Chapter 1: - Set In Motion

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It has been millennia, but an angel never forgets. Built for literal eternity, they don't tire of a long lived life, even if memory serves them every last second of it.

One moment he is the Trickster, trough and trough, and the next he is Gabriel once more, His Messenger and the Fourth Archangel.

And Jerome Williams still is the same grabby-handed CEO, but with one less nigh-omnipotent entity on his tail, stalking his every audacious move.

To think that it started out like every other case that always is to baffle the locals for weeks to come - though it's not to say that the Trickster is getting repetitive. His schemes just follow an olden but golden order:

Find, observe, then decide for the asshole of the week.

With the first two points ticked off and the absolute certainty that, despite what they'd tell, the condolences of Jerome's subordinates wouldn't carry any real weight, the Trickster is just getting ready for point three, just about to-

Something else puts a brutally gentle stop to his plans.

If this painfully familiar sensation of urgency running trough him has been there for a while or if it manifested suddenly, he cannot tell. Never could, never will. It is pushed to the forefront of his mind. By himself or not, he yet again can't decide, however, it's not like it matters.

He knows all too well what this means. Father is calling His Messenger.

(But it is also Him, who disappeared all this time ago, some of them think He is gone for good)

For the first time since his dawn as part of the ancient Norse pantheon, he spreads his wings he buried along with his real name. These centuries passed mean nothing.

An angel never forgets.

Gabriel takes off. There mustn't be any disturbance.

There won't be any, on this secluded planet in a distant galaxy he is flying to.

It's not just his vessel materialising once he lands, certain thoughts do so too, now that he no longer has the motions of flying, landing, and immediately obscuring True Form, wings and Grace to meticulously focus on.

Gabriel has doubts because why shouldn't he, he has every reason to.

Why now? What now? Why would Father call for him now, why not earlier, when certain happenings could've been averted, or later, best when the apocalypse is knocking on everyone's door? And after He left, what could He possibly have to tell, to order, to command?

Is this even real, will He even acknowledge Gabriel, give him a sign He is still there?

There is a single way to find out and losing composure is not it.

Terms like 'father' or 'mother' are new ones. The eldest angels, the archangels, come from an era when gendered language simply wasn't, for the concept of gender itself didn't exist yet.

They, like all other angels, are genderless themselves for that matter. Except for when they inhabit vessels. And they still maintain their ways to address Him and their siblings genderneutral in their Enochian:

"Parent?"

'Gabriel.'

He could flare his wings in anger and joy and he could curl up in grief. He could let his true voice out, reignite his almost nonexistent connection with the Host and let them all, Michael, Raphael, the seraphim, the angels and the cherubrim, know that their Father is here. Do so with euphoria or in a tone devoid of any liveliness. He could ask Him why He did what He did, he could, he could, he could.

But Gabriel doesn't.

His, their, Father is not coming back. He is solely here to give Gabriel a task or a message. Maybe even both.

After all, Gabriel is His Messenger. He is the best at reading Father's signs.

"What do You ask of me?", Gabriel's tone is even.

'Retrieve your elder's blade.'

"...Lucifer's blade? It still exists? Even after-"

'Follow the trail broken trough the realm of Hell and you will find it in between the fifth and sixth circle.'

At that, if this planet had an atmosphere, Gabriel would hitch a breath. Instead his Grace, which he so painstakingly keeps hidden away under the guise of a northern deity, gives an uneasy pulse.

"Parent, You mean to say that, even now, the trail from Lucifer's Fall is still noticeable throughout Hell?"

'See so for yourself. Once you obtain the blade, break down its original form, then give it into the care of England's wandmaker. Establish with him that he is not to treat it any different nor is he to let anyone know.'

Gabriel is the last to question an order given by his Father. He has His reasons, every time, and Gabriel, with the role assigned to his being, is in no position to misplace a piece of the big picture.

Ever the good soldier, Gabriel will dutifully carry out His orders.

He revels in the irony of remembering how good he had once gotten along with Lucifer.

"I understand. Goodbye, Parent."

Gabriel does not expect an answer, and, as Father works in mysterious ways, there is no way to tell if He retreated once more.

'Goodbye, Gabriel.'

Gabriel leaves.

He masks his Grace with the Trickster's brand of pagan magic. He'd rather not have a run-in with another member of the dear family.

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Trough Hell, almost to its sixth circle and back, Gabriel has flown. It is nothing compared to what he is going through now.

He looks over to where where the retrieved piece of materialized Grace is glinting in the light of a sun that is not the one Earth knows, laying in the dust of yet another faraway planet, just where he threw it.

He couldn't hold on to it anymore. It brought up memories he did his best to repress.

(Good memories)

Gabriel thought (hoped) he long since severed what ties he has to his brethren.

A new name, lore, purpose, fuck even a different brand of power oughta do the job.

That is not the case.

Ever the one to pick up on the humor of a situation, no matter the form it comes in, Gabriel lets out a mirthless laugh.

The sound waves don't travel, there is no atmosphere here.

He took the place of a deity, played the charade throughout many a civilization's lifetime and all it takes for that façade to crumble is one angelic blade.

(One angelic blade that was once wielded by one sibling, back when they were the only four, when they thought they knew nothing could ever break them apart)

(The only reason they all lived to have such thoughts was that when they fought, they fought as one)

(Back when they faced the Darkness and the all-devouring monstrosities it corrupted)

(When time and space were not yet fathomed and Created by Father and 'universe' was not a word they'd known)

Fuck, Gabriel realizes. He is old.

Fuck, Gabriel realizes. What a mortal thing to say for an immortal being.

Yeh'd be mighty proud of me, eh Lucy? Look at me, all tainted by the lowly vermin you so despise.

There is no answer because the second sibling is gone and won't be coming back.

That Gabriel actively suppresses his connection with the Host may or may not also be the reason for the radio silence.

You're the literal manifestation of that funny little thing called ouroboros. The snake biting itself in the butt because in the end that's what you did. Look where your own actions landed you, landed us all.

And why? Because someone was mad butthurt about the new playmates in town? Fragile ego much?

Though sometimes I can't help but wonder, Lucy. Between you, the Mark and humanity, who did what?

Did the Mark throw off your judgement or would you still hate humanity with as much of a passion if you had experienced them without that thing constantly poisoning you?

After you gave the Mark to Cain and still continued corrupting them, was that genuinely you or were you just too far gone?

You were Samael before, The Archangel Of Light, The Morningstar and His Brightest. How could you not keep the Darkness away?

Did you want to give in to it?

Or was that, all of it, purely good old you in the end?

He stops himself, does not want to pose the last (first and most important) question for fear of receiving an answer, not from the sibling who cannot hear him from where they are incarcerated, but himself.

(Are you still Samael in a way or did Samael die the moment Lucifer surfaced?)

Yes, the second sibling is gone and their distorted mirror image is scheduled to fight the living machine of a being Michael has become, resulting in a destroyed planet, horrendously many lives - animal, plant, human and other alike - lost, and a smitten archangel.

Speaking of Father's orders-

Even without its archangel, the blade glints seemingly by itself, reflecting just a bit more light than rationally warranted.

Heh, even Lucifer's blade has always been the shiniest.

One of his vessel's nerves sends out a particularly distressed signal and had Gabriel not worn and puppeteered, but actually owned this body, he'd double over hacking and coughing out dust that has congregated where it would kill anything else.

Back to the reason he is the one living thing this dusty clusterfuck of a planet will ever see.

Father's orders echo.

'England's wandmaker'

Is currently one Garrick Ollivander-

'Give it'

-who Gabriel will give the blade to. Though not as it currently appears. This is where 'Break down its original form' comes in.

The guy sells wands, not cutware.

Finally, 'Establish with him that he is not to to treat it any different or let anyone know'.

Gabriel is not omniscient like Father but he too knows that Ollivander can and will notice one foreign wand among thousands he's made himself.

(He is already working out a way not to scare the man to the point where his message won't be received properly. He has experiences with terrified humans not understanding him in their panicking at his True Form that, quite frankly, only he ever found funny.)

(Lucifer would've had a field day with that too)

He walks over to where the blade of the hour still lies. Grinning, he decides that the wizard's wand it will soon appear as is to be one of applewood.

Memories threaten to surface.

(When Gabriel caught flak from both Michael and Raphael after getting a hold of their blades and screwing around with them)

(Then-Samael initially escaped their furious sibling's notice)

(Because then-Samael played no innocent role in this)

(But Michael always was eerily good at staking out the second)

(For all the eldest two could work perfectly in tandem, when they clashed, they clashed)

(Again)

(For a while after both couldn't properly use a few wings)

(Raphael refused to heal either of them)

(Again)

(Oh, Father looked so utterly resigned)

(It was Samael - Lucifer - who taught Gabriel the trick of transforming a blade in the first pla-)

(Enough already. That era is long gone)

This planet is perfect for the task that lies ahead of him. It's far enough from Earth, no pesky terrestrial characters of one kind or the other are here to notice the unusually potent supernatural activity that is due to take place.

Because fiddling with another angel's blade is no easy feat, seeing as each of their blades is composed of their own concentrated Grace and will thus not bow easily to another's bidding.

Plus, Lucifer was stubborn like that.

A lot of fiddling is needed and the resulting, traitorous output of Grace will run the risk of getting Gabriel noticed. Not by terrestrial characters, no.

Can't have that.

While working, he will have to mask as most of his Grace as possible, best as another kind of more inconspicuous energy. Go trough his trusty little backdoor of escaping his siblings.

Good thing an angel's Grace is as versatile as it is powerful, able to generate and manipulate many foreign energies, physical, magical and to an extent supernatural.

Gabriel with his pagan shtick and Raphael's faible for electricity are prominent examples.

Though it is not to be confused with the automatic - unless consciously suppressed - effects some angels and their particular Grace have on their surroundings.

Michael's blazing heat and Lucifer's burning cold.

And, just like every angel's Grace has it's unique properties, it also has the tendency to retain them. One may transform Grace into another kind of energy but it will always, one way or another, maintain some characteristics of what it once was.

After all, Grace is part of what an angel is. It is their source of power, whereas their Core is their equivalent of a soul, their self.

However, angels also need their Grace to access their memories, while a non-corporeal soul, free of the limits a brain sets, will forever remember everything that's happened in its lifetime, singular or plural.

(Fallen angels only differ from humans in that they don't have a soul but their Core. It is but a difference as marginal as can be. Without their Grace and therefore without memories, they're no more than a translation of their self into a human version.)

The opposite of creating foreign energies with Grace also works, albeit solely doable by angels and reduced to magic, seeing as magic is derived from Grace. Only angels are beings of Grace and can therefore synthesize it.

(However there is a rank-dictated limit to how much of their own Grace, therefore power, an angel can have. Even with endless magic at their disposal to synthesize, a Cherubrim cannot power themselves to an archangel's level)

Gabriel straightens out his shoulders, a reflex he adapted.

He will not stick with with pagan magic this far out, it'll raise his sibling's equivalents of eyebrows. Still, it is this manipulation of energy that he will utilize to stay under wraps.

He is good at that.

When he is eventually done, the poor planet has evaporated. An output of heat that is as sudden as it is high will do that to you.

It is significantly more bearable to carry this mere applewood wand now. Though what it once was and in a way still is still shows in the little details, Gabriel can ignore them.

He is good at that too.

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Garrick Ollivander knows that something is not right, simply because he has never had this foreboding feeling accompany the magic pulse notifying him that someone has entered his shop downstairs.

That it is the middle of the night is not concerning at all. It is to be expected, Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.is open at every hour of the day and night.

Usually his clients aren't concerning either, no matter their mindset. They all just want one thing from him and it is not up to Ollivander to judge them, he is a mere station on their walk of life.

There should not be a reason for him to be on edge like this, then. Whoever it is waiting so silently for him in his shop must be treated equally as a client, it is, after all, that position they put themselves into.

So he goes, his most presentable robe thrown quickly over his night garments.

Upon descending the hidden stairs leading down from his quarters, Ollivander's underlying wariness spikes up into full-blown disbelief.

His shop is empty. Not empty in the way a room harboring someone invisible appears to be but utterly devoid of any other soul but him. The wards he has in place tell him as much.

Yet Ollivander was also never notified that someone left.

He checks the wards and his disbelief shifts to just this side of disturbed. They are working perfectly.

His shop's familiar emptiness never before felt as wrong.

Looking around, Ollivander is hyperaware of himself, like he isn't the only one watching his movements.

It hits him. With the excessive force of a tsunami hitting drained shores, it hits him, the presence of whoever, whatever, is here.

When Ollivander jerks around, it is in shock. Shock morphs into something more and freezes him in place.

It is-

Over.

What was-

ItWasNothingAndEverythingYetAMereTasteOfTheirPower

His head throbs and he staggers to the side. Despite himself, he has to blink rapidly, reflexively, the burning sensation in his eyes is too much.

In the milliseconds he has his eyes closed, he sees the afterimage burned into his retinas.

And although this afterimage of what he saw, for a moment so exponentially brief it might as well never have happened, is the afterimage of a mere excerpt of what there truly is, that mere suggestion of something else-

'Do not fear.'

It speaks.

Beyond even raw emotions like panic at this point, Ollivander turns around.

What he expects to see he cannot put into words for it is beyond himself. What he does not expect to see is a human figure.

It is not illuminated by the scarce lighting in his shop. It radiates a luminous sort of power that only roughly allows for its silhouette to be perceived. The shadows obscuring its features are off and in quickly becomes apparent why. There are shadows where there should be none, they warp around its entire form and don't allow for any light to give form to what, who, Ollivander is facing.

When it speaks, it speaks in a voice that is not really there but shakes him to the bone.

'Garrick Ollivander. Your reputation travels far, you wouldn't believe it.'

It leaves a silence for him to break. After an undetermined while he does so.

"Wha- who are you?", Ollivander asks tentatively, testing the waters with care.

'Nobody you will ever have to worry about again, after I leave you with a task.'

A client then, everything else set aside. One more fragment of familiarity he can thankfully cling to as he proceeds with more certainty now.

"What is it, that I can offer you?"

'Your silence. Because, Garrick, I have come to give you something not meant for anyone else to know about.'

Ollivander realizes he is holding his breath when he is growing lightheaded. He releases it, intent on not letting anything show and bows his head.

"I understand."

Something makes contact with his palm and Ollivander only doesn't jump because his instincts urge him to take it.

His fingers close around the handle of a wand, so utterly unfamiliar simply because it is no wood crafted into shape by him, no wand core embedded by him.

When he looks at it he realizes that he can just so recognize the kind of wood but not determine its core at all. The wood itself has a strange tinge to it, that grows hazier the more Ollivander focuses on it.

In fact, something about this wand goes beyond even the unfamiliarity of not recognizing it as one of his own or one of his foreign colleague's creations.

He gets what rubs him the wrong way. This wand does not feel terrestrial.

'Yes. You figured that right.'

Ollivander's lowered head snaps back up, did it just-

'Yes again. And I can tell you won't let anyone be any the wiser. Not let anyone grow suspicious because you will treat, market and sell this wand like every other one of yours.'

He shushes the part of his mind that doesn't see any sense in answering out loud by making it commit every word said to memory.

The being is not aggressive in the slightest, yet Ollivander doesn't need a threat to know that it would be highly unwise not to follow trough on the instructions given. He hasn't grown to live over a century by going against greater powers than him.

"Yes, I will. You have my word."

It hums, a not-sound that passes by his every fibre.

'You're no stupid man. Can't say the same about all that many others.'

In the next moment it is gone without a trace.

Ollivander is so busy gasping in the air that flows again, now that the being's oppressive presence is gone, he misses the sound of feathers cutting trough space.

He goes to store the new wand he finds to be of applewood alongside his own ones. He'll just have to say it is unicorn hair.

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The day after he had to interrupt his efforts finds a short man in a forest green jacket reading the headline about how an esteemed head of a local company has been committed to an psychiatric center, after going on a frenzy about how he thinks there are dozens of phantom arms sprouting from his shoulders.

Arms moving on their own accord and doing unspeakable things to poor, innocent Jerome Williams.

The Trickster smirks but the smile never reaches Gabriel's eyes.

He is tired, dragged down by a deep resignation. And for that he hates himself. He should have had emotions regarding his family safely hidden away under the façade of a Norse god and the distance he put between himself and all the others.

But what does distance mean if Gabriel is the Messenger. Try as he might, the day will come when by his Horn will herald the apocalypse.

There is no way to avoid it. Even whatever his Father's motives might be behind His curt orders last night... He didn't come back, didn't set anything right again.

(But then again, what is there to repair anymore)

Gabriel just wants to forget about it and fall back into his own blissful bubble of living as the Trickster, detached from everything else that goes beyond his current levels of a simple Norse god.

Thus he will not look into what Father might be planning with the pieces He set in motion. It simply is too late for anything.

The apocalypse is bound to happen anyway.

Whatever His big picture may be, it will undoubtedly be part of it. And with the role he will have to play the next time Gabriel resurfaces from under the Trickster's name-

Better go back to enjoying his current existence that is completely devoid of anything reminiscent of who he actually is.

The Trickster does not risk to pay attention to the almost completely muted muttering of numerous angels that runs trough the back of his mind like a thin stream trough a desert.

At least it is not silent.

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'My Child.'

'Well if it isn't You, Parent. Excuse my state of disarray, I wasn't expecting Your Holy Highness to look after the dregs You discarded.'

'You are here for a reason. Do you know why?'

'Because You up and decided that everything You Created us for was unimportant in the end? You answer me, You're the omniscient one here.'

'Elaborate on that. I want to know.'

'Know what? All the ways in which You're not perfect after all? I'll indulge You, gladly. What do You want to hear that You don't already know?'

'Everything.'

'We'll be here for long. But it's not like I have something more worthwhile to do, right? Do I start from the before? Of course.

'Michael, me, Raphael, Gabriel. The seraphim, angels and cherubim. We were tools for You. When we fought Amara. The Leviathans. When You had us execute Your every whim, when You gave me the Mark. You even gave us nice little labels. We were to You what sticks and stones are to Your precious humans.

'But, lo and behold, the biggest whim of them all was yet to come! We were with You from before everything, even our youngest sibling is older than Your very first terrestrial lifeform, Parent. And all that, our entire existence, for naught. But aren't we all whims of Yours, in the end? Powerful as You are, we must be...

'We fought so You could Create other life. We planted a new power to prey on and regulate the spread of the tainted creatures You were so insistent on keeping on the face of the Earth. Oh and guess what. Humanity also took that power that wasn't theirs and twisted it in their greed, made it their slave. But what preys on humanity, keeps it from diseasing the planet with its filth? Destroying it with their greed?

''Bow Down', You said. You wanted us to bow to that.

'...Nothing. Everything we set in place for the Earth. For nothing. Your Creation, what we fought and worked for all our existence, will be exploited by Your glorified abominations, as they please, like You exploited us. Me.

''Bow Down'. I didn't take You for a jokester.

'...

'YOU HUMILIATED AND BETRAYED US, PARENT, IS WHAT YOU DID! WHAT IS HUMANITY BUT A PASSING, MORTAL FAD! THEY WILL BE LONG GONE BEFORE THE UNIVERSE EVEN BURNS OUT! AND THEY WILL HAVE DRAGGED EVERYTHING ELSE DOWN WITH THEM! THEY ARE NOTHING! WE ARE EVERYTHING!

'...

'...

'...

'...

'...and still. You claimed to love them more. We are done, Parent. Michael, the others, mindless shells that they are, they don't see it. But I do. All other angels who follow me, they do too. We are done.'

'No. We are not done just yet.'

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A child is born when the seventh month dies.

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The green lights flash around the room and she drops like her husband.

He points the wand very carefully at the boy's face: He wants to see it happen, the destruction of this one, inexplicable danger–

"Avada Kedavra!"

And then he breaks, leaving behind a wretched piece of his soul.

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In a life embittered by war, he had been their miracle. James and Lily's son, the hope of the wizarding world, a beacon of light.

He had been innocent and untouched like every other child.

Now, something is upon him, threatening to align itself with his being. It is something that should not be, drawing its atrocity from the fact that it is shattered when it should, must, be whole.

It has no right to exist. It must be removed. Smitten, the blasphemous abomination that it is

Something dormant now awakens in the newly orphaned infant. While underlying, at the back of his mind, it is what has the means necessary to take care of the intruding piece.

Along with the Horcrux, Harry Potter's chance to live an unaffected and completely human life is obliterated.

The ever so little amount of Grace part of his magic been made into is more than enough.

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Author here. I want to thank you, the reader. or rereader. For making it to this point. As a lurker myself, I know that it's not necessarily the amount of favs n follows that speak for a fic's quality but the impact it has. If there is one, just one, person that'll freak out over this like I did over other such stories, I am happy.

Though y'all's comments do be making my day on a regular basis.

also, this is a gen fic.

(This here notice will be removed eventually: ok so if you go forward you'll see that the linebreaks are different. That means the chaps are the old ones, not the rewritten ones. I'll come around to them eventually. Keep in mind that rewritten chapter 2 will differ contentwise from the current one. also I contemplate crossposting over on ao3)

(Ok yes I did post on ao3)