FIC: Intervention Divine
Title: Intervention Divine
Fandom: Harry Potter/Good Omens
Pairing: Harry Potter/Adam Young
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4,540
Warnings: Spoilers for both Good Omens and the Harry Potter series (Order of the Phoenix, specifically), language, allusions to sex
Summary: "And no one around Adam was ever in full control of his or her own mind…" - Good Omens
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me – Harry, Remus, & Sirius belong to J.K. Rowling; Adam, Crowley, Aziraphale (& related characters) belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett - all authors whom I love (more than is healthy, I'm sure).
A/N: The summary makes it sound serious, but it's really quite the opposite. There may be some location/time discrepancies here – I know close to nothing about the suburbs of London, and therefore do not know how probable it may be that the characters are in specific locations at specific times, but I've done my best.



For years, the majority of the Wizarding World has been under the mistaken impression that God does not exist. Usually they claim that it has something to do with stakes, witch hunts, and being dunked in lakes, but in all probability, they're all just too lazy to get off their brooms and go to church.

Whatever the reason, the world of wizards and the world of religion rarely find the need to mix; but when they do, it's most often the agents of Heaven and Hell who meddle in the affairs of wizards, since it's quite difficult to meddle in the affairs of the divine. Though their love for meddling, influencing, and otherwise wreaking havoc on the already over-confused population of the human race exceeds their love for most anything else, there's something about wizards that sets them on edge. After all, a host body for a demon or an angel is just as susceptible to curses as the next unsuspecting Muggle, and it's a terribly tedious chore trying to convince the administration that you'll be so much more careful with a new body (provided it's just as enjoyable as the last).

All this being said, only the bravest and/or cockiest of them will rarely even speak with wizards, much less get completely smashed and play poker with them on the first Wednesday of every month during the more or less hazy year of 1979. Coincidentally, one of said poker games is where our story begins, when the cockiest demon on Earth, in a fit of intoxication that no human could stand, forgot to cheat and lost rather spectacularly to a gorgeous wizard with a ridiculous name. While still entrenched in his drunken stupor, he promised the wizard a favour, of any nature to be collected at any time, a decision which he hadn't had cause to regret. Until now.

Crowley, the demon in question, was in Hell (on business, of course – he had never cared for the place, and always spent as little time there as possible), when the message came through. A lesser demon brought him the note – 'You owe me. I'm collecting. ~S.B. (poker, 1979)' – and he groaned.

"Where in Hell did this come from?" he growled, a low, terrifying rumble that shook the cavern where he stood.

"L-l-limbo, sir!" the lesser demon squeaked, frightened out of its miserably obedient little mind.

Crowley sighed – he really had to be more careful in this form; another growl like that could cause the ceiling (and thus the whole group of sinners above) to come crashing down around them, and that would be more paperwork than he'd ever have time to set fire to. "Fine." He snapped his fingers and was immediately transferred to his human form and surrounded by the chilling wispiness of Limbo. "Black!"

A few seconds passed before the mist around him coalesced into the vague form of a human body, taking a few more seconds to shape the features and scars of a middle-aged man who was a far cry from the stunning, intense man that Crowley had known. "Wow, Black – you look like hell."

Misty-Sirius gave what could have been either a sigh or a chuckle. "Death will do that to you."

Crowley shuddered. Thank God I'm immortal. "Right. So…" The misty figure stared at him for a few solid seconds before he got impatient. "Well, what do you want? I can't bring you back to life if that's what you're –"

"Oh no, it's nothing like that," the wizard assured him. He looked up at Crowley again, and the demon waved him on impatiently. After another brief sigh/chuckle, he continued. "The thing is…my godson really needs to get laid."

******************************************************************

When Harry Potter first saw Adam Young, he was eyeing the apples in the produce aisle of Tesco's with an unnatural hunger for a boy of ten. Of course, even ten-year-old boys consider Fruit a tolerable food group when they haven't eaten in two days. Normally Harry would be locked in his cupboard during his Aunt's trip to the market, but on the days when he hadn't had food, she liked to take him and watch his mouth water, all the while moaning and complaining about how difficult it was to feed a boy with his appetite and how grateful he should be that he was fed at all.

Harry sighed. He wasn't feeling very grateful at the moment, and his stomach growled to show its ungratefulness as well. He looked away from the apples, not wanting to torment himself anymore, and something else caught his eye. It was a boy standing in front of an ice cream display, and he was the most striking thing Harry had ever seen.

The other boy – the infamous Adam Young of Tadfield, bane of any adult within a ten mile radius of his person – was picking at a scab on his knee with the concentration of a surgeon, brows furrowed, mouth set in a frown. His mop of golden curls was just dishevelled enough, and his shoes just muddied enough to proclaim to the world that yes, it was summer, and all was right with the world because boys were still getting into mischief. With a frustrated scowl at his scab, the boy shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up, straight into Harry's gaze. He blinked once, still scowling, and Harry gave a quick glance and an awkward smile to his shoes. When he had the nerve to look up again, the other boy was still staring at him. And smiling.

With the two most powerful boys in the world together in the same room, one would think there would be sparks flying, or spontaneous combustion of nearby food products, or at the very least a hum of electricity in the air. But there were only two smiles, one tentative with the timidity of under-use, the other strong and confident with the assurance that everything would be just fine as long as it stayed young forever.

Harry's eyes fixated on that smile. It was powerful, burning, compelling. It made him feel important and lowly all at once. Suddenly, the sun didn't rise because the planet was turning, it rose because that smile existed and wanted the sun to come up every day. Harry wasn't accustomed to feeling so much, and his child's heart nearly burst with emotion when the boy took a step toward him.

Suddenly, he was yanked by the collar of his shirt and fell backwards, landing on the hard tile with a sharp cry of pain.

"Harry! You clumsy idiot - get up this instant! Everyone's staring!"

Harry winced, clutching his arm to his chest as he scrambled to get back on his feet. He ignored his aunt's raving and looked toward the ice cream display, but the other boy was gone, replaced by two very giggly teenage girls, and his heart fell. Harry's brief excursion into a world where at least one thing was beautiful was over and he followed his seething aunt out of the store with a heavy heart and a sigh, cradling his arm, limping slightly. He didn't get any dinner that night. Again.

Adam did not like most people. He had a small gang of friends, as most boys do, but everyone else (especially old people, which to him was anyone over the age of twenty), annoyed him. That day had been different, and he knew it. He was also going to do something about it, and nobody disobeyed Adam – not even Fate. So when he wished for "the sad market boy" to be happy, the universe hiccupped and made it so, and hundreds of miles away, an owl clutched an envelope in its talons and headed south.

One week later, Adam Young (the Adversary, Destroyer of Worlds, etc.), would both put the apocalypse in motion and call it off all in the same day, due to its high ranking on the list of "Very Bad Ideas". Harry (along with the rest of the world) would never know just how close he had been to blinking out of existence that day, and on that particular day, he probably wouldn't have cared. He was too busy daydreaming in his little cupboard about the thousands of letters, with his name on them, that had been pouring their way into the house all week. He felt…special, or at least how he had dreamed being special might feel. Though the boy from the market had been on his mind constantly since he'd seen him, he was slowly fading from Harry's mind, and soon he would forget that the first person who'd ever made him feel like he mattered had never even known his name.

***********************************************************

If there was an inherent art in staring morosely into wooden bar counters, Harry had perfected it. He was the most pitiful twenty-three year old on the face of the earth – nothing to do, nothing to be interested in, and too much on his mind. Everyone he had ever known was gone, either dead, off at university, or had gone on holiday and decided to stay on holiday.

At least he still had Remus, which was, in fact, the whole reason he was at the Leaky Cauldron on that sweltering summer evening. Why they didn't just meet at Grimmauld Place, Harry didn't know. Remus knew he hated to go out in public, and after a particularly dramatic episode involving airborne love-potion and swooning elderly witches, he no longer insisted on a weekly outing for "Harry's own good". Harry scoffed and downed the shot in front of him. If he knew Harry hated it, why had he been so adamant about coming here? He looked around and saw a fair amount of patrons staring at him with wide-eyes. 'I should get out now while I still can. He's already a half hour late. The door opened, letting in the sharp smell of the London summer air, and he fixed his eyes back on the wood beneath his elbows.

"Hi. Mind if I sit here?"

Harry vaguely acknowledged the stranger speaking to him, praying that he wouldn't be recognized, and waved his hand at the empty seat in apathetic acquiescence.

"Hey…are you…"

He winced and squeezed his eyes shut tight. 'Don't ask me, don't ask me, don't ask, just let it drop and go away and we can all get on with our – '

"Never mind. Thought I knew you from somewhere."

Harry sighed, his eyes still glued to the countertop. "You do, but thanks for attempting to back out gracefully. What do you want – scar or autograph?"

When he received no response, he finally looked up to greet his admirer visually, but he didn't receive the usual star-struck stare, just a cocked head and quizzical look.

"Wicked scar; how'd you get it?"

Harry's eyes narrowed and he looked suspiciously at the stranger's smile. He didn't pay any attention to the fact that if this had been a normal stranger, he would have already excused himself to go to the loo; something compelled him to stay.

Harry stared at him sceptically and moved his hand so that his hair fell back across his forehead. "You really don't know who I am? Are you a foreigner?"

"No on both counts," the other man said. "My flat's just down the street, but I've never been here before." He glanced at the bartender, who was pouring four bottles of liquor and re-tying the strings on his apron at the same time. "It's an odd little place. Never been somewhere where the bartenders were magicians too. How do you suppose he does that?"

"Easy, it's just…" Harry trailed off as he watched the stranger stare at the bartender in complete fascination, and he had a highly unlikely (but reasonable, all recent events considered) thought. "Wait…are you even a wizard?"

The stranger laughed and tore his eyes away from the bartender to look at Harry. "A wizard? No…well, at least, if I am one I don't know that I am. They never told me so, but then, those two were never very competent when it came to me."

This wasn't right. The Leaky Cauldron was layered in a veritable web of anti-Muggle wards – one couldn't get in even with the help of a wizard. "Well, can you do magic?"

"A sort of magic, yeah."

"So you're a wizard then."

"No, I'm the Antichrist."

Well that proved it; all the attractive ones were taken or insane. He had, some years ago, accused the Psychiatric Ward at St. Mungo's of putting his name on the Emergency Healer Floo Card they gave to all "rehabilitated" patients, but they had vehemently denied the accusation. Harry sighed.

"Ah, I see. So, not a wizard then?"

He shrugged. "No." The bartender shattered one of the bottles he'd been pouring. He cursed, pulled out his wand, and all the shards of glass came flying back together. The stranger grinned widely and a jolt of electricity hit Harry in the gut. "Wicked."

There was still something wrong. "Wait." He blinked, trying to work it all out in his mind. "You can't…you shouldn't even be in here…if you really aren't a wizard, shouldn't you be shrieking in disbelief, or at least frowning and muttering about the laws of physics?"

The stranger chuckled darkly, and Harry felt a wave of something both sinister and pure sweep through him, the contradiction making him shudder as if he'd been thrown into an ice pond. "I believe in almost everything. Seems a shame not to when there are so many fascinating things in the world, don't you think?"

Harry found this statement difficult to argue, though it didn't sound like anything he'd expect someone with a title like "Antichrist" to say. Harry ordered another drink as the stranger downed his own, and he found himself looking him over carefully and suddenly, he didn't care how the man had gotten in, he was just happy he had.

The stranger was most likely also in his early twenties, and had thick, dark blond hair that was nearly as messy as his own, but had a more respectable feel to it, like he was a prince who had just come in from a battle and couldn't be bothered with things like hair. His eyes weren't the shocking emerald green shade of Harry's, but an earthy hazel, with gold flecks throughout; but through the ordinary colours shone an intense, inherent power that surpassed any Harry had ever seen.

He had a tan that spoke of summers in the sunshine, and (though it was difficult to tell from where he was sitting) some of tightest jeans Harry had ever seen on a man. Filling those jeans was the body of an angel – not a harp-strumming, chubby-cheeked angel, mind you, but a sword-wielding, arse-kicking, masculinity-in-its-most-perfect-form angel.

Maybe this was worth his time after all.

Harry's eyes rose back up to the stranger's, and he blushed and turned back to his own drink when he realized he'd been caught.

The other man chuckled. "So…is everyone in here a wizard?"

Harry shrugged. "More or less. There are probably a few witches, but they don't –"

"Did you say witches?"

"It's just the term for female wizards, don't go looking for any warts or pointy hats," Harry said, remembering all the Halloweens he had spent fearing witches back in his days in the Muggle world.

"I think I knew a witch once, few years back. She claimed to be an occultist though, not a witch, and I never did see her wave a wand about come to think of it, so she was probably telling the truth after all." He chuckled and whispered, almost to himself, "Real witches; wait 'til I tell Them."

Adam asked him a bit more about witches, and Harry fell deeper and deeper into the intoxicating feeling of contentment until he knew he'd be staying there for quite some time. The fact that he was breaking about twenty laws never really occurred to him, but then again, he was never very concerned about them to begin with. Besides, he got the feeling this was one man, that he didn't want to cross, regardless of his being a Muggle.

Eventually, Adam tired of asking questions. "So, you going to tell me your name now?"

"It's Harry Potter," he blurted, having felt a peculiar sort of pleasure in finally telling someone his name for once instead of them exclaiming it as soon as they saw him. "Er…Harry, just Harry."

The stranger grinned and held out his hand. "Adam." Harry took his hand and a force like a smooth, slow lightning bolt rippled through his body like a heat-wave. Adam hummed in satisfaction and squeezed his hand a bit tighter. "You wanna get out of here, Harry Potter?"

The one cell in his brain that had retained its rationality cried out "NO!", but it was easily ignored. Adam was gorgeous (and not to be disobeyed), Harry was lonely (and aching for a shag), and Remus had clearly stood him up (git).

"Yeah, I think I do."

Adam smiled and Harry's heart lurched in his chest. "Brilliant."

***********************************************************

Adam's flat was actually nicer than Harry expected (though what he'd been expecting had been a cross between a palace and a tree-house, and he was a bit disappointed to see that it was a fairly standard British flat). What he hadn't expected was a mongrel the size of a large cat to be waiting on the other side of the door, teeth bared and growling, giving Harry a look that clearly stated "I might be small, but I will rip your fucking throat out if you're here to hurt my Master". Harry's eyes widened and he took a step back, feeling quite manly for suppressing a whimper.

"That's just Dog, don't mind him." Adam gave the snarling dog a look that would have sent any other away, tail firmly between its legs; but this one just stopped its growling and licked one of Adam's shoes before lying down, head on his paws, both eyes fixed on Harry. He looked exactly how Padfoot used to when Remus would talk to Snape – suspicious, jealous, and like he'd never get a chance to pout again.

A warm hand wrapped around Harry's forearm and he pried his eyes away from the mutt's and looked into Adam's. God, that smile tied his stomach in knots.

"Drink?" he asked, and Harry nodded, unable to do anything else. Adam let go of Harry's arm and gestured around the expansive flat. "Make yourself at home." He turned and walked into the kitchen. Harry spared one quick glance at his bum before averting his guilty eyes to the bookshelf.

All of the shelves, save the topmost one, were organized neatly in their rows, separated, as far as Harry could tell, by genre, then alphabetical by author. Heavy stuff, from the looks of it – he recognized some of the titles from Remus's meagre library, no doubt the Muggle classics he had heard so much about. The top shelf showed none of the order displayed by the majority of the bookshelf and was filled with oddly titled books sticking out at odd angles, some upright, some stacked, some showed their spines, others their pages – general chaos. He had only known Adam for a few hours, but Harry thought that shelf fit him to a tee.

Sure enough, he heard a voice behind him say, "That one's mine," and he turned to find Adam behind him, a drink in each hand, nodding toward the top shelf. "The rest are Wensley's; bloody dull, the lot of 'em."

"Who's Wensley? Boyfriend?" Harry asked, with more curiosity than jealousy. He had no delusions about why he was here, of course, but some people had ideas about relationships that were very different from his own (he had learned that while "open relationship" meant "seeing a few other people discreetly if I feel like it" to him, it could mean "bringing home multiple people to fuck through the night as often as possible" to someone else, and he had learned it the hard way).

Adam blinked once, and then threw his head back in laughter. "Ha! Now that is a hysterical thought! Wensley'll be a virgin to the grave, I reckon – girls scare him, and boys scare him even worse!" His laughter had died down to a few amused chuckles. "He's just my flatmate; we've been mates for a long time. He's at Oxford for the summer, doing something with a famous professor."

He thrust one of the drinks at Harry and smiled again. "Here. Try it."

All the warnings he had ever received about accepting drinks from relative strangers recessed somewhere into the depths of his mind and he found himself returning the smile and reaching out for the drink. "What is it?"

Adam's smile grew and he said, "Just drink it."

Harry narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but he couldn't help but take a sip.

The Dursleys had taken him to church one Easter morning, and Dudley had spent the whole service telling Harry all about the gruesome glory of Hell, along with listing all the reasons why Harry would surely be going there. He hadn't thought about it much, just one more traumatic memory his mind preferred to block out; but as he took the first sip of his drink, all the fire and brimstone he had heard of that day came rushing back to him and flooded his mouth.

It was like sin and fire and hard punishment all sliding down his throat, slick and sweet and hot and…so good. Harry's eyes fluttered shut as he tongued the roof of his mouth to savour the smoky aftertaste and groaned his approval. After the next sip, he opened his eyes to see Adam grinning at him wickedly.

"Good, yeah?"

Harry nodded. "Hell yes." Adam laughed. "What's in it?"

Adam shook his head and downed the rest of his drink. "It's a secret," he said.

"Not trying to drug me to get into my pants are you?" Harry snickered.

Adam moved closer to him, the world shifted, and Harry's breath caught in his throat. "You don't really think I'd need to drug you, do you?" He smirked and his eyes practically glowed with fiery arousal.

Before Harry could gather wits enough to shake his head, warm fingers tightened in the hair at the nape of his neck and guided his head down to the seat of the couch, his body following in resigned acceptance. Adam stared down at his body sprawled across the cushions with intense concentration, and for one horrific moment, Harry was afraid he looked ridiculous, like an overwhelmed child. But a second later, the warm body he'd been longing for was pressed into his own, and that heart-stopping smile was so close he could touch it with his lips.

Adam surveyed Harry's face and ran a thumb across his cheek, a look of significant recognition in his eyes. "I do know you," he whispered, and he leaned forward just enough to give Harry the kiss of a lifetime.

He thought he'd been happy when he'd first made friends, and again when he'd been with Sirius, and again when he'd killed the man standing between him and his life. But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to that kiss.

***********************************************************

"I still think that was a bad idea."

Oh stop being such a girl, Moony. That was the best idea I've had since I've been dead.

Remus sighed. Sitting in a shady corner booth of the Leaky Cauldron with his hood pulled up was decidedly not as exciting as it sounded. Especially when he was sharing a body with his dead best friend. "Where did you meet this guy again?"

He's not a guy, Moony, he's a –

"Demon. Right, I remember. Even if I did believe you, what makes you think Harry is going to be safe with this other kid, if Harry even wants him?"

Of course Harry wants him – he's bloody gorgeous! Besides, Harry needs a little danger in his life now that Voldemort's gone.

Remus shook his head. "Wouldn't James and Lily love that? Survived the most insane murderer of our time just to be murdered in his sleep by a pretty boy in tight jeans. If you weren't dead already, she'd kill you, you know."

Well I am, and so's she, so no harm done. You don't give the boy enough credit, Moony; he'll be fine. In fact, he'll probably be so fine that he'll stop having to rely on you as his only source of – oww! What the bloody hell was that?!

"I kicked you."

But I'm in your head!

"Rather impressive, I know. Now shut it, Sirius."

The pub's door opened once again and two men walked in, both obviously and almost obscenely out of place. If Sirius wasn't currently inhabiting his body (and also dead), Remus would have sworn he had just walked through the door (though he was fairly certain Sirius had never worn sunglasses at night). 'This must be him,' Remus thought. The man following him bore a striking resemblance to…well…Remus, at least as far as clothing was concerned. They made their way to the back of the pub and stopped right next to Remus's table.

"Well that's that, boys. Another brilliant plan executed by yours truly –" A little cough came from the man behind him, and he turned to flash him a grin. "And you, of course, Angel."

Remus pulled his hood back and eyed him with a look of blatant distrust. Even if he wasn't a demon, he still looked enough like Sirius that Remus couldn't help but feel like he was going to do something particularly ridiculous without warning. Like throw itching powder all over him (an incident that haunts his dreams to this day). "Is this boy you've set him up with safe? I'm not going to wake up tomorrow with one less friend, am I?"

"Oh, don't worry," the Sirius look-alike assured him, "he's as safe as…" he passed for a moment, brow crinkled in a sort of unworried frown. "Well, actually, he's probably the most dangerous human on the planet, but –"

"But he's a good-hearted boy," the other man interrupted. Then, with a smile at his companion, he said, "Adam was my idea, remember?" He turned back to Remus. "Your friend is safe."

The one in black scoffed. "Leave it to the angel to suggest sodomy. I thought that was my side's domain."

The other just shrugged and kept on smiling. "I suppose not."

Remus looked back and forth between the two…well, whatever they were, and sighed in resignation. "I need a drink."

"Oh, excellent! Black's still in there isn't he? Ask him if he'd fancy a hand of poker."

***********************************************************

Just down the street, in a tangle of sweaty sheets and questionable stains, two young men were falling asleep, side by side, their limbs as tangled as the bedclothes. It had taken a bit longer than usual, but an unconscious wish that had been made by a small boy over twelve years ago had finally been realized. Adam smiled in his sleep.