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Chapter Text

Harry would think that after dying at the age of 17, death would be easier the second time around. And yet, he never expected to die on the job just a year later, before he made up with Ginny before he visited the graves of his parents, George, Sirius, Remus, and a list that felt far too long for a seventeen-year-old. Thought he would raise Teddy with Andomeda and see him off to Hogwarts, telling him stories about his parents, helping guide him through the magical world that he never got, and answering any questions he may have that Harry had never been able to ask himself.

A brief thought, a blip really, thought perhaps there had been a mistake as he entered the train station with white walls a second time around. Did he really just live through a war, only to die a year later? The blip of thought was gone as soon as it came because Harry felt a small hint of relief as he slumped onto the bench in front of the two trains.

He understood better what happened after the first war, how he was able to slip through the cracks of the ministry and Magical Child Services, how people had been torn between partying that the 'evil' was defeated and mourning the many lives lost of both sides. Because at the crux of the matter, it was just the 'good' guys that died and were able to be mourned. The so-called evil Death Eaters still had families and still had lives outside the war. He watched Daphne, Ice Queen Slytherin Daphne Greengrass, break down crying after the battle because she found out one of the Death Eaters that died was her father. The man she adored so much more than her mother who ignored her and her sister just because they were not males that could 'continue' the Greengrass line. Their father never cared for the semantics of heritage of the title of Lord Greengrass, said Daphne had the exact spirit that the Greengrass Family Magic was looking for, and so she would be the heir regardless of gender.

Marcus Flint. Millicent Bulstrode. Pansy Parkinson. Theodore Nott. All children of Death Eaters, all having lost someone from the war and were unable to mourn properly because the 'good' magicals kept crashing the funeral services saying they should be glad their family member had been dead because they were evil sons of bitches.

One of the first things Harry did with his newfound fame was putting a stop to that real quick, going to every funeral, staying at the back, listening to the stories of the dead, and wishing that the magical world had taken fewer people as he kept the party crashers away from the funeral with strong ward spells that he had Bill teach him.

Every name that had been lost in the war was seared into Harry's mind, along with their relationships with their families. This translated into the trials of Death Eaters, not against them as many had expected of the 'Savior of the Wizardry World' but because he wanted to understand their reasoning for going into the war, what had been promised or threatened to them.

Of the rough 154 Death Eaters that had been arrested, 10 of them had been threatened by Voldemort, and 37 of them had just wanted a better world that they thought Voldemort would give him, not because of Blood Purity, but because they thought the ministry should be better, less bribery, more fair trials with far fewer people just being thrown into Azkaban without a jail time or trial they should be given. Further research into Muggles and the slow incorporation of Magicals rejoining the Muggle society but they needed so much more improvement and understanding before reaching that level. Better subjects at Hogwarts with more teachings available as they thought the classes were too limited at the time as what is currently offered with a separation between Professor, Head of House, and Deputy and Headmaster/Mistress of Hogwarts.

He and Kingsley had long talks almost every day about what they should do, what they can do really, and how they can possibly improve the magical society because 37 people, in a small community, as they were, was a lot to have complaints enough to go to war over, without counting those that wanted change but kept quiet.

Harry had stepped over a lot of toes doing what he was doing, he didn't think it was enough to warrant someone wanting to kill him. Perhaps that was hindsight though, because Harry should've known after the childhood he had where he stepped on Vernon and Petunia's toes so often he got burned for them.

No one liked being questioned, especially by a young adult who was telling them how the war could've been avoided really if the Magical World just opened their eyes and fixed their problems.

The biggest thing was, Harry, hadn't even died from a Death Eater or a sympathizer for their side. It was the so-called 'good magicals' that ended up killing Harry after calling him a traitor and corrupted by a piece of Voldemort after he killed the man in the final battle.

Yes, Harry's life was filled with bitter hindsight and irony that lead to his death, and yet he couldn't be mad at Death.

He might have only lived for a year, but that was a year longer than he expected with the motions of the magical world to get better.

"Most people, I've found, are quite in denial about their death, especially so young as yourself. The few that I have found that have accepted their death the fastest were those who have been kidnapped, and those who kill themselves. Perhaps that should say something about your mental abilities at this moment."

Harry's head turned just slightly and felt his heart (metaphorical heart really since he was, you know, dead) skip a beat as a figure with a black cloak approached him, his face an ashen skeletal head with no jaw. The holes where his eyes should be bore holes into Harry as what seemed like cobwebs dripped and crossed through the empty socket. He had no upper teeth, all seeming fallen out at some point, while the socket where his nose would be was chipped and rotten down the sides to where his teeth would've been. But what caught Harry's eyes the most, was the black wings that spanned from the end of one train, all the way to the end of the second train. Taking up almost all of his vision with only leaving just a little bit of white around the wings to indicate the trains were still there.

His wings flapped once, a small breeze that cooled Harry's body even as his fight-or-fight instincts never kicked in. The being in front of him stepped forward, and the wings seemed to almost shrink before him, heading inward toward the beings back until finally the trains reappeared, and the wings as dark an eclipsing sun, blocking any type of light behind it with the idea of swallowing everything in front of it, were gone.

Harry wondered if he imagined it, and yet he knew even his brain as damaged as it was from past traumas would never think of anything such as this, because wings meant angels in his mind, and the being in front of him seemed like no angel, and Harry was certainly no Christian or Catholic. He briefly wondered if it was an Animagus trait before pushing that thought aside.

"I lived longer than I expected," Harry said slowly, eyeing the figure as he stepped closer and closer to Harry until he sat right beside him, a small chill seemingly surrounded him, and yet Harry didn't feel the cold, "and I have been...tired. I have been fighting for my life from the time I was born. Initially from Voldemort, and then my relatives who wanted to beat my magic out of me, and then Hogwarts where Voldemort or something else wanted to kill me. I thought maybe after the war it would change, but the magical world has so many problems, and so many people expected me to fix them. I think...my death was always going to be my destiny. I just...lived a year longer than I thought I would," Harry admitted, feeling a weight lift off his chest from the truth.

He wasn't suicidal, even after all the losses he had through his life, but he also wasn't going to fight to live. He was tired, and he was dead. Maybe now he can finally get the rest he wants.

"I am sorry, then," the being told him, a slight hiss in his tone from what Harry assumed was air flowing through an (assumedly) skeleton body as he spoke through a mouth that didn't exist.

"Why?" Harry questioned, finally turning to the being in front of him instead of staring at the trains, his two destinations even though one had an Out-of-Order sign on it.

"You cannot get the rest you desire, in this death--" Before Harry could even open his mouth and ask questions, the being had continued, "--whether you wanted to or not, you contained the Three Hallows of your world. They exist, in only your world, a joke I had created with God, capital G that is. As the legends dictate, the being that holds the Three Hallows becomes the Master of Death."

"I threw the ring away, I broke the wand though," Harry's voice felt so small in his ears as his heart pounded in his ears as tears gathered near the edge of his eyes.

The being nodded, so slowly Harry wondered if it was possible if he moved too fast that his head would fall off his (again assumedly) skeletal neck.

"My own condition when God made the bet. That if one being were to gather them all, they would toss them aside to not be used again till their final death. You broke the wand, you tossed the ring, and in the year of your life after the war, you haven't touched the Invisibility cloak other than to store it. I never expected a human to never be that greedy, and yet here we are. You fit the criteria that was created eons ago when God was just a voice in vast emptiness by my side, her angels only a mere thought in her mind, and Earth only a very distant idea."

Harry didn't even want to touch that within a ten thousand pole because...what?

"I can't see my mum or dad? Sirius? Remus? Fred?" Harry asked quietly.

Death, because he (they?) couldn't be anyone else if they were claiming Harry was the Master of Death, was quiet for what felt like too long as Harry leaned forward and buried his head in his palms, tears soaking them as he tried to get them to stop.

For a moment, Harry thought Hermione was by his side as she was the only one to ever place a hand against his back when Harry was like this, a small rub that made things feel just slightly easier to breathe. But no, the hand was too rough, too...thin and leathery to be Hermione nor Ron on the few chances his mate picks up on social clues. "I never wished for anyone this life, it was why the criteria was created. Because one person gathered all three...but used them, then no one else would ever become the Master of Death. One chance, in all of the universes, for a Master of Death to not be greedy but be human. I never thought it would be possible. I am sorry."

"I don't want to be a master to anyone, I don't want to tell you what to do, who you can and can't reap. I know death has to happen, and sometimes it has to happen to good people. To babies, children, teenagers, adults, and elders. No gender, no age, no 'good or evil' as people dictate. Death has to happen, so people can live. I don't want to be a master of you, isn't there a way to change it?" Harry cried out because to force himself, a title he never wanted, onto someone else who tried so hard to not have it felt like a cruel thing, and Harry had vowed to himself, to never be cruel if he can help it.

Death was silent again, even as Harry felt like his chest was constricting from panic because he never wanted to be Dumbledore or Voldemort, controlling people as if they were pawns on a board of their own. Expendable without a thought so they can win a so-called Black and White world. The world wasn't Black nor White, but shades of grey.

"I think," Death startled very slowly again as the holes of his eye sockets bore into Harry with a heaviness he wasn't expecting, "that if there was anyone in all universes, in all galaxies, that I had to have as my Master, that could control me with just a thought, that I am happy that it was you."

"I just want to be with my family. I just want to finally be loved though," Harry quietly spoke, his lips wobbling, feeling like the five-year-old thrown into the cupboard under the stairs for asking his aunt where his mummy and daddy were and if they loved him. Only to be shot down and said they never loved him, that they died to get away from him as they were drug addicts and alcoholics who drove while drunk just to get away from him and died because of it. That it was his fault they were dead.

Death's hands donned in leather gloves seemed to rise and cupped Harry's cheeks as he caressed them gently. "Harry," he started very softly with a hint of something Harry couldn't identify as he couldn't recall it ever being aimed at him, "you don't have to be dead to have that. You may not be able to pass on, nor can I arrange a visit to the after-life currently, but I can make sure you have a family that will love you. You said you're tired, let me help you."

"How?" Harry asked his voice barely above a whisper as something that could only be hope, a small flowering bud of it, blossomed in his chest.

"Will you trust me?" Death asked.

Harry stayed quiet, staring into the emptiness that was Death's skull as he looked the being over. He said he was the Master of Death, that he seemed happy to have Harry even if he hadn't chosen him, but he could also easily be lying and use this moment to bind Harry to something, make sure he can never control an entity as vast as Death with just a thought as they said.

"Death doesn't lie, My Dear Boy. Why would they? People may cheat it, and people may lie about it, but Death is absolute. They have no reason to lie because once you are in their domain, you follow their orders, their thoughts, and their actions. I am only here because they allow me to be here, to help guide you back to the living if that is what you wish for."

Dumbledore had once told him that when he died at 17 years old, and even now Harry couldn't bring himself to disbelief it nor the deity in front of him.

"Yeah," Harry said quietly before a stronger, more certain feeling bloomed in that flower of hope, "yeah I trust you."

"Thank you," Death spoke in a hissed tone that told Harry that Death understood his hesitance, but was glad Harry trusted him.

Harry didn't know what to expect, except that Death used the hands still caressing and holding his cheeks, to gently bring their heads closer. Harry wondered if the deity was going to suddenly kiss him because their heads were practically touching when blackness took over his vision.

He didn't know what happened next.

Chapter Text

Crowley would like to state that even a month after Aziraphale got his sparkling new job and wanted to change Crowley that he was fine. So what that he nearly drinks till he passes out almost everyday. That his chest hurts like a thunderstorm brewing within his chest that lightning nearly strikes him every other day. So what, that's he's had to literally visit Aziraphale's bookshop because Muriel clearly had no idea what they were doing and because no one was bothering to teach the naïve angel the ways of taking care of a bookshop without selling the books. In doing so hurting his chest even more throughout the day and drinking far heavily afterward.

Nina and Maggie have tried to stop him the few times he comes to help Muriel out when he doesn't get them to call him for their questions (questions, in general, were very frowned upon in heaven that he ended up kicked out of it. No he wasn't bitter what do you mean?) regarding the bookshop policies, taking care of the small kitchen that Az-that angel had in the small backroom. What tea was and helping introduce them very very carefully to human cultures and the dos-and-don't. Unlike when he and that angel lived on Earth, nowadays humans will either not care about anything out of the ordinary, or you'd have a military presence (considering everything that happened in 1692 in Americas Salem, Crowley wasn't taking any chances).

So what that his time was spent moping about his apartment that Shax returned to him because of their own upgraded job that they were given. He was fine.

And sure, maybe the few times he left his apartment was to physically go to the store to buy more alcohol and then proceed to use demonic miracles to make sure the process was smoothly. He was doing evil work, putting more money into the government that existed, buying more alcohol than was prohibited, and okay maybe he will make sure the person in charge of checking him out doesn't get in trouble but that's because he doesn't need that going back on him. And okay, maybe there was even a particular homeless person he passes on the way to the store everyday that somehow was having even worse of a time than Crowley and if he just so happened to drop a thousand dollars for the person or food, gift cards, medic supplies, it doesn't mean anything.

It was all part of the demonic plan, because if that one person got a better life, then they will make other people's life worse. It was a natural human cycle after all. One human can't have a good thing without inflicting the pain onto another person, he was being an evil demon which he was.

He didn't need someone changing him. He was fine just the way he bloody was thank you very much. And okay, maybe he was a bit hungover (which shouldn't have been possible and yet here he was) when he returned from the store from the 30 days after he initially started these outing to a couple of kids that belong to the apartment complex (there was only 2 families that lived in Crowley's apartment and okay, maybe he rented it out to two families that really needed a cheap place to stay, they never bothered him and it certainly wasn't because he was doing a good thing) one he recognized as one of the kids that stayed there the other two from around the place.

They seemed to be grouped up sneering and kicking something, Crowley assumed it was a football like normal children of that age (what age was that again, being as old as he was human ages still confused him in all honesty) and the kid from his complex seemed uncertain of something (Crowley recognized that look okay, he used to wear it in Heaven from Before with a capital B).

But the black mess they were kicking certainly didn't look like any type of football he's seen and they weren't kicking it on the pavement but rather in the mulched garden that Crowley didn't take care of (why would he, they were the government's plants and having them look bad made people's days worse and therefore, will do more sinful things).

"Oi! Scram you Little Demons! This isn't a gathering, go somewhere else!" Crowley growled out to them already feeling his head pound just a bit worse.

The kid that lived in one of the two complexes flinched and shot Crowley an apologetic look before booking it back into the apartment, not even glancing at his friends. Crowley wondered if he was going to be a problem before pushing the thought aside and figuring it was a child being a child. The other children, though, had not moved an inch.

"Go away, Old Man!" one of the Little Demons shouted with a sneer.

Crowley felt his metaphorical wings on the other plane positively ruffle in indignation and wondered if he would get in trouble with turning them into lizards like Job's children when he was assigned it and Az-no.

With one less child among the crowd, and the children parting ways to turn toward him, Crowley finally saw what they were doing and felt his wings turn positively sharper (because wings weren't just used for getting around but as another weapon that was even sharper than whatever the sharpest thing currently in the world was) (had he been in his snake form, his tail would've been rattling ominously--as the first serpent in the world he had all snake traits--and his hood would've flared a positive dangerous note).

"What. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Doing?" Crowley hissed out, border-line snake-like before reining in his temper just barely even as the clouds rumbled dangerously above them (Crowley had always been in-tune with atmospheres, one had to be when creating galaxies and planets like he had Before).

"What part of go away don't you understand! Or are you a little deaf or just stupid!" The seemingly leader of the group of children called out.

Crowley wished for a moment that killing children wasn't against his own morals (unlike Hell who would kill all and everything in between if it suited them) as he took a threatening step toward them. "And why, pray tell, are you kicking. A. Cat?" Crowley hissed, the undertone finally coming in that caused a small bit of Hell's fear to enter the atmosphere and caused the children to shift anxiously.

"It's a black cat," The smallest of boys said, his tone portraying just how confused he was as if the knowledge of what they were doing was common.

"Yeah!" The leader exclaimed as it gave a particular hard kick toward the cat who made a half-moan meow and tried to shift away from hands that were holding it down. "It's evil! My Gram said so! They're evil omens and are witches familiars. Is it your familiar!" The boy asked, obviously finally feeling the shift in air and getting afraid of Crowley.

Crowley, absolutely done with humanity and everything in between, just lowered his glasses to reveal his yellow serpentine eyes and hissed at the boys (contrary to popular belief, this particular hiss was not, in fact, words, just a sort of sound he decided to make just like how humans have a hum or shout that lacks actual words and just used to make a sound).

The boys yelled, something along the lines of Witch, mixed with Demon, and a few cries for their parents as they scrambled away from Crowley (whose migraine, at the time, had gotten positively worse).

Crowley was about to just head into his apartment so he can drink an entire bottle of wine by himself and forget his existence when a small helpful meow reached his ears. And okay, he might be absolutely done with angels and humanity, but cats, particularly black cats, always held Crowley's interest because of their similarities to his form okay. Their black fur and yellow eyes almost always the same shade as his own scales and eyes (and if perhaps, a long time ago, he was the being the created cats for his mother well enough was said about that).

Stopping just at the entrance of his apartment, Crowley glared at the little bugger that still wasn't moving and grumbled under his breath meaningless words as he set aside his alcoholic beverages and stepped toward the mulch where the little fiend was. Despite his body language telling anyone and everyone that he was dangerous and harsh, his actual hands were gentle in carefully feeling the little one's body who hissed softly as Crowley rubbed a particular spot on it's belly where he saw the children kick the most.

"Yeah yeah, hiss all you want, you aren't going anywhere," Crowley muttered under his breath, his glasses sliding toward the bottom of his nose so he can examine for any cuts or bleeding better than with shades on.

The cat slowly became laxed in Crowley's hands as he figured the cat had roughly three broken ribs, two fractured ribs, a broken hind leg, and a very bruised chest that put pressure on both the ribs and its lungs. Moving the cat would be just as deadly as leaving the cat there, especially if the children ever try and come back.

Crowley, far too sober for this moment, decided to say one last f-you to whoever was listening or nearby and reaching down into himself that he never paid attention to since The Fall, having pushed any and all previous powers down so Samael, no Lucifer, could take over Hell without feeling threatened by Crowley.

It was a small miracle, Crowley rationalized, he wasn't good or anything. One more black cat alive meant more superstition and after today, surely those children will go to Hell once they're old enough. And if the cat lived well that meant possibly more people going to hell. He might not be employed by them anymore and labeled a traitor, but he wasn't good, or nice, or whatever else Az-that angel- wanted to call him.

One millisecond the cat was borderline in Death's Grips and the next they were fully healed and peering up at him with startling green eyes (eyes that Crowley will never think about because they matched his own Before eye's until his Fall).

Crowley just stood up as if nothing happened, dusted his pants despite knowing they were miracles from such small matters like dirt, and went back to his groceries and miracle open his door to open for him and did the same for the elevator until they were on his floor which entered his apartment directly (after all the building was Crowley's, he had created it in the 18th century and has been upgrading it since then. It was his main place of living after all even if it was bare and only had one other floor for the two families to be split on).

It was only after he set the beverages by His Chair (and yes, that was capitalized as it was the only chair in his designated living room because he was never having company over) and got ready to drink one the wines he bought (just a bit miracle to be better, his intention was drinking after all, and not savoring the taste with a companion) when a small black bundle made itself known in front of Crowley. Crowley started at the cat flummoxed at what the being was doing in his apartment with him.

"Cats don't like me," Crowley stated to himself as the cat continued to watch Crowley in his chair with his alcoholic beverages. He hasn't even melted into his chair yet where anatomy has no influence over him or his body as he positioned himself inhumanly (the few times he does so in the company of humans, they often asked him how he was sitting was comfortable, Crowley just stares at them like they're stupid).

The cat's tail swung almost lazily as his eyes slowly closed and opened. Cat kisses, Crowley realized. Except for the small detail that cat's don't like him, nor do they like any demon because they were one of the beings that could sense demons. It was why they were worshipped in Ancient Egypt and why they became the known figure for witches.

"No, you don't like me, shoo. Begone," Crowley said as he waved his hand lazily toward the elevator the cat obviously followed him up.

The cat just gave another slow blink like it was mocking Crowley.

Fed up, Crowley threw his glasses aside and let his demonic presence unleashed as his natural serpent tongue shouted at the little feline with the most harshest of hisses he's ever produced, "I don't know why you're still here, but I am not someone you want to stay with. I can barely take care of myself let alone something else. You can't stay here! If you do you might love me and no one ever loves me! Go away before you make a mistake!"

The cat just gave a slow blink, a different one, more seemingly taken aback than a love blink, and proceeded to hop into Crowley's lap, a soft purr resonating from the thing as it twirled in it's spot before curling in his lap.

"What the fuck," Crowley said his body pushing itself as far as it could from the cat in his lap, his hands flaring just a little bit as they didn't know what to do (It was comical, had anyone been watching this, as Crowley was positively feared by both Heaven and Hell after bathing in Holy Water--except perhaps by a certain angel--and to know he feared a small black cat in his lap was, quite, hilarious).

The cat just looked up at Crowley like he was the defective one. With slightly shaking hands (okay, they were quite shaking in all honesty, this hasn't ever happened to him before), he reached down with his free hand and carefully ran a hand down the back of the cat in his lap.

Crowley startled a little bit because of the increase in purr, and because the cat was soft. Almost borderline winged soft (despite being incredibly sharp, wings were also the softest known material in all galaxies, nothing could ever reproduce the effect until now it seemed).

"Oh,' Crowley said softly, his voice barely an octave above as he ran another hand down the cats back.

He liked this.

And the cat purred just a tiny bit louder with little kneads into Crowley's thighs that he found he didn't mind, eve if they somehow ruined his outfit.

He was definitely doomed. But found he didn't exactly mind it.

Chapter Text

Look, Harry was used to weird shit in his life (see Hogwarts from Years 1-7) but an almost carbon copy of Barty Crouch Jr. with sharp red hair that reminded Harry of his mother's flaming hair, combined with positively snake eyes that would've put Voldemort to shame was certainly something at the top of his Weird Shit List (and yes, that need to be capitalized thank you very much).

Of course, being plopped near a group of boys who were superstitious and reminded Harry why the secrecy regarding magic even existed was less weird after having a meeting with Death. And then the man, person, thing (it was hard to quantify what exactly Death was since they have no gender and no human form should a person wish, Harry always thought of Death as a person though, and therefore their form took that shape. That said, because he was the Master of Death he was the exception to many things and Death had thought briefly that showing up as a crow and speaking to Harry that was to further boggle Harry's mind before deciding not to) had healed him even though it was quite clear to Harry that the person was having a bad day made him curious than scared. The doors opened with a simple snap of the man's finger, except he didn't even do that for the front door, he just walked up to it and had it open for him, almost like magic and yet it seemed more than that.

No one seemed to notice anything different about the man even as he walked like he had no anatomy within his hips so, curious about the being that healed him, Harry followed the man. His apartment was sparse, with only a few plants and even less furniture, his kitchen had the bare minimum and Harry didn't even think it had a pot. Only a kettle on the stove with a small thing of tea nearby.

The being didn't even stop into the kitchen to set down whatever bags he had, but rather just set them by the lone chair in what might've been deemed a living room (in all honestly, it was just one of two sitting couches that existed in an open area with a rug underneath it and only one of the couches looked recently used while the other had a light layer of dust settling on it). The bags clinked which told Harry there were bottles of something inside the bags and, when the being pulled out one, he realized it was just alcohol.

With the lack of furniture and his appearance, Harry was inclined to believe that wherever Death had dropped him off with the promise of family was some type of supernatural being. Harry found he didn't mind exactly, after the War he had befriended Vampires, Werewolves, Veelas, and a few Giants that were perhaps just a tad smarter than the rest (and perhaps a little smarter since he still remembers all that happened with the lovable Gwamp on their introduction). That wasn't even counting for the Merman and Centaurs that he spoke around Hogwarts or the Hippogriffs he made sure didn't get hurt from the Battle.

And then the being hissed at him in a sharp tone that should've contained harsh possibly derogatory words about killing or eating him. Instead, the man's harsh words were self-derogatory about not being loved and how he couldn't care for anything or anyone. His tone might've been harsh, but his words showed a prominent want that existed that spoke of the being having been burned in the past and this was the outcome of such actions.

Harry knew a little bit about being burned without warning (It has happened so many times to him in the past, especially during the fourth year when Ron stopped talking to him for something he hadn't done just because the other boy didn't believe him. It had hurt very badly during that time along with the second year when he became an outcast for something he didn't know he should be hiding), so he jumped on the being's lap and purred a loving calm tone. Even as the man adjusted and nearly threw him off from just the pure shock of him suddenly being in his lap.

The small, gentle caress the man did as he ran his hand through Harry's fur showed how much care he contained and how much he loved this.

Eventually, Harry fell into a gentle slumber even as the man finally opened his alcohol and slowly sipped it, one hand never leaving Harry's back.

Slowly, the time passed and daylight was being lost as Harry slowly woke up as the man finally shifted his position, a mutter-slurred sorry leaving his lips as he gently set Harry back onto the ground and stumbled toward an adjacent room. Most of the alcohol the man had bought was empty, the glasses beside the lone couch.

Stretching languidly and feeling a small bit of hunger edge his stomach along with his bladder reminding him it existed, Harry walked toward the kitchen and let his instincts push forward within his human mind and allowed them to help him make the jump onto the counter.

Carefully, Harry stepped over the sink and went toward the lone fridge that was buzzing indicating it was at least plugged in. Carefully, Harry balanced on the edge of the counter and reached a paw forward to swipe the fridge open. Gravity and motion helped the rest as the fridge swung open. Jumping down from the counter, Harry jumped into the slightly cold fridge that brushed against his fur but he wasn't feeling it yet.

Surprisingly, there were a few things inside the fridge. Just a few raw meats in the corner, cheese, some strawberries, and a small thing of orange juice. Grabbing the packaged cheese, Harry pulled it to the edge of the fridge before letting gravity take it out of the fridge. He then nosed opened the container of strawberries, checked they were in date, and ate three of them before hopping out of the fridge.

Seeing the fridge still open, Harry used the freezer portion of the fridge handle to balance his front paws as he carefully stayed upright and gently pawed the fridge closed with a click. With his reward secured on the group and outside the fridge, Harry picked up the packaged cheese and strutted with a small hop in his steps toward the door the being stumbled toward earlier.

Harry blinked as he reached the open door because, unlike the rest of the place, the bedroom seemed the most furnished and attention paid. Other than the Alaskan King (the only time Harry had even seen such a bed since it did seem ridiculously large for just one person) draped in black with highlights of white and red there was the largest window perch Harry had seen that went from one side of the room where the start of the window was, to the other side of the room where the window ended. Harry was looking forward to possibly basking in the spot as well.

Spotting the rumpled person above the bed sheets, his face pressed against the propped pillow and unmoving, Harry carefully gripped the corner of the cheese in his mouth before carefully jumping onto the bed. The package nearly made him lose his balance as he sunk into the soft bed. Carefully he set the cheese down before jumping off the bed and walked toward the kitchen once more.

Glancing at the man that was in his bed unmoving, Harry reached for his magic and found it flowing even in this form making him want to smack his forehead because it would've made his life easier with the fridge. With barely a thought he carefully opened the doors of the cupboards around the kitchen for anything of substance. Finding nothing that would go well with cheese, especially given the man's drunk state, Harry finally found a package of unopened crackers that were hidden.

Letting his magic wrap around the box and gently lower it to the ground, Harry used his mouth and paw to gently open the top of the box and carefully removed the packaging that contained a box of Original Ritz crackers. With the bag now in his mouth, Harry padded his way toward the bedroom, dragging the large bag with him.

When he reached the bed, he once against carefully jumped onto the bed, smashing some of the crackers under him as he landed awkwardly with the bag. The noise startled the man he met as he finally moved from his pillow to glare at Harry.

That was until he saw the cheese and crackers at the end of the bed, his glare slipped off into confusion as he picked up the slightly smushed bag of Ritz. "What the?" he muttered the himself.

Happy that the man picked up one of the pieces of food, Harry grabbed the cheese dragged it to the man, and sat it into his lap with a purposeful look as he lay beside the man.

"What am I suppose to do with this?" the man muttered with a small glare toward Harry, except it lacked any heat (in fact, Harry would go far as to say it was more of a confused glare, a default reaction to someone who is stumbling on what is happening, thus resorting to anger as a way to hide their true feelings on such matters).

Harry made a show of picking up the cheese and dropping it onto the Ritz bag, smashing some of the crackers, before pushing the combo (not that the bag nor cheese shifted considering the bag length was roughly the length of Harry and thus, heavier than a simple nudge could displace the item) toward the man.

"You...want me to have them?" the man asked, his tone confused and his eyes seemingly lost in thought as he picked up both. His breath still held a distinct smell of wine on his lips.

The purr Harry gave was loud along with the eye kisses he thought the man deserved. Harry crept forward and rubbed his head and entire body along the arms of the man, nuzzling his hand with the cheese briefly, before carefully flopping playfully along the side of the man's legs waiting for some pets from him.

The man in question immediately burst into tears.

Shocked by the sudden broken noise the man let out, Harry jumped to his feet, pushed the cheese and crackers aside, carefully nuzzled the man's chest, and carefully licked his neck and cheek from where he could reach.

The man's arms wrapped around Harry, bringing him just a tad too close to his chest. Eventually, the sobs slowly started subsiding, "I...I can't remember the last time someone properly worried for my health enough to bring me food in bed," he muttered so lowly, his voice choked as he stared at Harry with a thoughtful expression, his hand carefully caressing Harry's head, rubbing the bridge of his nose and carefully scratching under his chin. A loud purr in response to the soft scratches.

The thoughtful expression turned into one of determination as he looked from Harry to the discarded food. "You deserve better than me," he muttered to himself as he carefully climbed out of bed, "but for whatever reason you haven't left me yet. I will prove that you don't need to. Why don't you and I get some things for you?" the man muttered to himself.

With a snap of his fingers, the man was dressed in dark clean clothes that didn't smell a few days old, his hair brushed behind his ears. Standing with Harry cradled in his arms, the man moved to his living room, swiping glasses discarded by the lone sofa with one hand and settling them on his nose. He then grabbed the keys by the door and determinedly walked out of the apartment.

Harry watched the door shut itself, a distinct click he could hear told him it was also locked. It wasn't long before they reached a Bentley whose doors almost snapped open so eagerly that they stopped just millimeters from completely taking out a passing car.

The man entered the car without hesitation and plopped Harry into the passenger's seat. The door closed and started automatically as Harry looked around curiously. There were dried-up plants in the back, seemingly having been there for weeks as the smell of plant decompensation reached his nose. There was also a small hint of what seemed like books that was wafted through the Bently but the smell was very faded and slowly replaced by the smell of a storm before lightning struck and what seemed like a hint of burning coal. The combo was a bit sharp on his nose, and yet Harry found himself enjoying the scent.

The car took off at speeds that surprised Harry as he briefly gripped the leather seats from shock before loosening his claws and looking down once he had his balance back to make sure he didn't claw the poor leather to bits (he knew from the conversations with Sirius that authentic leather should never be ruined because there was just something special about the age of the leather matching the age of the vehicle. Harry didn't understand what Sirius meant and he still doesn't even now). The car was practically purring underneath Harry's paws and reminded Harry abundantly of the Night Bus considering it was moving in ways that defied physics let alone logic as it somehow pushed aside two cars so it could drive down the middle and however light it was about to encounter turned green with seconds to spare before shifting back to red with no warning (There was, in fact, a small warning as even the car knows that Crowley doesn't want humans to harm themselves lest they start moving the traffic only for it to abruptly change on them. neither car nor demon wanted to kill humans after all, they haven't sinned yet and therefore are useless to Hell--that's Crowley's reasoning anyway, the car just didn't want to see others hurt, a remnant of Crowley's past).

With barely any time seeming to pass, the car hazard stopped in front of a generic pet store, somehow finding the perfect closest spot available without parking in the handicapped spot (after all, Crowley wouldn't want to inconvenience a human who was damaged, they've already had the trials of life thrown at them, he didn't particularly think making it harder for them meant making them sin. Sure, there might be some anger, but anger itself didn't get someone into Hell. No, the sin had to go further and make them want to kill or harm others that they follow through with such an act (it was how the people he killed when the church was bombed went to hell after, even though they were partly spies, they went out of their way to kill others just as they had planned on double-crossing and killed Aziraphael).

Harry stared at the man as he sat in the car, his hands running along the wheel, but his expression distant as he stared at the store in front of them. "Angel would've been so excited to have met you, would probably buy out this entire store and renovate the entire bookstore. He loved animals, but when he learned they feared me, he never kept one so he knew I would be welcomed within his store always. Called me His Snake when I would change and someone walked into the store," the depressed, hopeless tone shreds Harry's inside.

The loneliness when you thought someone would always be with you, that you finally found one person, just one person because that's all you ever asked for, found their way by your side and you thought to yourself, that that person won't ever leave me. I have finally found someone who made me whole, who gave me purpose, gave me life, I can live my life so long as this one person was within it. Only, it wasn't mutual. The person left, and you found yourself alone like you desperately hoped you never would be again.

"I always told him I sauntered vaguely sideways into Hell, that all I ever did was ask questions. I never told him..." The man stopped himself as he took a steading breath as Harry crept into his lap, the man's hands moved from the steering wheel to caressing Harry's back softly, "I never told him I was given the choice. Hell, or Heaven. Miserable in Hell, but with a friend, or miserable alone in Heaven. At the time it wasn't a hard debate, my job in heaven....I was so alone, stumbling upon him that one time was the first time I met an angel that was not my sibling for...so long. Even then, it was rare for me to see my siblings. My creations were the only thing that kept me happy for so long, but it was never enough, I never had anyone to share them with. Mother...she knew and she couldn't help. Then the war happened, and she found a solution. I made the choice that would lead me to a friend even if it meant momentary pain. She made it easy on me as much as she could, it didn't hurt, not as much as the other fallen have said it did. Their wings burned and chipped, and yet mine only darkened from the smoke and smog of Hell, still strong, still containing all of them. I knew when no other angel had multiple wings I had to keep them hidden, I disappeared then. My old name no more, in place Crawly, and then Crowley, and later Anthony J.Crowley. I've been Crowley for so long...but I can't help but wonder if even he still exists. He existed with...the angel. I don't know how am anymore without him."

Harry sat up and nuzzled under the man's, now named Crowley, chin. "You're not alone anymore, not if I can help it. I know what loneliness can do to a soul, I was alone for so long of my childhood, and I clung to many people at Hogwarts, only some of them clung back. And then we graduated, and they stopped clinging. I understand, Crowley. We will find who you are. Together," Harry purred out, knowing this body couldn't speak English words. He hoped his thoughts, his actions went through as Crowley gave him a wobbly smile.

"Let's find you some items, so you can call my home, your own too," Crowley spoke softly. Running a hand down his back a final time before carefully lifting and cradling Harry to his chest.

Harry didn't care, so long as Crowley knew he wasn't alone anymore. And perhaps, neither would Harry be either.