Written for The Hogwarts Talent Show Competition – Round 3

Challenge: Poetry – Time to get up on the podium. If you've never written a story inspired by a poem before, now is your chance! Choose one from the list below and see what you can come up with.

Picked: "We Wear the Masks" by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Warnings: Death, violence, torture.

Word Count: 2442 according to Open Office

Mors

The war was finally over and everyone was ready to put it behind them. They gave themselves the socially accepted time to grieve, and then they moved on.

The first few months there were still a few slips, but as time went by they healed – rather their masks became better.

They wanted to finally leave the war behind, no matter how shattered they were. Harry was only one amongst the hundreds that smiled, laughed, and pretended that everything was fine.

True healing only happened as the years passed. The mask worn by most of the Wizarding World became non-existent, true smiles replacing the hollow ones that used to grace their features.

For Harry, things weren't quite that simple.

He tried, he truly did, but he couldn't remember what it was like to smile without his mask. And when he did smile it was for all the wrong reasons.

He didn't notice at first.

He wasn't as close to his friends, but that could easily be explained away by their work, by having grown up, and having different responsibilities. They still talked; after all, they were still friends. It was perfectly natural not to be as close as they had been. These things happened.

When he married Ginny, he may not have been as happy as he should have been, but that was easily explained away by him being nervous.

It was the moment he held his firstborn son in his arms that he knew that there was something different, something wrong, with him.

He knew that he should love the tiny human in his arms with everything he was, he knew that.

He didn't.

He didn't love the child, his son.

He felt nothing for it but a sense of detachment, and mild annoyance at it for disturbing his quiet day.

That realization was a shock to him.

It was the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts that he remembered feeling such a strong emotion. Everything was usually so dull, he could easily ignore it, but not this. This had hit him like the Hogwarts Express, and elicited an honest reaction out of him. The first one in such a long time that it felt almost foreign.

No one noticed though. He had become so used to being their little Savior that he slid into the role of doting parent seamlessly.

He smiled and laughed in all the right places, he was angry when it was expected, and mourned with everyone else on the second of May; he had perfected his mask to a 'T'.

Everything was good, fairly perfect even. Then one Auror raid brought all of it crashing down.

He had been hunting down a suspect, and through a foolish action from his Auror partner they had been lead into a trap. Before he had truly time to think he had cast the curse and the main suspect was dead at their feet.

There had been an inquiry, and his use of the killing curse had been described as justified. He had gotten away with not even a mention of it on his record, with only a pat on the back telling him that they knew that the Savior would never have done it if there had been another choice.

Harry played his part perfectly, and no one suspected a thing.

No one suspected that that had been the first time he had actually felt alive since the Battle of Hogwarts. He had felt his magic rush through his body, his blood pumping in his veins, his heart beating at a furious rhythm.

In that second that he had bathed in death magic, he had felt alive. Talk about irony.

Now that he had felt it, he knew that he couldn't let go of it.

Harry snarled and threw the book against the wall. Useless, completely useless. All the books said the same. It was all vague information and nothing else. Why couldn't he find a single good, useful book about death magic?

Oh, he knew why. Because the stupid Ministry had banned them all.

And did they let him see the books? No, of course not, because they were all in the hands of the Unspeakables. Under so many wards that the combined forces of Dumbledore, Voldemort, Grindelwald, and himself would have trouble breaking them.

Well, he would just have to change that, wouldn't he?

He started out small. A few invitations, nothing more. They were reticent at first, as he knew they would be, but he was patient.

When they saw it wasn't a trap, they relaxed slightly. They started showing up more. The word spread, but only to the right people.

They were still reluctant though. They knew him as the Savior, and nothing else.

He smiled at them, a different kind of mask in place, and they relaxed even more. They didn't feel pressured, they didn't feel threatened. And Harry was fine with that. He wanted them to feel like it was their choice.

He had learned over the years that humans were easily swayed if they believed that the idea had been theirs to begin with.

So he didn't offer them anything. Didn't tell them how much better things would be for them. He just listened to their lamentations, sympathized with their plight.

Though with a whispered word here, and another there, he could see the idea taking hold in their minds. He knew that with just a little push it would come to pass. So one night he let his magic flow freely for the first time in his life.

When the proud Malfoy Lord – the years having done nothing to diminish his grace – knelt in front of his armchair, his head bowed and a reverent "My Lord" leaving his lips, Harry felt his magic sing under his skin.

When moments later all the others assembled in the room followed the Malfoy Lord's example, Harry closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of being alive.

The first thing Harry did after that night was to search for Death's gifts. He was doing all of this for death magic, so why not use Death's gifts?

He had the cloak already, then he went for the wand. With the wand in hand he summoned his stone.

He could feel all three objects singing at being together.

He couldn't help but marvel at how naive, weak, he had been the first time he had held these objects. How hadn't he felt them? How hadn't he realized their potential? How had he been able to just give them up?

These objects were as much his as the magic flowing in his veins.

Harry had to bite his tongue to stop himself from screaming out.

The three objects were melting into his flesh. He stared wide-eyed as the black and silver substance that the Deathly Hallows had become were absorbed into his body. He could see the substance make its way beneath his skin, reaching his heart, before spreading all over his body and making its way back to his heart.

Then agony flared in his chest.

It brought him to his knees, but he held in the scream that wanted to tear his throat apart.

After what felt like an eternity, the pain receded, and he was left panting on his knees. He could feel his chest burn and, in a frenzy, tore his shirt open.

There, branded on his chest, was the mark of the Deathly Hallows. It was in that same black silvery substance, and it pulsed in tandem with the beating of his heart.

He stared, until a full blown laugh bubbled from his throat.

The attacks started out slow.

A raid here, another there.

The Aurors were dispatched, Harry amongst them more often than not, and small skirmishes ensued every time.

Slight fear gripped the hearts of the Wizard World once more. Whispers in the dark about a new threat on the horizon.

Harry played the dutiful husband, assuring Ginny that everything was alright. That there was no need to fear. That all sings pointed to it being just a few fools in search of power, nothing more.

Ginny believed him; she had no reason not to.

If he felt anything at all for her, it would have been disgust at her naivety.

Then came the day that everyone had dreaded.

There was a raid, the most brutal to date.

When the Aurors arrived they found nothing but a village turned to cinder. Bodies spread around, while blood soaked the ground.

And in the midst of the carnage stood a figure draped in black, a hood hiding his features. A chuckle could be heard coming from the person. All those who heard it could feel their hairs stand on end.

The figure seemed to look at them and nod, then he vanished. In his place, written in the air with the blood of the dead, was a message for the Wizarding World.

'The Dark Lord Mors sends his regards.'

Panic spread through the Wizarding World like a wildfire. Everyone fearing another war, especially when the last one was still so fresh in their minds.

Harry sat with his family, being the supportive husband and friend they all knew him as. Listening to the debates about the new Dark Lord. About his name, why he had picked that name, if it was related to Voldemort or not.

Endless possibilities thrown about, none of them coming even close to the truth.

Soon enough the general populace was clamoring for his help, and Harry – good, little savior that he was – promised to do his best. To protect them to the best of his abilities.

The raids increased, the death toll rose, and people started to despair, believing that another war was inevitable.

And Harry knew it was the right time.

It just needed a little push.

It didn't even take a month.

In less than a month he had been voted in for Minister.

He hadn't even needed to do much, he had just mentioned in passing that due to his position there wasn't much he could do about the possible Dark Lord, that he was just an Auror and had to follow orders. He had casually added that if he had more means at his disposal he would have been able to do something more.

The following day the papers were clamoring for Harry to be given a higher position in the Ministry so that he could deal with the Dark Lord Mors and his Reapers. A name that the press had given those following the Dark Lord Mors.

Harry had been aiming for Head Auror, though he certainly wasn't complaining for having been selected as Minister, that had been his intentions for a later time.

The raids continued and Harry, just as he had promised the populace, hired more Aurors and Curse Breakers. He warded the towns all over the British magical world, always leaving a hole for his people.

No matter how many wards were added, the Reapers always slipped through.

As of recent, they even had a calling card.

They would appear shrouded in black, and as one would shout: "Let us reap!"

Only death and destruction followed after.

Harry supposed that it was their way of saying that they approved of the name. He tried to squash the far too inappropriate smile that had graced his lips.

A little over two months after his election, more than half of the Aurors were his men. The rest of the Ministry wasn't all that far off.

A smile tugged at his lips when he remembered that in one particular raid all the Aurors that had been assigned had been his men, so the battle had been between his own people.

That had been the only battle where not a single Auror had been killed.

Harry had feared that some of the more intelligent people would have caught on, but none had. He was unsure about how to feel about such clear stupidity, however he was far from stupid, and knew he shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Harry was so close he could feel it.

So he pushed once more.

It was a scene right out of a horror movie, and Harry had to control himself not to laugh.

A portkey had delivered hundreds of Inferi into the middle of Diagon Alley.

He had timed it so that he would be in the Alley as well, hoping that either Ginny or one of the children would get hurt or die in the attack. It would be the perfect way to achieve what he needed. He could work with it if nothing happened to them, but it would be so much better if it did.

The Inferi spread through Diagon Alley, people started panicking, running and hiding as best they could.

A brave wizard stood in front of the creatures and cast a fire charm at them. Incendio, if Harry wasn't mistaken, and Harry couldn't contain his laugh when the man's features contorted into soul numbing terror when the fire slid right off the creatures; fortunately people were far too afraid to notice his little slip.

When the Aurors, all of them his followers, arrived and were able to stop the creatures, with his help, Diagon Alley had been destroyed and there had been over one hundred casualties.

Unfortunately, none of his family had been one of the victims, but the blow had still been strong enough that when he spoke in the middle of the destroyed Alley, everyone listened.

Two weeks later, a law was passed allowing him free access to any and all books and information that the Unspeakables had in their possession.

Harry observed the thousands of people in front of him, all of them loyal to him, ready to do anything he asked of them.

He stood from his armchair, his open robes revealing his naked torso and the symbol of the Deathly Hallows branded into his flesh. Magic, death magic, filled the air, and Harry felt alive.

He finally, finally, knew the truth about himself, about the Hallows.

All those years ago he hadn't become the Master of Death.

Death was not a thing, it could not have a Master.

Death simply was.

Death did not have a physical form.

That is, Death did not have a physical form until that day.

The Deathly Hallows did not make one the Master of Death.

The Deathly Hallows made one the personification of Death.

Death has no attachments.

Death knows no love.

Death simply is.

And now Death walks the Earth.

"My Reapers," Death spoke, "go now, and reap!"