Que Sera Sera

Chapter Two: Tomorrow Has Been Canceled

"Due to Lack of Interest, Tomorrow Has Been Cancelled."--unknown

I have always thought that the title 'The Boy Who Lived' was terribly ironic. Well alright at first I thought it was funny, then ironic, and then it was a bit annoying actually. After all, I knew that I hadn't really 'lived'. The title 'The Boy Who Died' or 'The Boy Who Pretended to Be Alive' would probably have been more accurate.

It all began that night at Godric's Hollow. The night I died. As I said before: no one has ever survived the killing curse and contrary to popular belief, I was no exception. When the curse hit I died...sort of. However, when Voldemort hit me with the killing curse fortunately--or unfortunately something went wrong.

As you know Voldemort had created Horcruxes in an effort to obtain immortality. There is a balance to life and death--a natural order to things. And he tampered with that. Add to that that at that particular time he was one away from having created seven Horcruxes and well... Seven is a very powerfully magic number and I don't think he quite knew what he was messing with.

So, back to that night. He fired the curse and it killed me but as it killed me it simultaneously created a seventh Horcrux. The backlash from that destroyed Voldemort's body and in the chaos that ensued his soul--what was left of it anyway--managed to slip away.

And there I was not even two years old--dead and possessing my own body...sort of. I don't really understand it and I don't really think that Bert (he's my boss--more on him later) did either when he tried to explain it to me. Basically: I was technically dead (well, undead) but my body was still there and functioning because of the Horcrux's magic, so I was somehow able to stay in my body and age normally.

That all changed however when Voldemort "killed" me the second time effectively destroying his own Horcrux. I then became the Grim Reaper I had always known I was going to be.

I was about seven when Bert first explained it all to me properly. When a person dies a Grim Reaper takes their soul and guides it to the hereafter...or wherever (Bert wasn't really clear on where the souls actually go after they leave us.) Every Grim Reaper has a quota to meet and they don't know what that quota is until they take their last soul. Normally, that person then immediately becomes a Grim Reaper. But because of the unusual circumstances surrounding my death, that didn't really happen. Which is just as well because I can't really picture a one-and-a-half year-old running about taking people's souls.

The confusing part was that mortal body or no I was still a Grim Reaper. Or possibly a Grim Reaper-in-training. But, either way I didn't actually take any souls till I was seven. And then it was pet souls and it was only every so often. My first actual human soul was Quirrell. Then there was the piece of Riddle's soul in the diary, Barty Crouch (Sr.), Voldemort's soul bits, and of course Voldemort himself. The point I'm trying to make is that wasn't something that I had to deal with on a regular basis. Now as an 'official' Grim Reaper I'll be charged with a soul a day--sometimes more. My area of expertise: magical external influences; i.e. deaths caused by magical accidents, suicides, and murders.

Now, back to Bert. As I said he's my boss. I actually first met him that night at Godric's Hollow. He's been a Reaper for quite some time--I'm not really sure on the specifics. He looks to be about in his late forties or fifties but Grim Reapers don't age so it's hard to tell by that. He has dark grey hair that's balding on the top, a pudgy middle, and his height is a bit shorter than average. He usually wears his robes open with muggle clothes on underneath. He has an American accent and calls me 'kid' a lot. He's in charge of giving out assignments.

Every day Bert gets a list of who's going to die that day. He transfers the name, place, and E.T.D. (estimated time of death) onto bits of parchment and hands them out to the Reapers.

There are three other Reapers in our little group: Manila, Sullivan and Curtis. (Manila and Sullivan tend to treat me a bit like a younger brother, which comes from my essentially growing up around them. Curtis tends to treat me like an annoying drunk that sits beside you at a bar and that just won't leave you alone...or more accurately like a bit of dung that he can't quite get scraped off his shoe.)

We meet at a quaint little wizard's pub every morning: The Witch's Brew. I'm actually a bit a nervous about today's meeting. After all, it is my first "real" day on the job. As a result, I arrive a bit early and find only Sullivan and Curtis there. Curtis is the one using a cleaning charm on his seat and Sullivan is the one snickering at him.

Sullivan is 5'7, has long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, has brown eyes, always looks a bit dishevelled, and who quite honestly can be a bit much at times. He alternates between being really hyper and really sluggish. Today's one of his hyper days.

"So, no more famous, huh?" he greets me as I sit down, reaching over to fondly mess up my hair.

I move my head out of his way as my hair was messed up enough on its own.

"Oooh! Got an idea!" (Sullivan is forever having "brilliant" ideas.)

He moves his hands as if reading off a title--"'Talk to the ghost of Harry Potter--only 2 Galleons'...people'd go crazy for it! And the kicker is...it really is you, in't?! Only they wouldn't know that! Would be brilliant, it would!" he grins.

"Uh, I don't really think..." I try to discourage him. (I'm never really sure whether or not his ideas are to be taken seriously.)

Curtis of course buts in with: "Don't be absurd. it's completely against the rules." He then turns to me. "...not that YOU would know..."

Curtis is by far the tallest of the lot of us at an even 6 foot. He has short -cropped blond hair, blue eyes, wears only traditional black robes, and...well, is a bit like Percy Weasley. Only worse. Curtis is a real stickler for the rules. Manila and Sullivan may get on his nerves but it's me that really has his knickers in a twist. I hadn't become a Reaper in the manner that I was supposed to. I didn't behave the way a Reaper should. I INTERACTED with the living! I made FRIENDS with the living! I carried on like I was still living! I AGED! If he wasn't already dead I'd be afraid for his health. I'm hoping that now that I'm a 'proper' Reaper he would have calmed down a bit.

"...We're not to interact with the living--especially not to those who knew us in life!" Curtis continued, in a tone that suggested the rest of us had the combined IQ of a flobberworm and he didn't know why he kept having to repeat to us such simple concepts and why couldn't we just be more like him or at least stop bothering him with such stupid ideas. It was a tone that understandably had taken him much practice to properly achieve.

"But they really didn't know him did they?" Sullivan counters, completely unfazed by Curtis being...well, Curtis.

Thankfully (At least for me anyway.), Manila entered at that moment. Curtis let out a long suffering groan as if he couldn't believe that he was going to have to endure yet another person with the brains of a flobberworm--and a flobberworm that had been in the firewiskey and doused with a cheering charm at that.

"Got you a prezzy!" she beams as she hands me...a coin?

Manila has short curly brown hair, brown eyes, is 5'2, usually dresses in brightly coloured robes (today they happen to be a neon pink), giggles constantly and has a very odd sense of humour. One time she came in with a bit of ribbon, waved it in my face, opened her mouth to say something--presumable about the ribbon but with her you can never be sure, and laughed hysterically for over 30 minutes. Then she cut off suddenly, sighed, and sipped at her butterbeer calm as you please. Completely mental that one.

"Umm...thanks," I reply as I eye the silver coin.

Manila looks at me expectantly. "It's a Sickle," she states giggling.

Oh, of course. That explains everything. Completely confused by what possible significance the coin holds for her, I reply with an ever intelligent: "Huh?"

Thankfully, Bert chose that time to enter and hand out our assignments.

Nervously, I unroll mine:

R. L. Huckaferd
Clovis's Creature Cottage
E.T.D. 9:32 A.M.

I make it to Clovis's Creature Cottage with ten minutes to spare. It's a pet shop that specializes in exotic animals. A bell chimes as I walk in and the few people inside barely glance my way.

I suppose I should explain that the living see us differently. I appear to have greasy brownish hair, nondescript brown eyes, and a face that wouldn't be winning any contests. At least I don't have to worry about anyone gawking at the famous Harry Potter. New name too: Archibald. Needless to say, I was not consulted on the name.

As I walk around the shop I become a bit nervous for poor R. L. Huckaferd. Most all the animals in the shop have big teeth and sharp claws and don't appear at all friendly. I couldn't help wondering how poor R.L. kicks the bucket.

Would he be attacked by the clabberts who were banging against the walls of their not-sturdy-enough-looking cage? Would he be hit by one of the large bags of feed perched haphazardly on the shelves? Would he slip on the hippogriff droppings and collide headlong into the wall?

And just who was R. L. Huckaferd? Was it the witch looking at the nifflers? Was it the store worker perched on the sliding ladder? Was it the wizard studying the blast-ended skrewts? He hoped it wasn't the boy poking at the fwoopers...

At 9:31 a wizard in brown robes walked into the shop.

"Ah! Mr. Huckaferd, I have your order in the back," the clerk said and then headed to the storeroom.

And we have a winner. I walk over and casually brush my hand against him under the guise of studying the care and feeding manuals. (It's common courtesy for those in our division to take the soul before time of death. Less traumatic that way.)

Suddenly, a loud BANG! sounded throughout the shop as three clabberts erupted out of their cage causing the room to descend into pure chaos. People were running to get out of the way as the clabberts, screeching loudly the whole time, ran about climbing shelves and hurtling various objects as store clerks tried to round them up. The little buggers seem very apt at dodging spells.

One of the clabberts got a hold of the shop ladder and was riding it full speed down the length of the shop--sending whole shelves' worth of items soaring. One of the objects was a largish hippogriff brush with rather sharp bristles that flew straight at--and through Mr. R. L. Huckaferd.

Wincing, I made my way through the chaos towards him. He was standing dazed looking down at his body.

"I don't...how?...wha...?"

"Come on, Mr. Huckaferd, it's time to move on," I tell him as I touch his shoulder.

He turns to me and his eyes widen in astonishment.

"Merlin's Beard! you're Harry Potter!"

"Yes, and you're dead," I felt the need to point out.

"I've just got killed by Harry Potter!" he said reverently.

"I didn't kill you I just took your soul," I explained as I led him away.

"Merlin, I just got my soul took by Harry Potter!"

Sigh. It's going to be a loooong afterlife.