Disclaimer: I obviously own both Harry Potter and Supernatural. I mean, it's not like this is fan fiction or anything, right?

Thanks especially to SomniumAstrum and Kurama's Foxy Rose for their beta work. I couldn't and wouldn't have done this without them.

A second round of appreciative applause for my reviewers: Samhain Otsutsuki, mattcun, aaaaa, SomniumAstrum (now, what could you be doing there?), Sianna Scale, shadewatcher, moon so bright, and Sailor Pandabear. I'm grateful for the time you spent to tell me what you thought!

BOOK ONE

Hunter by Definition

Chapter I

Harry knew two things.

First and most importantly, he had to close the window. Insufficient protection as it seemed, he didn't want the nameless demon to hitch a ride on him while his back was turned.

Second, Neville needed medical care.

Actually, first he sat down so he wouldn't face-plant. He felt rather as he had during the bout of accidental magic that landed him on the school roof. The wind had gathered him up and deposited him on the rough tiles and, shaking like a leaf, he had skittered away from the edge. "You're eeevil," Dudley had taunted him afterwards in the (not) safety of Privet Drive. "Eeevil freak! Hope you eat worms and die!

These delicate sentiments reverberated within him when he thought about the demon's words. Pathetic? No idea what he was doing? Harry boiled. The ignominy.

"Ergo draco maledicte," he recited, viciously slapping his hands against his knee. They tingled with excess adrenaline. "Ut ecclesiam tuam secura, tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos! Bloody hell, why couldn't I remember it before?"

Throughout all his careful planning, he had never expected to betrayed by his own nerves.

"Maledicte," he sneered again, and told Neville's inert form, "I could kick myself."

Neville made an unhappy moaning noise and Harry remembered the two things.

"I'll get you to Pomfrey, shall I?" The glass trembled as he slammed the window shut. He tugged the fastenings a few times to make sure they were tight. "She'll know what to do. A potion or something to wake you up."

Harry bent and pulled Neville upright. With a juicy squish, Neville's cracked wrist bone popped out of the skin, releasing a fresh torrent of blood. Harry's stomach curdled.

"Oh, God."

The toast and two boiled eggs that had been his breakfast clawed their way up his throat, but he fought them down and caught Neville up in an awkward hug. The wrist flopped with each step, but whether from shock or unconsciousness or small mercies, Neville didn't appear to feel anything yet. He moaned again, this time less feebly, and one eye opened.

"Wh're 'm I?" he mumbled. His eyelid slipped shut and dragged itself back up. "Wha' happ'nd? Who're you?"

"You fell," said Harry, quickening his steps. If he was lucky, they would make it before the pain set in. "I'm taking you to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey will fix you up."

"Arm hurts," said Neville piteously, and he looked like he might cry. His face twisted into a grimace instead.

"I know," Harry panted. He was not lucky, then. "Hang tight."

Neville's chest shuddered. "A'right."

"Good," said Harry sincerely. "Think you can walk?"

Neville didn't seem to think so. They made it halfway down the first flight of stairs before he collapsed. Harry dragged him the rest of the way down, propped him against the bannisters, and ran to find Madam Pomfrey.

She listened to his tale of woe with a stolid expression. Potions, herbs, and compresses rose in neat piles around her, likely for the aftermath of the Quidditch game. Judging by the faint cheers and claps that floated in the window, it was almost over.

"He fell down the stairs." Madam Pomfrey spoke in a monotone although her hands were flying back and forth, snatching this and that from the prepared tables. "How in Merlin's name did he manage that? Clumsy boy."

"I found him at the bottom."

"What happened to your face?"

Harry's head throbbed, but he dodged her attempts to grab him. "I sneezed and got a bloody nose."

"Mmhmm. And what's that stuff coming out of your pockets?"

"Neville has a broken wrist," Henry said desperately, edging towards the door. "He is in pain."

Neville was, in fact, barely lucid when they reached him. He murmured something under his breath as Madam Pomfrey levitated him, and his fingers caught Harry's sleeve. He murmured again, almost inaudibly.

"D'nt take me to 'im. D'nt wanna see 'im. D'nt wanna help with th'plan." He blinked at Harry, his eyes wet and pleading. "Pl'se? Lemme 'lone."

"It's okay. You're going to the infirmary," Harry said, concentrating on Neville's face rather than the jagged little bone poking out of his wrist. The boiled eggs shifted. "Madam Pomfrey will take care of you."

"You should come, too," said the nurse, who was waiting impatiently for Neville to let go of Harry. "I'll have a look at your..."

"My nose is fine." His blood-clogged sinuses butchered the words, but he grinned sickly and waved her off. "I'm going to bed."

They were hustled out of Hogwarts several days early without explanation. No one minded the longer break, of course, but it was tiresome to be kicked out of bed at four o'clock in the morning, told to pack up, and marched through thick, cold fog to the Express. Evidently their departure had not been expected, because the interior of the train was cold as well. Harry huddled in the corner farthest from the window and sulked as well as his drowsy brain could manage.

"For Merlin's sake, what are you wearing?" Margaret asked, after shoving her way through droves of students to reach his compartment. The train shuddered to a start, creaking and swaying and throwing about the unfortunates who were caught in no man's land.

"They're Muggle clothes and they're called jeans," Harry said irritably. "You know that. I told you about them."

"I wasn't talking about your trousers," said Margaret, plopping down opposite from him. She was always annoyingly cheerful in the morning. Harry made a sad, sleepy, resigned noise and hid his face in the folds of his Weasley-made sweater.

"Don't joke," he groaned. "It's too early for that."

"Not morning people, are we?" Rosier remarked, tracing lines in the fine condensation that had gathered on the glass. Since he lived in the colder northern regions of Scotland, he owned thicker and warmer clothes and didn't mind sitting near a drafty window in the least. Like Margaret, he also did not seem to mind waking up early. It was probably one of those pureblood things, Harry thought ill-temperedly, and his stomach growled, deprived of its hearty Hogwarts breakfast.

"Why are you even here?" he complained, happy to pick a fight about anything with anyone. "You don't live near London."

"Do you dislike my company?" Rosier asked plaintively. He chuckled at the murderous look Harry sent his way and explained, "London is the drop off point. Why make more train lines if we can all go the same way? Diagon Alley is close by, and I can take the Floo Network from there."

"You could take it from Hogwarts and save yourself a trip."

Rosier shrugged. "The Board must think we need a lesson in geography. Besides, as far as I know only one fireplace at Hogwarts is connected. It would get crowded. There, what do you think?"

He had drawn a delicate ice flower on the window, its petals curling outward and long, straggling vines pooling around the stem.

Harry admired it, but for the sake of consistency he said rudely, "It looks like a blob."

"You have no sense of artistry," Rosier told him, unperturbed and with all the poise of a young Michelangelo. Insult turned back on himself, Harry stuck out his tongue.

"We wouldn't get booted from school unless it was for something important," said Margaret, twisting a strand of dark hair around her finger. While the boys bickered, friendly on one side and not so much on the other, she had been mulling over their situation. "I can't imagine what could have happened, though. They never have a shortage of supplies, and the wards didn't go off last night. Besides, who would want to attack Hogwarts?"

"Who would want to attack anything, for that matter? It sounds exhausting."

"Why does it matter?" Harry asked. The compartment was warm now, the ice flower was languishing, and he felt at peace with both the world and his roommate. "There's no more school! That's a good thing."

"Is it?" Margaret sounded skeptical. "I'm not eager to see my mother and father again. If anything, I'll be studying more than I do at Hogwarts."

Rosier snorted. "Don't bother. They won't notice."

"They certainly will."

"Fine. Owl me your assignments and I'll do them for you. It shouldn't be too difficult."

"I expect you'll pick up French and etiquette with ease, Monsieur Ingénu," Margaret retorted. "And then you can pop right over and demonstrate for my parents."

"Touché." Rosier grinned. "There. See? I do know French. Etiquette comes naturally, and they'll never guess it's me and not you under the hair-lengthening and transformation spells I'll cast."

"Ha-bloody-ha."

"Ha-bloody-ha yourself."

"All right, all right," Harry interrupted. He had no wish to be caught in the middle of someone else's argument. "You've made your point, Margaret, but I doubt you'll have a worse time than me, if that's a comfort. I'll most likely be scrubbing pots and pulling weeds all summer."

Margaret wrinkled her nose. "How revolting. I pity you."

"Thank you."

"I'm going to Greece with my family," said Rosier, cruelly and deliberately tactless. "Father's third cousin-by-marriage once removed owns a villa there and invited us to stay for a month. I've heard the beaches are beautiful, all white sand and glittering blue water. In fact, Julian – that's the cousin – has his own private beach."

"I hope you drown," Margaret said bitterly.

"The water's too shallow. Even if it wasn't, I'm an excellent swimmer."

"Eaten by sharks."

"I love you, too, darling."

"Arse," said Margaret with finality. "Maybe I'll take you up on that offer of yours."

"Please do. I'll get bored after drinking my first dozen glasses of chilled raspberry cordial and lounging about in the sun with nothing to do." He ducked a flying shoe. "I'll throw it out the window," he threatened, holding the offending article close to the glass. Margaret lunged at him. "Ow! Bloody hell, get off! Stop it! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Harry rolled his eyes heavenward.

Ghosts, witches, and werewolves were real. Harry digested that for a moment from his bedroom floor. Everything happened so naturally at Hogwarts, as though spells, ghosts, and werewolves were everyday things, but the wizarding world was really an antiquated capsule of a world, cut off from society. It was not normal in the least. His aunt drove in that point nicely.

"Hedwig," he began, rolling to his stomach. The owl turned her head, blinked once, and continued her endeavors to poke a hole in his sheet. He plucked her off and deposited her on the ground. "Do you think haunted houses are really haunted? With actual ghosts, I mean."

Hedwig sulkily jabbed his arm with her pencil. Harry glared at her.

"It's not my bloody fault you were misbehaving. Give me that. Were you even listen... Ugh, why am I trying? You're just an owl. Don't give me that look."

If Hedwig had been human, Harry was sure she would have turned up her nose and sniffed. As it was, she looked at him reproachfully and gave her feathers a pointed ruffle.

"You are a foul owl," Harry told her. "And let's get back on subject. I know ghosts exist. Peeves and the Bloody Baron are proof enough of that, and I swear, if Nick moans about his flap of not-beheaded head one more time, I'll stomp on his grave."

A pleasing mental image of Nick bouncing in the air every time his feet thumped on the grave came to Harry's mind, and he added the expedition to his bucket list.

"The point is, they're real. By default, haunted houses should be legitimate. Right?" He eyed her unforgiving back through his eyelashes. "So the rickety old house three streets away is haunted, for real."

He was breaking every scientific law by using such terrible logic, but the idea strangely reconciled his worlds with each other. It formed a thread of connection between the two that helped him feel like a single being, rather than at some times like Harry Potter and at other times like That-Bothersome-Thing-Taking-Up-Space-In-Our-House.

"I could pop over and say hullo to whoever's living there," he suggested. "Well, whoever's not living there. Maybe they know someone at Hogwarts. Wouldn't that be funny?"

Hedwig let out a great gust of air and waddled under Harry's bed.

"Oh, am I boring you? I'm so sorry."

He waited for a bit, but she didn't come back out.

"Harry Potter, get down here this instant!" Petunia shrieked, her voice muffled by the floorboards. His bubble of tranquility shattered, Harry sighed and pulled himself to his feet. Hedwig wisely remained in her burrow.

"I'm coming, Aunt Petunia!"

Duty called the Bothersome Thing. Breakfast had to be made, dishes scrubbed, house cleaned, garden weeded, car washed, and all that before Diddykins' birthday trip to London. Harry scowled at the door and wondered what Greek villas were like. Maybe they had marble pillars like the ones in history books, and deep turquoise pools tiled with mosaics, and fresh, exotic flowers tumbling over the walls...

"Harry!"

"On my way!"

Dudley threw a massive temper tantrum when he heard Harry was going to London with them. Harry hung back while he howled, correctly surmising that Vernon and Petunia would cave.

"Do the washing," Petunia said sternly. Happily situated by himself in the back seat, Dudley was humming a wretched rendition of "Big Balls." Harry bit his tongue. "Mop the floors, and then you may sit in your room. If one thing is out of place when we come back..."

She trailed off ominously.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said dully.

"And no picking through Dudley's presents!"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Aunt Petunia."

"We've counted them several times, boy," Vernon boomed, his triple chin bobbing in agitation. "We'll know if you take any."

"Don't worry, Uncle Vernon. They're far too large for me."

His uncle's face turned a curious rainbow of colors and his mouth opened, no doubt to roar out Harry's punishment for the next six years. Harry wished fleetingly that in the future he would remember to keep his own mouth shut.

"Come, Vernon," Petunia cooed hurriedly, wedging herself between them. One half of her face was glaring at Harry, but the other was smiling, if a bit strained. "We can't be late for the show."

Vernon grunted, his face still reddish-purple, and lumbered away in a huff.

"What show?" Harry asked. He didn't remember there being a show in the plans.

"A private magic show for my special boy," Petunia said, with both disgust and tender regard for her son playing upon her face. "Dudders did so want to go. We meant to drop you off at the library."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay home after all?" said Harry. "I could do it, and then you wouldn't have to spend the money."

Petunia's expression convulsed in fury in one hundredth of a second flat.

"Quite sure," she snapped, glancing about herself. Fortunately, Vernon had already puffed his way in the driver's seat, which was well out of hearing range. "And don't you dare speak about... about those things here. Awful child!"

She stalked away without a backward glance. Harry escaped inside and shut the door behind him, listening for the telltale squeal of tires against asphalt. A full ten minutes passed before he decided they were really gone and scurried upstairs.

"The game, Hedwig, is on!" he announced, unfastening the door of her cage. She stretched her wings, fluffed them, and hopped onto his shoulder. "Good girl. Here we go, then. Time to find ourselves some ghosts. Don't worry, everything will be fine."

Hedwig obligingly rubbed her head against his ear.

The house in question was an old brick building with a collapsing roof and an overgrown garden. Nobody had lived there for at least two decades, and the neighborhood children used to dare each other to walk in the front door and out the back window, which was broken. Harry hadn't participated.

The door was bolted today, but its hinges were rusty and weak from disuse. He pushed it aside and crawled in on his hands and knees with Hedwig balanced precariously on his back. The entryway was much darker than he had expected. Harry brushed the dust and dirt from his pants and dug out his wand.

"Lumos," he whispered, warmth trickling through his body at the familiar words. He thought of Hogwarts' stone passageways, the friendly paintings, his friends, his bedroom, the stately fireplace in the common room, the parties, the feasts, the people...

The tip of his wand didn't even spark.

"Oh, damn it. I thought I had a handle on that one."

Hedwig hooted. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that she was laughing at him.

"You think it's funny, do you?" he said sourly, rolling his shoulders. The hoot swelled to a squawk of outrage. "Well, newsflash, I don't have humongous saucer eyes like you, so it's a bit harder for me to navigate in the dark!"

She bit his ear.

"Ow! For heaven's sake! I thought I had a bird for a pet, not a monster!"

A moment later, he realized that she was trying to neither injure him nor avenge herself, but rather pull them both back to the door. The walls creaked, and something inside them moaned. Harry's stomach dropped.

"You're right. We're going," he hissed to Hedwig, who was squashed fearfully against his neck. "Something's in here, and I don't think it's a ghost after all."

The foundations shook. Harry tripped over his own feet as he scrambled to the door. In his haste, he forgot to look where he was going, and he crashed headlong into someone who was crawling inside.

"What the bloody hell?!" the person yelped.

"What the bloody hell?!" Harry echoed, tumbling back on his behind. He narrowly missed being clipped on the head by a flying candlestick.

A howling wind filled the whole house now. Jarred, Harry made a mad dash for the crack and hoped the idiot on the other side had enough sense to stay out. He flung himself through, Hedwig screeching and flapping, and he somersaulted, over and over and over, until he landed in brambles with a pained grunt.

"Who the hell are you?" someone was yelling. Harry made a face and covered his ears. "What were you doing in there? You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"Quieter," Harry pleaded, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Oh, my head hurts."

"Of course it hurts, you ninny."

The voice had lowered, but it was spitting with anger. Harry cracked his eyes open a slit. The person was a grubby, shabby man. Intelligence sparked his eyes, which were such a pale blue they looked almost white, but his emaciated frame buckled under its weight. He looked more than a little unhinged.

"Who are y... is that a gun?" Harry recoiled, his cheeks draining. Nothing was more dangerous than a weapon in the hands of a madman. "You can't carry those! They're not allowed. Are you a serial killer? Oh, please shoot for the head. I don't want it to hurt."

The man glanced down at his pistol as if he had only just noticed it was there.

"I'm not a serial killer." He frowned and amended, "Not in the strict sense of it, anyway."

"I didn't know there was any other sense," Harry said faintly.

The house rattled.

"Leave!" the man barked, spinning around and running towards it. "Get out of here, now!"

"Are you crazy?" Harry yelled after him, his concerns making an abrupt about-face. After a split second of indecision, he sprinted after the man and grabbed one jean-clad leg. They came down together with a nasty thump. The man kicked him off and jumped up, fighting mad.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snarled. "I told you to go away!"

"Are you suicidal? Whatever's in there will kill you! You said so yourself!"

The man did not deign to answer. He ducked inside while Harry stood gaping in the front yard. Common Sense yelled for him to leave. The Slytherin part of him agreed, but that stupid speck of heroism deep inside him whispered, "Help!"

He bolted inside before he could listen to Common Sense. An Encylcopaedia Britannica slammed into his stomach the moment he scrambled through the entryway and left him wheezing for breath. The man was rummaging inside a backpack some feet away from him – Harry spared a second to wonder how on earth he'd managed to fit it through the crack – and he dragged out a dirty cloth bag.

And then something crashed into Harry's head and he cried out in pain.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," said the man... or who Harry thought must have been him, because his vision was going dark.

I knew I should have stayed home today, he thought mournfully.

Cold wetness slithered over Harry's eyes, down his neck, and into his shirt. He lurched upright, coughing and retching, and shook his head to rid it of the feeling.

"That took long enough," said a voice, and Harry whipped his head around to face the speaker.

"You!" he spluttered, too disoriented to do more than clamber back a few paces. He came up against a rough wall. They were behind the house. The haunted house, he remembered belatedly. The one that had come alive and started throwing things at him. Or had that all been a crazy dream? "What did you... did you pour that on me?"

The man shook his water bottle upside down a few times. It was empty.

"Yes," he admitted, without remorse. "It was my last one, too. Now, who are you and why were you poking around that house?"

Harry brushed the remaining droplets of water from his shirt. "I'm not going to tell you about myself. For all I know, you're some psychotic kidnapper. I'm leaving."

"Hold on," said the man, barring his way. "Don't you go running off to report me. That would be a bad plan."

Panic exploding in little bursts in his head, Harry tried to wrestle his arm out of the way. He should never have gone back into that house. What a silly, naive little dunderhead he'd been.

"Let me go," he pleaded, giving up. The man stood solid as stone wall. "I won't go to the police. After all, you haven't done anything to me."

Yet was the key word, even if it went unspoken.

"Of course you won't. If I had just been cornered by a strange man, I wouldn't, either."

"If you hadn't cornered me, it wouldn't matter, would it?" Harry snapped, hoping the neighbors would hear him. They hadn't heard the gunshots, though, so he didn't hold much hope.

"Pipe down, you're only making a fool of yourself." The man sighed. "Look, my name's Victor. I promise, I don't mean to hurt you. I'll be on my way in a moment."

"You say you're Victor." Harry felt for his wand. A quick stunning spell would do the trick, provided his magic didn't call quits on him. He had to keep the man occupied. "Why do you care whether I look at a haunted house or not?"

"The less people killed, the better. Next time I won't be here to stop it."

Harry's hand paused in its determined digging. "Stop what?"

Victor frowned.

"Oh, what's the use?" he said finally, and continued with the air of one who knew he would not be believed, "It was a poltergeist. A nasty one, but luckily it wasn't too powerful. We'd both be dead if it had been, no thanks to you."

"A poltergeist?" Peeves was a nuisance, but he was no killer. "I thought they were... why was it trying to kill us?"

Victor eyed him wryly. "Welcome to the world of a hunter."

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