Yello! It's raining outside, I'm home from school with a fever and cough and am on enough cold/flu medicine to knock over a horse. What better time to try to write a story, yeah? If this chapter makes zero sense, blame the medicine, not me. AN2: Once again it is raining. Seems that that's the best time for me to write. Hmm. Anyway, the usual. I do not own Harry Potter, .

"Love is how you earn your wings."

- Karen Goldman

-o-

In older times, long since passed, Magic was far more active than she is today. In times of great distress and trouble, Magic would choose champions, brave and of noble heart, and would gift them with abilities far above and beyond those of other people. They could manipulate fire, water, earth, and air, move things without touching them, and were often gifted with extraordinary beauty and strength. They called themselves Magic's Children, and as they married and lived and had children of their own, their abilities were passed on. Communities were built, comprised solely of these few blessed people, and the others looked up to them as gods. From Magic stepped many of the families that we know of today, with names you might recognize. Black, Malfoy, Peverell, Weasley... and Potter.

To be a pureblood was far more than merely having many Magical people in your family, but was to be related to Magic herself, however far back. In a society so dominated by bloodlines, where family feuds carried out for centuries, having Magical ancestors was very important indeed.

But over time, as their abilities become more common and less powerful, they slowly turned into the Witches and Wizards we know of today. Some turned wicked, abusing the gifts they had been given, and used them to destroy rather than help. The other's abilities had grown too weak to combat these wicked ones, and were content to let them have their way, as long as they were not harmed.

And so, on the day our story starts, Magic was looking for a new champion.

-o-

A beautiful woman stood over the cradle of a young toddler. His mother and father were in the other room, taking a rest as their child slept safely above. They were confidant that nothing could harm their child, they were hidden and safe, and no one knew where they were except their most trusted. The child, the son and heir of one of the families descended from her, rustled the blankets in his sleep, uncomfortable in the late October draft that made it's way through the window. She blinked softly and brushed the child's cheek, smoothing back his dark hair as she did so. A wave of warmth washed over him, negating the cold air that blew around his face. Her hand stilled, resting on his head. Far away, she could sense another heir coming to the house, one filled with malevolent intent, his purpose to harm her chosen.

Her expression flickered, showing a moments indecision, before brushing her thumb over the babe's forehead, leaving the skin glowing softly golden behind her. It would fade in a few minutes, but he was now marked as Magic's Child, her property, her son, and her champion. The woman stepped back, her business done, and vanished into thin air without a sound. The mother and father opened the door a few minutes later and took their child into the first room, where the father blew smoke bubbles for his son's enjoyment. They couldn't see the mark on their child's forehead, indeed no one could see it, but it was there, softly glowing in the shape of a lightning bolt scar.

His glasses had cracked again. It was his own fault, really. He knew he should have been more careful trying to get the biscuits from the top shelf, but he couldn't find the stool, and if he stretched, he could just about reach the bottom of the jar. So he had jumped, his hands flying up to grab the jar. His left one had caught his glasses and flung them to the linoleum tiles, and he could hear the glass cracking. The biscuit jar had halfway come off the shelf, and only his outstretched hand kept it from toppling over. He couldn't see clearly without his glasses, definitely not clearly enough to make another jump for the ceramic jar. Worse still, he knew that he couldn't call for help. He wasn't allowed to have biscuits, and if Aunt Petunia saw him, he would be locked in the cupboard again. Without his glasses, cracked as they were.

But it was his seventh birthday today. Surely he could have one biscuit! Somehow, his Aunt and Uncle had forgotten what today was, so he had decided that he was entitled to this. Just as he was gearing himself up to make another jump, this one blind, the jar fell. He let out a small cry and flinched, waiting for the crash of ceramic on tiles, but... nothing happened?

He opened one eye a sliver, and was shocked to see a woman holding the biscuit jar in her outstretched hands. She was wearing a strange purple dress, and was so beautiful he felt frightened, but she smiled kindly and opened the jar for him. Not breaking eye contact and acting as he would if faced with a wild beast, he edged forward and snatched a biscuit. She handed him his glasses, but... he hadn't seen her pick them up. And what was more, they were now whole! Not a crack was in sight, and all the bumps and dents in the frames had been smoothed out. He put them on and was amazed to find that he could see clearer than he had in years.

Abruptly remembering his manners, he turned to the lady to say thank you, but she was gone. The jar was back on the shelf, and the only evidence of her ever being there were his brand new glasses and the crumbling biscuit he held in his hand.

After that he saw her often. She would appear from thin air whenever he was hurt or in trouble, heal his bruises and cut knees with a mere touch, and produce little things that dried up his tears. She never spoke to him, and eventually he decided that she couldn't. But she was his guardian angel, and he eventually began to regard her as a friend, despite the lack of communication. The last time he saw her was a few days before the letter came, she just looked at him and winked knowingly, before vanishing into the air again. Almost five years passed before he saw her again.

-o-

It started with a dark, wet dot on the street in front of him. It was quickly joined by three more, then another two, then another four, until the entire road was dark. Then it really began to rain.

Harry's trainers flapped against the asphalt, flicking water off with each step as he ran to get under the bus stop shelter. Rain ran in rivulets through his hair, sliding down his face and dripping off his nose. His glasses steamed with his breath and he shivered in the suddenly cool air.

He sat on the bench and shook his head like a dog, drenching the sides of the shelter. Scooping water from his ears with his pinky, Harry looked out at the rain. Everything was grey and smooth. There were no sharp corners or lines now, everything was blurred from the water in the air.

A trash can toppled over across the street, followed by a yowl as a small ginger cat sped towards the shelter. It stopped, seated in a dry spot with hackles raised at the rain, and gave him an insolent glare, as if daring him to laugh at it's misfortune. It raised a dainty paw and started to clean itself, trying to get dry and warm. Harry looked at it before bending over and holding out a hand.

"Hello, I'm sure that you want to be dry. Will you allow me to help you?"

The cat stared cooly at him before cocking it's head, as if considering his offer. It stood and stretched, before suddenly leaping onto his lap. Harry ran his fingers through it's thick coat, taking comfort from the small body pressed against him. A car rumbled a few blocks away, carrying through the patter of rain on the road. He flicked water off his fingers and ran through it's fur again. There was a rhythm to it. Pet. Flick. Pet. Flick. Pick out leaves. Pet. His hands busy, his mind numb, Harry succumbed to the rain.

It had been like this at Grimmauld place. That part of the country was nearly always wet, it was the only thing Sirius had liked about the place. "There's no sky in Azkaban," he had said, his head pressed against a window, watching the outside world. "Rain lets me remember that the world exists."

But Harry tried not to think about his godfather, who had died less than a month ago, falling through a veil in the department of mysteries. He tried not to think of anything much. Harry filled his days with wandering numbly through the streets and staring at his ceiling. It was like all of his emotions were a dial that had been turned down so far it was almost mute. Almost nothing could get through. Deep down, he knew that Sirius would have been mad at him for acting like this, but he wasn't grieving for only his godfather. He was also grieving for Cedric, his mum and dad, and himself. His days were now filled with Might have been's and What if's, painting possibilities in his mind. He was little more than a robot in his own fantasy world now, mechanical, and apt to break at any moment.

But, slowly, the golden fur beneath his hands became dryer and lighter, the cat's skin became warmer and it purred, happy in Harry's warmth. It sank needle-like claws into his legs and stretched, before leaping out of his hands and into the seat next to him. Harry looked at it, disappointed that the warmth was gone, but let it be.

The cat cocked a pointed ear and looked out into the rain, and it was only seconds later that Harry heard the car too. The cat stood and stretched again, yawning, before hopping back out into the rain. It stood in the middle of the street and gazed amber eyes at him, flicking water off it's newly wet ears. Great. How like a cat, to be wet, then get him wet as he made it dry, and then create more work for him. It was almost exactly like the Dursleys, except politer about it.

Harry made no move to rescue it from the rain. As far as he saw, if it wanted to get wet, that was fine by him.

The cat's ear twitched again, swiveling up the street. Harry saw headlights round the corner and head towards hem, but the cat didn't move. Harry stood up, looking between the car and the cat. The cat looked at him, and then back at the car. It was getting closer and not showing any signs of stopping anytime soon, and the cat was just sitting there, like it wanted to be hit. Harry yelled out,

"Hey! Stop! Go, you stupid cat!"

But it didn't move. Bizarrely, Harry supposed it was like some kind of horrific test. Could he save the cat? In that moment it became more than a cat, it became Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, his parents, Cedric, Sirius, everyone he didn't or couldn't save. It became everyone he felt guilty or responsible for, and everyone he was worried about losing. With a yell, Harry dove. Squealing wheels. Impact. A hissing shriek. Pain. Tires spinning as fast as they could. Blackness.

And Harry knew no more.

-o-

The absence of pain was what Harry first noticed. He'd just been hit by a car, hadn't he? So why didn't he feel like he got, well, run over by a car? Harry tentatively reached down to the hard surface he was lying on and his fingers scraped wet concrete, grit sticking to his skin. Harry grimaced, he knew from experience that if he couldn't feel an injury, it was probably bad. That time when Lockhart had removed all the bones in his arm, it was like the nerves had gone too, Harry couldn't feel anything for hours. He had kept knocking things over when he tried to reach for them until Madam Pomfrey forced him back into bed.

A small cough drew him out of his memories and he rolled his eyes upwards, not trusting himself to move his head quite yet, with his luck he had probably split his skull open. He saw a hazy outline of dark hair and a purple dress and he smiled confusedly, accepting her presence without question. He was injured in the Muggle world, and she came. It was as simple as that.

"You came back!"

No matter that he was lying on the ground, probably with horrific injuries to his spine, arms, legs, etc., she was back!

"I missed you you know. I could have used your help so many times, and you were gone." His voice became faintly accusing. "With the Stone, with the basilisk, Cedric, the Cup, when I thought Sirius was out to get me... Sirius. He's dead now, and its my fault. It's all my fault. My fault."

Harry started tearing up, the combination of memories, old friends, and being hit by a moving car was making him emotional. She made a soft sound of distress above his head and he felt a small, cool hand on his brow.

"It's all my fault, I know it.. I went after him... then he went... after me... it's all... my..." Harry fell silent, his head cradled in the lap of a woman wearing purple, in a dirty, wet street in Little Whinging, while the stars blazed through the clouds over head.

Far away, in a cluttered office in an old castle, a silver gadget went off.

-o-

Harry woke to the sound of someone humming an almost tuneless song beside him and tapping on the ground. He didn't open his eyelids as they felt like they had been turned to stone, weighing down on his face and leaving pebbles in his tear ducts, but managed to turn his head to the sound. A hand reached out to him and the humming stopped abruptly, leaving an emptiness behind that was almost frightening.

He was almost certain he was dead. There was no way he should be this warm and dry and safe after what had happened. Harry felt a small pang inside him at the thought of Ron and Hermione and how sad they would be when they learned he had gone on to the "next great adventure", but it was almost immediately extinguished by the thought that he would get to see Sirius and his parents again. The thought gave him the courage to open his eyes, although he almost immediately closed them against the overwhelming whiteness of the wall (ceiling?) he was looking at, and couldn't stop a small groan from escaping his lips.

Harry froze as someone nearby gave a melodious chuckle and opened his eyes a slit, only to find his vision obscured by a mass of purple gauze floating in front of him. He looked up and saw a small girl, her head enveloped in black curls and wearing the overlarge gauzy sundress that had filled his vision. She chewed on her lip as she looked at him, as if debating something, before nodding and kneeling beside him.

"You have ten minutes, okay?" It was not phrased as a question and Harry shivered at her voice, so young, but with an adults experience and inflections. The girl stood up and faded away, until it was like she had never existed, leaving blank space behind her. Suddenly a strong, warm hand was at his shoulder, helping him to sit up. Something was handed to him and Harry grabbed it, feeling the frame and lenses of his glasses. He put them on and looked up, inhaling sharply at the sight of his Godfather crouching next to him.

"Hey, kiddo."

"Sirius!" Harry launched himself into his godfather's arms, almost believing that he would go right through the man, but was met with a solid body. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to... I thought you were trapped, and... I'm so sorry, please forgive me... I killed you... I...I..."

"Hey, it's okay, kiddo. I don't blame you. Didn't you think that that was the way I would've wanted to go?" Harry moved to say something, but was interrupted.

"I mean, I'd have much rather stayed with you and Moony, obviously, but it's not so bad here. Really, Harry, you almost did me a favor. I have Prongs and Lily, I can go wherever I want, everyone knows I was innocent, and I have my entire family to annoy! My only regret is leaving you and Moony. Now, I only have ten minutes, so I'll be quick. I do not blame you. Never have, never will. And you need to stop blaming yourself too."

"But it is my fault, I led you there, you came for me!"

"And you came for me! Listen to me, honestly Harry, if you hadn't gone to the Ministry that night, I would have snuck out on the next raid, just for something to do, even more so because I would have felt guilty that you were in danger and I couldn't do anything. I understand that it'll take a bit for you to get over me, I'd be insulted if you didn't, but you can't keep doing what you've been doing. No more moping, can you promise me that?"

Harry nodded numbly, his Godfather had just said exactly what he'd wanted to hear but knew he never would, he had been forgiven.

"No Harry, I need you to say it. 'No more blaming myself for things I can't control', can you do that?"

Harry repeated the words almost inaudibly, but the line rang out between them. Harry felt something breaking inside him, some thin sheet of ice that had been covering the truth. It hadn't been his fault at all. He had tried to do what was best and he had checked for Sirius first. He had warned Snape and tried to keep his friends safe, and it wasn't his fault that people had gotten hurt. He couldn't have known about the Death Eaters, or Bellatrix, or Voldemort. He couldn't have known that Sirius was going to come running to the rescue and fall through the veil. it wasn't his fault.

Harry smiled up at Sirius, his first real smile since the Battle at the Ministry a month ago, and went forward for another hug.

"Your mum and dad are nearby, they can see us, but we can't see them, if you have anything to say, you should do it."

Sirius stepped back, giving Harry some space to wipe his eyes.

"Er, hi." Harry could almost feel the silent chuckles in the air around him and the tearful smile his mother was giving him. "I miss you a lot, and... I hope I've made you proud of me. Thanks for, you know, what you guys did for me. I love you guys. I'm sorry you had to die."

"Harry, we have to go now, our time is up." Sirius' voice became urgent, as if he were trying to finish his sentences, and as Harry turned to him he saw why. Sirius was vaguely transparent, fading like the girl had done earlier, only much quicker. "We love you and hope it will be a long, long time before we see you again. Live your life, Harry, and whatever the woman in purple says, accept it."

"Why? Why is she so important? I've been seeing her all the time, she was just with me when I got hit by that car. Wait, where are you going? Am I dead? Sirius! Sirius!" Sirius opened his mouth as if to reply, but vanished completely before anything could be said. Harry was left staring at the spot where his Godfather had been, feeling an acute sense of loss, as if Sirius had died all over again.

A small cough made him whirl around, only to be faced with the little girl again. She looked up at him and frowned, before closing her eyes, and... growing. That was the only word to describe it. She became taller and her face and body matured, filling out the loose sundress around her. She opened her eyes again and smiled upon seeing that she was now the exact height as Harry: petite, even for a woman.

She shook her black curls and looked at him, long enough and hard enough to make Harry extremely uncomfortable, although he did vaguely note that her eyes were an interesting shade of silver, eerily reminiscent of Ollivander's eyes. She gave off the same sense as the wandmaker too, like she wasn't entirely of this world, and was in fact, something so other, that there was no hope of understanding her mysteries. She nodded sharply and motioned for Harry to come closer. Unwillingly he did and she began to speak in his ear, her voice soft, but powerful.

"I am Magic. You are my Chosen." Even Harry's scrambled and overstressed brain could hear the capital letters in those two words. "Will you become Magic's Childe?" Sirius' words ran through Harry's mind, but he refrained from agreeing to something he knew nothing about.

"What does that mean?"

She laughed, as if she was glad that he was questioning, and rested her chin on his shoulder. "The powers manifest in strange ways, but you will have them. The powers even you do not know." The powers the Dark Lord knows not... was this what the Prophecy was talking about? He jumped slightly as her hand found it's way to his hair and began to card through it, bringing her face closer to his. Her strange silver eyes transfixed him, snaring him the way a snake does a bird. "Will you become Magic's Childe?"

"Yes." Harry didn't know what he was saying, he was just agreeing with whatever she asked. Her hand left his hair and found his fingers, pressing something into his hand before stepping back. He looked down and saw a plain wooden ring, disproportionately heavy for It's size, resting in the palm of his hand.

"Let it be done."

He looked up in time to see her zoom into the distance, as if he was flying backwards, but he was flying backwards, without a broom. Instead of panicking, Harry felt his eyelids droop and an overwhelming urge to sleep overtook him. He fought against it, he knew he should be panicking. He had made an unknown deal with an unknown entity with a promise of power, with only the words "Magic's Childe" to go on, he should be terrified, but he was just... so... tired... Harry vanished into thin air.

Harry opened his eyes again, he was getting really tired if waking up on the floor. Plus, he was being rained on. He pushed himself to his feet, fingers curled around the wooden ring, his only proof that it hadn't been a dream, that he had actually left Little Whinging and met Sirius. Thinking about his Godfather still brought pain, it always would, but it no longer carried the avalanche of guilt that had always buried him before.

Harry tried to take a step but stumbled, his balance was off. For some reason, it felt like he was carrying a huge backpack on his back, one that was heavy and full of bricks. His legs seemed longer too. Harry slipped the wooden ring in his pocket and reached back to check what was clinging to him. His hands caught a bundle of wet feathers. They were long and glossy black, with golden tips, and seemed to be... attached to him. He pulled on them and frowned as he felt a pain where they seemed to be rooted. He skated his hands up and over, to where he could feel bone and muscle, then followed that to the base, where it melded into... him. He flexed his shoulders and ducked reflexively as large wings beat the air above him. Harry's eyes grew wide. She had said that it would manifest in strange ways, but he had never thought she meant this!

It would appear that he, Harry Potter, had wings.