Welcome to new readers and to old! This is the rewrite of A Fork in the Road, and here's hoping it's an improvement.
No End in Sight is split as follows: Prologue, Book I, Book II, Book III, Epilogue. Quite the journey, as you can see. Secondary characters include Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Adam Milligan, Gabriel, Lucifer, and some OCs that I won't make too intrusive. Their entrances will be staggered throughout and a few of them will only show up after several chapters.
This is not a family fic. Harry is not biologically related to the Winchesters in any way.
Thanks to SomniumAstrum and Kurama's Foxy Rose for being awesome betas! I appreciate your help very much. It's mostly due to your suggestions and constructive criticism that I decided to do this, and I'm glad I did.
Disclaimer: The title is obviously taken from that of an album by Foreigner. Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the plots and my own little twists. Things you recognize are from the books or the TV show.
PROLOGUE
A few months before the unfortunate incidents surrounding Nicholas Flamel's magical stone, Harry Potter realized that Neville Longbottom was not actually a huge asshole. According to a restricted book by one Alexander Lansbury, the asshole was an evil creature called a demon, formerly believed to be nonexistent, and Neville was its unfortunate victim.
Neville had been acting strange all year. A fall of over twenty feet in height failed to affect him beyond causing a twisted wrist and exceptional grumpiness. He never seasoned his food, no matter how bland it was, he sassed Professor Snape, and to Ron's hypocritical outrage he ridiculed Hermione's love for books.
He could have been an ass, plain and simple, except that Harry had met him on the Hogwarts Express and thought him a goodnatured and likable boy, if a bit shy. It made no sense for him to turn malicious and rebellious less than a day later.
To be honest, Harry hadn't even noticed at the time.
Ron had been so certain that he would be sorted into Gryffindor ("There's no doubt of it, Harry... you're Harry Potter.") that it was especially jarring when the hat yelled, "Slytherin!" after barely a moment of deliberation. In the weeks that followed, Harry was exposed to and thoroughly confused by a maelstrom of pureblood customs, all under the protective wing of a third year named Margaret Lestrange.
"Slytherin is best known for wit and cunning," Margaret told him. Her blue eyes sparkled in her thin face, belying the words. "I like to think of it more as common sense. Another house would jump straight into trouble without thinking of the consequences."
"You're talking about Gryffindor again, aren't you?" said Harry, who had become savvy to that particular habit of hers.
"Did I say that?" asked Margaret. But her lips twitched.
Rumors flying around Hogwarts claimed that Slytherin was an evil cult and that its dormitory was a slimy hellhole run by Satan's own minions. It was true that the common room was dim, and it wouldn't have been far from correct to say that the students were more secluded than the rest of the school's population, but otherwise the speculations had no basis in fact.
Harry liked the dungeons. Deep leather couches and stately cabinets furnished the common room, whose cavernous ceiling extended below the lake. His own bedroom was comfortable and compact. Half of it was his and the other half belonged to a boy whose name Harry awkwardly misheard upon introduction, although he believed it began with an F – was it Frederick? Floyd? Everyone called him by his surname, which was Rosier, so he never quite found out.
This latter was several inches shorter than him despite being more than three years older. He was a curious individual; his features were nondescript, his eyelids looked constantly as if they were going to slip shut, and he put forth minimal effort towards his schoolwork. Somehow he always received good marks anyway.
He and Harry had a symbiotic relationship of sorts. Rosier, a member of a higher-class family in the tightly knit pureblood community, helped to smooth Harry's integration into Slytherin simply by associating with him, and Harry... well, Harry wasn't sure what he did for Rosier, but they shared a vague dislike for Quidditch. Perhaps it was this that prompted them to seek out each other's company.
All things considered, the only thorn in Harry's side was Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy was a no-good, narcissistic, selfish hellion, or so Harry told his roommate one night after classes and dinner.
"Are you sure you're not just saying that because he's better than you at Transfiguration?" Rosier asked mildly when his ranting had died down.
"He isn't better than me," said Harry, offended. Malfoy was not, he amended, the only thorn. The other was his deplorable lack of any kind of magical skill.
Harry wasn't lucky enough to slide through his studies like Rosier. He struggled with Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Potions, the class he might have had a chance at shining in, was unfortunately taught by a man who had hated his father and did not particularly like him. His grades fluctuated, ranging between a "Dreadful" if Snape was in a passably good mood and an "Exceeds Expectations" if he was feeling snide. Harry didn't know which was worse.
Harry's housemates thought him bizarre to pursue his friendship with two Gryffindors – a Weasley and a Muggle-born no less. Gryffindors hated Slytherins as a rule, and Slytherins despised Gryffindors. It was a feud to rival that of the Montagues and Capulets. Harry might have become something of a social pariah if not for Margaret and Rosier. As it was, he was labeled as "strange."
Malfoy delighted in twisting the word so that it came out like the worst insult ever invented. In a feat of great daring, Harry flipped him off, but then discovered that nobody knew what it meant. Margaret inquired, however, and eventually word reached Malfoy. He wasn't pleased. It showed.
On one occasion, Harry was en route to History of Magic with Ron and Hermione when Malfoy trotted past. Harry couldn't remember what he had said, but it had been silly and juvenile, and he'd ignored him. Ron, on the other hand, clenched his fists and would have started a scuffle if Harry hadn't pulled him back. It was because of this heedlessness that Harry didn't bring him and Hermione into the demon fiasco.
"Demons are allegedly cursed souls from hell," wrote Alexander Lansbury. "Although encounters with these creatures have rarely been documented and still more rarely been verified, Christian legend maintains that substances such as holy water or salt repel them and that they can be banished by religious exorcisms."
"With a vast pool of mythology and tradition to sift through from around the world, fact is difficult to isolate from fiction. Some sources say that demons have black eyes, others that they have an incorporeal form similar to smoke. However, two points are certain: demons are extraordinarily powerful, and they are by no means benevolent. They are usually portrayed as having supernatural powers, such as telekinesis or teleportation, and can possess animals and humans alike."
"However," quoth Lansbury, "lack of evidence for one conjecture, which in this case is the existence of demons, does not qualify as proof for the opposite surmise, their nonexistence. To think in absolutes would be erroneous. One must prepare for the worst, and therefore I give you, my dear reader, the following exorcism, to be used upon evil spirits if necessary."
The exorcism was wordy and written in Latin. Harry disliked Latin, primarily because he had never learned it, but he did his best to memorize the words, feeling rather as if he had a heroic calling to save some poor damsel in distress. The parallel brought to mind visions of Neville clad in heavily embroidered medieval gowns. He forgot them as quickly as he could.
His mental was-Neville-a-demon chart had big green checkmarks beside every determining factor listed in Lansbury's Supernatural Creatures: Fictitious and Factual, Volume I. In short: he was screwed.
After a good three months of intense preparation and memory work, however, Harry considered himself ready for his first demon hunt. Kind of. Sort of. Not really. He did think he was about as ready as he ever would be. His pockets were a veritable promised land of salt and holy water, the exorcism was firmly engrained in his head, and he could pass Neville without shuddering (visibly).
It was easier said than done.
Demons are definitely telekinetic, Harry felt like informing Lansbury pettishly. His head slammed against the wall as if on cue, and Neville's lips curled in a grin as the demon stalked nearer. Thinking himself clever, Harry had waited until everyone was at the Quidditch pitch for the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game before he acted. It had not been clever.
"Wonderful," said Neville, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Good job, Harry Potter, absolutely capital. I'm impressed."
"Thanks," Harry gasped, wiping away the stream of blood pouring from his nose.
The demon shook his head pityingly. The salt line was almost broken, the light spring breeze blowing it away in wisps. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you? You have no idea what you are, why I'm here. You're a little – I mean no offense, truly – but you're a little pathetic."
"Exorcizamus te!" Harry yelled in return, incensed. "Omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et... Oof!"
The salt line had broken. Harry went flying into the wall for the second time in five minutes and Neville smoothly strode to his side, eyes inky black once more.
"Et... et secta diabolica," Harry mumbled doggedly, "ergo draco mal-mal... mal-"
Neville shook his head again but with even more pity, if that was possible.
"As I said, pathetic. Oh, well, I can see when I'm not wanted. So long, old boy."
He threw his head back and smoke exploded out of his mouth, gathering in a black cloud near the ceiling. More and more surged to join with it until finally Neville's body slackened and collapsed. The cloud twisted into a little funnel of evil, swirled to the window, and was gone.
Harry stared at the spot where it had disappeared for several long moments. He gulped.
"Bloody hell," he said aloud.
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