A/N: Well, I warned people that things would take a turn for the blasphemous last chapter, but it seems a couple of people thought I didn't mean it. I'm sure I'll live without those follows/favourites, but please take heed of the warnings I put up in all capitals in chapter one. Really. Please. I'm writing potentially offensive material here — religion is a delicate subject and I am practically beating it with a sledgehammer here.

Four

St Jude's Care Home: Two weeks after taking residence

"Do you believe in magic, Harry?" asks Tom that night as they lay in their respective beds.

Harry stares up at the blankness of the ceiling. Things happen around him, he knows that. He can make animals do what he wants; he can escape tricky situations seemingly without any logical explanation; he can plant ideas in peoples' heads and have them go and follow through.

"Yes," he admits quietly.

"So do I," says Tom. "I have it, you know. So do you. And I don't mean any of that rubbish that the social workers tell us."

Harry understands what Tom means by that, with the social workers always being sure to tell them that they're all God's creations and that He made them special in their own unique ways. Harry has never really been sure how he feels about that spin on things. Magic, however — real, you-ca-touch-it, magic— Now that's something Harry can believe. The Dursleys has always been quick to stamp out anything to go with it, even when Dudley had mentioned the dreaded M-word. But how can it not be real for the Dursleys to hate it so much? No one hates anything made-up with the fervour with which the Dursleys hated magic.

"I think you might be right, Tom," Harry agrees. "So, we're definitely freaks then. But not the bad sort."

You can get good freaks. Like that nice girl down in the shopping centre in the music shop, the one with all the tattoos and piercings and her half-head of multicoloured hair and her tongue that's split into a fork. She always smiles and waves on the weekends when they go out shopping.

"We're not the bad ones. We're wizards," says Tom, his tone taking on a wistful edge. "Imagine it, Harry. Wizards and witches just like us. We'd all go to a school; a big, old school where we'll be taught spells and all kinds of things. An entire world of us, safe from muggles who'd treat us badly, and—"

"What's a muggle?" Harry asks, frowning.

Tom pauses for a second. "It's just a word I heard somewhere. It means 'normal' people, people who don't have magic. Boring people."

"Oh," Harry says, then silently mouths the word to himself. He doesn't really like it. It's a silly word, really. He then rolls onto his side, facing Tom's general direction in the dark. "You really think there're so many people like us?"

"Not like us. I still think we're special. But I know we aren't the only ones who can't do magic," Tom says with such utter surety that Harry can't help but believe him. "We'll be stronger. Better, because we already know all about it already. We'll be the best, brightest, strongest wizards the world has ever seen."

Harry smiles, and he thinks he sees Tom's face turn to him. An entire world like them… "Tell me more about the school. If it's a magic school, it should be in a magic place. Like a— Like on a mountain, or underwater, or— or in a castle."

"A castle. A big, beautiful castle," Tom agrees with a sigh.

If Harry closes his eyes, he can see it. Somewhere remote, and cold, with huge towers and turrets, and grand halls and courtyards; surrounded by mountains, maybe, and there's a lake nearby, and a forest.

Harry sees it, and he believes it.

—:—

Slowly, slowly, one spasmodic step at a time, like an old wind-up toy that hasn't been used in years, Death walks through the cracks of the Multiverse, searching, searching for the right one.

St Jude's Care Home: One day later

Raphael doesn't at all like this idea. St Jude's is more than a suitable place for Azrael to stay, so why he has to do this is completely beyond him.

"Harry's a very quiet boy, but seems happy enough. Really, it's a blessing, given what the poor boy went through…" Martha Heaton gives a sigh, shaking her head.

Raphael frowns. "What he went through?"

Mrs Heaton's eyes harden. "Harry's relatives — his aunt and uncle — kept him as a slave. They woke him at the crack of dawn, had him do chores that bordered on manual labour, made him sleep in a cupboard—" The social worker stops to take a breath. "Mr Skye, if I never encounter another child who has been the victim of abuse then I can say that Mr and Mrs Dursley have truly pushed me to my limits."

Raphael sits back, horrified. "They did this to their own nephew?"

"They were under the impression he was some kind of devil-child, as if that justifies their actions. I'm not one for religion, myself." Mrs Heaton shakes her head again, completely unaware of Mr Skye's wings that hovered just outside the physical plane.

Raphael sighs.

"You understand then, why I'm concerned it may be too soon for Harry to leave the Home."

Yes. Yes, Raphael more than agrees that Azrael would be better off here, where Raphael is less likely to muck up and let something slip that he really oughtn't, but Michael doesn't — unfortunately — see it that way.

"I understand," Raphael says, and he sends just a smidgen of Divine Intervention (read: cosmic power of persuasion) her way. "I would like to meet Harry, if that's alright?"

Mrs Heaton smiles brightly, but there's an edge to her eyes. His powers always were less effective on the non-believers. "Of course," she says, standing. "If you just wait here, I'll go and find him. He'll probably be with his friend Tom."

Five minutes later, Mrs Heaton returns with a small boy barely tall enough to reach Raphael's hip. Black hair, short… The Azrael Raphael remembers was nothing like this. His brother had been tall, imposing, with bone white hair and skin just as pale.

"Harry, this is Mr Skye," Mrs Heaton says, nudging the boy closer but remaining close behind him.

Raphael stands and smiles, kneeling down to Harry's level. He is, after all, just a child. "Hello Harry."

"Hello Mr Skye," replies Harry, seemingly finding the carpet of more interest than Raphael himself.

"You can call me Raphael if you'd like," he offers.

Harry's eyes flash up to him with a brief smile and a nod, and then Raphael knows.

Those green eyes, a near unnameable shade — Raphael has only ever seen that colour twice before in history. Once, in the hue of a particularly nasty curse that has the uncanny ability to kill instantly; then again in the eyes of his lost brother.

Were Raphael anyone other than an Archangel whom has been about since the Beginning, he might have been put off by the death eyes in this young face. As it is, Raphael is himself, and Raphael cannot bear the thought of his once great brother being abused on the whim of a handful of vicious humans. His brother, who really is just a child; small, fragile, susceptible to hurts and all manner of mortal nastiness.

With a smile that has been known to thaw the hearts of even the cruellest of demons, Raphael offers his hand.

Harry is confused, and he is entranced. This Raphael Skye is interested in him, but Tom told him that only the normal kids get people coming to see them. Harry never expected someone to come and ask to get to know him, as they apparently all say, but the Home is infinitely better than Number Four Privet Drive and so it really hadn't bothered him. Then again, the thought of home isn't really something Harry really knows how to apply to anywhere. Number Four? Certainly not. The Home? Harry really can't say he's all that attached to the place itself, no matter how nice it may be.

A real home though, somewhere to look forwards to coming back to, to always have at the back of your mind and have the knowledge that no matter what, it will always be there for you? That is a foreign concept for Harry, something he is entirely unfamiliar with, and yet seeing Mr Skye in front of him — Mr Raphael Skye with his radiant smile and shiny dark hair and unflinching golden eyes — ignites something within Harry. The hope that Raphael Skye is there for him and just him sets off a kind of yearning that Harry hasn't felt since the days Aunt Petunia told him his parents were dead. Harry yearns for home, and for family.

It is a terrible thing to long for a home you never had.

And so the offered hand — a show of friendship and peace — kindles a tender hope in Harry's heart, and he takes it and gently shakes. Raphael's hand is soft and thin boned.

"Harry, would you like to show Mr Skye around the Home?" asks Martha.

Harry ducks his head and nods, only now realising that he held eye contact for far longer than he is usually comfortable with.

Perhaps it is the colour of Raphael's eyes: gold. Harry has never seen someone with such dark skin with such light eyes before. In fact, he's never seen anyone with eyes that colour before.

"It's alright if you don't want to, Harry," says Raphael.

Harry peeks back up at him and finds that he is still smiling that smile, and he doesn't think that expression can be described as anything other than beautiful. Harry didn't think he'd ever use that word for a boy.

And Harry finds that he very much wants to show Raphael around, because something about Raphael seems like he just might fill that gaping chasm he never knew he had within him: a chasm left by the absence of a home. With a tentative smile, he nods.

Raphael holds out a hand, and Harry takes it.

As they walk through the corridors and through the garden and from room to room, Raphael's smile seems impossibly brighter and even more radiant. Harry would even swear the man is glowing — a nice, soft glow, gold like his eyes — but of course, that would just be silly.