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Seven Sins

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Seven Sins

A Harry Potter/Supernatural Crossover

By Sif Shadowheart

Disclaimer:  Naturally, neither the Harry Potter or Supernatural franchises belong to me.  I’m just playing with them for a bit.

Warning!  This fic is A/U and contains both SLASH and possibly MPREG with quite a bit of SPN-Canonical violence and pseudo-religious themes.

Author’s Note:  This is my shot at a sweet, cuddly Harry instead of my normal BAMF-Smart Harry.  That leads to what might seems as OOC moments with our darling cinnamon-roll.  I’ve also played fast and loose with 90% of HP canon and set this in the first season of SPN so probably no spoilers for anything post S1 applies except on the whole angel/demon front but not the actual storylines.

Does any of that make sense?  I’m frankly not sure anymore…

Also, if any of the first 700 words or so seems familiar, I have permission from my bestie of besties Loka Senna to borrow and repurpose their intro into their HP/SPN crossover “Waking Up the Devil” since their muse and RL have not been playing nice and they have no idea when if ever they’re going to be getting back to any of their fanfictions

But I don’t believe in copy and paste so parts in this first chapter might come off as similar but its in no way an exact copy.

All that said, I hope you enjoy!

One: Of Neither Heaven Nor Hell

“So, here is a riddle to guess if you can, sing the bells of Notre Dame: What makes a monster, and what makes a man?”

~ Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame

 "Fuck!"  John Winchester cursed as he and his sons finished clearing out the run-down barn they'd traced the murderous coven of bloodsuckers to.

Rather than walking into a tense covert-operation while they searched for the legendary Colt under the cover of the bright noonday sun, they'd found a bloodbath - and not the kind one would expect in a vampire hideout as what seemed like two differing groups went fang-to-claw…at least until the Winchesters arrived and helped hurry their demises along.

"Christ."  Sam said while Dean echoed their father's sentiment, his machete hanging loosely at his side while he stood up from his crouch after taking one final head.  "What the hell happened here?"

"Dunno."  Dean growled as he started searching for the gun they were looking for among the remains of the bodies, John already working his way through the boxes and tables and assorted junk laying around after getting over his shock.  "One of them mouthed offed to the others, maybe?"

"Doubt it."  John answered absently as he pawed through piles of useless crap, setting aside anything that might be of use to them later including a rather nice set of throwing knives that had no business in a Wyoming barn.  "Vamp covens are notoriously tight-knit.  One of the fuckers might go off on their own if they get into it with the leader but they also stick by their's one of the things that made them so damn hard for Elkins and others like him to stomp them out.  In-fighting like this makes zero sense."

“Nothing’s been behaving itself lately on the monster-front though.”  Sam pointed out, helpless to keep himself from knocking head with his old man.  “Something has them all riled up.”

Probably the Yellow-Eyed-Demon with the way their luck tended to run.

Sam fell into the last remaining job of sorting through the papers his dad found like he'd never left hunting in the first place, easily slotting back into the rhythm of looting a monster's cache after doing the same with Dean over the last several months.  Having their dad around just made the work go that much faster since John and Dean brought the papers to him and he didn't have to go looking for it.  Maybe there might be some insight in the coven's records of who might be after them...besides the Winchesters anyway.

John and Dean had nearly finished looting the first-floor hideout when Dean spotted a thin leather-bound notebook wedged between two floorboards.

“Hey guys.”  He called out, prying up the half-rotten planks with the dull backside of his knife to reveal a safe under the notebook.  Staring down into the hidden cache he flipped idly through the ledger-journal-thing he’d found in addition to a sweet stash of what looked like real gold and silver after he’d taken a prybar to the safe.  And along with it an old Colt .45 wrapped in a shirt and shoved in the hole.  As if it wasn’t any more important than a falling-apart journal.  “Yahtzee.  We’re eating good tonight…and a while after.”

Sam and John sauntered over, the youngest Winchester letting out a whistle as his father stacked the coins, pure bullion maybe?  And even bars of precious metals onto the dirty floor.  He hadn’t found much from the paperwork they’d found, but maybe the book in his brother’s hands might have a better idea.

One thing bothered him though…

“This place was pretty well torn up and ransacked.”  He commented quietly, almost to himself as he looked around, John busy separating the loot and weapons into two piles and Dean still flipping through the ledger in his hands, the Colt sitting on the floorboards between them as they worked.  “What’s a brand new safe, even a cheap one like this, doing in a run-down barn?”  He asked waving towards the gold and silver.

“I don’t think the safe is the issue.”  Dean answered the nearly-rhetorical question, waving his dad and brother over to look at something he’d found, alerted by his tone and word choice.  “Look at this.”  He pointed to a series of entries at the very back.  “I’ve found these entries going back months.  The blood-suckers were stalking Elkins, tracking him the same way we do hunts.  The problem is…”  He drawled as Sammy gave a surprised lift of his brows as he took in the information on the pages Dean pointed to.  “That Elkins wasn’t the only one.  The coven leader, head vamp, or whatever wrote more than once that they were working one a project involving a guy,” here he rolled his expressive green eyes.  “Refused to name, calling him It or The Weapon, like they had him…and were still afraid.

“Any idea who or what this powerful creature is Dad?”  Sam asked, not finding any reference to who this guy was or even what he looked like other than the head-vamp working on some kinda weapon using him.  Then his eyes popped wide, looking around at all the bodies.  “He’s not here.”

“What do ya mean, Sammy?”  Dean asked, frowning.  “There’s no one left alive.”

“That’s just it.”  Sam pointed to another section of the notebook, one much earlier than the vamp’s tracking of Elkins.  “This is dated back from 1998, Dean.  That’s when they got their hands on this “Weapon.”  It’s not the Colt,” he nodded his head towards the demon-killing-gun their dad was cradling like one of his own newborn children.  “They just found that.  Something had them spooked to the point that they were searching out weapons against Hell.  Creatures, fighting Hell.”  Sam raised his brows.  “And the first weapon they tried out is, and I quote: a small, fragile little thing, half-grown.  Hard to see that he’ll be worth the effort, but appearances can be deceiving.  That sound like any of these undead assholes to you?”

“What’s your point, Sammy?”  Dean asked, half-exasperated but willing to play along.

“If the vamps took the time to bring in a safe for their stash and the Colt.”  Sam pointed out.  “What’d they do with this other weapon they’d put so much time and effort into, huh?”

The three Winchesters traded a long glance, then spread out to the corners of the room, tapping at the floorboards in search of another hidden cache – one that potentially held a find just as valuable if not more precious than either a stack of gold and silver or a gun that could kill demons: an innocent, one who’d been waiting years if Sam was right to be saved.

It was John that found the hatch in the end.

Not inside the barn, but in an old storm cellar that was separate but still nearby…and boasting a brand-new chain and padlock holding the wooden doors shut…doors that were marked up with all kinds of symbols the Winchesters had only seen in some of Bobby’s more obscure texts on demonic lore.

Whatever was down there…the dead vamps didn’t want it getting out or anything else getting in, given that the chains were solid iron and the symbols probably kept demons or other monsters away…somehow.

A pair of bolt-cutters later and they were in…though even with the warnings inherent in the journal, they weren’t quite prepared for what they found.

Or rather…who.

As Sam had read earlier, he was a small little thing in the light of their flashlights, made to seem even more fragile, more breakable than is likely normal for the poor kid by being curled up on himself in the fetal position, not even the sound of breaking chains or the doors opening getting any response from the huddled figure on the – remarkably clean – mattress on the cellar floor.

Honestly…if it weren’t for the head-vamp noting that the “weapon” was male, there’d be no way to tell at first or even second or third glance whether the curled-up body was either gender for certain.

Light shone and gleamed off a thick chain that was shackled to one bare – and tiny – ankle, Sam already having plans to take the whole damn thing back to Bobby’s for the retired hunter to research the runes that were etched on it from the end bolted to the solid-cement wall to the two-inch thick cuff around the kid’s ankle.  Nothing protected the “weapon” from the underground chill but a thick – flannel maybe – nightshirt, the kind you’d expect to find on a kid or an elderly person in winter and colored a dingy blue.  Skin gleamed with an unnatural pallor, likely from years locked away from the sun by his vamp captors, and ink-black hair nearly blended with the shadows.

In the end Dean had the right of it, as blunt as it was:

“Not much of a thing, is he?”  The green-eyed hunter noted as he followed his dad down the rickety steps into the cellar, his Sasquatch brother on his heels and having to duck way down to avoid rapping his head on the rafters.


Served him right, even if Dean and John both had to crouch a bit to avoid the ceiling, it was nothing compared to the hunched-over form of Sam.

The freaking giant.

“Looks about as dangerous as a kitten.”  Dean continued with a soft snort.  “Which given our luck probably makes him the creature version of a WMD.”

“That’s what they were trying to turn him into anyway.”  Sam answered as he studied the chain and cuff, the male – far too young looking to really call a man but somehow tagging him as a kid or a boy didn’t seem right to him either – not so much as twitching.  “Why isn’t he waking up?”  He asked with more than a hint of concern in his voice as his dad finally moved to check the prisoner’s pulse and breathing.

John hunkered down next to the nearly-still body, counting off heartbeats that were far too slow as his practiced gaze flickered over the empty water jugs that looked just within arms reach but not seeing so much as a single food wrapper to go with them.

Hard to say – especially with the entire coven wiped out – but it was starting to look like that with finding the Colt, the coven had washed their hands of their pet project.

Though that left the question: why not just drain and kill him?

Why leave him to slowly starve to death?

And most of all…what exactly was he?

“I think we can get the chain free of the wall.”  Sam finally said, worried eyes taking in the not-good-news look on his dad’s face as Dean continued to keep watch, just in case the male was playin’ possum.  “But that cuff doesn’t have any kind of keyhole for us to pick.”

“We’ll take him to Bobby’s.”  John finally decided, even as the danger of it itched at the back of his neck.  Too many things could go wrong.  But if this little stripling was really as dangerous and powerful as the coven seemed to think…it might be worth it to save his life if only to have him in their debt.  “Get some food in him and the chain off of him and then see what we see.”


“Jesus, John.”  Bobby commented, shaking his head at the sight of the diminutive form in a near-comatose state on his safe-room cot.

The Winchesters had roared in, near to taking a year off of Bobby’s life, with the tiny male out cold in the back seat of the Impala, Sam nose-deep in a journal and even Dean looking fit to be tied over the state of the being – if Bobby understood the story correctly from what John had told him over the phone – they’d found locked away and apparently starving.

With how Dean was able to haul the mite around, not to mention the poor thing being skin-and-bones, it wasn’t any wonder he was asleep – it wasn’t like he had any real fat reserves to keep him going like your average joe.

“I know, Bobby.”  John replied, the sight of the man – hell, kid really, barely looked out of his teens – having given him more than one bad moment even with him being some kind of powerful entity if the vamps were to be believed…or their journal anyway.  A journal that John’s son was still trying to decipher to figure out what-all had happened…and if the kid was dangerous in general or to them in the specific.  “The IV should get him stable enough to get something in his stomach.  After that?”  He shook his head.  After that, it’d all be on the kid and just how much fight he had in him.

Though if what Sammy had originally found was to be believed, that little pile of skin and bones had survived being held captive by a coven of vampires for going on eight years.

Anyone who could survive that could hopefully survive a bit of captor-neglect.

Or so John hoped.

If the demons were nose-up after the Winchesters before, they’d sure as shit be after them now that they had the Colt.

And that was not including that supposedly-powerful little thing that at the moment was about as threatening as a dandelion puff.

Or as Dean had put it, a kitten.

Boots on the stairs had the older hunters turning to find Dean coming down to take his turn watching over the boy.

“Hey.”  Dean told them, nodding his head towards the stairs even as he moved to take the empty dining chair they’d hauled down.  The kid couldn’t be left alone after all.  For one, they still had no idea who or what he was.  And for two, if he’d spent as much time as they thought trapped, they couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t panic when he eventually woke up, even with Bobby and his dad managing to use some tools and Sam’s Gigantor strength to get the cuff off of his ankle.

For his part, Bobby was just as interested in all of the sigils and runes and crap engraved on that cuff and chain to keep the kid captive.

Dean just wanted it off of him.

Even if, and at the moment it was a big damn if, the ninety-pounds-soaking-wet teenager was dangerous, it did bad things to Dean’s mind to see a kid with a big-ass cuff around him and bolted to a wall.

He’d hunted and killed a fair share of the things that went bump in the night but he liked to think he’d never been cruel with it.

Though he notably couldn’t say the same for his dad.

“Sam thinks he found something.”  Dean finished.

“Okay.”  John nodded, turning towards the stairs.  “Keep an eye out, Dean, we still don’t know anything about this kid.”

Bobby snorted derisively, even as Dean gave a short wave and a ‘will do’ in response.

That was John Winchester all over: ornery as the day is long and more of a drill sergeant to his boys than a father.

“More information on what he’s not.”  Sam told them as soon as his dad and Bobby cleared the stairs and entered the kitchen where he was posted up with the journal, a pen and pad of paper, and a couple of English-to-French and English-to-Latin dictionaries to help with deciphering and translating the journal.  It was an ugly patois of languages, some of it English, the rest he did his best by but even then it was a dirty job that more than likely lost a lot of meaning and information in the translation.  Still, he did his best.

After all, if it weren’t for the quick-and-dirty job he’d done on some passages, he wouldn’t have spent half an hour helping Dean clean up their new houseguest…because god knew his dad and Bobby didn’t have much by way of “gentle” in them anymore.

Bobby’d found some old clothes of Dean’s so they could get the little…being out of the dirty flannel nightshirt, but a quick basin-bath was the best they could do until he actually woke up, though he thought there might have been a flicker or two on the being’s face when they manhandled him into clean blue boxers and a ratty AC/DC shirt his brother must have grown out of a decade ago.

For a being of supposed phenomenal powers, he was teeny.

“Okay, what’ve you got?”  John asked, already reaching into the fridge for a beer, tossing one to Bobby and then cracking open one of his own.  Granted, that kid downstairs looked nothing like either of his boys but the state of him was giving him some bad moments regardless.

Especially the tats and scarification.

“How old would you say he is?”  Sam asked leadingly, hazel eyes darting between his dad and his honorary uncle.

“Teens.”  Bobby shrugged, not really giving it much thought.

“Not that his body looks it.”  John added, more than familiar with what a teenaged boy should look like after raising two of them on the road.  “He’s emaciated to say the least, you saw that for yourself.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing.”  Sam ran his hands through his hair in frustration.  “I’ve found where they found him, managed to decipher most of it.  Unless I’m really off in my translations, that teenager hasn’t aged in the last eight years.”

“What?”  John coughed a little on his current sip of beer.

“Yeah.”  Sam scoffed a little.  “They found him in some forest in Scotland during one of the terrorist attacks in the late nineties.  One of the coven, guy named Sanguini of all damn things…”

All of the hunters in the room rolled their eyes at that bit of vampiric ridiculousness.

“Knew there was going to be an attack and the coven planned on feeding on the wounded.”  Sam’s sneer of disgust was echoed by his father and Bobby, the same as Dean had done when Sam told him before he went downstairs to swap out watch duty.  “Guess they found him in the woods, he’d survived some kind of attack or something, that part’s mangled too much to really translate, that should have killed him but didn’t.  And, more to the point, they pegged him at seventeen at the time.”

“That’d make him twenty-five or thereabouts.”  Bobby frowned.  “There’s no way any home-grown human doesn’t age a day in eight years.”

“We already knew he wasn’t white-bread human.”  John reminded them both.  “So he’s a little weirder than we thought.  If he’s as dangerous to demons as that book says he could be than I’m willing – for once – to deal with a little bit of weird…not that it’ll matter unless he wakes up.”  John shifted a bit at the incredulous look exchanged between Sam and Bobby.

Not that it wasn’t warranted.

John had never been known as the most logical creature on the planet.

His hate for all things other was legendary at this point, that he was suddenly willing to play ball – even a little – with someone or something other was a bit out of character even from his own point of view…except.


They had a bead and a lead – finally – two decades after Mary’s murder on the demon that killed her and a way to do it.

Adding in a bit of firepower to that fight was worth it – in his opinion – even if it meant playing nice, for a while, with something distinctly other.

Though, as he’d reminded them, it was all moot unless they could get the kid – no matter how old he was supposed to be he looked like a damn kid – to wake up and up to fighting fit, supposing he was even willing to use whatever power or powers the vampires thought he had against the demons.

They knew what he wasn’t.

They’d tested him as soon as they got him to Bobby’s: holy water, silver, whatever they could think of and no reaction.

“We get any traction on those tats and brands?”  Bobby asked, nodding towards the pad of paper that they’d used to copy as many of the marks on the boy as well as they could.

“Ah, yeah, a little.”  Sam shook his head, shifting things around a bit and pulling the pad closer, covering the journal for the moment.  “There isn’t a lot in here about what they did to him just what the end result was supposed to be.”

“Anti-everything WMD, right.”  John nodded.

“Yeah, the coven leader thought of himself as a real Dr. Frankenstein.”  Sam supplied with a grimace.  He was going to need brain-bleach after reading as much as he had of the journal.  “According to the ramblings they even opened him up and carved stuff onto his bones.”

“Like what?”  Bobby blinked at that.  That…was a new one for him or anyone he’d ever worked with.

“Doesn’t say.”  Sam shook his head.

“’Course it doesn’t.”  John snorted.  “That’d be too easy.”

“Just that the purpose was to keep him hidden, idea was that someone or something was going to come looking for him.”  Sam finished after his dad was done.  “Anyway, a couple of the marks are easy, they’re demonic sigils, the others,” he shook his head.  “I’ve never seen them before, I don’t even know where to start.”

Bobby leaned over, eyeballing some of the “sigils”.

“Those aren’t just demonic sigils.”  He said after a long moment, rising to his feet and heading to his office, finding a specific book that was right next to his desk for easy access then flipping through it as he came back into the kitchen.  “They’re the sigils of some of the Knights of Hell.”

“Knights of Hell?”  Sam arched a brow, exchanging a look with his dad.  Dean was going to pitch a fit when he was read-in on Bobby’s insight.

“Lore argues on who and what they are, even how many of them there are.”  Bobby explained.  “But they’re upper level demons, maybe even the first demons made.”  He set the book down, a demonology compendium, tapping a drawing on one page then the one on the pad, a dead match.  “That one, where was it?”

“Scarred into his back opposite his heart.”  Sam answered after a moment.

Honestly, the only marks that weren’t scars were the tats on his palms – likely so that he wouldn’t lose range of motion in his hands – and the one mark that he couldn’t place to save his life over the guy’s heart.

“It was done with a really precise tool like a soldering iron or a wood burner for art or something.”  John supplied.  “All of them are like that that I could find: as precise as they could make them.”

“Well, however it was done.”  Bobby told them.  “It’s the mark of Beelzebub, the Knight or Prince depending on the Lore, of Envy.”

“That’s why it’s opposite the heart.”  Sam clued in.  “If they thought he’d survive it they probably would’ve tat’d it onto his heart.”  At least that gave them a clue to killing the guy if they ever had to if bat-shit crazy vampires who had a hell of a better idea about what he was than them wouldn’t mess with his heart.

“It’s a good of a guess as any.  And this one,” Bobby flipped a couple more pages then tapped another sketch.  “Cain, wrath.”

“Right palm.”

“That one: Abaddon.”  Bobby turned to another page, pointed out another sigil.

“Back of his neck.”

“Well, she’s Acedia or Sloth depending on the Lore.”  Bobby enlightened them.  “The original sin was Acedia, to be without care.”

“Why would that be a sin?”  John asked, frowning.  “Sounds more like a blessing to me.”

“Yeah, you’d think so.”  Bobby replied.  “Except rather than sloth a better translation would be selfishness.  Next, that one.”

“Left palm.”  Sam told him.

“And the reason your daddy is interested in him, though even he doesn’t know it yet.”  Bobby eyed up the oldest Winchester with a snort.  “Azazel, of Greed.  Though you’d know him as the Yellow-Eyed-Demon.”

“Four of the seven sins.”  Sam sat back heavily, rubbing his hands over his face.  “What do you want to bet that if we take a closer look at him that there’s three more marks hiding on his body?”

The older hunters snorted.

That’s nothing but a sucker’s bet.

“Where didn’t we look?”  John asked.

“I don’t know, Dad.”  Sam answered, throwing his hands up in exasperation.  “Inside his mouth, maybe?  Under his hair?  If it’s skin it can either be scarred or tattooed so it wasn’t like they had a lack of places to hide a sigil but it still doesn’t tell us why, why did they bother with all of this for eight years only to let him slowly starve to death in a storm cellar?”

“Azazel.”  John bit out with a growl.  “He’s growing stronger, more active, that has to be it.”

“They panicked.”  Bobby nodded.  “Makes sense.  Scrapped the long-game and went for the immediate gain: the Colt.”

“Why?”  Sam reiterated.  “Why go through all that trouble and research and time and then just throw him away?  Why the sigils, why any of it, if they knew about the Colt the whole time?”

“Why do evil fuckers bother doing anything?”  John shot back.  “What sigils are missing, or we haven’t found on him yet?”

“Belial, Gluttony.”  Bobby answered after flipping through a few pages of pad and tome alike.  “Asmodeus, Lust; and the big one: Lilith for Pride.”

“Why’s Lilith such a big deal?”  Sam asked.

“Two reasons.”  Bobby told him, scratching at his head.  “First, because she’s the First.  The first demon ever created by Lucifer himself.  Second, Pride is always the head of the chain in any demonology I’ve ever seen.  Signature sin of the big-bad himself.  They were warding or doing some sort of consecration maybe…and calling on the reigning Queen of Hell to do it.”

Downstairs, where the being in question laid on a bed – granted, a cot but still – for the first time in years, emerald green eyes shot open and locked on watchful jade.