Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own rights to Supernatural or Harry Potter. That luxury belongs to wonderful people who are not me. I just like to borrow the characters and play with them in my little imaginary sandbox.

Alright y'all. Strap in, grab some popcorn, and something to sip because this story is going to be a long one. I can feel it in my bones. We're starting in Season One of Supernatural, and approximately seven years after the Battle of Hogwarts. That means that there's a lot of shit that's going to go down. There will be language and adult content (though, as per FFN rules, it will be heavily edited and the full versions of such content will be available on Ao3). There will also be what some people may consider OOCness. So, bear that in mind and enjoy.

Recommended Listening: The Logical Song by Supertramp

The cold was something that she was sure that she ought to be used to by now. Yet, there she was, standing with her hands fisted in the pockets of her coat as she hunched forward in an effort to stave off the wind. At least it wasn't raining, she mused as she mentally cast a warming charm around her knees and fingers, her eyes trained on the crosswalk signal. Driving would have been a better option, but considering that she hadn't quite gotten the hang of the American way of things when it came to the rules of the road, she'd chosen to forgo it. Relying on public transportation and her own legs were something she was used to. But, a blast of heat on her body at all times would have been lovely.

The light changed and traffic stopped, and Hermione Granger hustled across to the other side. She wasn't supposed to be in upstate New York. She wasn't supposed to be in America at all. At least, that was not in her original plans. The truth was that plans had a nasty habit of going to shit when it was least expected. By this point in her life, she'd given up keeping an appointments diary. There wasn't a point in organizing oneself to the point of insanity, not anymore. So she didn't. She wandered and collected and kept to herself. It suited her and she shoved the small part of her brain that whispered that she was lonely aside.

Hermione heaved a sigh as she turned the corner. The auction house parking lot was full, making her appreciate her lack of car, and the detailed Mercedes and BMWs glinted in the spring sunshine. For a moment she paused and stared down at her plain blouse and gray slacks; somehow she got a distinct impression that she was going to be underdressed. Since when did auctions require a bloody dress code?

She shuffled on, the soles of her sensible shoes crunching against the pavement. That was when she saw the black car. It was older, by at least thirty years, and covered in a light layer of dirt. Certainly American made.

A small smile pulled at her lips. Maybe this money show wouldn't be as bad as she thought.

In a lot of ways, it was as bad as she thought, but the free-flowing champagne certainly did a lot to make her forget about the four-piece quartet in the corner. This was up there with one of those stupid Ministry galas that she'd been required to attend - at least until she put her foot down and refused to pick it up again. All of this was pretentious bull shit and was, as she discovered after eavesdropping on a few conversations, in very poor taste. Still, she didn't say a word as she wove her way through the crowd and exchanged one empty champagne flute for another full one.

Settling herself in between a fern and a sculpture that appeared to be nothing more than a metal cube, Hermione made a show of looking over the brochure. Everything was overpriced, whether or not the gouging was due to the sensationalism she wasn't sure. Not that she couldn't afford it, she certainly could. But very few things seemed to be up to her tastes and she preferred a minimalist lifestyle. Still, something wouldn't be amiss, she was sure. Somehow the prospect didn't thrill her.

The truth was that she was bored. Despite the quaint appeal of the small town, she could feel her bones and muscles become stiff, settling into a sedentary lifestyle that she was not accustomed to. Not for the first time did she consider going home. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. That held no appeal whatsoever. Whatever love she had for England has nearly diminished into nothing, and she found herself at peace with that. She had done what she'd set out to do, she'd succeeded and failed in rapid and repetitive succession. The world moved on, but she'd gotten herself stuck in a mire that she had to remove herself from or she would have suffocated. So she did, and she hadn't looked back.

She downed the last of her drink and extracted herself from the corner. Getting maudlin wasn't going to help the afternoon move any faster, she reasoned, but looking through a dead couple's belongings might. Merlin, she'd become cynical, but that still didn't stop her from grabbing her third glass of champagne.

They were woefully out of place, just like that car she was sure was theirs sitting in the parking lot. Looking at the two mountains of denim and flannel, she didn't feel quite as underdressed, and she couldn't complain about the view. Still, they were well on their way to getting thrown out and she found herself disappointed. She needed the entertainment.

A flash of movement caught her attention and she turned sharply. The painting, an ugly thing housed in an equally ugly frame, had moved, she was sure of it. Moving portraits were something she was certainly used to, but this was a Muggle auction and that was a Muggle painting. Easing back on her heels, her fingers tapped idly against the glass flute as she stared at it. She didn't like it, and she couldn't quite put her finger on why. That in itself made that familiar itch of wanting to run to the nearest library reared up. She pushed it aside, for the moment at least.

Hermione gave herself a shake and tried to turn her attention elsewhere. The mountains of flannel and denim made that easy as their large frames obscured her view. Surely they weren't thinking of buying that ugly thing, but, then again, one man's trash was another man's treasure. Too bad this trash was overpriced.

The shorter of the two, which was somehow an amusing thought, turned then and glanced back her. Arching a brow, she met his gaze and slowly lifted her glass to her lips. Oh dear lord, she thought as she swallowed a groan with her champagne, he was coming over. Hermione quickly turned away and slipped behind a Victorian screen and disappeared with a soft pop, her drink left unfinished on a table.

There had been no reason to run like she had, no reason to apparate either, and she tried to tell herself that she had just had enough of the auction house. The painting hadn't bothered her, it was just a silly Muggle painting after all. He hadn't bothered her either, not even a bit. And, of course, she wasn't afraid of conversation with a stranger. Absolutely not.

A beak pecked lightly at the back of her hand and got her attention. She glanced down at the small owl, who in turn looked up at her with an expression that conveyed he didn't believe her mental argument at all. "I'm not," she insisted as she gave the little bird a handful of treats. His feathers ruffled in response, but he ate the offering anyways.

Pulling herself up from where she'd planted herself on the sofa, she shuffled into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. A rather large glass of wine and she left the bottle out on the counter- just in case. There was work she needed to do, Rune translations and Arithmancy equations, things that would easily distract her.

Drinking down half of the glass, she turned and pressed her fingertips against her temple. That itching, that need to dig deep and read, was starting to drive her mad. It was a painting. A painting and a tall man. But it all just felt wrong.

The sound of her phone ringing across the room pulled her from her thoughts and she trudged back into the living room. Sinking down on the edge of the couch, she stared at Sarah's name as it flashed on the screen. See, she mentally pointed out, she did talk to people. She had a local friend. That deserved another sip of wine and she dutifully answered the call.

Sarah Blake had managed to snag a date with Tall, Dark, and Flannel - who, surprisingly enough, actually did know about art. The world was still full of surprises, it seemed, and she tried not to think about the fact that she hadn't had sex in years. Celibacy was in. Somewhere, at least.

The pretty auction house dealer had been the first person she'd met when she came to town and it was hard not to like her, and Hermione had tried. She was bubbly and intelligent and particularly hard to ignore once you were in the same room with her. So, she let herself be drawn into Sarah's sphere and, after a while, she could make herself admit that it was nice to have a female friend. Or just a friend in general. That thought was traitorous, though, and she refused to dwell on it.

While her dark-haired friend was across town in one of the more posh restaurants, Hermione sat in a booth at the local dive bar and nursed a pint while reading the newspaper. The normalness of it was almost disconcerting and if it hadn't been for her wand nestled in its holster, pressing into her arm, she would have sworn she'd gone Muggle. The fact that she hadn't was more than reassuring.

The table wobbled as someone plopped down in the vinyl covered seat across from her and she looked up. It was Tall, Dark, and Flannel's brother, or at least that's what Sarah had told her. She could see the resemblance now, somewhat. There would be no apparating out of this, she realized then, and she calmly folded her newspaper and set it aside.

"Is there something you need?" she asked as she pushed her hair back from her face.

A smile spread across his face and he shifted in his seat, his elbows resting on the table. "British?"

What a stupid question. "No, French," she replied dryly. "Must I repeat my question?"

"Nope. I got it," he held his hands up in defense. "Saw you at the auction the other day."

"Yes. You were the one who ate all of the quiches."

"It was good quiche."

Hermione was silent as she surveyed him. He was cocky, the arrogance practically oozing out of his pores. Still, he didn't make her skin crawl like Cormac had, so that was a point in his favor. Up close he was broader than she'd originally thought, his shoulders wide enough to make the material of his worn blue button up stretch against the seams. The pendant he wore caught her eye and she filed the image away to search for later; it didn't seem like just some random Muggle trinket.

"Did you buy the painting?" Hermione asked as she sipped her beer.

The question took him off guard, which suited her. People were easier to read that way, though she didn't make a habit of looking through people's minds when they were unaware. That was rude just on principle alone. Body language would suit her just fine, and he was certainly pretty enough to observe.

He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her. They were green, she noticed. Not bright like Harry's, but certainly startling in their own right. "What do you know about it?"

Ah. There was something with that damn thing after all. "I know that it's ugly and I know it didn't feel right."

His eyes narrowed. "What's your name?"

"Hermione."

"Hermione," he repeated, his mouth twisting as if he was trying to get a feel for it. "Dean. Can I get you another beer?"

She shrugged. "I've got nothing better to do."

The secondhand bookshop wasn't impressive in the slightest. It was also horribly dusty and that irked her; she swore that she wiped her hands off on her jeans at least every few minutes. But, it was better than the commercial monstrosity that had been thrown up on the outskirts of town. She didn't give a hippogriff if they made a good cup of coffee with a pound of whipped cream, it just wasn't the same. She wanted the cramped aisles with books stacked haphazardly on the shelves. Dust and all.

Swiping a finger over the edges of a worn book on dead languages, many she'd never even heard of, she flung away the dust and tucked it carefully under her arm before continuing down to the end of the row. She turned the corner and abruptly stopped. Dinner Date and Tall and Flannel were chatting with the shop's owner. Dean, she told herself. Dean and Sam. The shop owner was just Shop Owner, she saw little point in learning his name.

Hermione leaned against the edge of the bookcase and listened. Several years ago she would have considered eavesdropping to be the epitome of rudeness, no matter how curious she was. Now she'd been desensitized and no longer cared.

"I dug up every scrap of local history I could find," the shopkeeper's voice was eager and she could hear the rustling of paper. "So, are you boys crime buffs?"

No, she thought ruefully, they're art dealers. What the bloody hell did they want to know about? Pages turned again, and she could only assume they were reading something. Sliding her wand from her sleeve, she cast a quick and discreet Notice-Me-Not and inched closer.

There were newspapers spread out all over a table full of books and whatever was written there seemed to have captured Sam and Dean's attention. The Shop Owner was looking smug, she thought, or at least oddly amused. Either way, it seemed odd.

"So the whole family was killed?" Sam asked, straightening up again.

What?

Shop Owner nodded. The man was almost giddy. "It seems this Isaiah, he slits his kid's throats. Then his wife's. Then himself. Now, he was a barber by trade. Used a straight razor."

Dear Merlin, Hermione rolled her eyes, this was like some bad knock-off of Sweeney Todd. Except that it apparently did happen and she added her previous thought to the long list of reasons why she was probably going to hell. If there even was a hell.

Sam spoke again. "Why'd he do it?"

Shop Owner picked up the newspaper and peered at it through the glasses that sat perched on the end of his nose. "Let's look. Ahh. 'People who knew him describe Isaiah as having a stern and harsh temperament. Controlled his family with an iron fist. Wife, two sons, adopted daughter'," he paused, making rapid nodding motions with his head. The hallmark of a skimmer. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. 'There were whispers that the wife was gonna take the kids and leave'... Which, of course, you know that in that day and age...so instead...old man Isaiah… Well, he gives them a shave."

The man had the gall to smile and run his finger along his neck in an elaborate slashing motion. He even laughed. It was appalling, even more so when Dean began to chuckle himself. At least he had the sense to stop it as quickly as he'd begun.

Dean cleared his throat. "Does it say what happened to the bodies?"

Several thoughts went through her head all at once. Art dealers they certainly were not, but surely they weren't stupid enough to even attempt something as foul as Necromancy. Merlin, they weren't even wizards. At least, not that she could tell.

"It says they were cremated," Shop Owner replied, and she felt pleased to see a bit of unease flash in his eyes.

She watched as Dean's shoulders tensed, his jaw working as he turned to stare out the shop window. Whatever it was they were planning to do had been hindered by that one sentence. She couldn't help but feel smug.

"Anything else?" Sam asked, sounding exhausted.

Shop Owner looked down at the mess of papers again and began to shuffle them around. "Yeah, actually. I found a picture of the family. It's around here somewhere. Right here," he replied as he held up one of the papers and tapped it with his finger.

Dean's shoulders relaxed and Sam stood a little straighter. What on earth? Then it hit her like a bludger: the painting of the auction, that's what they were looking at. That's why it felt so off, she realized, her eyes widening. It was attached to something absolutely horrible, but that didn't explain why she saw it move. Or thought she saw it move. Bloody hell.

Hermione slipped back behind the bookshelf and released her charm. She needed to look at the ugly thing again, even if only to convince herself that she was imagining things.

"Can we get a copy of this?" Sam asked, and she couldn't help but wonder if she could get a copy of her own.

She was having flashbacks to Hogwarts and she wasn't entirely sure just how she felt about that. Her flat was a mess, books, and parchment scattered everywhere as Rigel sat on his perch and stared down at her. Judging her, no doubt. Uppity owl.

Standing up suddenly, Hermione stumbled as she hopped over a pile of books and fell into the kitchen. She grabbed a biscuit from a tin and chewed on it for a moment as she thought. This was getting ridiculous, not translating an ancient Runic version of a children's book ridiculous- though it was certainly up there. It made no sense, none of it, and she hated it.

Rigel's wings fluttered as he hunkered down on his perch, his large eyes beginning to close. Just how late was it, she wondered as she cast a quick Tempus charm. Hermione sighed. It was late enough.

She dusted biscuit crumbs off on her jeans and began the arduous task of tossing books and papers into her beaded bag. The purple satin was wearing in places and here and there a few patches of beads were missing, but she didn't think she could ever part with it. It did the job, and it did it well, so what more could she ask for? But right now wasn't the time to reminisce about magically enhanced accessories. Not when she had questions that needed answering.

It was the cheapest motel in town and, somehow, she couldn't picture them staying anywhere else. Even if Dean did buy her a few beers and an order of onion rings, she knew he was still being cheap. The beer he favored was shit, but she let it slide. Plus, their car was parked out front.

"Point me," she whispered, letting her wand guide her to their door. "Bingo."

She stood there for a moment, listening to their muffled voices on the other side of the door before rummaging through her bag for a pair of Extendable Ears that had seen better days. Tucking the bag underneath her arm, she held the ear up to the door and listened.

Sam's voice came through first: "I'm telling you, man, I'm sure of it. The painting at the auction house, Dad's looking down. Painting here, Dad's looking out. The painting has changed, Dean."

Bollocks.

"Alright, so you think Daddy Dearest is trapped in the painting and is handing out Columbian neckties like with his family?" Dean asked, the Extendable Ears making his voice sound deeper. But, surely that was her imagination.

She could hear Sam sigh. "Well, yeah, it seems like it. But if his bones are already dusted how are we gonna stop him?"

A chair creaked. "All right. Well, if Isaiah's position changed, then maybe other things in the painting did, too. It could give us some clues."

That was all she needed. Stuffing the Extendable Ears back into her beaded bag, Hermione pulled out her wand and muttered a quick Alohamora. The opened with a bang and her eyes were assaulted by the sight of an overabundance of silver sequins. What had the hotel decorator been thinking?

The decor didn't seem to matter much once she found herself staring up at two large men aiming two guns right at her head. Letting out a huff, she slipped her wand back up her sleeve and kicked the door closed.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake. Put those away," she said as she dropped her beaded bag onto the table and put her hands on her hips.

Dean was the first to move, his thumb easing the hammer back into place before he tucked the gun away in the waistband of his jeans. Sam followed a moment later, and she liked to think it was due to the glare she'd leveled at him.

"How did you do that?" Dean asked, pointing at the door.

Hermione just grinned. "Magic."

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