This is very important, guys. Am I writing too much Victor, or does he not seem to fit in properly? I don't want him to be that OC that keeps popping up unwanted everywhere in the story.

I loved all your responses to the explosion of the Adam bomb. It was the first of many plot twists to come and I'm glad you seem to have had an overall positive response to it. I know a lot of people dislike Adam for being the extra Winchester, which I understand, but I always felt kind of sorry for him. The guy might still be in the Cage (unless Season 11... the premiere... the trailer... the archangels... the Darkness... CAGE OPENS?! LUCIFER AND MICHAEL BACK?! I only saw the trailer for it but I'm really hyped!).

Thanks to my reviewers: kaida171, MasterNinjaPie, anonyme-inconnue, dogman999, Lathea, white collar black wolf, OtakuDrag0n, luv-blonde-bunny, Guest, Guest, ThatDork, hgku, candinaru25, Sailor Pandabear, Skendo, amc, from-silence, Psyka, and just-another-crack-in-the-wall. You are amazingly wonderful people.

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.

BOOK ONE

Chapter XI

There was no color; even the light was grayish. Absolute nothingness spread in all directions. It was unescapable; he knew, he had tried. They had tried. It hadn't worked, and neither dared to try again because then the other would have received the brunt of the backlash.

Then the other was gone, and he didn't have time to try because he was kept occupied for what felt like centuries. In the midst of the pain and screaming (was it him making that animal-like noise?), he forgot eventually that the other had ever even been there.

It was cold. Freezing cold without wind. Ice encrusted his numb, blueish fingers, and when the One came closer, everything got colder.

There was no death. That should have been all there was left, after losing everything, but even oblivion had been taken away.

He shivered, wishing that getting out hadn't all been a dream, that he wasn't alone in this hellhole (he would chuckle at the applicability of the term if he wasn't so cold), and he cringed at the silence. Silence never meant anything good. He curled in on himself, shivering and trying not to look at his mangled limbs and the bloody lumps of flesh surrounding him (he also tried not to remember that it was his bloody flesh), too exhausted to sob.

It was a pity that death didn't exist in the one place it was most wanted.

And it was really, really cold.

Drrrrrrrring.

Adam jolted awake, shivering violently, and snatched blindly for his covers. He was freezing cold, and wind was blowing on his face...

Wait, wind?

His eyes flew open and settled on the open window, the curtains waving in the chill winter breeze. With a shudder – he'd had a horrible dream... thank goodness it was already fading from his memory – he stood up and slammed it shut. The lock rattled loosely as he twisted it.

Drrrrrrrring.

He jumped. Right. The phone had woken him up. He grabbed it, stifling a yawn, and spoke rather snappishly.

"Who is it?"

There was only the faint beeping of the tone. It rapidly became more urgent and he hastily put it back on the receiver.

Drrrrrrrring.

What the hell?

His slow mind tried to process the mysterious source of the ringing.

What rang in a house?

Not the phone, apparently.

Ooh.

He trundled through the hall with his comforter wrapped around his shoulders, dragging sluggishly behind him (and probably gathering who-knew-what from the rented floor), and yawned again, hugely. People weren't supposed to visit this early in the morning. He tried to look through the peephole, remembered he didn't have a peephole, and opened the door.

It made a very loud thud but didn't open, and he stared at the uncooperative handle stupidly for several long moments.

Drrrrrrrring.

"Oh, geez," he complained to the empty hall. "I'm trying."

The lock, idiot. He turned it.

"What the hell are you doing here..."

He trailed off. Harry was standing outside his flat wearing an extremely vibrant green sweater and a wide grin, with some guy standing behind him who looked about as grumpy as Adam felt. Well, as grumpy as Adam had felt before his one friend had appeared outside his door for no reason. Now he was simply confused.

"Am I forgetting something? I wasn't expecting..."

Harry beamed at him.

"Happy Christmas!"

Adam blinked. Once. So he had forgotten something.

"Oh."

Christmas. He stared at the melting snowflake on Harry's sweater.

Cold. Ice creeping up his arms and his legs, slowly freezing them, turning them black. Ice digging into his chest. Screaming. Throat raw. No death.

"Adam?"

He realized abruptly that he had forgotten to breathe. Harry looked slightly concerned. Adam took a gulp of air and shoved his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking.

"Ah. Come in." He frowned and shook his head to clear it. What was wrong with him? "Uh, yeah," he added as an afterthought, "Merry Christmas."

"Are you coming, Victor?" Harry called, already having seated himself on Adam's lumpy couch.

The man – Victor – seemed reluctant.

"I'm all right. I'll come back for you later."

"No, honestly," Adam put in hurriedly. "I'm not exactly prepared, but you're welcome to stay."

Victor shot a baleful glare at Harry, who remained oblivious, and strode in. Adam closed the door uncertainly behind him and turned to observe his impromptu Christmas visitors. He had completely forgotten about the holiday, which was saying a lot considering how his co-workers had been jabbering about their plans for weeks.

"Why are you in your pajamas?" Harry asked curiously.

"Because it's only... holy crap! It's already noon!"

Victor snickered, and Harry seemed to remember that he hadn't introduced them yet.

"Victor," he said quickly, "this is Adam, and, um, Adam, this is Victor Weismann. He's my uncle-by-marriage."

Adam gave Victor an awkward nod.

"Nice to meet you." He jerked his head in the direction of his bedroom and nearly dislodged the comforter from his shoulders. "I'm going to change. I didn't know you were coming."

Harry frowned.

"Really? I'm sorry, I wanted to surprise you. Didn't think you'd still be asleep."

Adam shrugged.

"It's okay. You knocked me out of a weird-ass nightmare, so we're good."

Victor perked up at that, for some unknown reason, and his eyes started to scan the room, methodically and deliberately. Adam watched the process in confusion before remembering he was supposed to be changing, and he retreated to mull over the unexpected situation.

"... 'amnesia happens to be a real medical condition that doesn't necessarily have connections to the supernatural,'" Harry was mimicking a high falsetto as Adam returned.

He paused outside the door to listen.

"Shut up," Victor's voice returned mildly. "That was true, anyway. It doesn't necessarily."

"Then why were you acting like a sniffy bloodhound a couple seconds ago? Seriously, a nightmare isn't even suspicious."

"You're a little sh..."

Adam's entrance halted whatever expletive would have followed. He cleared his throat and started to rummage through his pantry.

"I don't have much," he said apologetically. He pulled out a can and wrinkled his nose at it. "Do you like... lentil soup?"

Victor looked appalled at the prospect. Adam winced and tossed the can to the back, feeling almost thankful. Beans were disgusting bits of mushy disgustingness and he had no idea why he even had them. Probably one of those so-called charitable donations. The thing about charitable donations was that they were donations for a freaking reason.

"Um... I can make tea?" he suggested, and scowled upon further investigations into the cabinet. "Except I don't have any."

"It's not like we came here for food," said Harry indignantly. Victor mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "speak for yourself."

Adam waited for him to say why they had come, and then realized he was probably supposed to know already.

"So, Christmas, huh?" he commented, lamely, and Victor snorted.

It was shaping up to be an awesome visit.

Harry twisted his hand in his sweater and glanced at Victor sideways.

"I need your help."

"Look," said Victor, not taking his eyes off the lightly snow-dusted road. "I've already given up a perfectly delicious family dinner to help you in the spirit of Christmas, and, if I might add, I drove fifty miles to do it. So I really think I've fulfilled my quota of..." he caught Harry's eyes and stopped. "Fine. Fine, okay? What is it?"

"Advice," Harry explained quickly. He lowered his voice. "I think there's a shapeshifter at my school. I did the silver test on it by accident and it..." he grimaced, "it sizzled."

"Rummy school," Victor remarked lightly. "And where do I come in?"

"You're a hunter."

"An astute observation."

"How do you deal with shapeshifters?"

"I generally stab them in the heart and burn their bodies."

"Oh." Harry pondered that. "What if you don't want to kill them?"

"I do want to kill them," Victor said bluntly.

"Oh. There's no other option?"

"Harry, shapeshifters are monsters." His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Monsters can't be reasoned with. If I could, I would, but I can't. You don't think I've tried? But that was before I learned to shoot first and ask questions later."

Harry pursed his lips, staring very hard at the reflection of Victor's white knuckles, and pretended away the sick feeling in his stomach.

"There's no other option," he echoed, but this time as a statement instead of a question. "But there's got to be something else."

"With that attitude, you'll be dead before you turn twenty."

"You see, that's why I like talking to you so much," said Harry, lolling his head to stare at the hunter wryly. "You're refreshingly optimistic."

"Realistic," Victor corrected sternly, obviously having none of his attempt to lighten the mood. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel with nervous energy. "If you're not going to take my advice, than why did you ask me for it?"

Because I thought you'd give me a better answer. Harry didn't voice the thought. He turned back to gaze out the window thoughtfully.

"You never did tell me," Victor continued, after several minutes of silence. "How did you get into hunting?"

Harry pressed his forehead against the ice cold glass and closed his eyes. He hated thinking about Neville. Fear still lingered somewhere inside him... fear that the nightmares would return, but mostly fear that he would suffer the same fate. Blood splattered. Wide, staring...

"Harry?"

He started, his elbow slipping and slamming against one of the buttons lined up on his door. The window screeched down and for several moments Harry was occupied trying both to close it and to brush off the pile of snow that was gathering in his lap.

"Oh. I, uh..." he cleared his throat uncomfortably. His hands were wet. He wiped them vigorously against his pants, trying to get rid of the slippery feeling. "I..."

"It's one of those stories, isn't it?" Victor sounded tired suddenly. "You don't need to talk about it then."

"What about you?" asked Harry, gratefully.

"Nothing, to be honest. Just a long line of ancestors, all hunters, and I naturally joined the family business. But I'm the black sheep of the clan."

"Why?"

"It was my mother's side that hunted," Victor told him, with uncharacteristic openness. "The MacDowells. Then my dad came along, some remotely German chap who was a fourth generation hunter rather than a fourth century hunter, and dragged Mum off to London from that godforsaken Scottish town the other MacDowells lived in. Now I'm the distant cousin that nobody talks about."

"You don't speak to them?"

The notion seemed odd to Harry. If he had relatives, he would try to see them at least once a week, and wouldn't be at all opposed to seeing them every day. But it was probably different when you actually had them.

Right, the Dursleys. It made more sense now.

Victor shrugged.

"Family is complicated."

"Wouldn't you rather still talk to them?"

"Not particularly," said Victor shortly, their sharing session evidently over. "There's your house."

The lights were out; Aunt Petunia plainly did not hold candlelight vigils for her wandering nephew. Harry nearly slipped on the lightly iced sidewalk, but caught the car door to balance himself. He could practically see Victor biting back an admonishment.

"Thanks for driving me. Sorry about your dinner, by the way."

"Just so long as you remember I'm not your chauffeur."

"Sure." Harry smiled. It was getting easier to see through the grousing and sardonicism – all the bullshit – but he wasn't about to tell Victor, especially as he happened to value his own health and wellbeing. "Happy Christmas."

There didn't seem to be any alternative. Digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, Harry pushed forward relentlessly. If only Hogwarts had actual lightbulbs instead of the horrible, sputtering, guttering candles. There had to be a solution. And he had to find it.

Number one, because he'd never killed anything before and he had absolutely no desire or intention to do so in the near future. Or just in the future in general. Because he was a twelve-year-old boy and not a psychopath, despite his inclination for hunting.

Number two, because he doubted Ron would feel particularly inclined to be friends with him if he killed his sister, even if she was actually a shapeshifter posing as his sister. Was she even a she? Maybe she had been born a he. How did anatomy work out with those types of creatures?

Number three, because he also doubted that Hermione would want to have anything to do with him.

Number four, because he would probably be expelled.

Number five, because he would probably go to prison after being expelled.

Number six, because he didn't want to kill anything.

Number seven, because he didn't want to kill anything.

Sometimes he hated Victor. He flipped page two hundred and forty-seven of Magical Creatures; the Complete Encyclopedia and yawned loudly.

"Shut up," somebody grumbled, voice muffled.

Apparently his roommates did not appreciate his late night forays for information. Slytherin wasn't known for its patience. Come to think of it, he doubted any of the Houses was known for its patience, except perhaps Hufflepuff. He should have been sorted into Hufflepuff.

He rubbed his eyes again to clear the little black spots dancing around them, beckoning for him to go to bed, and turned page two hundred and forty-nine, realizing belatedly that he hadn't read the previous two pages. He slammed Magical Creatures closed sullenly.

"Research."

This scathing, one-word conclusion to his... well, research riled his already sorely tried roommates even further, and he got a face full of a hex that sent him into a raucous sneezing fit.

"Dammit, Mordhill, you blithering idiot, you've made him even louder!"

"Shut up, Potter!"

"Hah...haaschew!"

Too late, he felt a hand, light as air, snatch something out of his back pocket. His hands sprang back to grab the thief's wrist, but it was yanked away, and, grinning, Ginny waved the silver knife in his face.

"Pretty little tool you've got here."

She knew. A burst of irrational anger towards himself blinded him for a moment. How did they always know? He had been so careful; each time it was for nothing. Neville had known, and now Ginny knew, and how was he ever supposed to do anything right if everybodyknew? Of course that also meant that he was completely unprepared for this turn of events.

You should have made a back-up plan, a little voice in his mind chided him knowingly, sounding unnervingly like Victor.

Shut up.

Ginny spun the blade on her finger, giving it an approving nod.

"Nice balance," she remarked, as if they weren't both about to attack and possibly kill the other (because while Harry didn't want to kill anything, he didn't want to be killed either). "You have good taste."

He wasn't the one who had bought the knife, but there was no need to give her more information than was necessary. His fingers twitched and he fought down the boiling desire to rip the knife out of her hands.

"Thanks," he replied stiffly, going along with whatever game she was playing.

Her grin dropped to something more menacing and she finished the spin with a light flip, holding the blade in her palm and gazing at its shining surface.

"But," she said softly, "I don't appreciate your meddling. If you leave me alone, I'll pretend this never happened. I promise. If you don't..." she shrugged, "tempi pour toi."

He didn't miss the absence of a promise not to hurt him. Her offer – pretending this particular incident hadn't happened – was not very useful in the long run.

"Give me back my knife first, and then we'll talk," he said coldly, with more confidence than he felt. He held his breath as her eyes swept upward, bland and unreadable. She smiled again, cheerfully, all traces of ominousness disappearing from her visage.

"No, I think I'll keep it. I like it."

Something inside him snapped and he lunged at her, but his hands went through empty air where the knife had been a moment before. Swinging his fist in a swift arc, he slammed it into her jaw, sending her flying back ten paces. The knife clattered to the ground, and they both dove, fingers closing around it at the same time.

With his usual luck, he had snagged the actual blade rather than the handle, and it sliced through his palm with the razor-like sharpness he had admired up until now. He nearly lost his hold.

"Agh!"

He stumbled back, still clutching the knife. Ginny was also still latched onto it, and it was slick with blood (unfortunately his own) and tricky to keep a hold on, especially with one hand indisposed. The tip gouged his already wounded palm and he bit back a yell of pain.

Then suddenly Ginny released her end, and with an inward swell of triumph he tackled her down, both of them landing with a heavy thud on the hard stone floor.

"Harry, what are you doing?"

He froze, his fingers gripping the handle, poised in midair over Ginny's head.

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

He turned slowly, acutely aware of the fact that he looked very like a serial killer, dripping blood and holding a knife and pinning what appeared to be an innocent young girl to the ground.

"Um... hey?" he ventured weakly, as a rapidly paling Ron stared back at him.

And all hell broke loose.

Luna frowned and stood up, her chair screeching behind her and bringing to a full stop whatever lecture had been going on. She had been too busy drawing the little, gold, glowing sparks that had been hovering near one of the students' chests to pay attention.

"I need to go," she explained, and accordingly left her goggle-eyed professor and fellow students, clutching her book bag tightly and hoping nothing too bad was in the process of happening.

Harry, what have you done now?

"What the bloody hell?" Ron squeaked again.

Harry could feel the blood pounding in his head as he was pushed roughly off the shapeshifter by his friend who thought he was the shapeshifter's brother and was most likely quite angry. Scratch that, Ron was extremely angry.

You could lie! his brain told him frantically.

Yeah, mental Victor snarked back, how about if you tell him you weren't actually sitting on top of her and about to stab a knife through her skull.

More options might be necessary, suggested a third voice.

What a time to start developing multiple personalities.

"This is not Ginny!" he blurted out.

Ron shot him an outraged look, dragging Ginny up and shielding her protectively. Harry snatched up the knife from where he had dropped it and stood, upon which Ron's face turned even whiter and he backed several steps away. Harry hurriedly stuffed his weapon into his pocket and held up his hands placatingly.

"Ron, listen to me," he said steadily, and pointed an accusing finger at Ginny, who in spite of her cowering had a triumphant gleam in her eyes. "That's not your sister. She's dangerous. You've got to believe me."

"You're a psychopath!" Ron shouted, yanking out his wand and brandishing it in his direction.

Harry scooted a little closer to one of the corridor's little alcoves (hopefully he would have time to duck into it before the hexes started flying), making sure to keep his raised hands in full sight.

"Trust me, Ron," he pleaded, "I wasn't..."

"Trust you? You were trying to kill my sister, and you want me to trust you?"

Harry opened his mouth, found nothing to say, and closed it again.

"Would it help," he asked defeatedly, "if I told you that she's a shapeshifter?"

"No, it wouldn't," Ron snapped, his wand hand twitching dangerously.

"I didn't think so."

"Yeah, well, you thought right." Ron turned to Ginny, who was still watching them wordlessly. "Go get Professor McGonagall, Gin, and Hermione... and Dumbledore, and Snape, for heaven's sake, just get someone!"

Obediently, Ginny retreated. Ron turned back to glare at him fiercely, and for the first time, Harry felt almost afraid of him.

"No! Stop, you've got to believe me!"

He stepped forward unthinkingly, but Ron jabbed the point of his wand at him.

"Stay there!"

Harry froze for the second time and stared down at the wood stick mere inches away from his chest. Already Ginny's footsteps were fading, and he could hear her voice calling for the professors, and he had no time.

"I'm sorry, Ron," he said quietly, and looked up just in time to see Ron's shocked expression as he smashed his fist into the other boy's jaw.

Harry stepped over Ron's unconscious body and wrung his hand gingerly. All the books and comics and action movies never said how much it hurt to punch someone. His knuckles felt like they were going to split open.

He didn't even have time to feel guilty over knocking his best friend unconscious. Retrieving his knife from where it had once again fallen (it was too heavy for the weak fabric of his trouser pocket), he made off down the hall, hoping desperately that Ginny would get lost, or that the professors were all busy, or that something would just give him time.

It vaguely registered that he was heading down the same corridor through which he had followed Ginny what felt like so long ago. Hogwarts was a damned maze. Two years he had spent here and he was still getting lost in the innumerable passages. He hoped he wasn't running around in circles.

He needed somewhere to hide, and wait, and plan, before he was dragged off for attempted murder. He could already hear the low rumble of voices nearing him.

Then someone grabbed his sleeve and he jumped.

"Harry, come here."

"Luna?" was all he could gasp, and then she drew him through a doorway, and he was safe.

Adam jolted awake again, his shirt drenched in sweat. He buried his face in his hands and drew a shaky breath of relief. The dreams were evolving from weird to simply horrifying, and the worst was that he still couldn't remember what they were about. Every time he woke, he expected to be there again.

Where and what was "there"?

He tried to fall back asleep, but he couldn't. His body must have been subconsciously terrified of falling into the dreamworld (not only subconsciously, either).

So instead he stood, and, with a vague feeling of familiarity, he walked to the empty kitchen, feet slapping hollowly against the hardwood floors, took out the sharpest kitchen knife he could find – which wasn't saying much as most of what he could afford was irretrievably crummy – and drew it across his palm. He watched the blood pool up around the blade with mild interest but a great deal of determination, and returned to his room.

Drew on his wall.

Stared at the symbol freshly inscribed in blood (it was vaguely familiar as well, but why?).

Fell asleep, finally, with his still red-stained hand hovering next to it.

"Don't be a wuss, Sam, geez," said Dean, rolling his eyes. "She's all yours. Just ask her."

"But everyone's going to be looking at me," Sam protested weakly.

Dean snorted up the rest of his cup of alcohol (how had he gotten his hands on that, anyway? Sam had made sure there was none...) and promptly started to cough. Sam flushed and grinned nervously as a number of eyes turned in their direction.

"Dean!" he hissed, poking his brother sharply. "Dean, quit it!"

Dean hacked one last time, spewing the remnants of his drink all over the tablecloth.

"Thanks for the sympathy, Sammy. Yeah, my brother's over here in the corner choking to death and I'd better break his ribs so that he doesn't embarrass me."

"Shut up."

"You shut up and go ask that sweetheart to dance, or else I will."

Sam glared at him and stood up.

"You're stupid,' he said vehemently.

Dean choked on another mouthful of whiskey (ah... he'd snuck it in in one of the hundreds of liquor flasks that Sam thought he'd gotten rid of) and laughed silently and helplessly while Sam circled the table and came face to face with her.

She was gorgeous. She smiled up at him brilliantly and suddenly he was completely tongue-tied.

"Do you want to..." he choked on nothing (maybe Dean was cursing him in retaliation to his total lack of sympathy). "Do you want to dance?"

So Adam is having Cage issues, Harry is having murdering-and-misunderstanding issues, and what the hell are Sam and Dean doing anyway? The mystery intensifies!

To make things clearer, I am not recreating scenes from the TV show. They are of my own making. So don't bother with fruitless memory searches, and don't worry, you aren't getting Alzheimer's.

Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!