Disclaimer: I don't own either Harry Potter or Supernatural. All right go to their respective owners.

A/N: Okay, so I had sort of given up on this story but I had a bout of motivation. I won't make any promises about updates or anything, because I don't know how far my motivation will take me and I'm terrible at keeping promises. Also, I edited the first chapter slightly, mostly to change it to past tense because I don't know what I was thinking when I picked present tense. Hope you enjoy!

Edit: Mistakes corrected

TWO

White Walls

As Harry's mind floated in unconsciousness, fleeting images and snippets of conversation sprung up at random. His befuddled brain refused to provide context to the experience, forcing Harry to let go of his control as he jumped from past to present, from dreams to reality.

He heard Hermione's stern voice as she lectured him on his tendency to accidentally spill the secrets of their assignments to their friends and family.

A sputtered image of Ron in the last memory he could recall before he came to be wherever it was that he had ended up. The redhead had been hunched over his desk in the Auror office, taking in the details of Harry's investigation before casting the work aside and giving his old friend a warm smile as they discussed their weekend plans.

An unfamiliar voice registered in his brain that Harry could only guess was a part of his present nightmare. The man spoke low and even, his voice lilting only once in concern before he had control once more. Though he couldn't make out any specific words, Harry took comfort in the soothing presence.

The only sensation he felt in his body was a gentle prodding and poking that reminded Harry fiercely of his time in Hogwarts and the stern yet caring touch of Madam Pomfrey. Harry guessed the men he remembered seeing before passing out had somehow managed to get him to a hospital, though he had no idea how long it would have taken given the vast stretch of empty road where they had found him. More like ran me down like a dog, he corrected himself somewhat bitterly.

His suspicion was confirmed as he finally emerged into the land of the living, the blinding light of fluorescents reflecting on white hospital walls being the first thing he could see when he finally managed to pry his eyes open. He took in the room that housed his stiff hospital bed, but could make out no distinguishing features that would set it apart from any other muggle hospital.

Machines beeped blearily beside him, an IV running down from a bag of clear fluid into his arm. A stiff-looking pale green chair sat in the corner of the room next to the door opposite his bed, the wide window to his left revealing nothing but a small stretch of concrete that led into a lush forest. The sky outside was overcast, rolling clouds looking ready to release a torrent of rain at any moment.

Choosing to ignore the fact that he was clearly far from the city centre where he lived and worked, Harry turned his attention to himself and his injuries. He moved his extremities experimentally, beginning with his fingers and toes and eventually stretching out his slightly sore arms and legs. He sighed in relief, mentally thanking the quick healing work of his magic.

Picking at the pale cotton pyjamas covering his body, Harry realised with a start that his clothes and the pouch he wore around his neck were nowhere to be seen. In his delirious state stranded on the highway he had completely forgotten the mokeskin bag that he wore everywhere, but he would need it if he had any chance of finding his way home. Contemplating whether he should call the doctor and ask for his things or make a quick escape to find them himself before the inevitable questions could be asked, Harry lost his chance as the door to his room opened suddenly and a middle aged doctor in a crisp white coat strode in, his attention taken by a chart in his hand.

The doctor glance up at Harry then skidded to a halt in his surprise, obviously not expecting his unconscious patient to wake anytime soon. He recovered remarkably quickly, his face quickly shifting into the polite warmth that Harry had come to expect from medical professionals.

"Ah, young man, it's good to see you up and about. Your recovery has caused quite the stir among the staff." Harry's brow furrowed at the doctor's American accent only to remain furrowed at his words. He had to come up with an explanation quickly before the situation got away from him. Luckily for him, the doctor's voice seemed to convey only professional curiosity for the moment, but Harry didn't think that would last if he thought about it too long.

"I'm Dr. Massan," the doctor continued, unfazed by Harry's silence. "I've been the presiding physician on your case for the past two weeks and I must be honest, I didn't think such a recovery was possible the way you were brought in."

Harry figured Dr. Massan was trying to ascertain Harry's mental understanding and ability but he was to busy beginning to panic over what he had said. Two weeks? How could he have been unconscious for two whole weeks? Harry winced as he realised that his friends and family would be distraught at his disappearance, though he still could not remember the circumstances by which that had happened.

Dr. Massan seemed to realise that Harry could at least understand him and went about comforting him as he measured a cup of water from a jug sitting on an overbed table out of Harry's reach. Harry took the glass gratefully, suddenly realised how scratchy and raw his throat felt.

"It's okay, I know it must be a shock. We searched your belongings for identification, though we couldn't find anything but some kind of leather bag. Though no one could seem to open it…" He trailed off, clearly trying to reconcile a fabric pouch with the resilience of a steel vault.

Harry preoccupied with his plastic cup in lieu of acknowledging the subject.

"We had to identify the authorities, of course, given your state at the time," the doctor continued, powering through his confusion. "No matches as of yet to any missing persons reports, though I'm sure we'll find your family if they're looking for you." He finished with a comforting smile, which Harry returned politely, though he very much doubted that would happen.

"Do you remember your name?" He prompted, clearly encouraged by Harry's response.

"Harry." Despite the soothing coolness of the water, Harry's voiced still rasped the first word he had spoken in two weeks. He was certain that Dr. Massan had meant his full name, but the man made no attempt to coax any more out of Harry, a respectful professional instinct Harry figured the man had learned.

Grateful for the courtesy and the doctor's calming presence, Harry figured he would play this calmly until a more drastic approach to his exit needed to be made.

"My… memory's a little fuzzy," he gestured vaguely to convey his confusion, although he wasn't exactly lying. If the doctor was thrown by his accent, he didn't show it as he replied kindly.

"That's fine," he seemed encouraged by the confirmation that Harry wasn't some cagey runaway. "That's to be expected. If it continues, well, we'll deal with that later."

"May I see my possessions?" He asked politely.

"You'll have to be checked over by the nurse first, I'm afraid, and the sheriff from a few towns over is apparently sending over officers to ask you a few questions about what happened when you were hit. We're not sure who found you or where you were before they did, but I'm sure it couldn't have been too far from here. I'll make sure you get your things after that but as I said, it's just the clothes you were wearing and that bag." His brow furrowed again as his mind returned to the confounding object.

Harry cursed himself silently for bringing the topic back to the pouch and hurriedly agreed to Dr. Massan's plan and a quick assessment of Harry's injuries. Satisfied and mystified in equal measure at the healthy state of his body, the doctor left the room to tend to another patient, promising to return later to monitor Harry's progress. When he was gone, Harry laid his head back with a sigh as he allowed the weight of his situation to wash over him. All he had to do now was wait until he had his hands on his possessions before he could make his exit and find his way home.

—

The nurse hummed softly as she finished Harry's checkup, making small sounds of approval when she was apparently satisfied with the results. Harry waited with bated breath for her to make some comment on his speedy recovery, but she merely smiled at him and left the room with the same promise as the doctor to return later.

She had only been gone a minute in which Harry wondered if he should ask for some kind of entertainment to pass his time in the drab room, before a knock on the door signalled another visitor. Given that the hospital staff wandered in and out of the room at their own leisure, he figured it was the officers the doctor had mentioned and called them in.

Slightly bored already at the prospect of answering questions he knew would yield no results, Harry's eyes were unfocused as he glanced at the two men before he did a double take and had to stop his mouth from dropping open in shock.

The two men approached slightly warily, though from anxiety about whether he would remember them or in reaction to his own expression, Harry did not know. He quickly schooled his features into an expression of polite inquiry, looking between the taller hulk with shaggy brown hair and the short blond with the green eyes Harry remembered vividly.

Apparently placated that Harry didn't recognised them, the taller one moved forward and lifted a badge from the depths of his crisp suit for Harry to see.

"I'm Detective Page, this is Detective Jones," he glanced back at his partner, who produced his own badge. "We're with the Ferndale P.D. We were wondering if we could ask a few questions if you remember anything that could help us find who hit you."

Errantly wondering why these officers would make such an effort when they knew exactly what happened, Harry berated himself when he realised what they were really after; confirmation that he didn't remember anything that'd happened in the accident and therefore avoid the blame. He contemplated whether they were even police officers. He knew that badges could be faked, though theirs sure looked real.

"Of course," he replied. "But… I don't remember much. I don't even remember being hit." He shrugged, trying to give them the impression that the memories were lost.

The two men glanced at each other and Harry almost rolled his eyes at their lack of stealth.

"Do you remember where you were before the accident?" Jones, the shorter one asked.

"The highway… though I don't remember how I got there." Harry smiled inwardly. Memory loss was a great excuse to paper over the holes in his story.

"Do you know where your home is? Where your family might be?"

Harry faltered a second before answering, "I- I live in London, I'm here for a holiday."

Jones seemed to notice his hesitation. "You're here for a holiday? Seriously?" He glanced out at the drab forest view to accentuate his point.

Despite the fact that he knew he was lying, Harry crossed his arms in indignation.

"And? I'm not allowed to escape the tourists and take a holiday in…" Harry trailed off, realising too late that he still had no idea where he was.

"Everson," the taller one, Page supplied quietly. He had been watching the others talk with a thoughtful expression on his face. Jones looked at him then back at Harry as his handsome features formed into a cocky smirk. Harry scowled but kept up the pretence anyway, knowing he had the upper hand in the knowledge of their own lie if he needed it.

"Yes… well, like I said, my memory—"

"Right, your memory," Jones interrupted sardonically, no longer buying Harry's cover. Harry tried to control his annoyance at the man's attitude, but found it difficult as he glared at him.

Page clearly sensed the need to be the peacekeeper between them, as he tried to divert the conversation back on track.

"So you don't have anyone with you? Anyone to help you?"

"No. I'm on my own. I'll contact my family when I get out of here."

"They must be worried. You've been here two weeks, the doctor said."

"Yes… well, they'll be fine once they know I'm alright." Harry sensed the conversation was heading in a dangerous direction.

"Two weeks," Jones interjected. "Seems like a short time for the injuries you sustained."

Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the man's attempt at faux nonchalance. So that's what they were really here about, though Harry couldn't guess what exactly they wanted from him.

"That's what Dr. Massan says," he replied shortly.

"Don't you think that's strange?" Jones asked, now equally suspicious.

"I'm not a doctor."

"So you have no clue how you recovered so quickly?"

"What exactly would you like me to say?"

"Massan said your bones were almost completely shattered. Now they're fine. Tell me how that's possible."

"I don't know, a miracle?" Harry knew he was being immature, but it only served to mask his internal panic. These were exactly the types of questions he needed to avoid. He needed them to leave him alone, and he knew only one reason they would back down; self-preservation. He faked thoughtfulness suddenly.

"Have we met before? Something about you seems familiar…" He let the question hand in the air between them, waiting for them to pick up on the implication. Jones only looked confused at Harry's sudden shift in demeanour but Harry saw Page whip his head to look at Harry, his eyes widening slightly.

"Um, I think we have all we need. C'mon D- Jones, we should be getting back now."

Jones looked at Page as if he had lost his mind. "What? he didn't even answer—"

"Come on," Page looked at Jones imploringly, who finally understood his meaning.

"Right, well… good bye," he waved pathetically in Harry's direction, who only feigned confused innocence.

"We'll let you know if we, um, find anything," Page nodded to him as he backed out of the room after his partner.

Harry rolled his eyes and sat back with a smug sense of satisfaction. He quickly sobered up once he realised that he had only managed to curt the questions and that someone else would surely come along to ask more questions if he didn't move along soon.

—

Later that night, Harry felt a palpable sense of relief as his meagre personal items were returned to him by an orderly. He waited for the man to leave the room before bypassing the bag of bloodied clothes and slipping his hand into the opening of the mokeskin pouch given to him so long ago by Hagrid. The outside had remained as durable as ever, while Harry had worked with Hermione to magically enlarge the inside similar to the purse she had carried with her since the war. In their line of work, it had become useful to have a manner of important items at their disposal wherever they went.

Harry felt around with his fingers, careful not to disturb the ordered items with which he was now intimately familiar. He was thankful when he found a small stack of American muggle currency in its usual spot, slight though it was considering he hadn't replenished it from the last time he had needed it. He frowned as he pulled his arm back through the opening of the pouch, his hand catching on a piece of parchment that definitely didn't belong.

He grasped the small square of paper in his hand, reading it once, twice and a third time before realising he had no clue what the words were supposed to mean. Displayed in thin black ink, his own handwriting conveyed the message:

Oblivion

MoM - Level 9

—

A/N: If you're confused about anything, don't worry, more will be revealed as we go along. Let me know if there are any mistakes. Also, sorry if I've got location stuff wrong, I don't know much about American geography.

Thanks for reading!