Title: On the Wings of Redemption

By: Aina Song

Fandom(s): Harry Potter/ Yu Yu Hakusho

Genre: Yaoi

Rating: NC-17

Warning(s): Some Het; Language; OOC; Depression; Attempted Suicide; Vampiric Action.

Pairing(s): Yeah, like that's not obvious.

Reviews: Yes, please! For the love of God, someone give me a cookie!

Author's Note: Standard Disclaimer. This story was not written for money. Compliant with the book series. Guest-starring a character from Twilight.

Another Note: This story, unbelievably, took me little over two years to complete! *whew* It has, by far, become the longest project in my arsenal. Writer's block was a constant dark cloud over my head, and many chapters had to be re-written. But I feel very proud of myself for having stuck through it, and I eagerly await the response of my readers. Enjoy!

Teaser: Leave the past where it belongs. Let its hurts wash over you, accept them, but then let them go. Do not turn back. Keep moving forward. Time heals all.

Chapter One - Master Harry

A marble pillar was knocked to the once immaculate marble floor, sending a very expensive vase crashing down with it. He scrambled, hurriedly straightening to his feet, the voices of his mother and father commanding him to run. An unfamiliar jinx was uttered, and he cried out in pain as a band of iron locked itself around his wrist, but he kept running. His feet skidded as he rounded a corner and raced up the staircase toward the second floor, hearing his pursuers shout and double back when they realized he had not simply fled through the front door.

Seconds, he had only seconds to his advantage, and he knew they would not be his for long. He tore down the second-floor corridor, desperate to reach his room, for the very first time cursing that it was at the far end of the manor. He had only a small stretch to go, when he heard their voices shouting behind him. Never pausing to question himself, he threw himself to the floor as he had once seen done in a Muggle photograph of some sport with runners and chasers, using the force of his momentum to slide along the last stretch of floor and kick open his door. Quickly rolling to his hands and knees, he found himself scrambling to his feet once more. His wrist throbbed painfully under the band of iron but he ignored it, his racing mind suddenly a blank as he looked about his room.

There! His wand and broomstick, conveniently placed in the same corner as his window. Yet he had not taken two steps, before his ears rang with the echo of a most-dreaded curse, and a flash of green filled his eyes even as he arched his back with a choked cry. All feeling left him save for one, that searing burn around his jinxed wrist, which inexplicably became as fire even as the rest of his world blurred and faded from reality.

For a split second, he worried that the nearest corner of his desk was rushing up to meet him, but his world swiftly grew dark before he'd even the chance to fall.

He did not hear his window as it was shattered, did not feel the cool shadow that played across his face and down along the length of his body, as though touched by the earliest autumn breeze. Nor did he see the terror which filled his pursuers' faces, mere seconds before the life fled from their eyes forever…

~o~

Harry Potter was not like most young men. Summer was his least favorite time of the year, though it had certainly become more pleasant now that he was no longer required to return to his family. He couldn't care less that his birthday was tomorrow, as he had very rarely been permitted to acknowledge it, let alone celebrate it. He had many admirers but would trade anything to be rid of them forever, which only made him appreciate his ragtag handful of true friends all the more.

He knew the price of loyalty, the scars of betrayal, and the definition of sacrifice. He had witnessed the deaths of so very many. A deep-rooted seed of guilt twisted in his gut that the majority of those deaths had been due to the widely popular effort to defend him and what it had been believed he stood for. Most would argue that he had made it up to them in the end, but his heart remained heavy with the loss.

And, at nearly eighteen years old, he was one of only a few dozen preparing to repeat his seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"Kreacher," he wondered distractedly, and then called more firmly, "Kreacher!"

There was a loud and resounding crack as the house elf appeared. "Yes, Master Harry," bowed Kreacher, a large golden locket swinging from his neck and occasionally thumping against the dusty white pillowcase that had been torn in some areas to allow for wearing. The house elf had a snout for a nose, giant bat's ears, and enormous pale eyes that were no longer bloodshot or full of hatred for his newest employer.

Harry noticed a blob of black paint atop the house elf's head, and he could not help an absent grin. He and Kreacher had been spending the summer season renovating the Black family home, the house his godfather had left him two years before in his will. The house, and its resident elf, were gifts Harry had never wanted yet reluctantly accepted, for they were some of the very few things left that reminded of the adventurous Sirius Black.

"Have you seen my wand?" Harry asked of Kreacher. "I thought I'd just set it down, but…"

"You did, Master Harry," the house elf nodded as he straightened. "In the spare room next to this one. Master set it down to help Kreacher move a bureau against the wall."

"Oh, right." He left but quickly returned, wand in hand. He flicked his wrist thrice, and the three broken windows of the room instantly repaired themselves at his silent command. "There," he proclaimed, tucking his wand into his holster hidden within his sleeve, a lighter modification of the more popular sheaths his kind was fond of wearing. Clapping the dust from his hands, he turned to his house elf. "I say we deserve a break. Haven't we been at this since morning?"

"Yes, sir," Kreacher agreed with another great bobbing of his head.

Harry gave in to a brief chuckle. He and this particular house elf had once shared a very rocky beginning, laced with a mutual loathing. But last year, they had finally stumbled onto some common ground - thanks almost entirely to Harry's desperation and to Kreacher's secret but palpable need for recognition. And so, after defeating the Dark Lord had left and ancient and well-known castle in need of much repair, thereby cancelling the rest of that school year, Harry had found no reason not to return here, to number twelve Grimmauld Place.

Harry had idled for several weeks, unable to decide what his next move should be, now that his life was no longer under constant threat. He ate Kreacher's cooking and even accepted the elf's offers of assistance whenever Harry had found something to tinker with. Slowly, they recaptured that frail companionship of master and elf that had months before begun to forge itself between them. Harry began asking Kreacher's help more willingly, and he remembered to thank the house elf even if something he had requested could not be done. Now Kreacher often reminded Harry of another house elf, one he had been quite fond of and still missed terribly. And, to Kreacher, Harry was almost as revered a master as had been his beloved Master Regulus, the younger brother of Sirius Black.

And then had come the letter:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall

(Order of Merlin, Second Class)

Dear Mr. Potter,

Due to the untimely, but no less meaningful, interruption of the previous school year, it has been decided that every student be given the opportunity to make up for the studies they have not yet completed. This is mandatory for every student but last term's seventh years.

As they are already of Wizarding age and may therefore cast themselves off into the world if they so wish, this offer for last term's seventh years remains only thus: An offer. They may move on, or they may join the seventh years of the new semester to complete their remaining studies.

For those students wishing to take advantage of this opportunity, but perhaps have misplaced their necessary books and/or supplies, please refer to the enclosed list.

As always, term begins September 1st. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock. For returning seventh years, we await your confirmation by owl, no later than July 31st.

Yours sincerely,

Pomona Sprout

Deputy Headmistress

The letter had meant many things for Harry at once, but most of all it stirred within him a sense of purpose again. Something he could do, something to look forward to. Following his new light mood, Harry had suggested to Kreacher that perhaps it was time to make House Black look more like the home it ought to be. The house elf had readily agreed, and so together they had set to work.

Manual labor seemed to work wonders for Harry. With every chore, the weight of loss seemed to slowly lift away from his shoulders. It had been an entire month since he had received the letter, the house's renovation had nearly been completed… His nights were still haunted by the endless sorrow that twisted within his heart, but at times Harry could almost believe that the horrors of his past had been lived by somebody else.

Harry turned now to Kreacher, his only constant companion since the defeat of the Dark Lord - due entirely to his explicit wish to his friends that he be allowed some time to clear his head and set things straight with himself. Kreacher had had to overcome some personal hurdles, himself, at first. Like so many house elves, the urge to punish himself for any mistakes had been paramount. It was only with steady diligence (and much trial and error) that Kreacher had slowly begun to develop a resistance against those urges. And such efforts often deserved acknowledgement.

"I have an idea," Harry announced, suddenly inspired. "Let's get out of here."

The house elf looked up with large, curious eyes. "Out, sir?"

"Well," he shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't see how two or three hours would set us back too much. I'm sure we'll still get done in no time. I just think we might enjoy a bit of fresh air, and I've got my school preparations to make anyway, so…"

It seemed to take a moment for the house elf to decipher what he was hinting at. But then those impossibly large eyes grew even rounder with hopeful disbelief. "Master Harry… is asking Kreacher to join him… o-on his trip to Diagon Alley?"

Harry dropped his hand with an easy smile, wondering yet again if Dobby had not been any relation to this elf. Kreacher certainly seemed to be revealing more and more Dobby-like qualities of late. "If you don't want to, you know I won't force you. This isn't an order; it's an invitation. What do you say?"

Kreacher sputtered for a second, but then exploded forth. "If Master Harry wishes it of Kreacher, of course he will accept! He will be on his very best behavior, Kreacher swears it!"

"There's a load off my mind," Harry kidded. "Now, come on. I think I'll need a damn good shower to get this grime off me before we go - and much as I'm enjoying that spot of paint on your head, you could probably do without."

The house elf let out a surprised yelp, smacking both hands to his head before disappearing with another loud crack. Harry laughed, stepping into the hall and strolling toward the stairs at a more sedate pace. Barely a shadow of the sorrow that still haunted him could break through the barrier of his current bright mood.

Today was a good day.

~o~

Slowly, the numbness drained from his arms and limbs before finally fleeing his torso. It lingered some in his head, particularly above his right ear, and he fleetingly wondered what he would find in the afterlife if he opened his eyes.

Yet he knew no fear. Instead, he felt a wave of calm wash over him, and he parted his lips to breathe it in. Strange, that his lungs expanded with that familiar sense of relief, as though the very air was still vital. Numbly curious, he held his breath, testing - and knew a brief moment of mild surprise when his lungs demanded the repetition of release and filling relief. And then the burning sensation around his wrist reintroduced itself, finally alarming him enough to open his eyes at last.

He stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling - old and wooden, support beams visible. The surface upon which he lay was soft and giving, and though it was not very comfortable he knew it to be a bed… or, at the very least, a mattress covered with sheets. His head rested atop a single pillow, the area above his right ear now beginning to tingle with the merest whisper of pain.

But… pain? Wasn't he dead? Lying as still as he was, he could not find his heartbeat, belatedly realizing it had not made itself known since he'd woke. He must be dead, mustn't he? But then, why did his lungs still thrive with every breath? Why did his skull hum as though he had been struck; why did his wrist feel as though it had been roped with fire?

Was he, then… alive?

Another breath of calm washed over him, cool and inviting, and a very cold touch engulfed his left wrist, chasing back the fire. Carefully tilting his head down, he found two slim hands, pale as alabaster, gently cupping the whole of his wrist, which seemed to have been wrapped in bandages. Letting his gaze follow those hands up their arms toward their owner, he inevitably found himself staring into eyes of piercing golden ochre.

~o~

Harry smiled down at the house elf hobbling excitingly along at his side. It was painfully obvious that Kreacher had never been asked to accompany any of his previous masters to Diagon Alley as anything more than their servant. Kreacher's large pale eyes absorbed everything within sight, with all the eagerness of a child on a quest to decide his favorite sweet.

They had stopped by several shops. And, despite that Kreacher looked as though he might have been more than content just to wait on the street and observe through the windows, Harry surprised the house elf into delighted tears by inviting Kreacher to join him inside every single one. The aged house elf had kept to his oath about remaining on his best behavior, however, staring most interestedly at the shops' shelves but never once touching a single item without permission.

Harry had not wanted to be encumbered with too many parcels, and so he had taken advantage of a special service that would deliver to any destination he so desired. The few books and supplies he ordered he had sent directly to Hogwarts, to await him in his dorm room. But there were several tools and various items he had sent to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, to aid in the finishing reparations of House Black.

Kreacher had burst into tears and delighted wails when Harry bought the house elf a polishing kit for the locket he was never without. And now Kreacher was hugging the parcel to his chest like some fragile thing as he followed his young master into the Owl Post.

Harry had set this errand to the bottom of his list. Though he knew it was of the utmost importance to send a response to Hogwarts by tomorrow, some part of him was dreading it. Quickly scrawling his wishes to indeed become a returning seventh year, Harry rolled the parchment and tied it with twine. Now for the difficult part. He was to choose an owl to deliver his letter. And he had avoided needing an owl for anything since the death of his beloved snowy owl, Hedwig.

Harry's heart twinged as he turned to the wall of perches, upon every one of which waited a postal owl of different classes and speeds. He needed one of the swiftest, to ensure that his letter would be delivered by morning. Sighing heavily, he paced before the wall, scanning the plaques beneath the owls' perches for one that would meet his requirements. But then he paused before one near the corner, eyebrow quirking in curiosity. The plaque read, Falco Sparverius - it was a sparrow hawk.

Not an owl…

Harry studied the bird. Perhaps half the size of the average hawk, with short broad wings and a long tail. Its coloring was most unusual; golden brown feathers, tipped with black at the crown of his head and on the ends of its wings and tail. Strong beak and talons, also black. Small eyes the warm color of liquid amber whispering of a wisdom that seemed most unusual for a bird of its breed.

"I don't recommend that one," said a Post witch, coming over. "It is indeed several marks swifter than our fastest owl, but the fact is that the bird is far too proud. Snapped at every customer that's tried to get it to deliver for them. We're scheduling it for discharge by the end of the week."

"Discharge?" Harry repeated.

The witch sighed, shaking her head. "Euthanasia."

Sucking in a quick intake of breath, Harry turned again to the sparrow hawk. The bird twitched its head to the side, steadily returning his gaze with one of its gleaming amber eyes. Harry tried to think ahead to one week from now, and his heart murmured uncertainly at the mental picture of a perch without its golden-feathered owner. He carefully reached a hand toward the bird-

"I wouldn't," warned the Post witch.

-And the sparrow hawk crooned and nipped rather gently at his fingertips. Harry could not help a small smile. "I think he'll do just fine. Want to prove yourself to them, little merlin?"(1)

The bird sidled along its perch from one end to the other, and then stretched out its leg to receive Harry's letter. Ignoring the Post witch's astounded stammering, Harry tied his roll of parchment to the sparrow hawk's leg, and he watched as the bird soared in circles above his head and then flew off to make the delivery.

"I just don't understand it," the witch muttered after a long minute.

Chuckling under his breath, Harry paid her the five Knuts required and turned to his house elf, who had stood by in curious silence. "Come on, Kreacher. Let's go home."

"Yes, Master Harry."

1) "Little merlin" - Though Merlin is the name of a most popular Arthurian legend, it is also the name of a certain type of kestrel. Close cousins with the sparrow hawk.