Title

Sanctified

Author

Sar'Kalu

Summary

AU. Extremely Religious. Trigger Warnings. What would happen if Harry knew God? If Harry turned his back on the Wizarding World? If Harry walked among Angels and Demons, Hunters, Vampires and Werewolves. Who would Live? Who would Die? And would Harry be Harry if he had no Magic at all?

Disclaimer

Harry Potter is the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, and Warner Brothers and their affiliated. Supernatural is the intellectual property of Eric Kripke and Kripke Enterprises and their affiliates.

Rating

M: violence, explicit sexual acts and blood and gore. References to abuse and sexual abuse.

...

Chapter Four

Our Father In Heaven, Hallowed Be Thy Name

Pope John Paul II sat behind his stupidly ornate desk and procrastinated in reading whatever files and forms his 'beloved' secretary, Bishop Jeremiah had found for him today. He knew it wasn't a particularly kind thing to do, but he desperately hated Bishop Jeremiah, more because the good Bishop flat out refused to let him take the million and one breaks he'd much prefer to do than read yet another treasury report. He was so bored he was close to tears.

The only saving grace in this situation was his twelve o'clock appointment with the promising young Priests, who had moved to the Holy City five years ago. The younger Priest, Harry Potter, had recently given a sermon on Love and Compassion and the elderly Pope had been moved enough to call the young man to his presence. Naturally, Father Potter never went anywhere without his beloved cousin and sidekick, Father Dudley Dursley, a gentle and kind man who was especially good with children. Almost as if he had something to atone for, Pope John Paul II hummed to himself, reluctantly casting an eye over the 'Holy Budget'.

The influx of new parishioners from England and the Italian hinterlands was interesting. Most of the local's came from Bishop -nay, Father Francesco's new flock. The elderly Father having stepped down from the red trim cassock in favour of a simpler name, his reasons for leaving vague but firm. The newly instated Bishop Adler was most disturbed by his mentors leaving until he spent some time in the presence of Fathers Dursley and Potter, rumoured to have been seen in Father Francesco's presence before stepping down.

Which made their presence all the more intriguing. Rumours from the seminary that both men had lived in told of miracles and God-given Grace, compassion and Love. The Pope set his pen down and removed his gold wore-rimmed glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. The conflicting rumours and stories about Father Potter had left him in a bit of a bind, he was unsure if he should question the youthful priest or if he should sit back and watch, wait for something rare and miraculous to happen. Then there was the problem of whether nothing happened, or something did happen, what should he do?

Should he, if nothing happened, accept the lack of divine power in the man and allow the pretender to leave? Or should he, as the Church doctrine mandated, cast the false Priest from the cloth and strip him of his colours? Either way, the Pope suspected that he would be loosing one of the best things to happen to this place, Vatican City, in a long long time.

And then there were the equally unpleasant problems arising if Harry Potter was a Saint or Messiah. If there were miracles being performed, how should he react? Should he watch and wait until the Saint had died before canonising him? Should he announce it to the world, opening himself up to ridicule and cruel commentary from around the world? Or should he deny and open himself up to disapproval from Up High?

Okay, so that last one, he admitted himself, wasn't much of a choice at all.

The even worse, he thought, picking up his pen once more and glaring at the nib that was leaking black ink across his papers, how could he even explain a Saint in the twenty-first century when God was barely believed in any more? And even when the Lord was believed in, it was in a kind of God that forgot about his true nature as a wrathful, awesome, biblical God who as easily Loved as he did Smite. No, Pope John Paul II was in a fairly unenviable position here and he wasn't too sure if he owned enough faith to cover it. Not to be facetious or anything, but he was pretty damned sure that if he went about this the wrong way, he'd be crucified like the Son of God; by lots and lots of Romans pissed off at him changing the world order.

Mainly because he was in Rome and not too many people would get to him as fast as the pissed off Roman populous. Sometimes, he groaned to himself as he leant back in his chair, pen rolling from between his fingers as he raised weathered hands to his face and burying his head into his hands, it really, really didn't pay to get out of bed. Somedays, the Pope really, really wished he'd never been elected to this thankless position, forever doubted and harangued by the people who were supposed to support him best, all for acting on faith, as they were all supposed to do.

It was quite ironic that the City of Faith probably contained the most faithless and skeptical men and women in the world.

Pope John Paul II raised his head, ink spots running along his hair line, at the sound of a gentle knock upon his rosewood door. "Enter!" He bade the knocker, suspecting that it was Bishop Jeremiah, his heart sinking to his toes as the tiny, dark haired Bishop tottered in like a little black crow, his eyes black and beady as he peered over yet another stack of files. The Pope swore unto God that paperwork was the realm of the devil and cringed backwards as the files slid precariously forwards, threatening to spill into his lap, as Bishop Jeremiah set them on his desk.

"Good Afternoon, Your Holiness," Bishop Jeremiah smiled, thin lips stretching wide like a lizards, his black eyes gleaming beneath heavy brows that reminded the Pope of caterpillars. "Your twelve o'clock meeting has arrived," the Bishop paused his oily address and the Pope felt his soul shiver in mild dread. "Would you like me to send them in?"

Pope John Paul II rested ink stained fingers upon his desk, as though praying for patience. "Naturally, Jeremiah," the Pope requested quietly, ignoring the way that the Bishops face turned spiteful and mean. He had no interest in his secretaries jealous nature and secretive desire to keep the Pope to himself. "And call for tea, please," Pope John Paul II instructed gently.

"It shall be done, your Holiness," Bishop Jeremiah agreed sourly, backing out of the room almost silently, his black shoes whispering on the thick red, purple and gold Persian carpets.

Within moments the silence of the Palpal office descended once more only to be broken by Bishop Jeremiah returning, although this time he escorted two men. One tall, thin and dark haired with the most piercing green eyes above thin yet sculpted lips and a strong straight nose and strong jawline. He was thin enough to look like a good breeze would knock him over, yet for some reason, the Pope believed that the man in front of him would survive the very worst instances and situations. Would perhaps even do things that no normals man would dare attempt.

The other man was taller still with sky blue eyes and neat blonde hair, and unlike his companion, the blonde man appeared to be less refined, his jaw not as defined, his nose slightly too broad and his cheekbones too rounded to look truly distinguished. Yet, for all his unpolished beauty, the man wore calm and contentment like a second vestment, serenely meeting the Pope's gaze with calm and joy. Both men wore the traditional black cassock and both men wore the purple stole of Lent, despite the season having only just started and that not even the Pope was really all that ready for Easter. (Reminding him unsubtly of the paperwork that kept piling up, cruelly he might add, and adding to his already dismal abilities of time (miss)management.)

Pope John Paul II gently dismissed his secretary with a wave of his hand, smiling slightly at Bishop Jeremiah's pathetic pout while considering the man who many considered to be a Saint. Harry Potter, the dark haired man, did not look like a Saint, but appearances, he knew, could be very deceiving. "You requested to meet with me?" The Pope inquired, knowing this to be true but equally knowing that none could have gained access to him unless he himself desired meeting them.

"I did, you Holiness," Father Potter agreed, reaching into a fold of his cassock and removing an old and tattered letter that he had held onto for the past seven years. Without further ado, the youthful priest passed it onto the Pope, his green eyes serious but serene. "I was asked to pass this onto you, your Holiness."

"By whom?" The Pope inquired as he cracked the seal open and opened up the letter. The seal, that of a tall tree burdened with apples and other glorious fruits, was recognisable, although from where, Pope John Paul II had no idea.

"Joshua," Father Potter answered.

The Pope paused in reading the missive, his brow raised, "Joshua?"

"An Angel of the Lord, your Holiness," Father Potter replied, his voice calm as if he had not just shaken the very roots of Pope John Paul II's beliefs.

The Pope closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with inky fingers. "Angels," he muttered, vaguely remembering meeting a tall dark man with kind brown eyes on his inauguration and asking for proof in a list of Saints who should and had been canonised in order to ensure the Church was operating to God's desires. In his hand was that list, close to ten years too late to be sure, but that list that Joshua had once promised him was now in his hands and close to the bottom was a name that was highly familiar: Harry Potter.

"Joshua speaks to Harry on occasion, your Holiness," Father Dursley stated, confident in his belief, in his faith.

The Pope sighed heavily, "of course he does."

Father Potter leant forwards, determinedly trying to impart his divine knowledge on the ageing man before him. "I know it is hard," he sympathised, truly, he did. "But you are not like those around you, Your Holiness," Father Potter settled his hands, palms placed flat together, under his chin and his elbows resting on his knees. "But you do not have their luxury of being able to doubt my words or the words within that missive. As God's Vessel on Earth, you have the singular duty to guide humanity to Heaven and beyond."

"I do realise this," the Pope's words were sardonic and bitter, how he knew this already yet still, many, even his own congregations, doubted he and his words. It was a sad fact of the modern era that God was no longer fashionable and his morals and rules were considered outdated to many and irrelevant to most. The Pope met his young and idealist priests eyes, curious, "what would you have me do?"

"Nothing," Father Potter admitted finally, leaning back in his chair and blatantly ignoring the way that Father Dursley stared at him incredulously. "You will have enough trouble in a few years time dealing with the apocalypse."

"The Apocalypse?" Pope John Paul II demanded, horrified.

"Quite," Father Potter agreed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose tiredly. "It would appear that God has grown tired of Earth and had decided to make it anew."

"Such falsities from one of Gods Saints," a deep dark voice murmured smoothly from behind Father Potter, startlingly the Pope with the dark skinned mans appearance.

Father Potter twisted around, smiling in greeting at the man, and calmly gestured to the empty chair beside him. The Pope quietly breathed a word of thanks to his preference for three chairs in front of him rather than the traditional two. While Father Dursley watched the proceedings with hooded eyes, the dark skinned man too his seat primly, too wooden in his movements to be human.

"Joshua," Father Potter greeted the newcomer, stretching out a hand and brushing fingers across the angels own in reassurance. "What brings you here?"

Joshua, Angel and Gardener of the Lord and His Creations, sat before the Pope and his two guests with dark eyes that seemed to stare into the soul. "I have come to check up on the meeting between my two charges and to ensure that neither of you do anything foolish."

"Charges?" The Pope questioned, curiously leaning forwards, desperately trying to pretend that he wasn't staring at the angels back and seeking for any kind of indications of the angels wings. Because staring is rude and disbelieving in Gods Angels is Blasphemy. (And potentially Heresy, but Pope John Paul II doesn't really want to think about that too much.)

"Indeed," Joshua hummed slightly, thinking. "You are both my charges, although every Pope is my Charge-"

"I thought the Popes were protected by Michael, the eldest and strongest of Archangels?" Father Dursley questioned, too curious to manage to silence himself before such august bodies of faith.

Joshua smiled at the faithful and trusting human, knowing him to be the only thing that would keep the youthful Saint from despairing in the coming years. "Once, they might have been, before Michael lost faith, Raphael lost hope and Gabriel fled Heaven."

"And what of Uriel, Chamuel, Jophiel, and Zadkiel?" The Pope asked horrified by the state of Heaven and the distress barely shown by Joshua.

"Uriel is naught but a Seraph," Joshua smiled darkly, his eyes bitter. "Despite what your Book of Enoch may tell you, while Chamuel and Zadkiel, also Seraphs, both died in the fight against Hell's Knights, before Lucifer was Cast Down and Sealed in the Cage."

"And Jophiel?" Pope John Paul II was frightened to asked, but he had to know!

Joshua smirked, a bitter twisting of lips that did not suit him, "I am Jophiel," the dark skinned angel shrugged nonchalantly, "a mistranslation, as happened frequently." Joshua ran a hand down his face tiredly, "being a Prophet of the Lord is not easy, Hearing the Word of God is destructive on the mind, and painful, so many Prophets medicate with high dosages of alcohol so they are not driven insane by each message."

The Pope stared at the angel, shocked. "The Bible is incorrect?"

"Most of it," Joshua agreed dryly. "Many have tried to correct it, but it is for the most part, impossible to do so. Mainly because the Word must be given via Prophet, it is improper for an angel to step in to clarify."

Pope John Paul II nodded tiredly, understandingly. Even if he understood, he didn't have to like the rules, which often sounded arbitrary and mean. But God's Law and Word was exactly that, God's Law and Word. "Then why have you come?"

Joshua smirked once more, "to clarify and impart upon you both your tasks."

"Clarify what?" Father Potter asked warily, even as the Pope questioned: "What tasks?"

"Saint Harry has been requested to attend the Prophet Edlund, to Heal him and then to attend the Whore of Babylon," Joshua stated, meeting the green eyes of the Saint beside him. Harry Potter should have been Raphael's Charge, would have been Raphael's Charge had Raphael not despaired and lost all hope in humanity and his Father. Their Father, the Lord God in Heaven. Absence did not mean Death, as the young Archangel would one day find out, once of course, he earned his Father's Forgiveness for his tomfoolery and cruel words that caused the younger angels to despair and Fall. Raphael had done more damage with his negativity than Lucifer had ever done with his war.

Joshua then turned to the Pope and smiled tightly, "and you are to shake the Clergy and Church, ensuring that my, -Our Father's word is obeyed." The Gardener held out a second letter, this time written in Latin by God, to the Pope. It would be foolish of the man to resist or to fail to educate his followers. Although the future Pope Benedict XVI would be a disappointment, the Pope thereafter, Pope Francis, was apparently going to be spectacular. According to God anyway, Joshua would reserve judgement on that, not that he should Judge, that was God and Gabriel's job only, his was to watch, wait and to tend God's Green Earth. Which he would.

The angel watched over the trio as Father Dudley Dursley hashed out a travel plan for five years time with Pope John Paul II, the Pope the only one knowing that he would not see this trip, his time coming to an end swiftly. Already he considered stepping down in a years time. He was old and weary, for all that he enjoyed ruling this body of Clergymen, it was getting harder and more tiresome with every passing year. Saint Harry sat silently in his chair, speaking only when necessary, trusting in his cousin to keep them safe and organised. He could do nothing less, after all.

…

…

Endings are hard. They can be cruel and unkind. For many, endings happen in the embrace of Death, freeing them of the pain and weariness of old age. For others it like a long hard run, wrestling with pain and illness, well before their time. For a very few, its quick and brief, no more painful than turning off a light. Of all these, Saint Harry Potter wished to never know the pain of loosing his cousin, a man who had held him up through good times and bad, no matter their beginnings.

When he had been a teen, Vernon and Petunia had been cruel and unkind, but their ending had been bittersweet, turning from the seminary and leaving their beloved son and hated nephew inside to seek their lives among the faithful. When he had been a young man, he had created many a kind ending by giving people a new beginning that suited them better. By Blessing those around him, Saint Harry had ever hoped to find that inner peace within his flock and grant them that illusive serenity that was forever sought amongst humanity.

But never once had he thought to end up in the middle of a cemetery, staring into the eyes of Sam-Winchester-who-was-not, Dean Winchester behind his brother looking devastated, and both brothers staring at him at a loss and fearful for their lives. By their feet was the angel Castiel and an old man wearing a blue baseball cap, both beings dead and broken.

Unlike every other situation he got himself into, Saint Harry was quite alone this time and at a loss of what to do. Oh, it was quite clear what had happened, Sam was possessed, quite possibly by the Devil Lucifer, and Dead was desperately trying to stop him, trying to find his beloved brother within the dark monster that inhabited his mind.

Saint Harry raised a hand and placed it against Dean's chest, feeling the rapid heart-beat thundering away like a pounding drum within. "Dean," Saint Harry stated calmly, his voice musical and kind. "It is time for you to leave now."

Dean stared at the Saintly human beside him, wondering where the man had come from and what he was going on about. "What?"

"It is time for you to go now," Saint Harry reiterated calmly, pushing gently on Dean's chest and shoving him away from Sam who watched curiously.

"But-" Dean tried to protest, Harry's saintly serenity chipping away at his stubborn demeanour and convincing him that it really was in his best interests to listen and leave after all.

"Dean," Saint Harry gently scolded, surprising the Devil before him as Dean slumped and backed away. Leaving the Saint and Devil alone in the cemetery of Stull. Saint Harry turned to the Devil and smiled softly, "hail, Lucifer," he greeted the Fallen Archangel.

Lucifer cocked his head to the side, quite unused to being greeted in such a manner before clicking just what the being before him was. "A Saint," he sneered, unimpressed. "You seek to stop me?"

"No," Saint Harry said calmly. "Nor to Heal you."

Lucifer shifted his weight, unaware of the stirring at the back of his mind as Sam woke, as if from a deep sleep, and peered out from behind the Devil's eyes and into the kindly serene face of the only Saint he had ever met. "Then why have you come?" Lucifer demanded of the man before him, uneasy. Saint's were bad news for those like him, they were incorruptible and compassionate to the core. The only good thing about them, was that they had a tendency to die young.

"To forgive you," Saint Harry stated firmly.

Lucifer paused, shocked, realising that Dean had done as the Saint had asked, left the cemetery and was miles away by now and still driving; realising that Sam was awake and very confused in the back of his mind but equally curious as to the Saint's intentions, well, Lucifer grumbled silently, that made two of them; and realising, with a lightning bolt of chocked fear, that the Saint was here on behalf of his Father.

That was the tricky thing about Saint's, they died young for the simple reason that they tended to burn out quick and fast like gunpowder. Shaping and changing the world around them as they did so. They left no stone untouched, no river unchanged for the presence. It was infuriating. And here stood a Saint passing on his Father's goddamned Forgiveness, as if he sought it. Lucifer bared his teeth in fury.

"Why are you here?"

Saint Harry sighed tiredly, "to forgive you, Lucifer, Son of God."

"We are all Sons of God," Lucifer snapped without thinking, unwillingly validating his Father's creations for the first time in one hundred thousand years.

"I know this," Saint Harry agreed wearily. "You know this." He added, stepping forwards, "yet you refuse your Father's Love and Forgiveness."

"I have not sought it," Lucifer denied the Saint, ignoring the green-eyed man's attempts at sneaking up on him. It was useless to try and the Saint could hardly hurt him, none could by his brothers and Michael was running late. As usual.

"Nevertheless," Saint Harry stated calmly, resting a gentle hand over Lucifer's/Sam's heart. "You have earned it."

Lucifer watched the tiny Saint with curiosity only to freeze as some kind of warmth filled him and then, fear swiftly followed. It was an instinctive reaction to an outside threat, and as Lucifer's hands wrapped about Harry Potter's throat, Michael arrived in a blaze of glory only to freeze at the sight of Sam crying and shouting for Lucifer to stop while the Devil snapped the neck of a dark haired, green eyed man.

It was all the motivation Sam needed, the tall, brown haired man wrestled control from the Devil long enough to lower the man to the ground gently before summoning the portal to the Cage and dragging both stunned Archangels in after him, tears still streaming from his eyes. Behind him the ground closed up like the maw of a great beast and Saint Harry's eyes stared glassily up at the sky above him, a faint smile on his lips.

The crunch of tires on crackling grass heralded Dean's return, the hazel eyed man leaping from the car and falling to his knees beside Saint Harry in shock, ignoring Castiel's sudden gasp as life was returned to him and Bobby Singer's groan. As the angel struggled upright and the elder hunter did the same, Dean knelt beside the young man that had healed his heart and soul and wept with soul crushing sadness.

No matter how hard he tried, Castiel was quite unable to revive the young Saint, his blue eyes wet with tears of sorrow, grief and guilt.

…

…

Dudley Dursley knelt by the grave of his cousin, Harry Potter and smiled. It had been a year today since the young Saint's death, but Papa Francis had finally canonised the gentle man who had touched so many. Dudley let strong hands run over the smooth marble, amused at the sight of three angel feathers that had been pressed into the stone, Castiel and Joshua had both argued for the right as protector and protected, while Verchiel had just wished to express his delight in meeting and sorrow in loosing the kind-hearted Saint. Upon the surface, read the message:

Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In our Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you.

John 14:1-2

…

…

Harry Potter walked upon a Western Shore, the sun sank below the horizon on his left and by his side walked a Man with wise eyes and a kind mouth. His hands were gentle as He guided Harry around rocks and surf, and it took them very little time to reach their destination by the bluffs that rose like sentinels above their heads. The Man turned, dark hair ruffled by the gentle wind and he smiled, hazel eyes twinkling behind eyeglasses as He held out an arm, waiting for Harry's embrace.

Harry smiled, stepping forth and embracing the Man tightly, his eyes leaking salty tears of gratitude, knowing that his time had come and it was time for him to rest. "Thank you," he whispered, stepping away and through to the cave that held the entrance to his Heaven, his dream, his family where he would sit, laugh and love while waiting for Dudley Dursley to rejoin him.

As the young Saint walked away the Man's form shimmered and became indistinct, returning to a hazy, vibrating orb of pure energy that radiated peace and contentment. Beside Him arrived another Man, dark skinned and kind eyed, this Man bore four wings upon his back, feathered white gold that shimmered red in the fading light and he smiled as he realised whom had left this place for the last time. Saint Harry was free and at peace at last.

Bedside the dark skinned Angel, God smiled and hummed in his own way, breathing out his reply to Harry's long since passed gratitude, before turning and leaving once more. As Joshua followed his Father from the sheltered cove on the Western shore, the bluffs of white stone were painted black as the light faded in a flash of green light…

"No," He whispered. "Thank YOU, Harry James Potter. Until We meet again…"

…

A/N:

Good Evening and Happy Update!

This is it, the finale! I hope you all enjoyed it, I know I enjoyed writing it. I know the ending's going to really peeve a lot of people, but sometimes, not all endings are happy, just as not all deaths are sad. I would love to hear your input/opinions, so, little box below needs filling. Tell me what you've thought of this, and if you have a desperate desire to read another chapter, drop me a line with a prompt and I'll consider it, although I will not guarantee anything.

Than said, thank you everyone, I've had a lovely time writing this, as I hope you have reading it.

Kind regards,

Sar'Kalu