Author's Notes: Well, I don't know how this'll turn out, but I want to do it. As usual, flames will only amuse me.

Disclaimer: I own neither Darksiders nor Harry Potter, and I'm broke, so there's no point in suing me.

Music for this chapter: Cat's in the Cradle - Harry Chapin

Death's Cradle

By BlackLadyCharon

Chapter one: The Child Arrived

'My child arrived just the other day

He came to the world in the usual way

But there were planes to catch and bills to pay

He learned to walk while I was away

And he was talkin' 'fore I knew it, and as he grew

He'd say "I'm gonna be like you dad

You know I'm gonna be like you" ' Cat's in the Cradle - Harry Chapin

He was Oldest of the Eldest, but even he was not immune to himself. He almost laughed at that poisonous irony. He walked slowly forward, his lank hair falling into his face, leaning on his weapon as a crutch to keep himself moving forward. Blood trailed down his pallid, glistening skin, carnelian brightness riveting, the plump drops leaving a trail for what followed. Betrayed, betrayed, betrayed, his heart beat time to that word. His world, his brothers, gone. Was there to be no Balance, just anarchy? He slumped against the siltstone walls, the constant deathrattle of his breath wheezing for a second. He reached up with a mangled hand, ripping the mask that was one of his constants off and turning to place parched lips to a trickle of water flowing down the wall. The first mouthful was sweet, full of life, but the second bitter as spoiled milk. He spat it out and cursed, angels and demons and Council alike.

'I will not give them satisfaction.' His blood made his fingers slick as he held the last, precious item he'd taken with him as he began again his weary trudge. 'By our visions, Creator, so do I swear, so mote it BE!'

The youth snapped upright, choking back the rage worn and filled howl on his lips with all of his might. He bit his lips until blood flowed almost soothing in its heavy copper taste into his mouth, waiting to see if he'd woken his relatives. No heavy tread broke the silence, no shrilling voice accusing him of trying to ruin their sleep accompanied by pounding upon his door indicated his success in keeping quiet. Harry Potter drew in a breath and let it out in a sigh. He was no stranger to nightmares, but this… this was no familiar spectre that had haunted him. His fists clenched, and in the left one, something cut into his palm, feeling razored and chill and leaden. Harry frowned, opening his hand. In it nestled a seed, almost like a plum's in shape, but dark black fading to deep red to pure glinting silver at the edges. It weighed far more then it looked like it did, heavy with secrets and possibilities. Harry didn't even stop to think, to remember that he was still in pajamas and that the clock read three fifteen in the morning. He grabbed his shoes, and the muggle cash Ron had sent him as a joke for his birthday, and walked out of his room, down the hall, and out the front door. There had to be an all night store somewhere nearby.

()

The clerk had been disinterested in him, even if he was wearing his nightclothes and buying a pot and potting soil. Harry had a feeling that the only way the man would have noticed him was if he'd come in starkers and tried to buy beer. And now here he was, sitting in the park, picking out rocks of a suitable size to put in the bottom of the pot, half filling it with dirt, and placing the seed on top with exquisite care. He frowned down at it, wondering what kind of tree would grow from such a seed. It didn't look like a normal tree seed, but it didn't look like anything from Herbology class either.

"Ah well, guess I'll find out when it grows." Harry dumped more soil on top of it, then picked up the pot and began walking back to the Dursley's. The dream was fading in his mind, but he found himself checking above, behind, and around him for unknown pursuit. Sudden noises caused him to clutch the pot, ears straining and heart pounding (and why did the heavy rapid beat feel so wrong, like it was never meant to be, shouldn't be, oh Creator was he going insane?), until he identified it as a dog or a cat or a raccoon and once a rabbit. Harry got to the Dursley's, and fled to his room with as much silence as he could muster, pushing the pot into a corner that wouldn't be visible to Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon or Creator forbid Dudley. He knew they'd destroy it and the seed, and the sensation he got when he thought of the seed cracked and mashed by a hammer made him want to vomit and scrub his skin with shards of glass until blood washed away the sick feeling.

Harry glanced out the window as he headed back towards his bed and froze. There was someone standing in the middle of Privet Drive, looking up at his window. The face was androgynous, with long hair that was almost white, but with a queer green tinge to it (pale, his mind supplied from somewhere. The color's called pale, they sometimes have horses with that kind of coat coloring, they look like they're four days dead and starting to rot.), the skin had an almost blue undertint to it, and the eyes were completely black, iris and sclera both the shade of pitch. The frame was lanky, the white clothing baggy and belted just right so that he couldn't tell it there were breasts or not. And it had wings, long trailing wings that started pure white and then moved through shades of gray so that the final pinions were black, etched with glowing gold symbols that Harry could almost read. The blue-black lips split into a grin that bared sharklike teeth as it spoke, its voice reverberating in Harry's head.

'Come, Oh greatest of the Four Beasts. Come and See.'

And as if the voice was a trigger to blank out everything else it was morning, and Harry was standing in the center of his room, naked from the waist up, worn black jeans on and barefoot. There was mud on his chest, and his lungs burned like he'd been running full steam ahead on a cold winter's morning, never mind that it was the end of summer and hotter than Lucifer's supposed dwelling place. Harry shook his head, trying to recall anything, and then noticed the glass of water in his hand. With a shrug, he found and old toy basin to put the flowerpot in and dumped the water into it, before grabbing his ratty towel and a change of clothes as he headed across the hall towards the bathroom. Harry showered, trying to ignore the sore muscles and the blisters on his hands (they looked familiar somehow, almost like something off of a farmer's hands during harvest on those old fashioned farms that they'd gone on a field trip to back before he went to Hogwarts.), then dressed and went downstairs to start weeding the garden. Aunt Petunia would assign the task to him anyway, Harry figured he might as well do it before the sun rose high and baked both the ground and him. While he worked, he listened to the noise around him, startled at what he heard being bandied about.

"George Winklemeier…"

"Dirty bastard, going pious as you please to church on Sunday morning after seducing younger teens Saturday night…"

"How could something this bizarre happen here?"

"Coppers said it looked like someone split him crotch to chest…"

"Said it looked like someone tried to rend him in two but didn't have the right angle…" Harry stared down at the sunny dandelion, his mind whirling. George Winklemeier was a sick man, liked teens thirteen to fifteen, didn't give a fig about their sex. He was smart about it though, and suited up, had the money for good lawyers (The increasingly active and sardonic part of his mind snorted and said there was no such thing as a 'good' lawyer, they were all the spawn of the devil's.) so that he got off with fines for public indecency instead of taking a trip to the gaol for statutory rape. From the sounds of it, someone had done the lecherous slime in, and Harry couldn't find it in himself to be sorry about it. He started to reach for the dandelion to pull it up…

The man's breath is foul, vodka and turning milk and the sickness of a not in its right mind predatory beast tainting the air. The grinning face is too close to his own as the hand clasps onto his arm, the ill washed man thrusting his hips forward in a promiscuous manner. He looks up and feels a wave of cold pleasure as the face pales, and the hand lets go as its owner overbalances and falls to the ground. He laughs, soft and chill as the man babbles.

"Wha- What are yeh?" As the weapon forms in his hands, he decides that he's not going to answer. The answer is obvious enough, even for this evolved monkey.

"Boy! Boy! You'd better not be crushing my flowers!" For the first time in his life, Harry was grateful for Aunt Petunia and her nails on chalkboard voice. He finished reaching down, grabbed the dandelion and pulled it up, before standing up to head in and start breakfast. Harry didn't look back, or he would have seen his shadow, the proportions twisted from slim teen to hulking and inhuman sized man, fall across Aunt Petunia's prized rose bush, the plant curling in on itself and dying, not even putting up a fight against what happened to it. As he made breakfast for everyone, he also failed to notice the milk curdling in it's plastic container as he put it back in the fridge, or the fact that three of the eggs as he put the container back cracked and leaked foul green and black slime.

The human mind was good at ignoring things it didn't want to See, and Harry was by no means ready to accept that something stranger than regular magic was occurring around him.

()

Harry sat on the swing in the park, just gazing at the ground. His head had acquired a dull throb throughout the day as he kept hearing more and more details about Winklemeier's death. He was beginning to wish he could just cast some nasty charm or curse that would make a person's mouth disappear if he heard one more cheerful and morbid comment. He kicked the ground, listening to the swing creak, and scowled.

'Can't learn to do that, don't dare learn to do that. It's Dark Magic, wrong and evil and good little Saviors of the Light don't use it.' Harry pushed out of the swing and went and laid down on the bottom of the slide, relishing the heat that seeped into his clothes from the metal. He kept feeling colder and more detached as the day went on. It was almost like his mind was reordering itself, thoughts that he'd never been allowed to think surfacing and meeting with his approval. Harry traced the path of a cloud in the sky, letting his thoughts trail along.

'The Light side's a bunch of blind, self-righteous idiots and hypocrites. This spell is banned and evil because it does this, that spell isn't because no one would think of evil uses for it. The entrail expelling curse is Dark, but Wingardium Leviosa isn't? Oh, what I could do with some razor sharp glass and that spell. Or knives or even better yet razor blades. Actually, given how hard it is to enchant cold iron, better to stick with the glass. Though it seems that the wizarding world is losing the ability to do so. All of those armor suits are ancient, and transfigured iron isn't really iron. The closest I've seen to anything worked on cold iron is the Hogwarts Express and Arthur's Ford Angelica, and I bet he couldn't replicate what he did to that thing…' Harry's view of the cloud was obstructed about then by Dudley's big, piggy head. Harry had to suppress the urge to stick his fingers through Dudder's eyesockets as the piglet leered down at him.

"Whatcha doin', Freak? Missing your little butt buddies?" Harry gave Dudley the American one fingered salute and sat up.

"No, Porky, I'm thinking on morals and ethics. You know, the things you don't bother to learn? Well, at least Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon practice what they preach, don't they? Anything different is bad, everyone else should be normal like them." Harry grinned as Dudley sputtered and turned and interesting shade of purple.

"But they're not normal, are they? A witch for a sister, a wizard for a nephew, what would the neighbors think?" Harry leaned in, and prodded Dudley with a finger.

"Ever wonder what position you'd be in if you'd shown magic, Dudders? Or dread the day you have to admit to doting grandma and grandpa that the apple of their aged eyes is going to have to go to the school for freaks?" Harry watched Dudley stagger back at that statement, feeling a chill tiredness envelope him.

"Sh-shut it! That's not gonna happen!" Harry leaned back against the slide again, suddenly feeling ancient beyond all recall.

"It's all too likely to happen, Dudley. Blood will tell in the end, and yours carries magic's strain too. You just… will not accept it." Harry closed his eyes as Dudley staggered off, his mind mulling over things.

'I am all of my name, from the purest parts that tread the White City to the darkest parts that skitter through the Dark Depths. My name defines me, consumes me, gives me dominion over my purpose.' His eyes opened to stare as if blind up into the sky, the vibrant green consumed for just a few seconds by a sullen and sickly white.

'So why, oh why can I not recall it?'

'Fin chap one'

…I think I'm having way too much fun with this already.