Disclaimer: I neither own Harry Potter or Supernatural.
Warnings: AU, and may at a later date have I think I need a Beta, because I am certain there are errors here and there.
Misc: War is Female in this, and I refer to Pestilence as both, well, Pestilence and Conquest - as they are one in the same. Plus, questionable theory about Magic that has some serious implications. Also, important A/N at the bottom.
Also. I love you guys. The response to this is amazing, and I never thought so many people would like this. So thank you everyone for Following, Favoriting and Reviewing - I really, really appreciate it :D
Any questions, feel free to ask - I'll try my best to answer them.
When Harry Potter was young, so many moons ago, he knew Love.
Long before the revival of Voldemort. Long before he stepped into the Wizarding World. Even, surprisingly, before the Horsemen's touch irrevocably changed his life forever. He had two parents; a beautiful young woman named Lily, and a handsome young man called James. He had two wonderful uncles: the super-smart werewolf Moony, and the lovable and kind Sirius. He had a wonderful little voice that giggled in the back of his mind, embraced him with warmth, and stopped the hunger from reaching him.
Little Harry had loved Love. It was warm, and fuzzy, and made him smile.
But then, Voldemort came, and with him came Death. His love wilted, petals falling and twirling and decaying as they hit the ground, torn off petal by petal by fear and hunger and sorrow.
And then Harry forgot Love.
After everything is said and done, all that remains is to pick up the pieces.
Luckily for Harry, he was good at picking up the pieces, and fitting them together again.
The newly crowned "Master of the Horsemen" opened bleary eyes, eyes that adjusted to the darkness of the room he found himself in, shocked that, for once, he hadn't woke up to pain. The ceiling, a broad expanse of vanilla wallpaper, was a comforting sight – it reminded him of home. Harry found himself in a warm bed, the striped duvet heavy (but in a pleasant way, his mind tacked on, like a hug) against his body. He couldn't help but wonder where he was, his last memory being that of green light.
Harry laughed, a short, mirthless thing, but a laugh all the same. It always was green light, wasn't it? His very first memory was that green-green light, and look how pleasant that was. His mother dead, splayed across the ground like a string-less marionette.
Harry wondered if he was better off not remembering what happened.
But he wasn't so lucky, and slowly, like a leaking faucet, the memories came trickling in, one by one by bloody one. He remembered waking up in…in that place (Purgatory, his mind whispered, dragging the name up from some hidden vat of knowledge, sounding awfully like Hermione as it did so), surrounded by the Four Horsemen. He remembered meeting War, meeting Famine, meeting Pestilence, meeting Death, and he remembered waking up in a church.
He remembered being told that he could never see his friends again.
Harry remembered being made the Master of the Horsemen.
Harry knew that there was something wrong.
So he'd pick up the pieces, just like he'd always done, and try to fit them back together again. He wouldn't dwell on it any longer – he'd forget the pain, tack on a smile, and go about his new life – because that is what a Potter does. After all, Harry was now the Master of the Horsemen, and he would take his duty seriously; he would do it for them, the family he left behind.
What's eternity, anyway?
He reached out blindly, fumbling in the dark, before his lithe hands wrapped around a cord. Following the wire upwards, his hand met resistance in the form of a switch, and as he flicked it the world exploded into brightness.
He hissed, squinting, as his eyes tried to get used to the light. The light was too bright, and it took a while for the male to adjust to the sudden change, but when he did, the first thing he saw was four rings – the metals glinting in the fluorescent light of the lamp.
The first ring he came across on his ring finger was the plainest – a simple golden band. It rested heavily on his skin, heavy, and in certain lights the gold shone umber. The more he looked at it, the more he remembered the fear, the desperation, the hate that coursed through him during the war, and Harry assumed that this was the ring of War.
He quickly moved on. The last thing he needed right now was to be reminded of everything that he left behind.
The second ring was made out of the purest silver, a glimmering black stone set in its center. His mind was sent back to his childhood, the onyx forcefully dragging out memories of lonely days and a deep-set hunger that tore and tore and tore at his soul. It sent him back to days were he craved friendship, craved for acceptance, craved for food.
The obsidian stone twinkled merrily as Harry's hand moved passed it, a reminder of the hunger Famine's touch left.
The third ring was made out of the same material, the only difference being the milky-green stone set in place of the onyx on Famine's ring. The Master of the Horsemen sneezed, the sound shattering the silence of the night, and with a frown he realized that this was Pestilence's ring.
Harry purposefully ignored the itch skipping past Conquest-Pestilence's ring caused, moving onto the ring he felt most comfortable with.
Death's ring, the Resurrection Stone, had changed drastically. It now looked similar to his brother's, a simple silver band with a pale stone, and the boy-who-lived smiled fondly at the reminder of his victory. The ring had gave him the resolve to do what he must, and for that he'll be eternally grateful of it.
He was half tempted to call on the spirits of his family, see his mother and father once more, but thought against it. They shouldn't be disturbed from their eternal rest – it wouldn't be right.
He ignored the pleased shuddering of his Magic at that admission, ignored its whispers of the natural order, and closed his eyes.
The wizard stood, lost and confused and so very worn. Emerald eyes, his mother's eyes, scanned the room, sight taking in the too sterile, too empty environment. This room wasn't special – vanilla wallpaper, mottled-brown carpet, cheap furniture. It was too utilitarian; as if the owner just hadn't cared about the aesthetics, and only had this room purely because it came with the house.
It was organized in such a way that Harry wondered if the owner even wanted anyone to visit. Like he expected to remain alone.
"Twinkle, twinkle little star…" The wizard started, voice hoarse from disuse. The moon hung up high in the sky, surrounded by a bed of glittering stars, and the defeater of Voldemort could not look away.
"Aren't you a bit old to be singing nursery rhymes?" To his credit, Harry didn't flinch. He just stood there, staring outside over the clean-cropped garden, with its cut-close green-grass and its pretty flowers, thinking of everything and nothing. Whomever owned this house took care of it; that was for sure.
"War." The auburn-haired beauty sighed in response, pouting.
"What, no comeback? Honey, what happened to all that fabulous sass you had before?" War sulked, before standing beside her chosen master.
"I'm just…thinking." To be honest, the half-blood didn't know why he was trying to placate the personification of war, but it felt like the right thing to do.
"About?" She pressed on. "Kid, I'm War, not Mystic Meg. You humans tend to need to go on and on about your problems, otherwise you just sought of…pop. So what's wrong, dear-old master-o'-mine, and let little old War soothe those aches and pains of yours."
Harry blinked.
"…Are you hitting on me?" Harry stared, stared hard and long, wondering if it was impossible for abstract concepts to be insane.
"No I bloody well am not hitting on you! I'm trying to be nice." War ground out, fists clenched. "You're not my type anyway."
"You have a type?"
"Yes. I do. And you know what, we all do. I happen to know for certain that you're Pestilence's type."
Harry noticeably paled. "You mean…"
"Yep." Her smile wasn't pleasant. "Mine, if you want to know, is tall, dark and handsome. I love a god warlord – the violent the better. Attila the Hun, now he was a cutie…"
"I'm going to pretend that you didn't just tell me that," he had a feeling that playing ignorant would be the only way he'd save his sanity.
"Bah, you'll learn it eventually – after all, we're going to get real close over the years." She stroked his arm, slowly, seductively. "We all are."
Harry just blushed, embarrassed, wanting more than anything to get away. The only reason he hadn't jumped back was because he didn't want to know what War would do to him.
"Sooner or later we'll know everything about each-other; what our favorite foods are, what we love to do for fun – I, personally, like watching families tear themselves apart – and, at some point, it'll be like we are the same person," War let go, stepping away as she did so, "and hey, why haven't you shown us your wings yet? You've seen ours."
"I have wings?" Harry asked, craning his neck around to try and see them. "I don't see them."
War groaned, labored. "You need to manifest them, you idiot. Though, warning for you, if you get them out you probably won't be able to put it away."
"What do you mean?" The boy-who-lived almost didn't catch her warning, too excited at the idea of having wings (of-flying-freedom-escape).
"How to explain it…" Perfectly manicured nails were lifted to crimson-painted lips, their owner in deep thought, "Ah! Well, it's kind of like trying to fit something in that is clearly far too big; like trying to fit a whale into a bus. It'll be ugly, gory, and frankly unpleasant, so maybe…actually, go ahead."
"Is that why yours are always out?"
"We like to let it all…hang out. If you get what I'm saying."
"…You're disgusting."
"Baby, I'm War. Whoever said I was clean was a liar…" A thought hit her then. "How very strange…"
"What is?" Harry took a seat opposite, the wood creaking underneath him as he sat down.
"You've not felt anything off have you? A strange hunger, the urge to kill, not even the sniffles?" She queried, staring intently into his emerald eyes.
"No…I sneezed before, but that's it?" The Horsemen stared at the boy curiously, a strange glint in her hazel eyes.
"I'm honestly impressed. No-one, in a very long time, has been comfortable in my presence. Apparently I make people too angry." She laughed.
Harry couldn't help but ponder that thought. Just who else had she revealed herself too?
"Oh?" Curious, Harry asked her who the last person to feel comfortable in her presence was. "They must have been someone special."
"The so-called 'Lamb of God', Jesus Christ. So yeah, he was definitely 'someone special', as you so eloquently worded it." Harry spluttered, coughing heavily whilst War just smirked that evil little smirk of hers. "Granted, he also had a hand in sealing us in the Pit, so he isn't exactly our favorite person right now."
"The Pit?"
"Capital P and everything. Though it didn't really work too well," War continued, vindictive glee in her eyes.
"If you were trapped in the Pit, how did you escape?" Harry leaned back in his chair, the wood straining under his weight, pensive. "I mean, if you escaped, couldn't other, more meaner things get out?"
"Meaner, honey," she corrected, "and no, they couldn't. We escaped because of dear old brother Death, who…enhanced particular elements of your world."
"Enhanced? In what way?" He had a feeling he was in for a long explanation, so the young man got comfortable.
"Well, I can't speak for my brothers, but I can tell you how I escaped," she stretched her wings out, the scarlet appendages almost bridging the gap between each wall. "170 AD, the 'Marcomannic Wars'. The amount of energy released from all those that died funneled into my cage, shattering it to pieces. Pestilence was running around long before me I think, back when he was referred to as Conquest. Death was never in the cage to begin with, slipping through the bars as if they were nothing."
"Ahh." That made sense. "But you said Death effected my world…how?"
"With magic," the red-head that looked eerily like his mother would have continued, but paused, distracted by the grey mist that oozed out of the Resurrection Stone, splattering wetly on the ground. "Death can explain it better. And wouldn't you know it, here comes my dear old older brother, my very own knight in shining armour. "
The substance melted together, forming the familiar features of his Pale Rider.
"…Can all of you do that?" If they could, then the Potter Scion feared for his privacy. What if they decided to show up whilst he was in the shower?
"Yes." Death answered, blunt. "Now am I going to explain, or can I go back to reaping?"
"Y-yea."
Harry may be a Gryffindor, but he wasn't suicidal. He didn't want to get on the bad side of Death.
"Good."
"You've been special since birth, as a result of what you are." Death clicked his fingers, a ball of flickering light vibrating over his palm. "This magic you wizards wave around is essentially watered down Grace – the life blood of angels."
War tittered from her place next to him, crazed grin splitting her beautiful face with madness. "There was a war in Heaven, so many creatures died whilst caught in the crossfire. It was beautiful."
"I took the Grace of fallen angels, diluted it with my own power, and forced it onto your world," the ball of light in his hand died out, and was soon replaced by a slice of pizza, "after all, Avada Kedavra just replicates what my reapers can do – Death with a touch and all that."
Harry reeled as if struck, gears whirring, as his mind tried to keep up with the information being forced onto him.
"Magic doesn't exist," Death said clinically, emotionlessly. "All you have been using is Grace, and you, in particular, have access to a lot more Grace then any human has any right to having."
He felt like he was going to be sick. His Magic – or, rather, his Grace – bubbled and churned inside his bloodstream, revolting. It had never occurred to Harry to think about where his magic came from; he had always thought that some people were just born with it, like how he had inherited his father's black hair and his mother's eyes. The fact that it was stolen from angels disgusted him.
Maybe the Dursley's were right when they said he was unnatural.
Maybe they were right when they said he was a monster, when they called him devil-spawn.
Harry realized that he was a terrible person.
"If my dearest brother has told me correctly, when God forced your soul back into that shell of yours, you took back with you a large portion of the gathered Grace." War cooed in his ear. "How does it feel? I bet it must feel orgasmic. All that angelic mojo, all locked up safe and sound in the pretty little body of yours. Just think of all the chaos you could cause if you let it go."
"I bet your wings would look gorgeous, darling."
The wizard (no, his mind growled, thief-thief-thief) kept quiet, mind racing. His Magic wasn't his. It belonged to some innocent angel and he had stolen-stolen-stolen it.
He was a freak.
"You feel guilty, don't you? Well, don't be." Death comforted. "It was either your world got access to magic, or this one imploded with the amount of Grace that would be left floating around."
"If it helps, Death could tell you whose angel's Grace you have bubbling up inside of you." The red-head tossed the suited man a glare, and after seeing the resigned look in the old man's eyes she summoned herself a glass of red wine in celebration of her elder brother's defeat.
"Thanks." Harry replied, bitter.
"Galgaliel's." The personification of Death said, after a moment of thought, his hazel eyes staring intently into Harry's own
"Angel of Vibration?" War asked, and after getting confirmation smirked. "I feel sorry for all the poor dildos out there, losing their angel."
"And Jophiel's." At that, War choked on her wine.
"The Archangel!" She crowed. "Brilliant!"
In response, the glass in her hand shattered, the shards exploding outwards in all directions. The world trembled, furniture vibrating, and the room descended into darkness as glass rained down from the ceiling, the light bulb erupting in a shower of sparks. Harry glowed, thrummed, and War found herself plastered to the wall, pushed relentlessly by an invisible force.
For a brief second, Harry heard a voice, felt a strong sense of pride as the evil was crushed to the wall.
"Should have known." Death sighed. "You never did take revelations well, did you?"
All he got for an answer was a chair to the face.
"Rude." Death moved towards the glow, untouched by all, standing in front of him kike his sister War had done.
And slapped him. Hard.
"Ow…" Harry whimpered, finally in control.
The room fell silent, the Horsemen waited patiently, only watching as Harry caught his breath.
"That was the most attractive thing I think you've ever done. But do it again, and I'll crush you." War panted, sliding down the wall she had been pinned against moments before. "You're strong. And I think you need to learn control."
"I…I'm a monster." War opened her mouth to say something, only to be quelled by Death's glare.
"If it makes you feel any better, blame God. That's what human's do, after all. Volcano erupts, blame God. World War 3 breaks out, blame God. Late to work, blame God. At this point, it's become your slogan." She buffed her nails. "It's not as if you have free will or anything."
"War," Death warned, "Enough."
"Ugh," the Ruby Horsemen huffed, "I'm going back to sleep. You all irritate me."
With that said, her figure disappeared; hair, body, eyes and all, melting into red goo. It bubbled and hissed, steam rising from the substance, before it lashed out at Harry. He knelt, accepting of whatever it would do to him, but it instead latched onto the golden ring on his finger.
And like that, she was gone – returned to the ring.
"She isn't at full yet." Death observed. "No matter. Also, we have a visitor."
"What do you…?" Harry trailed off, seeing nothing.
"Curious. You cannot sense Him then?" The human shook his head in response. "Chuck, get out from under the bed." The Grim Reaper didn't sound surprised, as if finding people under the bed was a common occurrence for him.
"H-How do you know who I…" The voice, coming from under the bed, was meek and pitiful.
Harry gaped.
"How long have you," suddenly, Harry stopped, "actually, no. Don't reply to that. I really don't want to know."
Oblivious though he may to some things, it didn't stop him from realizing that this was one of those things that he was better off not knowing about. It slotted neatly between the questions "Why was Hermione so angry on a particular day of the month?" and "How on Earth was Petunia so thin and Vernon so fat?", and he really wasn't prepared for the knowledge of what the man was doing under his bed.
"He's been here for the last few minutes. God is a sneaky bastard." Harry stilled, frame rigid.
"W-what are you on about…?" A hand accompanied the statement, and soon enough the man had fully dragged himself out from underneath. "I'm not God."
Harry recognized this man; it was the very same man that he had saw in that church.
"At first I wasn't certain it was you," Death admitted, "but I knew the moment you stopped Raphael from peeking into this conversation. There are very few things that are stronger than an Archangel, and you are neither a Horsemen nor his elder siblings."
"Touche." Chuck sighed, before he dropped the clueless act. "I'm God. There. You happy?"
"Not really." Death commented lightly. "I haven't been happy in a long time. Not since you tried to trap me in Hell."
"Death, surely you aren't hung up about that still?"
"The only reason why I haven't stabbed you yet is because one day you'll be dead, and I'll enjoy the experience of tearing your soul from that shell of yours."
There was a lull in the conversation, as both men sized each-other up. A lull that was quickly interrupted by Harry clapping.
"…Is he okay?" Chuck asked, concerned, watching the boy-who-lived frantically clap his hands. "Because I don't think he is okay."
"Coping mechanism." Death replied glibly. "After-effects of dying, and then being sent to another universe."
Chuck whistled, impressed. "You really must like him to go against the natural order of things."
"I look after my own." He smiled nastily. "A concept that must be foreign to you."
It was enough to get Harry to stop clapping, the wizard stunned by the pure devastation that racked the man's face. Chuck looked like he was about to cry, stunned and hurt by the words.
"I grow bored of you, God." Death's features started to melt, just like his sister's did, the grey goop congealing as it splashed onto the carpet. "Goodbye, God. Master-of-my-Hallows."
The ooze lashed out, splashing wetly against his Master's skin, before it drew itself into his ring.
So there they both stood, together, God and the Wizard, and Harry could see the other's flaws, the other's imperfections. He could see the cracks, see the things that he was certain no-one was supposed to see, and the boy-who-lived found himself pitying God.
"I'm sorry." Harry tentatively said.
Chuck just shrugged, the pain receding, until it looked like it was never there. "Whatever for?"
"For Death. He shouldn't have said those things." The emerald-eyed youth shook his head, resigned to the actions of his Horseman. He may be his 'master', but he knew that he couldn't really control Death.
No-one could control Death.
"They were true." Chuck, bitter, sat back on the bed. "Maybe that's why they hurt so much?"
Harry, unsure of what to say, sat next to him.
"I don't care that you currently have my children's Grace inside you." The scruffy looking man said. "I did give them to you after all. They would have liked you, I'm sure of it."
"Would they?" Inquired the Master of the Hallows. "What were they like?"
"Galgaliel was beautiful. There was no other way to describe her. Always so helpful…" The father trailed off, emotion getting the better of him. "And Jophiel…he was stunning, like the sun."
"How did they die?"
Chuck opened his mouth to answer, but the words lodged themselves in his throat, edges sharp.
"It's okay, you don't have to answer."
And for Harry, it really was okay.
God, from what he could see, was a bit like an unfinished jigsaw. He was all jumbled pieces and half-hearted attachments and Harry could see that some pieces were missing. Chuck reminded him of broken glass, but Harry didn't think a Reparo would be enough to fix the deity.
But that was okay.
He was good at picking up the pieces after all.
The next time he woke up, it was to a spotless room, so clean that he almost thought the events of last night were just some bizarre dream.
Stifling a yawn, Harry crawled out of the bedroom, slowly making his way across the landing. It was the first moment of peace he has had for a long time, and he was going to cherish it. There was no more homicidal madmen after him, no more death plots, and he was no longer shackled by that stupid prophecy.
Harry smirked. He could get used to this.
"Watch-a thinkin' bout'." Harry hissed, lost his footing, and tumbled – gracefully – down the stairs.
And no, that wasn't a scream. That was just the forceful removal of air from his vocal chords, honest.
Pestilence just smiled that goddamn creepy smile of his, leering down at him from the top of the stairs.
"I finally wake up without a head-ache, and you have to go and give me one." Harry glared up at the personification of all the little beasties in the world, wishing he had dragged the demented old man down with him. "Thank. You."
"Aww, wuv you too," he cooed, taking the stairs two at a time, "wuv you so much that I would give you the Black Death."
Now, Harry may not be the smartest person on the planet, but something seemed off with that declaration of love.
But maybe it was just him.
"Pestilence, baby, I know it's hard for you to stop being a pest, but shut up will you," the green eyed youth rolled to his feet, staring in bewilderment at War as she watched T.V. "It's getting to the good part."
"You're an idiot." Death muttered, walking into the room with a cup of coffee.
"And you have a crush on Queen Elizabeth." War retorted, eyes glued to the screen.
"Where's Famine?" Harry tried to defuse the situation before it lead to a fight, Lord knows (or would that be Chuck knows?) what would happen if that happened. "I've not seen him in a while."
"Someone called?" The familiar creak of an old wheelchair punctuated Famine's statement, raw meat clutched tight in his hand.
Harry ignored the blood that decorated the Horseman's maw.
"Famine," Pestilence cooed, "can you see all the pretty little bacterium on that slab of meat in your hands? There's E-coli, a little bit of Salmonella, and is that…"
In a bid to keep his stomach from forcefully expelling its contents, Harry chucked a hasty Muffliato around the two Horsemen, drowning out there disgusting conversation – it was worth the constant buzzing in his ear.
Death nodded in gratitude, whilst War tossed the wizard a grateful smile.
"So, I'm Master of the Horsemen now…?" Harry repeated, once more. "I'm still not sure what that even means."
"You'll get it eventually." Harry felt proud of himself, he only twitched slightly at God's appearance. "It's something that hasn't ever happened before, so not even I really know what goes down. Just reign them in, limit the damage they do."
"I believe in you." God added.
Well. He was Harry Potter. He's tackled murderers, killed off Basilisks, travelled through time. He fought his way past dragons and merpeople and sphinxes. He infiltrated the Department of Mysteries, learned the truth about the prophecy, and destroyed Horcruxes.
He even defeated Voldemort.
So, Horsemen?
Yeah, Harry thought, bring it on.
Chapter 2, Fin~
Yes, that was a thing. Any questions about my questionable theories ask them lol. I'll do my best to answer them. Also, I made God super regretful and a not-so-bad father figure, and I portrayed the Horsemen as the not-so-good thingie-ma-bobs that they are. They aren't good people, so I do my best to show that whilst they aren't extremely bad, like Lucy bad, they can get up there.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I hope to see you again on the next one :D
Signed, HalcyonNight.
P.S: Chapter 3 involves a lot of Harry doing his job, and a bit more interaction with the Horsemen/Harry/Chuck Dynamic. It may also involve Winchesters, so keep you eyes peeled for that~