alone surpass. She was too much of a tall order to beat.

Lavender danced through the clothing aisles, a look of absolute delight on her face. For her this was probably paradise. Lingerie, as far as the eye could see, ranging from a hideous rainbow colored set to frilly black ones I wouldn't mind seeing her in at all. I followed behind her, already bored. She already had so many that she could start her own clothing line.

"How does this look?" She held a purple satin bra to her chest. The tag said it was augmented by magic to resize to fit the wearer.

"Fine, fine," I muttered, looking beyond her. Something else had captured my attention. Just down a row of the new velvet Invisibras, a line of luscious red lingerie hung. I remembered them very well. They were the same ones Fleur had worn on our honeymoon, the ones she had worn so perfectly. I was barely aware of Lavender's chattering as I walked towards it.

I picked one up, marvelling at how the lacy material flowed through my fingers. Just like it had, back when I had slid them off Fleur's delectable body. It fell to the floor. Sweat glistened on her delectably nubile body. I reached for —

Kiss me 'Arry.


The memory shattered sharply. I resisted the urge to snap at Lavender."What?"

There was a naughty look in her eyes as she dropped the sea of silver undergarments she had in her arms, and pulled the red one from me. She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively as she pulled the bra over her head.

"Do you like what you see?" The fabric stretched taut against her breasts, bringing them into sharp relief.

My breath hitched in my throat, but a different reason entirely. If I just squinted enough so everything was blurry, I could see Fleur's angelic figure silhouetted in the red panties. She was beckoning me forward with a saucy wink—

Touch me 'Arry.


I was jolted out of the reverie. Lavender stood, having somehow wriggled into the undies despite that she had clothes on, a petulant look on her face. She twirled around and I saw a sales attendant sniggering before sneaking out of sight. "How do I look?"

A drop of sweat snaked down my brow. I could barely nod. "You look g-great." Evidently she mistakened my stutter for horniness, because she giggled and stuffed a set in her shopping bag.

Sex that night was great.

So that's how the idea grew. With careful hints, such as how I loved silver hair, or how I'd love it if she toned down on her red lipstick, I nudged Lavender in the direction I wanted. Little things, the odd charm here that would change her eye color to a bluer shade, the cosmetic job that thinned her waist slightly and brought her closer to Fleur's own lithe figure, a bit of work on her cheekbones to make them more prominent - I, with surgical precision, chipped and modeled Lavender into the woman I wanted.

And of course, she loved every minute of it, the bimbo. At first she had been suspicious, but as the sex improved dramatically and the money flowed through her hands like water, she became much more malleable in my hands. She was too caught in her role as of keeping me happy to realize what I was doing to her.

After all she still looked different enough to be her own person, but close enough to Fleur that if I just closed my eyes, I could pretend the woman moaning in ecstasy underneath me every night was the haughty, fiery French woman I had lost my heart to.

It was a year later before Lavender caught up with not-so innocent scheme. One night, in a fit of firewhiskey-induced daring, I asked her to try on some of Fleur's own lingerie for size. With strength that I never knew existed in her petite frame, she swung her fist at my head, and the reflexes that served me so well in the war were barely fast enough.

She sued for a divorce and got a healthy chunk of money, both from the settlement and the money the Daily Prophet paid her for an exclusive. Last I heard she's living off the coast of the Caribbeans with some rich Italian wizard. Poor bastard.

Romilda Vane followed, eager to take Lavender's vacant spot and claim a slice of the Harry pie for herself. Her obsession with me since school had not abated a tiny bit all this while. So I dancedin tune with her. We courted for a while and she even seemed quite amenable to my suggestions of remaking her appearance. Until the night of our honeymoon, when I discovered that she was planning to dose me with Love potions to seal my love for her.

No can do, crazy lady.

I gladly took the psycho bitch to court, and she finally took the hint when I threatened to cave her face in if she didn't sign the divorce papers. She only lasted some three or so months.

And, until a few minutes ago, Katie.

If only everyone could get into their thick skulls that Fleur is one of a kind, that she's fucking irreplaceable, then we'll all be very happy.

But as I've mentioned, I'm more than willing to let them try, if only for my own amusement.

Pushing those thoughts out of my mind I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and slid them into my slippers, my mood officially ruined. The summons to the Wizarding Court will be here soon, together with a small army of reporters and a storm of media controversy regarding my soon-to-be third divorce. Rita Skeeter must be having an orgasm right now, the old hag.

I put my hands against a tapestry on the wall, and a thrum of magic answered my call as a panel slid to the side with a grinding noise, revealing a passageway known to no one but myself. Winding stairs, hewn into the stone floor, led downwards into the darkened chamber that is my sanctum sanctorum. My wand trembled under the force of my grip, and the shiver of excitement I felt had nothing to do with the fact that I was starkers underneath my robes. I knew exactly what would cheer me up.

It's been a while since I last visited Antonin Dolohov, murderer of Fleur and countless others, and the man single-handedly responsible for the shit my life's in right now.

It's been too long since I heard him scream.