A/N: It may shock you to realise this, but I'm a chronic procrastinator. I think I came up for the idea for this chapter on Friday, then I had a Supernatural marathon (season 1) with my friend Loki'd Hiddlestoner over Sunday/Monday then spent the rest of Monday way spaced out from lack of sleep, then I had to go to school yesterday and was out till somewhere between 9:30-10pm because of school and was in no mood to write, so I didn't update yesterday, then spent most of today watching Sleepy Hollow, and wrote most of this chapter this evening. Sorry about that. Also, I don't even know what the chapter names mean any more, so don't expect much from them.
Chapter 26 – The Approaching Storm:
Recovery was a slow process, something which Harry had always known, but never really processed. Having to limp the measly distance from the room to the bathroom while leaning heavily against the walls of the house was perhaps the most embarrassing thing he'd experienced in a long time. It was actually a bit of a relief that he had been expressly forbidden from going anywhere else, because he likely would have made a fool of himself in the process.
He could vividly imagine himself falling down the stairs.
Having been some sort of warrior for the majority of his life, even if he hadn't been fighting, it was rather ingrained in his bones to hate feeling weak. Having to rely on other people was a liability, especially for important things like food and water, and yet here he was, limping about and shaking with exhaustion and lying in bed when he exhausted his pitifully limited energy by pacing the room. Intellectually he knew Sam would never withhold food from him, but instinctively, stemming from a history if living with people who didn't particularly trust or care for him, he knew that it was a simple yet powerful act, keeping sustenance from those in need.
It pained him rather greatly to realise that he was subconsciously doubting Sam's kindness, but there was nothing he could do save ignore the little voice that cursed and muttered darkly in the back of his mind.
One thing Harry was a bit perturbed about was the sudden about-face behaviour of his watchers. While they'd been fine with interrogating him the moment he regained consciousness, Dean and Bobby had all of a sudden decided it was a bad idea to push him while he was recovering, which Harry thought was an extremely stupid idea, even though he appreciated the extra time it allowed him to figure out what he should tell them – for he wasn't fool enough to believe that they wouldn't still be waiting for an explanation of sorts.
The only reason he was even submitting to the care forced upon him was so he could get himself together mentally. Exhaustion was nothing new, and with regular food and actual sleep his magic was replenishing itself (never to be used again, he'd like to swear, although he knew he'd never stick to it) and sustaining his body past regular limits. Harry was more conscious than any of them realised of how much time he was wasting, how much of the limited time Dean had left topside that he was stealing away from Sam. The faster he healed the faster Sam could stop playing nurse and start spending more time with his brother.
Guilt was one of the things Harry had never figured out how to brush off, and every second they wasted because of him weighed heavily on his conscience.
One week after waking up Harry was fed up with it all. 49 weeks might sound like a lot, but in hindsight it was barely even a drop in the flow of time that made up an entire life. 49 short weeks were all Dean had left to him.
Trailing his hand along the wall just in case, Harry stubbornly made his way down the stairs and into Bobby's front room, just barely managing to sit rather than collapse onto the couch which, thankfully, wasn't covered in books like just about every other surface in the house seemed to be. No matter how understandable the cause, it was starting to get ridiculous.
Bobby stared at him over the top of a glass of scotch, curious but not willing to say anything. They were used to Harry obediently staying upstairs by now, and his blatant disregard of the 'rule' today, though intriguing, wasn't something he could be bothered questioning. Everyone involved in the hunting game had a serious stubborn streak in them, and it was well known by now that Harry was no exception.
The silence was appreciated. Harry didn't want to expend extra energy that he couldn't afford by acting before everyone was there. He had a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and he didn't fancy doing it twice.
Humming a Weird Sisters song he could only vaguely remember under his breath he moved around the cushions on the couch, piling them up around him so he was leaning against a bunch of them without showing the vulnerability of actually lying down on the couch. He couldn't resist pulling the blanket down over his legs to hide the faint tremors though – he didn't fancy explaining the whole 'phantom pains from an old curse' thing. Then the only thing left to do was wait.
Fifteen minutes later Harry had hummed every wizarding song he could remember and Bobby had poured himself a new glass of hard liquor, apparently sensing that whenever Harry was ready to do what he'd come downstairs for it was going to get real serious, real quick. It was also about then that Sam came down the stairs.
"Hey, Bobby," he called as he walked, "Have you seen Harry any…where…" Sam trailed off as he turned into the front room, staring in disbelief at Harry sitting curled up on the couch. Cracking a smile Harry waved weakly in his direction. "Harry! What are you doing down here? You're supposed to be resting, getting your strength back!"
Silence. Harry rolled his eyes.
"There are more important things to be doing that lying in bed. Could you go get Dean and Ellen? I think it's about time I did some proper explaining."
For a moment Sam didn't move. He stayed in the doorway, watching Harry, scrutinising him. It was comforting to know he was worried, but it wasn't helping. Starting to get impatient Harry made shooing motions at him, and the taller man succumbed, heading out into the car yard.
"Should I be worried?" Bobby asked once Sam was gone. The underlying question was obvious. Is this explanation going to mean we have to kill you? And honestly, Harry couldn't answer that question. He couldn't possibly know what they would think of him after all was said and done. If anyone needed to feel worried it was him, not Bobby.
The old hunter must have sensed his inner turmoil and didn't ask again, despite the lack of answer.
Sam returned with the other two in tow, Dean looking decidedly pissed - Harry had stopped wonder why since it happened quite often when he was around – and Ellen appearing a tad worried – unsurprising, she was about to find out what exactly she had practically adopted as a son. They situated themselves around the room, Sam taking the other half of the couch, Dean leaning up against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and Ellen taking a seat at the table by Bobby.
"I've been thinking about this all week," Harry started when he had their attention. "Whether to tell you, how much to tell you, what not to tell you, what the consequences might be… And I decided 'what the hell', if shit goes down it goes down, and there's nothing I can do about it. So first thing's first. I have strange powers. Technically speaking, it's called magic."
Harry was pointedly staring at a section of wall so he wouldn't have to see Dean's expression as he talked, because he knew it wouldn't be pleasant.
"I've only had this convoluted sort of wandless magic for about six months or so. When I was seventeen I gave up the magic I had been born with in exchange for the help I received in killing someone who had been terrorising the British Magical Community for the last half century or so. I was never expecting to get it back. After I lost my magic I realised that I couldn't stay in England, both because I feared that somehow the Ministry would get a hold of me and try to drag me back to the magical community, and because there were too many memories in that place for me to deal with. That's when I decided to come to America.
After aimlessly roadtripping for a time, unable to find anywhere I felt I could 'settle down', I ran into a hunter by the name of Rufus. One of my friends back home used to say that I had a 'saving people thing', and after some demon related incidents back home I became a little bit obsessed with discovering the muggle supernatural world. Muggle being non-magical, by the way. I'd heard some strange stuff, and ran in Rufus while he was exterminating a nest of vampires. We talked a little, and he told me about the Roadhouse, which I then made it my goal to find.
When I did eventually stumble across the Roadhouse, quite by accident as I'm sure Ellen remembers, I just never really left. I was more of a book person than a fighter, which surprised me considering I'd never really liked school, but it was comforting all the same. I realised I could help people without going out and killing and risking my life, so I devoted most of my time to researching as much as I could, and helping out the hunters that came to me for advice. When Ash came along I eventually decided that the Roadhouse was in capable hands, regardless of his eccentricities, and went out on my own. I found a place in Jackson and for the most part stayed there from then on out.
Every now and again I'd delve into hunting, if it was something small or just nearby, but for the most part I kept to myself. When Sam called on behalf of John from the hospital I was of half a mind not to go. As Dean suspected I was well aware of what he intended to do with the things he wanted me to bring him. Having seen the best and worst of humanity under many different guises it wasn't hard to figure out. I told him a story, before we went to summon the demon, and he promised we could kick some demon ass when I eventually joined him downstairs. You can't imagine how relieved I am that that won't happen now, that he managed to escape. Your father was an incredibly sneaky man.
My magic, as it were, was forcibly given back. You could say the contract was rescinded. I had never wanted it back, and yet here I am, all the worse off for it."
Harry trailed off, unsure of what else to say and where else to go. The silence that followed was heavy, and he was unwilling to shift his gaze to see their expressions. Instead he fisted his hands in the blanket over his legs and stared down at his lap, counting the silence in his head.
"Are you saying you were born with magic, sort of like Merlin or something?"
"So you made a deal with a demon huh? No wonder you seemed so comfortable taunting the crossroads demon. How are you even still alive?"
Predictably enough, Sam picked up on the new and interesting while Dean picked up on the darker part of his story.
"Yes, I was born with magic, although I didn't know about it until I turned eleven." Harry sighed, knowing he would have to go into more detail in a moment and wondering what the deal was with the American Ministry – Crowley had had numerous problems with them, but they hadn't confronted him once… yet. "As for the demon… I was desperate. As were you, and as was John."
"Don't you bring my dad into this!" Dean snapped, lashing out and punching the wall with his fist, expression twisted and furious when Harry reflexively jerked up at the sound. "So desperation makes it okay does it? You were just a kid, huh? Demons are a no-go zone, Peverell, in case you'd forgotten. Or are things different over in merry old England? Do you fucking Brits have a grand old time prancing around and making merry with the denizens of Hell, do you?"
Fire burned in his veins – anger now, completely his own – and he clenched his teeth, fingernails biting into his palms deep enough to draw blood. Dean was such a fucking hypocrite! So it was okay if the Winchesters ran around making deals as long as no one else did? Bullshit.
Without even realising he'd moved Harry found himself face to face with the hunter, hands curled into his shirt, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the wall with a strength he shouldn't have been able to muster (thank god they were the same height or it might have been a much harder struggle). He summoned up the darkest glare he could muster and stared Dean down, breathing heavily.
"Don't you make a fucking mockery of my life Winchester. You know absolutely nothing and you have no right, none at all, to be making snap judgements about my behaviour when you've done exactly the same goddamn thing! I did what I had to do, just like you did what you felt you had to do, and John did what he felt he had to do."
Struggling to calm himself down Harry loosened his grip, allowing Dean's feet to rest flat on the ground once more, but he didn't let go. He ignored Sam's protests and Bobby telling him to let them sort it out themselves. The words flowed over him but he wasn't processing. He was too pissed to understand anything outside of himself and Dean.
"I was in the middle of a war, one between the light and the dark of Magical Britain, a war for a bunch of wizards who expected a sixteen year old boy to save them all. No one ever asked me if I wanted to be their saviour, they didn't ask me if I wanted to be a murderer. They threw me into the war and treated me like a child and at the end of the day they left it all down to me. There was nowhere else to turn to. The first demon I met was on the battlefield – they were possessing one of my friends, a wizard who had mostly abandoned the wizarding world and had been living peacefully in muggle Britain, near my Aunt and Uncle's home in Surrey.
So yeah, maybe I sought the second demon out on my own, but I was out of options. The leader of the Dark Wizards, Voldemort – which is a stupid fake name he came up with to sound intimidating – was keeping himself alive through, you guessed it, extremely dark magic. He had split his soul, and no one would tell me how to kill him. It was always 'you're too young Harry', and 'what about your childhood Harry?' They acted like they didn't care about ending the war, and yet the wider public hated on me all the time because I wasn't acting well enough as their prophesied saviour. I needed help, and the only way I could get it was from a demon.
I was willing to give my life to end the war, just like I was willing to give my life for Sam. Considering the circumstances I'd almost rather he'd just taken my life like a normal demon, instead he had to be a curious bastard and take my magic instead. My deal would be up in a year, maybe less by now, and then I wouldn't have to worry about any of this crap.
So yeah, Dean, forgive me if I think you're a hypocritical brat who can't stand when other people do the things you've stooped to. I couldn't care less if you hate me for saving a country, because your opinion means jack shit right now. I could kill you right here and now, you know, and you'd never be able to stop it. That's the power of a wizard. We don't need silly hex bags and rituals. A few words and a flick of a wand – or my hand as the situation may be – and you're dead. Think about that. Think on it and remember to be glad that I'm such a nice person. Be glad that I despise killing. Be thankful that I have no wish to fall into another freaky coma from performing dark magic. I know respect isn't in your vocabulary, but perhaps you could try being a little less of a douchebag to people more powerful than yourself."
Harry didn't yell. Very rarely did he yell. Instead it was the intensity of his voice that impressed his anger, the emotions roiling behind them and the control with which he reigned in his impulses. He let Dean go and hurriedly backed off before he lost that control, before he gave in to the urges to beat Dean to a pulp, to at least punch him in the face. His expression was stormy, murderous, and Dean was silent and pale, leaning heavily against the wall in shock.
No one moved and there was no noise.
Then, without warning, a loud crack sounded in the car yard, just outside the house.
Harry flinched at the sound, but his frown only deepened, showing his utmost displeasure at the turn events were taking. He couldn't see the others from his position by the window, but he knew they were all watching the door, just like he was. For him it was in anticipation, for them it was probably fear, a fear of the unknown.
The door swung open with a bang to reveal two men dressed in what Harry easily recognised as battle robes – though they were much less gaudy than the uniform of the British Aurors and looked to be better designed as well. Garbed as they were in head to toe in black he was briefly reminded of Severus Snape, and had to wonder who would be more offended by the comparison.
They came in with their wands out in front of them, both pointing straight at him. Obviously subtlety wasn't deemed necessary when dealing with people who broke the Statute of Secrecy, because lo and behold the secret was already out. It certainly took them long enough, considering all the magic he'd performed back at the cemetery.
The click of a shotgun sounded behind him, and it was oddly heart-warming to know that Bobby would rather shoot the intruders before dealing with his emotional outburst.
"Good afternoon gentlemen," Harry greeted the two American Aurors sarcastically, glaring unrepentantly at them. "To what do I owe the unexpected visit? I was under the assumption that you didn't care about what they knew, otherwise you would have been arresting me three weeks ago."
They exchanged looks, obviously confused, and Harry tilted his head in thought. Either they hadn't picked up on it, someone was keeping it hushed up, or they cared more about verbal exposure in America than they did about circumstantial. In the Supernatural hub if the world Harry supposed it was easy to pass off acts of magic as other things – witchcraft, demonic energy, poltergeist.
"You broke the Statute of Secrecy," the first Auror informed him stoically, all business.
"You will be charged with a hefty fine and your companions will be obliviated," the second Auror continued, shifting his wand to point at Dean, who actually flinched away from it involuntarily. It would have been funny under different circumstances.
Harry laughed darkly, and with a wave of his hand both their wands were in his possession. It left him feeling winded, but he acted like he was fine. Never show weakness in front of authority figures or the enemy, and at the moment the Aurors were both.
"Like hell you are," he laughed, waving their wands around in the air. "They needed to know, and if you obliviate them I'll keep on telling them over and over again until you get it through your thick ministry skulls that I don't care about your stupid Statute. You're Americans, I'm sure you know about Hunters. Well these are Hunters, and I said they needed to know."
"And what the hell gives you the right to break the law as you please?" The second Auror shouted, cheeks flushed with rage, amber eyes smouldering with contempt.
Harry slashed through the air in front of him with his free hand, rings glinting in the light, in a frustrated gesture.
"Because my name is Harry James Potter-Black and you would do well to fear me."
The lights flickered, flaring brightly although there was no electricity running through them, as Harry's uncontrollable magic rolled off of him in waves. He threw the wands to the ground at their feet and watched in satisfaction as the Aurors hastily reclaimed them and fled. His balance wavered, but he remained steadfast, staring at the ground.
Belatedly, he realised he shouldn't have snapped at the Aurors. They were going to report it to their Head of Department, who would no doubt report his presence in the country to the Ministry's leader. All he could do now was hope they didn't feel the urge to contact the British Ministry about it, or he'd be hunted down and dragged back across the pond to be belittled and worshipped.
"I don't have time for this," he muttered, only realising quite how much they meant once the words were out in the open. "None of us have time for this," he repeated, louder this time. "We have to go. I need to return to my house, I have numerous texts on just about everything imaginable and we will need all the time we can get to go through it all."
"Now look here boy," Bobby spoke up gruffly, setting the shotgun down on the table, although it still pointed at Harry. "No one's going anywhere until you answer a few questions."
Shoulders slumped in despair Harry sighed. "I'm on your side Bobby, and right now that's all you need to know. I'm on your side and I'll fight against whatever's coming, whether it be my kind or the regular shit that goes down around the States." His legs shook and he slumped against the wall, sliding to the ground with a dull thump. "There's no way I can get home by myself. Please. Even if it's just to drive me there and whoever does it comes straight back here."
"I don't know what obliviation is," Dean said quietly from across the room, "but it sounded like they were going to wipe our memories." Harry nodded tiredly in agreement. "I rather like my memories. And your research, you'll be looking into demon deals?"
"In part. I'm also hoping to find some way to purify the demonic taint that seems to have latched itself to my magic." Harry glanced over at Sam as he said it, hoping he wasn't making a mistake in mentioning it.
"Then we'll take you. And we'll help."
Harry and Dean stared at one another, sharing a silent conversation. They both knew what Dean was risking by helping with the research, but he had wards to prevent demons – other than Crowley – from entering his house in any way shape or form, and it should be safe enough there. The two only had one thing in common, their desire to help and protect Sam. It would have to be enough for a truce, for now.
Sam was overwhelmed by Harry's extensive library. Even Dean was grudgingly impressed. It was like some sort of bookworm heaven – although Harry disliked thinking of himself as such – and it became even more so when he dug out his trunk of magical texts for them to flick through.
The idea was that Sam and Dean would look for stuff about demon deals while Harry did his own research on purification. It was almost shocking how pessimistic he was about the whole endeavour – he didn't really expect to find anything. It would be too convenient if there was some clear cut solution. To either of their problems. But it was a starting point.
What surprised him the most was how much effort Dean put into reading through thick tomes about dry subjects. From what he'd gathered about the man research was pretty much the last thing he liked spending his time doing. It was a nice change though. They had exchanged very few words since the incident at Bobby's, and the silence was more welcomed than unnerving. It allowed Harry to concentrate on his own problems.
As he'd predicted, his books were basically useless in terms of purification. No one had ever done any research into the previous generations of psychic children, and Harry's own situation was highly unprecedented, considering he must have been the first wizard ever to give his magic to a demon only to get it back. Wizards were loath to do things without reason, which was probably why the British Magical Community was so stagnated in the middle ages. It was also why there were so few innovations. Potions Masters were the bulk of the 'creative' industry in the magical world, and they were few and far between. Wizards were lazy. It had never occurred to him until he needed something that they didn't have. Change terrified them – that was what caused the Pureblood tyranny, what split the magical people into groups – and so they stagnated. Disgusting.
With no information forthcoming, Harry was left with very few options.
Writing out a carefully worded letter Harry vaguely explained the circumstances and the desired outcome of a new potion. It was an offer, a request, to Potions Masters around the world, to take up the challenge of creating a potion that would fix his 'problem'. They would of course be rewarded for it, if they succeeded. He didn't sign the letters with his name, instead sealing the missives with hot wax and pressing his family ring into it, decorating the seals with the Potter family crest.
The brothers wondered what he was doing, but never asked. He was thankful for that. As it stood he was putting an awful lot at stake by revealing himself even partially – it was well-known that he was the only Potter left – to a bunch of strangers, and he didn't wish to have to think on his decision more than necessary.
Harry had no idea how long it would take for the recipients to respond to his letters, or even if any of them would take up the challenge. He could only cross his fingers and wait.
In the meantime there was another problem to deal with.
The tricky terms of crossroads deals.
It was going to be a long year.