Full Synopsis:

James Potter had once been a conceited, arrogant bully until his seventh year. Seemingly overnight, the boy matured and, as the story went, Lily Potter found herself slowly but surely falling in love with him. When Harriel Potter finds herself retracing her father's path, she discovers what happened to him all those years ago, what it means for her, and exactly where she fits into the great ineffable plan. Along the way, she comes to many startling conclusions. Angels aren't that innocent. There're sympathies to be had for devils. And free will carries many a soul to hell.

Tags/Warnings: Fem!Harry. Nephilim Harry. Strong AU. Slash side pairing. Biblical discourse and philosophy. Dad!Michael. Parental uncle!Gabriel. Voldemort died the night he attacked the Potters (Will be explained/explored in the fic). Slow burning. Slow moving. Heavy Angelic lore. Team Free Will! Tags to be added.

Pairings: Harry/Jack Kline. Castiel/Dean. James Potter/Lily Potter. Michael/Lily Potter.

…Six Months ago…

Petunia Dursley's P.O.V

Contrary to popular belief, Petunia Dursley had, once upon a long time ago, treasured her niece Harriel Potter dearly. She had always been a woman of family virtue. Prizing nothing more than a well-cared for home, hearty food and hopefully, if fate was kind, the sound of many pattering feet running about her own legs, she was a modern-day Martha Stewart. Always proper. Always prim. Always mannered. Everything in Petunia's life had been a garden of roses elegantly and diligently cared for. A thorn in the shape of a debt? Dehorned. A withered stem in the shade of insecurity? Cut off. Rotten roots with the rancid smell of meagreness? Pulled free and thrown out with the rest of the rubbish.

Yes, Petunia Dursley would have been happy with a simple home, a gaggle of kids, and a blissful married, long life. It was all she had ever wanted since she had played house with her sister Lily when they too were young. Lily had always pretended to be the doctor, or the vet, or an archaeologist on their next big adventure, but Petunia? Her game had always been the same. The housewife with the pretty pink apron and a thousand dolls that were all her dear babies. It appeared, to Petunia at least, that her life was a river rushing in one direction, and everything had been leading up to three simple things. A house. A husband. Children. Was that so much to ask for?

However, fate was not kind, and destiny had a very much different plan than her misty childhood dreams. In her late teens, tip toeing into her early twenties, Petunia had thought she was well on her way to that dream life. She had met Vernon Dursley five years prior, back in school, her sweetheart even then, and now, out of school and taking their first tentative steps into adulthood, the two had tied the knot at the age of eighteen in a little private ceremony. Swiftly, everything fell into place. Vernon got a good, well paying job at the local drill company, Grunnings, as an administrator, the mortgage on a little suburban home had been secured, and finally, at the age of twenty, Petunia's stomach began to swell.

Bringing her beloved Dudley into the world was the singular most spectacular accomplishment Petunia had felt she had, or ever would, do. Her precious baby boy. So chubby. So pink. With ten little fingers and ten little toes. Perfect. Her Dudley was perfect. For the first three months he was home, Petunia's life was perfect too. Everything, and so much more she could never have imagined, exactly as she had dreamed for it to be. Then, on the 31st October, the twinkling doorbell by the side of her perfect door, on her perfect house, in her perfect life, rang and nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever be perfect again.

Petunia remembered the half snore, half grunt Vernon gave from his side of the bed as he rolled over, the bed creaking under the weight he was slowly but surely gaining, still asleep despite the incessant ring of the doorbell. She remembered doddering downstairs, tightening the sash of her dressing gown, rubbing crusty sleep from her eye, and holding in a broken yawn as she shuffled her slipper clad feet to the front door. She remembered peaking out the looking glass, seeing nothing but the starry dead cold night and the hazy shadow of the house over the street.

She remembered, still half asleep herself, pulling away, backing towards the stairs to slumber once more, when the doorbell went again. She remembered huffing, thinking this was all some poor joke by a neighbors errant teenager as she stormed back towards the door, pulled and yanked and twisted locks and deadbolts as she flung the door open. Most importantly, Petunia Dursley remembered the confusion when barrenness met her, and then, exactly then, she had looked down.

Now, she wished she never had. She wished she had left it there. To freeze. To Die.

Harriel had been such a pretty baby. Beautiful even. Pale and rounded, rosy like an ebony haired cherub. The child looked more at home on a renaissance fresco then she did swaddled and dumped on Petunia's doorstep. Slowly, as if this was just another dream, Petunia remembered bending down to the little angelic baby, with eyes too green and hair the colour of spilled ink, and sorrow, soul crushing, heart stopping, crippling sorrow had grasped Petunia right in her core as realisation came settling down upon her like a sheet of icy rain.

It was no lie that Petunia was not as close to her sister Lily after the girl had been… Accepted by that… School. Nevertheless, despite all the arguments, the spats and curses and family holidays ended in slamming doors and yells, Petunia had loved her sister. She really had. Irrevocably. Sisters, well, they could fight and scream, go months without speaking, but still, never once, was the love not there. So, to see this babe, with a little paper note attached by safety pin to her blue blanket proclaiming Harriel Potter, it was with profound grief Petunia greeted those babe's eyes that unarguable belonged to her sister. Lily was gone. Just like that. Gone. Her daughter would not be here otherwise.

Before she knew it, still on the doorstep, Petunia remembered how tightly she clutched the babe to her own chest, tears leaking down her sharp cheeks. With three steps back and a shove, the door shut behind the pair. Petunia didn't remember going to the kitchen dining table, nor sitting down, or how long she was there, staring down at the face of the child with a nasty cut on her forehead, but she did remember seeing Lily there. That was the sweep of Lily's lashes. Lily's dimples. Lily's nose. Petunia thought she may have fallen a little in love with the innocent baby then. Lily. Lily. Lily.

However, something… Something felt… Wrong. No. Not wrong. Different? Strange? Off? Harriel's skin was a little too pale. She felt a little too hot to the touch. And there, in the glimmer of her eye, was a sort of intelligence that should never be in a babes eye. Petunia remembered shaking it off. The wind outside was picking up, rattling the windows and howling in the open chimney, and lost in her grief, this feeling of uncertainty, and the bubbling coil of fear raising its ugly head from the pit of her gut, could be easily brushed away.

That was until the light bulb of the kitchen shattered with a loud pop and rained down glass. Shrieking, Petunia remembered curling her body over the babes. She remembered the pop, pop, pop, of the light bulbs exploding throughout the house, the violent and unnatural clatter of the wind as it swirled around the house, beating at brick and mortar until Petunia had been sure, so utterly sure, that the very house would crumble down upon them that very moment.

Scrambling up from the table, hitting her knee so hard she was sure she nearly dislocated the knobbly joint, Petunia remembered how she had tried to run, upstairs, to her husband and her own child. She remembered vividly the force of wind, hot like the babe she was holding, that sent her sailing backwards, right into the dark, pitched mouth of the kitchen. She remembered seeing a light, hot blue so light it was nearly white, bright, so bright it nearly blinded her, right by her breast and, confused, scared, alone, Petunia, breath jagged and notched in her chest, had glanced down, pulling the babe away from her cradled arms and heaving chest.

Harriel's eyes were glowing. Not shining with tears. Nor with a merry twinkle. Glowing, like stars, blazing, and brilliant, and intense, and white and hot and wrong. Vernon's hurried and lumbering footsteps barely broke through the piercing scream of his wife, the sound of Dudley wailing in his nursery playing fiddle to the hectic opera of that Little Whinging house in Surrey on that cold, dead night of October 31st.

So, yes, Petunia had adored her niece once upon a time. All for about an hour. Before she knew it for what it was. Wrong. It may look like her sister. It may look like every other person out there. It may walk and talk and laugh like any other child, but it was not. It was something other. Not like them. Not a witch either. Petunia knew her sister, that horrid boy she had been friends with, Snape, and this… Whatever this thing was, was nothing remotely like her or him, or anything else Petunia had ever seen before.

It wasn't human.

A short little prologue to test the waters. So, what do you think?