This is a story I started a while back and that I'm only just getting around to posting. This is my second crossover between Harry Potter and Supernatural (unrelated to the first) and I have no idea if this plot bunny is even good or interesting. If it gets positive reception, I'll probably continue (I've only written 6-7 chapters of this length). It isn't my main story, though, so updates will probably be sporadic after the first few chapters. Reviews would be great, especially any alerts about grammar/spelling as I didn't check it over carefully before posting and my younger self was significantly worse at writing.

As he gazed on in horror, her facial muscles contracted. The crimson bloodstain fanned out from her abdomen. Fire burst up and blossomed around her. Still in a state of shock, he managed to grasp his infant son and escape. Tears blinded him as he shoved Sammy into Dean's arms.

"Go, Dean," he shouted hoarsely. "Take your brothers outside!"

Confusion and a trace of fear were apparent on the young boy's face, but he immediately tightened his hold on Sam and hurried down the stairs. Without waiting to confirm their exit, John sprinted back into Sam's room, hoping against all hope that he could save his wife. It was too late. The flames roared and devoured the wooden panels, crawling at alarming speeds over the rest of the room. He could no longer even see her body for the smoke. The window shattered, spraying glass shards through the hot air. He ran for his life, only just making it out the door as an explosion shook the little house.

Dean stood in the middle of the lawn, clearly distressed but still clutching his young brother tightly to his chest. John looked wildly about for his second son.

"Luke! Luke, where are you?" he shouted. He whirled around to face Dean. "Where's Luke, Dean? I told you to take him out!"

Dean only stared at him with a dazed expression on his face. John hugged his sons to him, tears running unchecked down his face.

"Oh, God," he sobbed. "No."

The sleeping young boy was placed gently on the doorstep of the small cottage. His deliverer straightened, staring at the child with an unreadable expression in his eyes. He then disappeared without a sound.

The boy woke up abruptly, as though the disappearance of his rescuer had somehow alerted him. He blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Mommy?"

Nothing happened. The night air was still and quiet.

"Dean?"

A light turned on in the window above him. A few moments later, the front door opened. Light streamed onto the step as a young man peered out. He immediately caught sight of the boy and a sleepy grin spread over his face.

"Lily! Come look."

A young woman joined him.

"Oh, the poor boy," she exclaimed. kneeling down beside him and scooping him into her arms. "Where could he have come from?"

The man watched her play with the child, scratching the back of his head absently.

"Well," he said, an amused expression playing on his face. "I think I can guess where he's going to stay. Let's go back to sleep. We can figure this out in the morning."

The door shut behind them. The one who had brought the boy watched it close with satisfaction before disappearing once more.

Harry pushed back his shock of dark hair with thin, nervous fingers. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, turning his head this way and that. Then he examined the ragged picture he held. There was a slight resemblance in the jawline... or was it merely his imagination?

"What's taking so long, Potter?"

Harry pushed the photo hurriedly in his trouser pocket, and only just in time. The door swung open with a crash, and a scowling older boy peered in. He smiled, but with more malice than mirth.

"What have we here? Staring at yourself in the mirror again? Who do you think you are, staying in here past your allotted time, you little pipsqueak?"

"I can't take a shower in less than two minutes," Harry said defiantly, standing his ground. All he received for his rebellion was a heavy clout over the head. He tumbled to the ground, seeing stars.

"Oh, are you shortsighted, Potter? I didn't know that."

Harry squinted upward, and the pit of his stomach plummetted. He scrambled to his feet.

"Give that back, Matthew."

He grabbed for the object, but the other boy merely held it higher, a spiteful grin playing on his rather handsome face.

"Is this something important?" he taunted. In a quick, fluid movement, his fingers snapped the fragile frame of the glasses. He threw them into the toilet, flushed it, and left the bathroom. Harry lunged after him, slamming into his back with a heavy thud. He was able to throw in one punch before Matthew's cronies were drawn out of their stupor and closed in on him. Matthew's nose was spurting blood, Harry noted with satisfaction... or as much satisfaction as he could gather when he was being bruised and bloodied by a pack of boys, all of whom were at least two or three years older than him.

Harry vaguely heard a yell, "All right, that's enough! Let's go!"

The clatter of feet against the floorboards faded. Harry coughed and sat up painfully. Wincing, he fingered his side. There would be purple bruises there tomorrow, without a doubt. His nose had also started bleeding. He pressed one of the cleaner edges of his shirt to it to stem the flow.

When he entered into his bedroom, his roommate, George, looked up for a brief moment before turning back to his book. Harry had not expected any sort of concern to be exhibited towards him, but he thought George might have shown a bit more of a reaction. He resentfully limped to his side of the room, slowly and carefully lying down on his cot to mull over his loss.

A heavy weight had settled in his stomach. The glasses had belonged to his father. He had had only two precious remnants of his parents, and now one was gone. He fingered the tattered edges of the photo, then deliberately took it out. He placed it in his safe box that he had hidden under his mattress.

He decided it was better that the glasses had been his father's rather than his. Fortunately his vision was nearly perfect. At least, it had been two years ago when an eye doctor had examined the children at the foster home. If they had been his, he would have been stumbling about half blind by now. However, he couldn't keep a small sigh from escaping. To comfort himself, he closed his eyes and thought of the single memory he had of his mother.

Warm, comforting arms were wrapped around him. They smelt of lavender and a hint of cool mint. He had felt safe, and had snuggled more deeply into them. A quiet voice sang to him.

"Hey, Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song, and make it better. Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better."

Light hair fell like a curtain around his drowsy eyes, and soft, cool lips pressed against his forehead.

"I love you, my baby boy."

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