Chapter Title: I Got A Game I Wanna Show You
Accompanying Song: "Alastor's Game" by The Living Tombstone
"Why these particular things, Harry? There's got to be better stuff you can use to fight."
Harry grunted as he dropped the cauldron into place. "Probably. But when you're dealing with things like blood magic, believe it or not, sentimentality and family connections actually make the end product stronger. Least that's what I found. The dagger's been in my mum's family since the War; and the brush axe and I got a long and personal history."
Hermione wrinkled her nose. "And the paring knife?"
"…Let's just say I done a fair amount of slicing and dicing with it and leave it at that."
"If you say so, Harry."
She ran her finger down the potion's ingredient list just once more to be on the safe side. "So…blood magic, huh? Isn't that a little…you know…"
"Dark? Probably. You can do a lot of things with blood taken from someone unwillingly. Or some things, for that matter."
"Like Re'em's blood."
He thought back to Ruby, and just what she'd managed to get his brother into. "…Among other things. Hand me that rope, will you? Thanks."
"Rope, Harry? Won't it catch on fire?"
Harry's finger's flew as he knotted the handles to the line. "Normal hair, yes. Rougarou hair's a bit stronger than normal. If we hang it high enough, it should keep everything but the blades out of the brew. Back to the original topic: forcibly taken blood can have some very nasty uses. But if its' freely handed over or given, the level of power goes up exponentially."
"Big word."
"Yeah, well, you don't live with a college lawyer for long without picking up a few…"
He hissed.
"Damn it. Gotta watch out for that."
Hermione leaned her head on his shoulder. "It'll be okay, Harry. You won't mess up."
Sure. Horcruxes, the Mark of Cain, demons, angels, Death Eaters and Dark Lords. Things were looking just fine and dandy.
"We're here for you."
"You were there for me over there too, Hermione. And it still all went to Hell."
"But we won, didn't we? Everything turned out alright."
He sighed. "…Not really. When I said I went digging into the past, what I actually meant was I pulled up a summary on Wikipedia."
"Wikipedia?"
"Oh yeah; big online encyclopedia. Billions of articles, all nice and cross-referenced. And you could get to it from anywhere in the world. You would've loved it."
"It sounds nice."
"Yeah, well, sometimes ignorance really is bliss. The reason I was able to find anything at all about us on a Muggle invention was because the Statute of Secrecy didn't exist."
"You told me that, remember? You used to hunt witches; well, the actually bad kind. And its not like you ever ran into Obliviators or Aurors doing your job for you."
"You're not getting the point: the Statute of Secrecy didn't exist, because there wasn't any magical world to create it."
"…What are you saying, Harry."
"I'm saying that the reason the Muggles knew enough about us to put our names up in blaring big letters was because we were fictional. How's it feel to know that there's an actor in another world walking around with your face on-screen in some Muggle's house? Cause from my point of view, its happened twice."
Hermione's voice suddenly sounded very small. "…Oh."
He sighed. "Sorry; didn't mean to snap. It's just…things over there, they…they didn't end the best for us."
"…What happened?"
"I like to do all I can to give free will the edge, and considering our Destiny went off the rails the minute I woke up in someone else's skin, I'll just give you a brief breakdown. You got tortured, Ron abandoned us the minute we got to the 'hurry up and wait' part of the war, Dumbledore died, Snape died, Fred died, Tonks, Lupin, Sirius…basically, we payed a whole lot in blood just to end the Dork Lard permanently and give all the Death Eaters yet another second chance. You married Ron, I married Ginny, and the last I heard we were all standing on Platform 9 ¾ pretending not to notice just how much lower the amount of first-year Muggleborns was."
"Oh, Harry."
"I know, I know. Dumbledore's live-and-let-live philosophy cost us more lives than Moldy-shorts ever did. But this time around, at least we know what's coming. And when the time comes for Dumbledore to kick the bucket, don't expect me to cry about it."
"You're not going to save him?"
"Would you?"
"I…I don't…" She bowed her head. "I don't know. Would it make anything better?"
On account of the Elder Wand alone, there was really only one answer he could give. "No."
They both went silent after that, choosing instead to focus on the cauldron.
Silver for werewolves, lamb's blood for djinn, holy oil for angels (it was amazing the things the Black family stockpiled), amethyst to absorb ghosts, and lots, lots more. In the end, there was only one thing left to add.
"I'm afraid I'm gonna need your blood, Hermione."
"Why?"
"Catalyst. Already added mine to the mix, so all we have to is sit back and watch the reaction."
And boy howdy was he hoping the mixture of basilisk venom and phoenix tears he'd been injected with wouldn't come back to bite him here.
"Alright; hand me the knife."
He did so. "Knuckles, not palm. Heals faster."
"I know, Harry. My dad's a dentist, remember? Just because I only really care about history doesn't mean I don't listen to everything else."
"Never said you did, Hermione."
The second the first drops hit the surface, the cauldron's contents turned a mixture of brilliant emerald and gold.
"I think we're safe to dip the blades in now."
Aside from a low sizzling sound, nothing much happened when the blades slid into the brew.
"Right; should probably let that sit for a few hours. Sorry to skip out on you, but I got some places to hit in Diagon. Lost all my school books, among other things, and replacements would be good."
"Dumbledore is letting you go on your own?"
"I'm not; I'm taking Mad-Eye. Or rather, Mad-Eye's taking me."
Hermione visibly relaxed. "Oh; well that's alright then. Do you want us to leave supper out for you?"
"Nah; I can pick something up on the way back. And if I'm still hungry after that, I can get Kreacher or Dobby to pick me up something."
POP!
"The Great Master Harry Potter sir be's calling for Dobby?"
He blinked. "…Well I hadn't planned on it, but now that you're here, might as well ask a favor from you."
"The Great Master Harry Potter sirs be asking Dobby a favor? Oh, Dobby's is not worthy!"
"Riiiight…okay; Dobby, I'd really appreciate it if you could watch this cauldron for me while I'm gone. If someone were to do something to it, it might end badly. Can you make sure no one comes looking?"
The House Elf nodded vigorously. "Dobby's can be doing that!"
"Thanks a lot, Dobby. Would you like me to get you some socks on my trip?"
"SOCKS! Harry Potter sirs be offering to buy Dobby SOCKS! Oh yes, Great and Wise Master Harry Potter sir! Dobby's be likings that very much!"
"Alright then. Stay out of sight til I get back, and the socks are yours."
Dobby gave one more nod, and then vanished.
The minute he was out of sight, Hermione proceeded to brain him with a book. "HARRY!"
"What?"
"You took advantage of him!"
"I did no such thing! I'm paying him, ain't I?"
"In socks. That doesn't count, and you know it."
He sighed. "Hermione, to House Elves, gold is worthless. Silver, bronze, all currency means nothing to them. To them, clothes are money. Or did you think it was coincidence the way you free one is with a used shirt?"
"It's wrong!"
"How so? You oughta know that different cultures used to have different currencies; Native Americans used clam-shells, Malaysians used very odd rocks. How are clothes any different?"
He held up his hand to cut off the coming hurricane. "One day, their currency might evolve. But til then, best not to rock the boat. Or do you wanna be known as the one responsible for destabilizing the House Elf economy?"
Her mouth snapped shut with a click.
"Right; now, I'm pretty sure Dumbledore dragging you here has messed up your homework schedule…"
"…Yeah…"
"…So why don't you get caught up while I'm gone?"
"So I can help you with yours later, you mean."
"Ouch. Rest assured, oh distressing damsel, I have every intention of suffering through my essays in silence."
"Oh go on, you prat."
"Jerk. Don't wait up for me."
"Ready to go, lad?"
"Got a list and everything. We Flooing or Portkeying?"
"Portkeys can be traced, lad. Floo at least you can keep going if you realize your destination is a trap."
"Good point. Leaky Cauldron?"
"Nah; figured it'd be best if we slipped in real quiet like. Owner of Eyelops owes me a few favors; he'll keep his mouth shut."
"Right. After you, then."
"Where to first, lad?"
"Gringotts. Only place around here I can be reasonably sure we won't be overheard, not to mention I need to grab some hard coin."
Moody tossed something bright and shiny in Harry's direction. "You'll be needing you key, then. Pinched it from the harridan this morning to make up for not being able to stop her assault."
"…Thanks, Mad-Eye. Really."
Moody shrugged. "Water under the bridge. While you're there, you might wanna trade some for Muggle cash, too."
"Already taken care of." He patted his pocket. "Fun fact; Muggle ATM's are stupid easy to break into without anyone noticing. Especially when what few security cameras are around are all crap."
"You're just full of surprises, aren't you laddie."
"Trust me, we're just getting started. I know for a fact the Goblins employ cursebreakers and enchanters; do they do a lot of tomb raiding in Egypt?"
"Amongst other places."
"Any chance they've had to deal with phylacteries, or would be willing to for a fee?"
"Just what are you getting at, son?"
"I'll tell you inside. Just answer the question."
"…Well lad, you have to understand…"
"Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell. I mean, just….shit."
For all the hardcase Moody appeared to be, Harry genuinely thought was the first time he'd ever heard the man swear.
"He's not dead."
"We know that, Mad-Eye."
"No, I mean…I mean that…well you know what I mean. Bejaysus. Soul shards. How many? Egyptians always liked the number four, five counting the original…"
"I'm afraid he's made a bit more than that."
"…Seven, then. Next best number for stability. Even that's insanity. Don't suppose you happen to know where all of 'em are?"
"Most of 'em. One of them I destroyed in second year. Malfoy set it loose; it's what opened the Chamber of Secrets. Another one's right here in the bank."
Moody's eye whirled in all directions, as if expecting Riddle's specter to come at him from the surrounding walls.
"Relax; it's pretty bound in place. Our only problem is getting the Goblins to let us take care of it."
"…Considering I'm pretty sure its against regulations to store a damn Horcrux in the bank, they just might be willing to do it themselves. And then empty the owner's pockets to pay for it. Please tell me Lucius Malfoy is the name on the vault."
"Close; Bellatrix Lestrange."
"Good enough. C'mon; let's go ahead and take care of it."
"You go ahead. I'd rather not have anybody make a note of my involvement, if you know what I mean."
Well, that, and he didn't wanna take a chance that the Goblins just might recognize the Mark of Cain for what it was. Seems like the sorta thing his luck would leave to.
"I tell you what; I'll be waiting at Flourish and Blotts when you get done."
"Planning on getting around with your Invisibility Cloak?"
"More or less. Here; catch."
The Auror just barely managed to keep the mirror from slipping through his hands. "What's this, lad?"
"Way to get in touch in case of emergencies. Open it and say my name, it'll put you through. Black family charm; Sirius was kind enough to pass it on. Don't drop it."
"Rest assured, laddie," Moody said as he slipped the mirror into his robes, "I have absolutely no intention of it. And remember: constant vigilance!"
"And trust no one. See you soon."
He stepped out the door of the bank, and pulled the hood of the Cloak over his head. "Right; first stop is gonna have to be Ollivander's."
The door swung open to reveal the same dusty, seemingly deserted shop he'd been expecting.
"…Do you really think trying the same trick on me again is gonna work out for you, Ollivander?"
"Of course not, my boy. I was just merely satisfying my own curiosity on whether your reactions have improved as much as people say. Would you mind lowering your wand, please?"
"Sure. Not like I coulda done much to you with it; not working too great for me since the end of the school year."
"…Ah. Yes, I can see how that might have happened."
"Dumbledore told you then?"
"My boy, I was selling wands when Albus Dumbledore was just a little first-year. Nobody ever has to tell me anything."
"Really? Then did you know the Dark Lord's wand and mine got locked into Priori Incanteum?"
"I had a suspicion it would happen should your paths ever cross.."
"Yeah, well, fella was just as surprised as I was. Wouldn't surprise me if he came knocking looking for answers."
"…You raise an excellent point, Mr. Potter. Perhaps it would be for the best if I were to close up shop, maybe move into temporary quarters closer to the school for the duration."
"Maybe. But first, I need a wand."
"Of course. Holly and phoenix feather, correct?"
"Yeah; and I don't think either one really cares for me anymore."
"Hmm. In that case, perhaps we ought to look at something a bit more suited to your current needs. Follow me."
Harry hadn't seen the back of the shop before; somehow, it managed to be even dingier than the front.
"Now, I'm sure you'll believe me when I say that I have just as much interest in the permanent demise of the Dark Lord as any of Dumbledore's little group. Therefore, it would perhaps be in both our best interests if we started with some of the more powerful options I have available. To that end: here."
Harry took the strangely colored wand. "What is it?"
"To get some idea of which direction to go, I have kept the core the same: phoenix feather. The wood, however, is composed of a particularly strong branch of Elder."
…Damn.
He gave it a twirl anyway.
"Hmm. Yellow sparks. Neither one particularly cares for your hand, but both are still useable. It certainly hasn't clarified anything…perhaps we should try something on the opposite end of the spectrum. Now, what shall it be…ah, here we are. Aspen, with a core of Thestral hair."
Two for two.
Bloody hell, was Fate still pissed at him or something?
He still tried it.
"No sparks, but a green glow from the wood itself. Well, that certainly seems to point in a certain direction…try this one. Thunderbird feather, inserted into a carved Basilisk tooth."
He was ninety percent sure someone upstairs was laughing their ass off right about now. Basilisk tooth; no bets on where it came from, if you please.
"As I suspected. Your core must be as strongly aligned with the Light as the rest is the Dark. To my great regret, I have only one wand in stock that could possibly leverage the two to equal extremes."
Oh, whatever it was, it couldn't be good…
He was almost afraid to ask. "…And just what is it made of?"
"I shall tell you if and only if it responds to you."
The old man shuffled over to a particularly high shelf, and stretched as high as he could. "I was forced to lock this particular sample away out of sight; it kept getting into the hands of potential customers and causing a great deal of chaos, let me tell you. If I didn't know better, I would swear it had a mind of its own…"
He gulped. There was only one wand he knew of that had ever been described in that manner…if this one was anything at all like that one, then things were about to get very, very interesting.
Ollivander flicked the case open.
"…Bone. The wand's made of bone."
"Very special bone, Mr. Potter. Go on; give it a whirl."
Hesitantly, he reached out.
The instant his fingers touched the handle, he heard it. The whispering; the voice.
He jerked his fingers back. "Oh, crap."
"Ah, so you can hear it. How…intriguing. Mr. Potter, I believe we have found your wand."
"What the hell is that thing?"
"A rarity, Mr. Potter. Both parts of it. The bone I procured from a traveling representative of the Catholic Church; he claimed that it was the very jawbone the judge Samson once used to kill a hundred men at once. And the core…the core was something I had to pay very dearly for, indeed."
"…What is it."
"A feather, Mr. Potter. But one of the rarest feathers in existence; it is the feather…of an archangel."
Bloody hell; it was a bootlegged archangel blade. With far too many similarities to the First Blade to be a coincidence. In fact it wouldn't surprise him at all if the feather ended up being…
"…Lemme guess; Michael's?"
Ollivander blinked. "Why, yes; how did you know?"
"Let's call it a lucky guess."
Sure, let's go with luck. Once he got rid of the Fates for good, he'd be lucky if luck were all he had to deal with.
"How much for the bl…for the wand?"
"Considering I would very much like to survive this coming war, let us say…thirty-seven Galleons."
He reached into his pocket. "You sure? Seems a bit cheap."
"Investment in the future is always worth the layout, my boy. Remember that."
Harry slipped his brand new-ancient wand into his right inside coat pocket, and then disappeared once more under the Cloak. "I'll try to, Mr. Ollivander. I'll try."
A trunk was easy enough to come by; same for Potion ingredients, tools, and robes. Things tended to go a lot smoother when people didn't recognize you. It was a wonder what Muggle clothes and lack of glasses could do in that regard.
He did, however, make a note to himself to look into potential ways to improve his vision. Now that Professional Quidditch was well and truly out as a career choice, he didn't have to worry too much about any regulations on enhanced eyesight in the League.
He had just finished making his last purchase in Flourish and Blotts when he felt his mirror buzz in his pocket. Trying very hard to appear casual, he strolled back around the corner, shoved his glasses back onto his face, and answered the call. "This is Agent Kowalski, go ahead."
"…Harry? Is that you?"
"Depends; what's Mad-Eye Moody's favorite phrase?"
"Constant vigil…oh. I get you lad. Thank ye for pointing out the danger in assuming the person you're calling is the person that answers."
"You're welcome. Now talk."
"Well, good news, Goblins were more than happy to cover up that little problem of theirs. Bad news, they really, really want to know whos' been blabbing about those things to an Auror. Good news, they were willing to overlook that little detail for now in favor of decimating the Lestrange Vaults and the Malfoy Vaults looking for other potential…contraband. Wouldn't surprise me if Lucius Malfoy wakes up tomorrow with significantly less gold than he had this morning. In more bad news…I'm looking straight out the doors of Gringotts…and I don't think I'm gonna be able to make it to you anytime soon, son."
He had a bad feeling about this. "And just what, exactly, is the cause of your predicament?"
"…Dementors, lad. I count five of 'em."
…Well that was overkill if he ever heard it.
"Right; time to give you a crash course in what I like to call 'alternative methods'. Step one, you're gonna need to transfigure a whole lotta salt…
He'd planned to make a run for it.
He really, really had.
Right up until he recognized the only Auror currently wielding a flickering eagle Patronus against the Dementors.
"Sonuva bitch."
If he didn't save Hestia Jones, he suspected Tonks might never forgive him.
And, well, if he was being honest with himself, he really, really wanted to find out just how effective the 'alternative methods' were against Dementors.
First, to get their attention.
"I HAVE COME HERE TO CHEW BUBBLEGUM…AND TO KILL DEMENTORS. AND I AM ALL, OUT…OF BUBBLEGUM."
Kinda successful. Three peeled off to come after him; leaving two against the rapidly weakening Auror.
He proceeded to fling a giant stream of salt straight at the nearest ugly.
To his complete surprise, it actually did something. Said ugly immediately produced the most horrid screeching noise he'd ever had the misfortune of hearing. He briefly wondered if Peter Jackson had ever had this exact same experience before designing the Nazgul. Which raised a whole lot of other interesting questions about Elves, Goblins, and Dwarves…
He could look into it later. Right now, there was a passed out Auror lying in the middle of the street, with two dementors still hovering over her, and two more coming his way.
He pulled out his crowbar. Solid iron. Usually only good for ghosts and absorbing magic; here, he knew for a fact there were a few skulls it could break.
CRUNCH!
And so it did.
Two wounded, three to go.
One of them bent down above Jones' barely breathing form.
"Oh no you don't!"
He hurled the crowbar.
THUNK!
SCRREEEEEEEEE!
Right in the piehole. He knew for a fact nothing tasted right for a while after that. He just hoped the same applied to souls.
The last two unhurt Dementors began to circle, their friends warily joining them. Good; he was surrounded.
He grinned as he pulled out his makeshift Molotov cocktails.
That meant he could fire in every direction.
"Light 'em up."
CRASH-WHOOSH!
SCREEEEEEE!
The unfortunate recipient of his attentions turned and fled, its robes ablaze. For no particular reason, Harry rather doubted it would be back.
CRASH-WHOOSH!
Another screech, and another Dementor making like a bat out of Hell. The only ones left now were the ones he'd already managed to piss off. And it looked like they were done letting him go first.
He barely had time to blink before they were diving. A roll to the right, a scramble forward, trying to reach the crowbar he'd thrown earlier just out of reach…
No good. A terrible cold seemed to freeze his legs in place as two powerful sets of hands grabbed him from behind. He did just manage to grab the crowbar, but they were expecting it now, and ducked out the way of his twisting swing.
The two on his legs transferred their grip to his arms to better hold him in place. The third, however, lowered its face to his, revealing its horrific visage in its entirety.
Eh, he'd seen worse.
Apparently, it was time to find out whether or not a Dementor could suck out a Horcrux. Or if the Mark of Cain would even let them get that far.
Spoilers: whatever was happening, it bloody well hurt.
Like, a lot. Like, one of Alistair's torture sessions a lot.
But the Mark did its job; his soul stayed put. At least, he was pretty sure it did.
It seemed an eternity before the pain receded. He hit the pavement hard as the Dementors dropped him, unable to comprehend just how their meal had managed to survive. Shakily, he staggered to his feet.
"Weren't expecting that, were you?"
All three hissed in response.
Cain…
Whispering.
The voice from before.
His fingers moved towards his pocket, seemingly of their own accord.
Vessel…
The voice grew clearer the instant he drew his wand. It seemed to burrow its way into his mind, in a way not even the Imperius had done.
Eldest…Smite them.
He lunged.
SHUNK!
He took it back; this was by far the worst sound he'd ever heard. A gargling sizzle, growing and spreading from where his wand was now half-a-foot deep in the chest of a Dementor. Yet he didn't stop; couldn't stop. Not until this thing in front of him was reduced to less than dust.
When at last the screaming stopped, he calmly wiped his wand on his trousers, carefully placed it back in the correct pocket…and then promptly collapsed in the spot.
That…that was…
Oh Merlin, he was gonna be sick.
The other two must've left their companion to its fate; he no longer felt them anywhere nearby. And just how the hell was he able to feel them anyway?
Numbly, he ran his fingers over the burnt ground in front of him. There was no mistaking that imprint…oh how he wished there were.
Angel wings.
Bloody angel wings.
Whatever the hell those things were now, whatever had been done to them to make them that way…they had been angels once. And his wand had hated them. His wand…and maybe, just maybe…however much of Michael's Grace was left in the core.
Answers. He was gonna need answers.
But that could wait for now.
Groaning, he pulled himself over to the Auror's fallen form. He would've called her still being able to breathe a success, if it had been anything other than a Dementor attack. A crumpled bar of chocolate in some random pocket was all he was able to find in the way of first aid; not much, but better than nothing. He peeled off half the wrapper as un-messily as he could, and held it up to her nose. She made a small humming noise at the smell; that was good. Reactions were good. Slowly, he worked her jaw open, and placed half the bar inside. He wasn't stupid enough to try and get her to swallow; and besides, she'd probably get more out of it if it dissolved in her mouth.
As gently as he could manage, he slipped his left arm under her neck, his right under her legs, and lifted. He was relieved when she shifted into the embrace, obviously trying to get comfortable. Slowly, he made his way back to the now abandoned bookstore, and then inside. He left her tucked into the chair behind the front desk, a space-blanket he'd picked up in London loosely wrapped around her. He'd woken up from what he'd thought was the end before, and he knew just what it felt like to be confined when it happened. Placing the last half of the chocolate bar in her hand, and then slinging his trunk up onto his shoulder, he once more stepped out into the Alley.
Mad-Eye was waiting for him.
"Any trouble, lad?"
"Nope; no trouble."
Just a couple of Earth-shattering revelations; nothing outta the ordinary.
"Absolutely no trouble at all."
It was back.
It wasn't just the wand whispering to him now; the Mark had finally woken up. Then again, thinking back on everything that had happened within the past two days…he began to wonder if perhaps it hadn't been awake already. Merely waiting for the opportune moment. One Mark to rule them all. He snorted. Now that's what you call ironic.
Hermione hadn't believed him when he'd claimed he'd been perfectly safe the whole time; she'd berated him quite soundly, saying she'd honestly thought he'd gained at least a few survival instincts during the summer. He'd assured her that he had indeed been planning to get the hell outta Dodge, but he couldn't just let Hestia die. He may or may not have led her to believe he kept himself a decent distance away, and stuck to purely non-magical means to defend himself (Butterbeer Molotovs and using your wand as a shank didn't really count after all).
He was saved from any further interrogation by Dobby popping in, quite pleased to report no one had come snooping around the cauldron or anything else of his. He'd handed over the socks (matching pair of lumberjack plaid this time), and after calming down the ecstatic elf enough to get a word in edgewise, asked him quite politely for a sandwich and some coffee.
Dobby had instead shown up with a veritable mountain of food, right as Harry was pulling his now quite dangerous enchanted blades from their knots. Nothing too bad came of it, other than some coffee getting splattered over a few of Harry's notes. He and Hermione had shared a quiet snack, and after asking her to please not tell anyone he'd been in Diagon Alley at the time of the attack (he'd already told Mad-Eye the same), he'd climbed into bed to finally catch up on all the sleep he'd been missing.
Well, mostly.
He'd taken the liberty of not only fixing himself up some fake Muggle ID while he was out with Sirius, he'd also ended up running off a TSA Air Marshall's badge for the old scoundrel. Just in case he needed to use a plane instead of Magical travel. However, now was the first time he'd actually get the chance to use it.
A short bike ride later, and he was standing in the center of an as-prepared-as-he-could-get-it four-way crossroads.
Into the ground the box went, and then the dirt to cover it.
He took a few steps back. All he could do now was…
"Well hello, handsome."
…Wait. "Hello to you too. Would say it's a pleasure, but we both know flattery don't get you nowhere in this business."
"And you'd be right. There's only really one price you can pay for whatever it is you want."
"You'd be surprised. If you will kindly draw your attention to the giant painted symbol you're now standing in…"
The demon's eyes flickered black as it took in the Devil's Trap around it. "You really shouldn't have done that."
"I'll be the judge of that. Relax; all I wanted was your undivided attention. Do one little favor for me, and I'll let you go."
"And what that might be?"
"When I let you out, tell Crowley…Dean Winchester wants to see him."
"…Very funny."
"Oh yeah, I'm hilarious."
"…Dean Winchester died."
Huh. That was new. "…I got better."
"You're lying."
"Am I? Summoning wouldn't have worked if I put the wrong name in the box. Look for yourself; you're standing right on top of it."
She did so.
"…Impossible."
"Im-probable. Now, do we have a deal?"
"…Deal. Break the line."
SCHWIP!
"Done. And your end of the bargain?"
"It would be my pleasure. And don't say I didn't warn you…"
He was alone again.
Wouldn't be for long though, if he knew Crowley at all. Guy always seemed to have his ear to the ground; shouldn't be too different over here. In fact, it wouldn't surprise him if the demon was already on his…
"Dean Winchester. As I live and breathe."
…Way. "You don't actually do either of those things, Crowley."
"Just making polite conversation. Now, forgive me for wondering, but just how is it that one of Heaven's most valued residents managed to slip back to Earth undetected? And looking to make a deal with me, no less. I don't believe we've ever met."
"I've met you. But this is your first time meeting me. It's complicated."
"When is it ever not? Now, I'm sure you know time is money, so if you wouldn't mind, I'd really like to get on with things."
"I know where the Colt is."
That certainly stopped him in his tracks. "…I beg your pardon?"
"The Colt. The kill-anything Colt. The Colt designed specifically to kill anything in Creation. That Colt. I know where it is."
"…And I suppose you want to trade it's location for something you can't get yourself."
"Well, I probably could if I had the time, but this way's just so much faster. I want the Death Eaters dead. Every last one. And all their gold handed over to me, myself, and I."
"Don't ask for much, do you?"
"Nope. And I realize that. So here's what I'm gonna do: I'm gonna let you poke around in my soul real quick, just to see if there's anything there that shouldn't be. If there is, tell me if you can remove it or not."
"If I can?"
"Don't. Not yet."
Crowley sighed, and shoved his hands through Harry's ribcage. "…Well, well, well. Looks like there is a small slip of something. Unfortunately, it looks like something else is holding it in place."
Bugger. Plan B then.
"Thanks for looking. Now, I can appreciate that getting rid of that many people at once can be a bit of a logistical hassle, so here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna give up the location of the Colt, and you're gonna get to work. Take your time; I'm in no hurry. But every now and then, I might have a few more of those little slips to trade for some small favors. Mine might not look like much, but it's bigger than what the original owner has left, so I think its safe to say I got more right than he does."
"Small favors such as?"
His thoughts flew to Luna. "Fixing up the brain of a friend of mine. Nothing too big."
"…I suppose I can agree to that. The location?"
"Ah, ah, ah. We seal the deal first."
Crowley sighed. "Fine. Shake."
Finally, an improvement over the old world. No kissing here, thank you very much.
"Right. Hunter called Daniel Elkins has the Colt; probably in Wyoming or somewhere thereabouts. Passed down through his family since around 1861. Only four things it can't kill; archangels are one. It can, however, knock 'em out long enough for you to make your escape. And yes, before you ask, it can kill Princes of Hell."
"…Good to know. Anything else I need to be aware of?"
"I'm calling in my first favor. There's another fragment in the village of Little Hangleton; place called the Gaunt Shack. It's stuck to a plain looking rock with some symbol chicken-scratched on it. Bring me the rock, and tell me what you know about Dementors, and it's yours."
"Done."
Another handshake.
"All I've ever been able to dig up on Dementors was that they were supposedly angels that had their souls ripped out and destroyed. Beyond that, I can't say."
Soulless angels. Wasn't that a terrifying thought. "How'd they survive?"
"No idea. They seem to get by doing the same to others, though. Food for thought. You'll have the stone by tomorrow."
"Good. Pleasure doing business with you."
"One more thing."
"…Yes?"
"Why me? I'm just a crossroads demon; a damn good one, but still. There's got to be someone else you could've trusted with a literal deux ex machina of a gun."
"…The only other person I could think of is in America. Probably in college. And he doesn't need that in his life right now."
"…I see your point. Good evening to you, Dean Winchester."
"Same to you, Crowley."
The demon was gone.
"…Same to you."