Disclaimer:

I don't own anything, wut.

ooo

Chapter One:

Powerful Enough to Make Dean Shut Up

The Inn at Godric's Hollow was a dilapidated but friendly looking place, typical of English countryside and pretty much unremarkable.

That didn't make Dean feel any better.

"Relax," Sam whispered to his elder brother, who was on edge, his fingers curled around the handle of a loaded .45 in his jacket's inner pocket. "There's nothing wrong with this place, at least. Have some stew; it's good."

"I don't want stew."

"Come on, man, you have to eat."

"I don't want the damn stew, Sam. This place makes me nervous."

Sam sighed, rolling his eyes and eating another spoonful of his dinner. They'd checked into the inn about an hour ago, and he'd dragged a rather paranoid, jetlagged Dean down to the dining hall. Being tired made Dean nervous.

The flight had been bad enough—no amount of Metallica humming could get Dean to relax, and when Sam tried to remind him that the whole stupid trip had been his idea, Dean had glowered and snarled,

"Thanks a lot for the update, Captain Obvious. Now shut up before I make you."

It didn't help that the line at Customs and Immigration was horrendously long, the airline had lost one of Dean's suitcase ("Goddammit, that was the one with the extra rock salt, too!"), and the cab ride to Godric's Hollow took about three hours, which meant the cabbie wanted a ridiculously large tip, which meant that they had absolutely no money at the moment, which meant Dean was not a happy camper.

Sam could feel a headache coming on.

"You chaps all right, then?" A grizzled old man stood before them, leaning heavily on a cane and chewing on a cigar. "Thought I'd check on ya—I'm Ian Morley. I own this place, and I likes to know me guests."

"Hi," Dean greeted the man, extending a hand to shake. "I'm Dean; this is Sam."

"Well I'll be damned." The man shook Dean's hand, then plunked down in an empty chair at their table. "We don't get too many Yanks around these parts, see. What're the two of you doing up here?"

"We're reporters from the New York Times," Sam responded promptly. "Heard you folks here have had some deaths recently." Morley's brows contracted sharply.

"Yeah, that we have, son, that we have. Those poor souls…it was a right shame, it was. I haven't seen nothing like this here for years."

"Something like this has happened before?" Sam asked, raising a brow at Dean. "We hadn't heard."

"Oh, yeah. Let's see…Halloween, sixteen years back, the Potter family was killed. It was odd—big explosion at their place, tons of green light…I lived on that street, and the noise woke me up. Never did find out what happened…the police thought it might've been some sort of electrical fire, but I haven't never seen nothing like it. There was a terrible, howling noise, and when I went out there to take a look…the house was just…it was just gone. There wasn't no fire, neither…just a bit of charred ground, some wreckage. That was horrible…they had a little son, not more'n a year old. 'round these parts, that was big news."

"Did you ever see anything strange before that?" Dean asked, gazing at the man intently. "Storms, sick livestock? Did the family complain about electrical problems…flickering lights, maybe?" Morley snorted.

"I don't know nothing about livestock, and as I recall the weather was fine. Didn't know the Potters too well, actually. They were quiet folk, didn't socialize with the rest of us much. They always had the oddest people wearin' cloaks duckin' in and out of their house; there was this bloke with the loudest motorbike on the planet always popping in."

"Hm." Sam half-shrugged at Dean, puzzled. "Maybe we'll mention that in the article."

"About these recent deaths," Dean said abruptly, "do you have any theories?"

"Nah. It's scary, though—it's gotta be murder, hasn't it? It seems like locks don't keep the blighter out, and whoever it is good at what he does. I don't fancy wandering around the streets at night when someone like that is prowlin' about."

"Don't blame you," Dean said, smiling easily. "Look, we're gonna be doing some snooping. You wouldn't happen to be able to tell us where the victims lived, would you?"

"And the Potters," Sam cut in. "We'll want to look around there, too."

"Eh…I s'pose I can help you lads out. Let me get paper and pen; I'll write 'em down for you." Stiffly, Morley got to his feet and hobbled away.

"Weird," Sam said quietly. "Sounds like this place is a supernatural magnet."

"How do we know the Potter thing wasn't some sort of freak accident? I mean, it was years ago. It's not necessarily tied to whatever's going on now," Dean pointed out.

"C'mon, Dean. An electrical fire with no flames? Green light? What the hell kind of 'freak accident' is that?"

"Ok, good point."

"Trust me, if there's weird stuff going on in this town, it's probably at least connected with these deaths. What if it's some sort of malevolent spirit—it hibernates for years, then comes out again to do it's dirty work?"

"Well, if it is, it's changed it's tune. I didn't read anything in the article about exploding houses, Sam." Dean sighed wearily. "God I'm tired. It's only six friggin' thirty—how is it possible I'm this tired?"

"The jetlag's gonna be rough. You know that, and if I could remind you again, this was your whole stupid idea in the first place."

"For the last time, Sam, shut up about that."

"Ah, here we are." Ian Morley was back, this time bearing a sheet of notebook paper. "Got you two boys the addresses, though I don't know what you'll find. As far as I know, everything but the Potter's old place is a crime scene."

"They rebuilt it?" Sam asked, sending Dean a pointed look.

"Yeah, just two years ago, matter of fact. Took 'em long enough, that's for sure. No one's moved in yet."

"Thanks, Mr. Morley. We really appreciate this," Sam said in his typically sincere way.

"Ah now, I insist—call me Ian."

"Thanks, Ian," Dean said. "You wouldn't happen to have a bar in this town, would you?"

"Just down the road. Take it easy, lads."

"Will do, sir."

And with that, Dean hopped to his feet and headed for the door. Sam, sighing irritably and waving at Ian, followed.

--

"Ok, that was pointless."

Dean winced at Sam.

"Tell me about it. Seems like Morley is the only one willing to talk, huh?"

It had been two days since they'd first arrived, but Ian Morley's information was the most helpful they'd received so far. They'd visited both the Banks and Hargrove residences, which were, as Ian had said, crime scenes. Caution tape had never stopped the Winchesters before, and they'd had no problem ducking under it, picking a couple of locks, and strolling right in. They didn't find anything, though. The homemade EMF device wasn't picking up a thing, there wasn't a trace of sulfur or anything at all otherworldly, Sam wasn't having any creepy visions, and things were, in general, normal.

The townsfolk didn't help, either. Not only were they pretty unfriendly (maybe strangers made them nervous after the murders), they refused to be of any help whatsoever. Sam and Dean had just come from dinner at the restaurant Marianne Wilkins had owned—Marianne's—and received a rather chilly welcome.

"We've already had enough reporters poking their noses where they most certainly don't belong around here," a haughty waitress had informed them. "I won't answer anymore questions."

"What do the Americans want with us?" a man seated near them had demanded. "There's enough news in British papers without you adding to it!"

"You young louts should be ashamed of yourselves!" piped up a frail old woman. "Haven't we all suffered enough? Go on, get out with you!"

Yes, things were getting rather difficult.

"I don't know," Dean sighed. "Maybe I was wrong; maybe this isn't our kinda gig."

"I don't think that's it," Sam said, frowning. "Ok, look, we haven't checked out the Potter place yet. Why don't we head over there tonight?"

"Yeah, ok. I'm willing to give it a shot. If we're not careful, someone else could get hurt real soon."

"Let's get the rock salt, then."

"You got it, dude."

The two brothers headed up the stairs of the inn, grabbed the rock salt, guns, and a Bible (just in case), along with Ian's list of addresses. The Potter's house was listed at number seven, Half Moon Avenue, and wasn't too far from the inn. Five minutes of walking, and they were there.

The house was on the small side and had heavy curtains drawn across all the windows. Nothing seemed incredibly unusual about it, but you never could tell.

"We going in?" Sam asked, staring uneasily at the place.

"Course we are." Dean shouldered his shotgun, glanced around to make sure no one was peering out the window of a nearby house, and marched up the front path.

Dean worked some magic with his credit card on the lock while Sam peered around, his apprehension growing by the second.

"I don't like it here," he murmured.

"It's just a house," Dean said dismissively. "And not a very scary one. Best part is, no one lives here, so we don't have to worry about anyone barging in on us."

"I guess."

"Ugh—stubborn son of a—ah, there we go!" The door swung open, and Dean triumphantly waved his credit card around. "C'mon Sam, we're in." The pair walked cautiously through the door, and Dean had just begun to close it when Sam's eyesight blurred and his head began to throb.

Crap. Another damn vision.

A woman with bright red hair was standing with her back to a crib, terrified.

Please, not Harry, please not Harry! Take me instead…

A tall, pale, deadly looking man was advancing on her.

Stand aside, girl.

No, not Harry, please! The man sneered, raised a wooden stick.

Avada Kedavra!

A flash of green light.

The woman fell to the side, and she was dead… A baby was wailing…

"Sam?"

"What the—Dean." Sam shook his head rapidly, rubbing his temples and wincing. "God, I'm sorry—I just…I had another vision."

"Yeah?" Dean stared at his brother, frowning. "What was it?"

"These people…the ones who lived here. It was murder."

"What?"

"Yeah. I don't know how, though. The guy…the murderer…he yelled something at the woman in a different language…sound Aramaic, maybe."

"Uh-huh." Dean gripped his shotgun more tightly. "Well, whatever happened here, it wasn't good. Let's just check this place out. You're right, it's creepy as hell."

Nervously, the two brothers padded around the empty first floor, pausing only at the kitchen.

"That's weird," Dean said, nodding at one of the counters. A sack was sitting there, and when they sifted through it, they found bottles of some sort of beer, rolls, peanut butter, some fruit…

"You don't think anyone…lives here?" Sam asked quietly, looking up to meet his brother's gaze.

"No…no, 'course not. Let's just check the second floor and scram, okay, Sammy?"

"Sounds like a plan to me."

They headed for the stairs, Dean brandishing the EMF device. They'd almost reached the top when it went haywire, the red lights flashing frantically.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dean drew to a halt at the top step. "We got something here, Sam."

"God, look at that. Have you ever seen it do that?" The lights flashed in growing intensity, the thing beeped frantically and then—

It just plain died with an odd fizzing noise, the lights flickering out abruptly.

"Aw, man—whatever it was, look, it fried the system! This is big, Sam."

"Jesus."

For a moment, all the Winchesters could do was stare hopelessly at the device before Dean resolutely shoved it into his jacket pocket and, treading carefully, made it to the landing.

"Let's be quiet. Whatever's up here, it's definitely supernatural, and it's definitely powerful enough to make me want to shut up."

"Agreed," Sam gulped. As softly as they could, the boys headed off down the hall, pausing to peer through doorways.

Quite abruptly, Sam stopped in front of one, cocking his head to listen. His eyes widened, and he motioned Dean over to where he was standing, pressing a finger to his lips to indicate absolute silence. Eyeing his brother nervously, Dean leaned forward, ear pressed close to the closed door.

"…don't know what to do," a low, male voice was saying. "I don't want to draw any more attention, but this is ridiculous. The deaths…we should've stopped those."

"Don't blame yourself," a girl's voice snapped. "We got here as fast as we could, it's not our fault the Death Eaters got here first."

"She's right, mate," said a third voice, this one also male. "We've got to do what we can as fast as we can. At least we know they were here."

"I suppose you're right." A pause. "Do you think there's a Horcrux here?"

"If there is, it's bound to be at this house, isn't it? I mean…" The voice faded as Dean stepped back from the door, frowning at the faint light that glowed beneath the crack.

"I don't believe this," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "Sam, there's a couple of stupid kids in there!"

"Dean, be careful. We don't know what—"

"To hell with being careful! There's something in this house so powerful the damned EMF reader about exploded, and there's kids camping out in here, probably on some stupid dare—we don't need any more deaths!"

"Dean, keep your voice down, I think they—"

But Dean, never one for common sense, pounded on the door.

"Hey, you in there! Open the hell up!"

Uh-oh, Sam thought, for some reason extremely nervous. Here we go…

The door cracked open and a young girl, maybe seventeen years old, with a heedful of dark curly hair, peered out, a gnarled wooden stick clutched in her fist. Her eyes widened as she took in Sam, Dean, and their shotguns.

"Ok, party's over," Dean said gruffly, folding his arms. "You and your friends get the hell out of here before—"

"Hermione?" one of the male voice called. "What's going on?"

"I'll tell you what's going on!" Dean said loudly. "What's going on is that you're trespassing, not to mention the fact that it's dangerous. You got five seconds to haul ass before I call the cops." The girl's eyes narrowed dangerously, and Sam saw it coming before Dean did.

"Dean—get back—!"

"Stupefy!" the girl yelled, pointing the stick at Dean. There was a flash of red light, and Dean crumpled to the ground.

"Hey!" Sam yelled, staring at the girl in horror. She turned on him, stick raised, and he did the first thing he could think of.

He fired the gun at her.

A chunk of rock salt hit her in the leg, and she screamed in pain—but didn't disappear into thin air as Sam was used to. She just hopped around on one foot, banging into the door and screeching, while the people in the room yelled,

"Hermione!"

Before he could have any time to reflect on the fact that a girl screaming Latin with enough power in her to take down his brother was not an evil spirit of some sort, a furious, redheaded kid the same height as Sam had flung the door open, spotted him, and drawn out his own stick.

"Stupey!" the kid hollered. Another flash of red light—and then Sam's world went black.

A/N: Ah, I do love Ron. Pooor Sam, that's all I have to say. Ron is not a happy camper.