IMPORTANT NOTICE: Everyone, if I haven't replied to your review from last chapter, PLEASE tell me so I can reply to it. I'm uncertain as to who I've replied to and who I haven't, as it has been a very trying time for my family and we're going through some rough times atm. I'm not sure who I've replied to and who I haven't, so if you make a note to it somewhere (in a review or PM) that would be great.

But regardless, I love you guys so much. The response to this is amazing: 397 Favorites/600 Follows/96 Reviews. I can't believe we are doing this well with only two chapters. This chapter is a lot-more light-hearted than I expected, but, it feels more filler like. HOWEVER, it does build upon relationships, Harry starts training and we have potential Winchester build-up (for next chappie lol)

Anyway, I really hope you enjoy it :D - and remember, any questions don't be afraid to ask!

Just as Harry forgot Love, he learned Hate.

It burned and coiled around the child's heart, festering deep within his soul, lurking nameless and faceless in the fractured depths of his mind. There it sat, a dark phantasm, twisting and coiling, oh so tightly to the child that they almost became one in the same. It whispered, so lovingly and tender, what they could do to the Dursley's, what they would do to everyone that had ever wronged them (kill-torture-hate-hate-hate), how he never needed anyone but himself.

Harry hated Hate. But accepted it for what it was; a voice, and nothing more.

When Harry found Hedwig (I-miss-you), found Hogwarts (home-sweet-home), found Magic (light-happiness-family), Harry stopped hearing that little voice in the back of his head.

Harry had prayed that he never heard Hate again.

But Hate can't be silenced forever.

"So…" Harry started, stopped, and began anew, "What do I need to do, exactly? I mean, I know that I'm supposed to get in your way, but, I don't really know what that even means so any help would be useful so.."

"Shut up." Famine interrupted, voice breathy and strained, reflective of his decrepit state. "Do what you feel you have to do, nothing more, nothing less."

Harry just stared, stared hard and meaningfully, confused as to what on Earth that was even supposed to mean. There is cryptic, then there is just not making any sense at all. He thought he escaped mysterious quotes when Dumbledore died, and whilst he loved the old man like a grandfather (he did teach him everything he knows about his Grace, and Magic, or whatever it was after all) that didn't mean he had to appreciate the old man's enigmatic ways.

He was a teenager, after all, not some sort of hyper-perceptive, hyper-intelligent…hyper-riddle-solver-person-thing.

"It isn't our place to tell you how to do your job, hun." War interjected, pitying the raven-haired boy, somewhat out-of-character for the vicious red-head. "You'll figure it out."

"One week." Death intoned, the words sounding more like a threat than anything else. "You'll know then."

"Yup, one week." Pestilence cooed, echoing his brother's statement.

"Shut up Pest, no-one likes you." War hissed. "I liked you better when you were Conquest; at least then you weren't such a sleaze-ball."

Harry wondered if now was a good time to resume clapping – it did have a good track record after all.

"War. Pestilence." Famine wheezed. "Shut-up before I eat you. Again."

Harry opened his mouth, as if to re-join the conversation, but stopped, stunned – trying, and failing, to compute the logistics of that statement. Discretely, he scanned Famine's slight figure, before turning to look at War and Pestilence; who had both gone significantly pale.

It wasn't worth thinking about. It really wasn't worth thinking about.

"I'm leaving," Death announced suddenly, "There's this quaint little pizzeria in Chicago that I've been dying to go to."

"…Did Death just?" It was Chuck who asked this, staring in morbid fascination as the Pale Horsemen's body bubbled and hissed violently, before melting into the floor.

"He made a joke," War scoffed, unimpressed, "that's all. He is so full of himself; I bet he is going to go off, devour as much grease as he can get his fossilised hands on, and giggle at his own jokes."

"Shut-up War." Pestilence stuck his tongue out. "Otherwise he'll kill you again."

"Shut it Sneezy, you look like you belong on the sex offender's register. In fact, wasn't there that one time that you featured on Watchdogs?"

"Hey! That was for Anthrax, not that - know what? I'll give you Herpes, just for a refresher. Semi-colon. Capital. P."

"Chuck." Harry whispered, nudging God's side. "Let's leave before they notice us."

"O-ok."

With that, Harry and Chuck left the room.

They did, after all, value their sanity.

Life moved on.

It was surprising to Harry, how smoothly he had transitioned into his new life. It had happened so quickly, too quickly, that he hadn't even felt different. The boy-who-lived felt comfortable here; like he belonged here, and for all that he loved Hogwarts and called it home it just couldn't compare to the peace that he felt now. His Magic, his Grace, danced inside his veins, singing of home, and his past soon just became his past and his present was becoming his eternity.

But Harry couldn't ever shake the feeling that something was wrong, that this comfort wasn't so much comfort as it was apathy.

He just didn't know what - what was so wrong about this seemingly natural, seemingly perfect turn of events.

Events that seemed so comfortably natural that it just felt unnerving.

His life had quickly fallen into a new routine; wake up, keep an eye on the Horsemen so they didn't do anything too stupid, cook something, and then drift off to bed. There were no disasters, no battles to fight, and it all felt a bit too suburban; the whole "cookie-cutter" life that the Dursley's coveted and he despised.

He was sick of it already.

So he intended to do something about it.

Harry Potter was never one to sit around idly and just let the world pass him by, after all. He was a man of action; always ready and willing to do what needed to be done, whatever that may be. Call him impatient, call him stubborn, but he just couldn't sit around and do nothing.

Hermione always did say that he had a hero complex.

So, on a sunny Tuesday morning, exactly one week from the day the war ended and the youngest Potter found himself in a world so different from his own, he invoked the powers, the Grace gifted to him (quashing the guilt that surged within as he did so), and summoned to him his Four Horsemen.

They came, abstract concepts building for themselves bodies of flesh and blood, until Chuck's living-room was graced with their presence.

"Here's Johnny!" Pestilence chortled, the jovial man laughing at his own joke.

He went ignored, as always.

"So," War started, impatient as always. "What is it that dear old master-o-mine requires? And how can this sweet, innocent steed aid you?"

"Mare," Famine interrupted, wheezing the words out. "Steed is male."

"Bah, semantics." War waved his words off. "But still, babes, tell me what's wrong? I want to get back to watching Jerry Springer."

So he told them. Told them all that he had been feeling, all that he had loathed, all that he missed. He told them how cramped he was feeling, how off-put he was by just about everything, how none of this seemed right. He felt like a bird in a cage, trapped watching the world pass him by, purposeless and purposeful and meaningless.

They just listened.

"Harry," War began, ruby lips curling into a savage smirk, "you're just pent-up a little. Ready to burst. Blue-balled,"

"Anxious." Death interrupted pointedly, glaring at his sister. "And whilst my sister may have put it crassly, she is right."

Harry collapsed onto Chuck's mottled-green couch, groaning as he did so. He knew all of this already – he has felt anxiety before damn it – and all they were doing were regurgitating things he already knew. Hermione, that's who he needed; she always knew what to do.

He missed Hermione.

"You want to do your job, but you are unsure as to how." Chuck said, walking down the stairs with a pen clutched tight in his hands. "Hence your anxiety. T-Though I am uncertain as to why you feel so uncomfortable – that's something not even God knows."

"Are you trying to make a joke," Harry's eyebrow quirked, already used to Chuck's strange ability to pop-up out of nowhere, "because that isn't funny, oh omniscient one."

Chuck faltered, almost missing the bottom step.

"Hey…" War sidled up to God, after he righted himself, a predatory glint in her eyes. "You know like you are all-seeing, all-knowing, and all, well, everything?"

"Yes?" It was said without a stutter.

"Can you see when people have sex?" War was honestly curious. "Missionary, Sixty-Nine, Reverse Cowgirl. Oh! I bet you're the master of the… 'Edge of Heaven'."

Chuck blushed, face burning red in embarrassment.

"Why?" Harry moaned. "Why would I expect anything more from you?"

"Quiet, sweetie." She lifted a painted finger to her lips, shushing the boy. "It is a perfectly valid question. You humans are all about the sex – there must be a reason why you are his favorite instead of his pretty little angels - maybe that's why."

"War." Death warned. "Do not forget who you are speaking to. He may not look like it, but he is God, and he can give you true death."

"Fine," the lone sister gave in. "I…apologize."

Chuck stammered something out, something that Harry had a very hard time deciphering, before scurrying back up the stairs.

"There was a particularly bad case of Syphilis yesterday," Pestilence said, apropos of nothing. "He shouldn't have lain with dogs."

"Eww." The auburn-haired beauty scowled in disgust, recovering from her brief period of melancholy. "Shut-up Pestilence – I liked you better when you were Conquest."

"Can we get back to the point?" Famine forced out, interfering before his siblings could degenerate into yet another fight. "This is why I never visit anyone."

"Thank you." The aristocratic features of the Pale Horsemen twisted themselves into a grimace. "We gave you one week."

That was a loaded sentence, thousands upon thousands of possibilities encapsulated in that one small statement. Harry had been given a week – a week to figure out what to do, a week to figure out what he wanted to be, a week to prepare himself. It felt like the snitch all over again, where he pondered and wondered and figured out everything that he needed to figure out.

"You did." Harry's emerald eyes closed, wondering if he was really about to do what he was about to do.

"And you know what to do?" Famine's wheelchair creaked as he leaned forward, watching Harry with rapt attention.

"I do."

They sat in silence then, just waiting, and even Chuck came back downstairs, blush having long since disappeared. The couch made a sound of protest as the Prophet joined Harry, the small man's presence a small comfort for the Child of Prophecy. His Grace vibrated, oscillating in joy, aware in that strange way that it was that it was about to be set free.

Go on, it seemed to whisper, you can do it.

His control on his Grace deliberately slipped, and his world exploded into light.

Pain tore through his shoulders, pain that was soon drowned out by the feeling of freedom that reverberated throughout his being. Black and red showered the room, crimson blending with onyx in a shower as long trapped wings unfurled, feathers glistening like shredded diamonds in the natural light of the sun. Harry stretched, his wings unfurling as he did so, the appendages crossing the breadth of the room.

He let go of a breath he didn't know he was holding, the anxiety melting away like ice in the morning sun, dripping and trickling and fading as it was absorbed into the ground.

Feeling a pressure against one wing, he frowned, before using his wing to push the offensive object away.

Chuck was flung off of the couch with a startled yelp.

"Pretty…" Harry didn't know how to feel with the look Pestilence was giving his wings.

"Told you they would be magnificent." War reached out with a hand, giving the feathered appendages a light stroke. "They are the product of an Archangel and a Dominion after all."

"Jophiel…Galgaliel," Harry tried to ignore how broken the man's voice sounded, but found he couldn't. He sounded like a father – a father that realised he would never see his child again. "Your wings would be a combination of theirs, wouldn't they?"

Chuck stood, brushed himself off, scattering the feathers that had stuck to him, before centring himself.

"I'll help you with their…your Grace, okay?" Chuck said, still sounding weak. "I'll teach you to sing, just like they did…could."

"And we'll teach you how to fight!" War cheered, finally taking her hands away from Harry's wings. "Well, I will. Death just touches things and they die. Famine is a pansy and Pestilence just sneezes in people's general direction and they catch some dirty STI."

"I can fight though." To prove his point, he stretched their Grace out, lifting the feathers off the ground with a wordless Wingardium Leviosa, transfiguring the ruby red and stygian black feathers into blades. He may not know obscure spells like Hermione, or have the advantage of the Dark Arts, but Dumbledore taught him how to make simplicity devastating.

"Honey, so you dabble in acupuncture." War mocked. "You need to learn to play with the big boys, if you want to tangle with us. Angels, Demons, all those pretty little monsters in the world - they'll eat you alive."

"As loathe as I am to admit it, she is right." Famine made it a point to avoid the sabres, the former feathers deceptively sharp.

"Sparkles would nibble you right up." Pestilence jumped in, testing just how sharp the weapons hovering in the air were. "Chompy chomp, said the spider to the butterfly."

"So, put those toothpicks away and I'll show you how to really fight." With a twist of his Grace, the needles reverted, feathers floating to the ground quietly. "Good, now hop on I'll give you a ride."

"Shouldn't we…" Harry gestured towards the abundance of feathers, the cheap blue carpet and the dirty green couch and even the television set all inundated with them.

"Go." Chuck spoke up, "I'll…I'll clean this up."

"Chuck…" The Potter scion wanted so desperately to give the man a hug.

"Its fine, I'm okay." He smiled. "I'm okay."

"If you say so…" Harry grinned back, even if he knew Chuck wasn't okay. "Well then…"

"Finally, let's go." War crowed. "About time. Ciao, Father-dearest."

With that, her hand lashed out, gripping tightly onto Harry's shoulder.

With an undignified squeak – that Harry swore came from War, not him - they were gone, leaving Chuck alone. All alone again. Chuck, after making certain that they were gone; the Horsemen having disappeared the moment Harry left – picked up one of the fallen feathers.

It twinkled in the fluorescent lighting, the onyx feathers refracting the beams of light, a kaleidoscope of colours bursting from its core.

It was the closest he'd get to seeing them again.

Chuck smiled bitterly, before picking up the feathers one at a time.

Harry panted, muscles aching and screaming out of him as he dodged and danced out of harm's way yet again.

War just laughed, sadistic pleasure blooming in her eyes as her ruby blade left a deep gash on her master's arm, blood catching on the tip of her rapier.

"Come on, aren't you supposed to be a war hero?" Her Rapier glinted malevolently, blood beading on the tip, like early morning dew on grass. "Don't be so pathetic – I didn't follow you for years just to kick your ass, even if it is fun."

War's blade (a long, sharp, decidedly dangerous slab of metal) was the only weapon that she would deign to use, and it stung. It was a curious weapon, the head shaped like an arrow – for maximum penetration, she had said – and Harry was slowly beginning to loathe the thing. The pommel was lifted once more, Harry's emerald eyes following the length of steel to the ruby velvet that was gripped so tight in her hands, the threat clear as day.

He couldn't get up anyway.

"You're so pathetic." She wielded her artifact like it wasn't an implement of murder, twirling a strand of her hair around the length of the blade.

Harry stumbled to his feet, panting. "How long…have we been doing this…anyway?"

"You know what?" She cocked her head to one side, thoughtful. "I honestly have no idea. But, seeing as you're standing, let's play ball."

Harry groaned, before arming himself once more.

This will be fun indeed.

"Harry, you need to focus." Chuck, stern but not severe, admonished. "Enochian…isn't a language that you can learn through reciting lines or memorising words. It's the language of Angels, of Grace, and to learn…no…not learn Enochian, remember Enochian, you have to believe in yourself."

"Remember?" Harry scoffed. "To remember something, first you have to learn something, and I don't remember learning Enochian. Latin, yes, English, yes, but Enochian – that never happened."

"No…you, as Harry, never learnt it. But as Jophiel, as Galgaliel…you could sing it to the heavens."

So Harry sighed, buckled down, and tried to focus: to remember some esoteric language that he has never heard before, but is supposed to learn.

He ignored the niggling voice in the back of his head that wondered whether or not Chuck was seeing Harry, or whether he was seeing his baby angels.

Something told him that he wouldn't like the answer to that particular question.

"What are we doing?" Harry deadpanned, escorted by a giggling Pestilence into a science lecture. "Or would a better question be why are we doing this? You seem to forget the part where I haven't studied Science in 7 years."

"Bah," Pestilence waved off any and all concerns, all but skipping into the lecture hall. "I need you up-to-snuff with the hippest thing going on in the realm of bacteria. Like, there is some cute little viruses currently being cooked up in Europe – you'll simply adore them when you see them."

Harry sighed – something he's been doing a lot lately – before allowing himself to be lead into the Biology room. Where soon he was abandoned, the old man sneezing on a poor student before scurrying off, cackling all the while.

Looking around, he spotted a seat next to a young, blonde girl, making his way over there to sit by her.

"Hi," she said, revealing pearly whites as she smiled kindly, "who are you? I've not seen you around before."

"Oh, I'm Harry. I'm new here," he smiled back. "Pleasure to meet you."

"British?" Harry nodded. "Well, I'm Moore, Jessica Moore."

Harry realized that the blonde was probably making a joke, but the reference flew right over his head.

"Oh," the newly revealed Jessica suddenly looked alert, "here's the guest speaker now."

Following Jessica's gaze, the vanquisher of Voldemort all but gaped, as Pestilence twirled his way towards the podium, manic grin on his face as he did so.

Harry conjured himself a quill and some sheets of parchment, ignorant of the strange look Jessica was giving him.

"Really, parchment?" Jessica whispered, only half-paying attention to the words spoken by Pestilence. "And is that a quill?"

Harry just shrugged sheepishly.

"Gardening." Harry echoed, concerned for Famine's well-being.

The personification of hunger raised an eyebrow. "Gardening."

"You're starting to sound like a broken record." Harry raised his head from the flowers he was pruning, dead petals tumbling to the ground around him. "But still. Gardening."

"How else are you going to solve world hunger?" Famine questioned. "Gardening."

"But gardening." A particularly unfortunate weed was yanked out with much more force than was necessary.

"You think you could just Magic up food for the world? Pull a Subway out of a hat? Maybe pull a Big Mac out your sleeve?" Harry's response was to throw a weed at him. "Well you can't – Death made sure that it was impossible."

"You're strangely talkative." Harry's features twisted into a grimace, as he pulled off a particularly happy slug from the plant he was tending to. "For someone who looks like they are on Death's door."

"Every minute you moan, the hungrier and hungrier the world becomes." Famine explained tauntingly, and as mean and cruel as it was Harry hoped he fell out of his chair. "So shut up, buck up and paint your thumb green, because you have work to do."

Harry may have grumbled out threats, but they were empty and meaningless, and he continued gardening.

"What is death?" Death asked, methodically devouring the slice of pizza in his hand.

Harry, eating his own pizza, stared blankly. They were sat in that quaint little Chicago diner that Death pointed out so long ago, talking. Lessons with Death were so different from his training with the other Horsemen; all they did was talk. There was no sword waving, no bizarre 'remembering' thing that Chuck was trying to shove down his throat, and there was definitely no creepy smiles that he had to awkwardly sit through.

"Am I talking to a brick wall?"

Harry only answered with a bite of his pizza, the grease from the delicious treat trickling down his fingers.

"I can't answer all your questions, even if that is what you want."

"If you want an answer, I'll give you one." The half-eaten slice was pointed at Death like a weapon. "Look in the mirror, chances are you'll get your answer."

"Cute." Death drawled. "This is why I hate dealing with teenagers. You're all spots and angst and ego-centrism. It burns."

Harry just spitefully took another bite of his pizza.

"I don't know." It was said grumpily. "What's Death? What's Life? What's Love? What's Hate? They're not exactly things you understand, they just exist."

"So you do know." The Pale Horseman leaned forward, elbows resting on the chequered table. "That's the first thing I'll teach you. That you cannot know death."

Harry's grip on the pizza became like a vice, threatening to turn the slice into mush.

"Then what was the point of asking that question?"

"There wasn't one."

"I hate you."

"I loathe you too."

Harry hoped he choked on his pizza. Death deserved it.

"Chuck." Harry whined, bored out of his mind. "What you doin'?"

Chuck ignored him. The deity was sat at his desk, furiously scribbling on ratty old scrap paper, the cheap biro carving black lines onto the ivory surface. He had been doing it a lot lately, dropping everything and scrabbling for paper, and it was making Harry curious. For some weird reason, Chuck wouldn't let him see what he was writing.

Harry wondered if it would be a grievous misuse of his status if he called Death over to forcefully acquire the paper for him.

"Go learn Enochian." The pen never stopped moving, Chuck's focus remaining on the paper. "I'm busy. Doing God stuff."

"God stuff?" Harry echoed, unamused. "Why can't you just tell me what it is? You're worse than Dumbledore."

Chuck leveled him with a stare that would shut up War. Harry stared back, unafraid.

"Harry." Chuck finally stopped writing, the pen rolling listlessly on the table as he dropped it. "Go and do something productive. Away from me."

"…Humour me."

The scratching of pen over paper was his only response, Chuck resuming where he left off.

Harry twitched.

"That's it." Harry exploded into action, catching Chuck off guard as he snatched the transcript away. "Let's see here…"

Harry blinked in confusion, lifting the paper just out of reach for the short man. He opened his mouth, unsure of whether or not he was reading things correctly. Quickly double checking, eyes trailing over Chuck's chicken scratch, ignoring the man's incensed shouts as he did so.

"Hey, what's all the noise?" War hissed, walking through the front door. "I come back to pick up Harry for our next lesson, and I come back to screaming."

Harry silently levitated the manuscript towards her, just out of reach from the madly hopping man. The red-headed woman tossed a caustic glare at Chuck, not amused in the slightest, before snatching the piece of paper out of the air. She gave a quick glance over it in boredom, following the words on the paper.

She came to a stop about halfway through, becoming more and more engrossed in the tale the further she read, a light blush blooming into existence the more she did so.

"Wow." War whistled appreciatively. "I don't know who this 'Dean Winchester' is, but the things he's doing with his tongue…I knew you were some sort of sex fiend!"

"Have you got to the part where…" Harry lost his voice halfway through, the words turning to unintelligible gibberish.

"I particularly liked the part where Dean reached over and…" War would have continued, but Chuck's hand lashed out, covering up her mouth and muffling the words.

"No!" Chuck cried. "We aren't quoting lines about Dean Winchester's sexual exploits. Stop."

War licked the offensive appendage, and once her mouth was free ordered Harry to hand over Chuck's pen.

"Chuck, babes, I'm your new Beta Reader." Once the pen was in her hands, she turned her attention to the innocent sheet of paper. "Well, porn Beta. If you want romance just stalk Famine…actually don't, his idea of romance of two people is devouring each-other with their eyes."

The author wailed, watching his precious Winchester Gospels get forcefully improved, unable (or unwilling) to use his godly abilities to save his script.

"And there you have it." She passed the sheet back over. "You can thank me later. Now, Harry, let's go – I want to get you started on zweihanders…though I'm uncertain if you can even lift them. Oh well, we're off."

She flared out her wings, the red invading his vision, and the pair of them were gone.

And that was what his life has become.

He has no free time, pouring hours upon hours of hours into bettering himself, trying to be what the Horsemen, what God wanted him to be; what he wanted to be. It was hard, it was grueling, it was painful, but Harry enjoyed it. Call him a masochist, a glutton for punishment, whatever. But he doesn't regret it. Not at all.

He couldn't imagine what life would be like if he had stayed in the Wizarding World.

Would he have become an Auror, fighting the good fight like everyone wanted him to? Would he have shacked up with someone, gotten married, had kids? Would he have been as happy as he was now?

He would have probably been married to Ginny.

Harry pulled a face at that, cringing at the thought. They may have had something, but in the end he only ever really saw her as a little sister – Ron's little sister that he felt obligated to care for – and they wouldn't have really worked together anyway.

Her brothers would have torn him apart anyway. After they were done with him, there wouldn't have been a corpse left to find.

Harry sat down on an old bench, the wood creaking ominously as he sat down on it. He was being given a break, for the first time in a while, and he'd take advantage of the peace offered by the park, let the bird-song and the laughs of children and the rustling autumn leaves take his mind away from it all.

It was nice.

One day, he'd be asked where it all truly began, and Harry would smile that smile that said everything and nothing, and laugh the confusion off.

It wasn't the day he was born, surrounded by his loving family, nor was it the day he survived the curse that kills. It wasn't the day that he first discovered magic with wide eyes, or his first day at Hogwarts. It wasn't when he finally ended the prophecy, taking down Voldemort and finally laying it all to rest.

Later, Harry would say it all started when a little girl, no more than four, with eyes bright and a smile that could break the sun; tripping in front of him. Her knees, unprotected from the concrete of the park trail, were cut – blood trickling around the girl's tiny hands.

"Hey," Harry soothed, crouching down. "Shh, don't cry, it'll be fine."

The little girl continued to cry, her body racked with sobs.

"C'mon, calm down. You're a big girl, aren't you?" The girl sniffed, staring at Harry with soulful eyes. "There we go, now, could you do me a big favour?"

She nodded, face scrunching up determinedly.

"Close your eyes, okay." The little girl followed his orders, closing her eyes, sniffs escaping periodically. Harry gave a cursory glance around, and seeing no-one paying attention to them, let his Grace flood his hands, covering his hands in golden light. "Your eyes closed?"

"Yea."

His hand covered the wound, still cradled by the girl's own, and let his Grace do its job. It tumbled out, motes of light escaping, as it knit together the broken skin, forcing out stones and clearing away the blood.

"You can open them up now."

Hazel eyes opened up, blinking away tears as the pain just faded away. Harry, seeing his job was complete, stood up, making to walk away.

"Mister," curious, the wizard stood still, waiting for the girl to continue, "thank you. Mommy says not to talk to strangers but…thank you."

"Don't mention it." He frowned, a thought occurring to him. "Please don't mention it."

"Okay," she chirped, "mister, your wings are pretty. Bye."

"Bye…" the wide smile on his face faltered, as her words registered. "Wait, you can see my wings?"

She just laughed, eyes twinkling as she skipped away, back to her mother.

It was strange. He had thought that his first true act would be something…something more. That his first true act of being, well, an extremely powerful supernatural entity would reflect that. Like maybe he would manage to find out a way to solve world hunger, or maybe he would manage to cure Cancer, or maybe he'd put an end to a civil war. That his first act was something so…menial, was surprising.

But good.

Harry carried on walking, whistling a merry tune (completely ignoring the strange looks he was being given).

Life…Life was good.

Chapter 3, Fin~

Hi...yeah. Not my best chapter. But hey times have been rough and at least it's been Beta'd - And yeah I have a Beta - two now :D - so you better go bask in their awesomeness (Yoko-no-Dara and AmeliaPond1997 are now my Baes) XD

Also, once more, if you have any questions don't be afraid to ask, in PM or Review. Pairings are a thing I'm still trying to work on, but I should be decided when everyone is in and we can all see how they write themselves.

And if I didn't respond to your review last chapter...tell me. I'll respond to it as soon as you let me now, because I've lost track of it all.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I hope to see you for the next one :D.

Signed, HalcyonNight