So, JustPretend2 convinced me to post this short drabble I wrote. It's nothing big and a tad bit disjointed. Johel is an OC of mine, he's a relatively low level angel who lives in the same garrison as Hester and Castiel, though he was not outstandingly close to the latter.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural, characters belong to their respective owners.
He says his name is Johel and he is an angel.
Or so he claims.
It takes a week for him to convince him that he is anything other than a figment of her imagination – she had lots of those after the war – and even longer to get her to stop spitting out the world angel like it was a slur. It is three months before she believes his words about heaven and hell, he tells her of the clouds and how the sun feels against his wings, he tells her of many things.
It is a year before he tells her of his brothers, a year before he tells of the approaching war, a year before he asks for her body as his vessel.
"Why me," she asks – her voice suspiciously thick, her book lay momentarily forgotten in her lap. Her hair is a pile of limp curls, mattered down with too many drying charms, and her cheeks gaunt; dark bags have taken a seemingly permanent residence under her eyes. She looks tired, he thinks.
"There is no one else."
Hermione stares at him and he stares back through the brown eyes in his makeshift vessel, a teenage boy he met on the outskirts of New York with dark skin and pink hair.
"No."
"You'll go to heaven," he promises, "you'll be forgiven of your sins. All of them."
She flinches for a moment before her face flattens into a look of indifference, but Johel knows her mannerism better than that.
"Oh? And what, pray tell, will become of my body once you've had your fill?"
A pause.
The muggleborn slams her book shut, causing dust to rise from the aging pages and she, much like the dust, rises from her place on the couch. She pulls her wand with her and points it at him.
"Get out."
He makes no move to leave, only stares at the wand for a moment. "That's not yours."
Hermione recoils momentarily.
"No," she concedes, but does not lower her wand, "I won it."
No, he wants to say back. The wand is not hers nor will it ever be, but months with the human girl have taught him when to keep his tongue tightly leashed.
A breath passes between them and then three more. The number reaches twelve before she speaks again.
"Is Harry there?"
"No," the words roll off his borrowed tongue, dull and lifeless.
Another breath.
"Get out," she repeats, "get out or so help me God, I will kill you, angel or not."
