A/N I wrote the beginnings of this story a long time ago, and I remember basing some of the jokes or smaller plot points off of tumblr posts I saw and remembered. Unfortunately, I do not remember the original poster of many of these, and I would hate to take credit for using the basis of someone else's idea without giving credit to the creator of the inspiration. If you recognize anything like that, maybe post a review with the proper acknowledgment. Thanks.

As always, the story is unbeta-ed. Sorry for any grammar or spelling errors that google Docs didn't catch.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter or Supernatural, or anything belonging to J.K. Rowling or Eric Kripke, I'm just using the characters for fun. I receive not money off of this story. Don't sue me.

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Chapter Three: Angering Ghosts is a Nasty Habit

A couple months passed, in which Harry studied the magic and mundane, trained, wrote in her journal, and looked for hunts near her. She had stopped one weepy ghost, which had killed an old man who had called her pale. The ghost was the weakest she had ever heard of, just roaming the empty house crying about her self confidence.

Harry began to really appreciate the fact that she could use magic. She still lived in her tree house, hoping to save her money for when she needed it, and the comfort charms she learned from her books made it so the house always adjusted the temperature to her liking.

She had a couple side projects going on as she continued to study. One was the successful creation of a demon-killing knife. The ancient runes book she now owned furthered her experiment significantly, and she almost had what she believed to be a working knife. Not that she was eager to test it, and besides, there weren't usually many cases of demonic possession.

In May of 1988, Harry found her first poltergeist.

She found the case in the obituary section of the newspaper she picked up from the

Turner Diner every morning. Ryan Gleeson, 43, was found stabbed inside a locked room. His body was inside a broken salt ring. Harry naturally found this case interesting. She wondered if he was superstitious or a retired hunter. Either way, something supernatural went down in that house, and she would find out what.

Harry arrived at the crime scene wearing a light pink girlish dress. She hated the outfit, but knew it helped sell her role, which was "curious little girl who lives next door and would never do anything wrong ever". She almost gagged in her mouth at the selection, but it was a necessity.

Harry was inspecting the outside windows for traces of sulphur when a voice startled her into turning, her hand hoping to her waist where her dagger was concealed. The one she bought in diagon alley was stored safe at home, where she had been studying the runes on it to see if they would help her demon-knife.

"What are you doin', kid?" The man asked. He wore a dark suit and tie, the outline of a gun slightly noticeable beneath the jacket. His hair was receding, brown and only slightly graying. Harry immediately launched into her curious neighbor spiel.

"Sorry, mister, you scared me. I was just looking at the windows." She stopped to look at the ground and pulled at the skirt of her dress guiltily. "Well, that's not true. I was trying to look in the windows. My Momma said that Mr. Gleeson went to Heaven, and I wasn't sure about that cause I still saw people at his house. So I thought why would people be at his house if he's not there, and maybe he was there and Momma was wrong," She finished brightly, looking up again. Her tactic worked, apparently, as the man kneeled down and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Kid, your Mom wasn't lying. Mr. Gleeson died, and we're looking into it. That is to say,

the police and me."

"Oh. And you? You aren't with the police?"

"No, I'm with the FBI."

"The FBI? THat's so cool! Do you have a partner? Do you have a gun? How many cases have you solved? What department do you work for?" Harry kept her eyes excited, hoping to gain some information from this man.

"No, yes, I don't know, and I'm a criminal investigator." He rattled off. Harry squinted her eyes almost imperceptibly. "About Mr. Gleeson's death, do you know of any strange happenings in the neighborhood? Sounds, smells, sudden changes in temperature?"

Harry almost sighed. Another hunter. She shook her head no, her head tilted to the side slightly.

"Why would that matter, Agent…"

"Wright."

"Why would that matter Agent Wright," she wondered.

"Just standard procedure," he assured her. How anyone would ever believe that, Harry didn't know. She could at least mess with the guy a little.

"Well, my Momma did say he didn't spend a lot of time at the house, but he only just moved in. Mr. Gleeson would walk out every night, up the path and out of the neighborhood. Only, I followed him one night. He stopped outside the building next to the Chester Barber Shop, and knocked on the door. They asked him for a password, and he said "Kitten sent me," and they let him in. It looked dark, I'm not sure what happened in theat building, but it kinda scared me so I walked back home," Harry finished dramatically. The Agent nodded his head all the while, taking notes on a paper pad in his hand.

"What's your name?"

"Susan Foreman," she answered.

"Thanks Miss Foreman, this will help with my investigation." Harry smiled at him as he walked away. Gleeson had gone to no such place, as far as she knew. Harry just happened to overhear the password when she was practicing her trailing skills, and she followed a vivacious man to the building, which from one look inside was clearly a gay bar.

Shaking with silent laughter, Harry left to head back to the house she was squatting in, which happened to be an empty house in the same neighborhood. She would come back later, Harry decided.

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After researching the house and its history, Harry came up with a suitable outline for what was happening. Twenty years ago, the house had been owned by the Baxters, a picture perfect suburban family. One night, two thugs broke into the home looking to rob, and murdered the youngest child, an eight year old girl, after she caught them while getting a glass of water. Things were normal for a month afterwards, until the wife killed herself in the girl's old bedroom, too depressed to live when her baby hadn't. The husband died in the running car, which had been locked in a garage filled with carbon dioxide fumes. The other two boys were sent to an orphanage, and lost track of. Harry could understand where an angry spirit could manifest in that house. It seemed to be centered around the daughter, but she didn't think that the girl killed her parents, even in ghost form. Perhaps she had stayed behind but snapped when her parents killed themselves? But then why was there no mention of death until now? Harry kept reading and discovered why. Until a couple weeks ago, the house had been owned or rented by females. The last couple of renters moved out, and the guy moved in. So the ghost, Clara Baxter, had a grudge against men. Seeing how she died, it wasn't a stretch.

Harry stood up from the cramped library table, public records spread around her. She stretched her arms up, rolling her head from side to side. Harry gathered the records together, replacing them in the right boxes, and walked out the door back to the house. She changed into black clothes and slipped salt into her magically expanded pockets. Drawing the good of her jacket over her head, Harry moved back out into the night, dodging street lamps and hiding in shadows as she crept back to Gleeson's house. She reached the building, moving around the front to the back, and gripped the gutter which she promptly climbed.

Settling onto the roof, Harry moved to a window and gently pushed it up. She carefully dropped into the room, landing on silent feet. Holding her homemade EMF meter, she swept the room, looking for signs of a spirit. The machine went up like crazy everywhere she went, especially in the room farthest to the left on the second floor. An outline still marked the ground, a clear ring of salt encircling it, except for a wide opening. Harry looked up and confirmed her suspicions when she saw air vents in the ceiling.

Harry was bending over to inspect the pattern of blood stained on the floor, when the room's temperature suddenly dropped several degrees, and her breath was seen in the air. Harry's eyes widened at the sound of the closing door, and turned around to see a spectral image. She was young, her features small and soft, although the murderous look in her eyes upset the image. Her pale blue nightgown stained dark at her gut, the evidence of the bullet wound contrasting greatly with the color.

"Hello. I guess you didn't like me breaking in, huh? Should have seen that coming," mumbled Hary, slowly backing away to the window. The little girl advances, giving off an aura of danger and fear. The room got colder as she held out a hand. She smiled evilly at Harry looking from the hunter-in-training to her hand, and made as though to crush it into a fist. Harry was already out the window, its opening being magical and having gone unnoticed by the spirit until Harry jumped out of it.

Harry rolled onto the roof, running around the edge to the trash cans where she jumped. The black receptacle tipped over and Harry rolled to absorb the impact, coming up on one knee and scrambling to right herself as she looked back and saw the girl's furious image glaring from the open window. Harry ran down the street, caring not for subtlety, until she was safe in her temporary-house, where she slumped down on one wall.

'Oops,' she thought. Harry looked around, summoning a bottle of water into her grip where she chugged it. Her thirst sated, Harry pulled away from the plastic, wiping her upper lip with ehr sleeve. Well, that had gone well. She definitely knew it was a spirit, and the only way to fix that was to burn the bones. She had enough adrenaline, and the time was only 12:07, so Harry stood up and left the house again, making sure her shovel was safe in her pocket. She walked to the cemetery where the girl had been buried, which was only a block or two from the house.

Coming upon the gates, she climbed over, putting to use her tree climbing skills. As Harry approached the grave marker, she saw a man silhouetted against the night sky, digging a hole where the grave he stood up to wipe his forehead, Harry saw his face under the baseball cap. Agent Wright. Smiling, Harry strode up behind him, her hands grasping for her shovel. She pulled it out and held it like a staff, leaning on it with her hands.

"Is that standard procedure, Agent Wright?" she asked. He tensed and whirled around, reaching for his gun. "Oh, calm down, I've already escaped death enough for tonight".

"Susan Ford?" He yelled, astonished.

"Actually, it's Susan Foreman. And actually, it's not. But you probably already figured that out. How was Kitten?" she asked, giving him a smirk.

"Dammit, I should have known you were up to something when I checked out that place. How did you even know what it was?"

"Nosyness and my desire to practice following people. Question is, do you know who you're digging up?"

"No, the question is, who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?" He yelled, still pointing the gun at her.

"Honestly, keep your voices down. I don't want a criminal record yet, and I've heard people look at you weird when you have grave robbery listed. Also, that was two questions. My name is Harry, I'm hunting a ghost." Agent Wright looked at her, his eyes slightly wider. Harry looked around at the continued silence.

"This is the point where you tell me your name, or I could keep calling you Wright, but seeing as I'm helping you with diggin that's a little impolite."

"You're not helping me," he scoffed.

"Uh, yes. I am." she waved a hand at the remaining dirt and it rose as one mass and settled in the pile already there. Wright pulled the trigger and she yelped as she threw herself to the side, landing on the dirt. The gun zoomed into her hands and she dismantled it.

"Rude!" she exclaimed, glaring at Wright. "I've just taken a lot of work off your plate, and what do you do? Shoot at me! Really?" She waved her hands in his direction.

"You're a witch!" he yelled, twisting to look for another weapon.

"Yes, I am. I really hope you don't think I made a deal with a demon because one, I'm like seven, and two, I'm not stupid. It's incredibly insulting actually. No, mister, I was born with my magic, which is a thing, mind you. I'm what you'd call a natural born." She finished her rant, stopping with her arms crossed in front of Wright.

"Now, are we going to salt and burn the bones or are you gonna stare at me all night like you desperately need the crapper?" Wright scowled at her. She rolled her eyes and gestured for him to hop out of the grave, and he complied. She broke the coffin open with a silent alohomora, allowing Wright to pour salt and squirt lighter fluid over the bony body. A whispered incendio allowed fire to catch, the decomposing funeral dress turning to ash.

"Alright, good job. I'm going to go check the house, Murphy's Law and all, and you can go back to wherever a hunter like yourself stays when they're not cleaning the world of evil, yadda yadda yadda." Harry waved her hand and the disassembled pieces of "Agent" Wright's gun flew over to him, fixed back together. He aimed it at her and she rolled her eyes. Pursing her lips, Harry held out a hand and let the gun's bullets fall from her grasp.

"Witch!" He yelled, frustratedly frowning.

"Yes, we've already established that. One more time, I suppose." she took in a deep breath and let it out in a loud sigh. "I'm Harry Potter, it's almost nice to meet you. I'm a witch, but I don't deal with demons, meaning I was born with magic. Yes, that's a thing."

"I know what a natural born is," interrupted the man. "I've never seen any of them with your skill though, and something different is never good."

"That's because I am part of a secret society in England, or at least I was born there. I don't really care to live over there, considering their most trusted figure sent me to a hell-hole that I barely survived. Anyway, long story short, born with magic, not evil, don't shoot, thank you." She spun around to stalk off. The man yelled at her back.

"Hey!"

"What?" she shouted, throwing her hands up around her as she turned.

"You said you were hunting a ghost. Are you a hunter?"

"Yes, thought that was obvious," she admitted, muttering the last bit.

"You're too young to be a hunter. You're what, six? A six year old should not be hunting! You're going to get yourself killed, ya idjit."

"I am seven, almost eight," she ground out, pointing a finger at him accusingly, "And I am willing to bet I know more about this than your average hunter. So I'm not old enough to take on real cases, big deal. I spend every day in the library or my house researching the paranormal. Even then, I can do small cases, like this one. Not exactly a lot of effort in burning bones when you've got my talents, is there? I'm old enough to understand the dangers of this life. Heck, I understood before I even knew about the truth of the world. If one more person tells me I'm too young I will personally whack them over the head with my shovel."

"Could you reach their heads?" He asked, seemingly serious. She arched an eyebrow at him and turned back the way she came, stomping out of the graveyard while shoving the useless shovel back in her pocket. She missed the conflicted look of wonder and wariness appearing on Wright's face. She didn't miss the man himself as he fell in step with her, not a large feat as she was about four feet tall while he was almost six.

"What are you doing?" He was starting to grate on her patience.

"Following up a case," he proclaimed proudly. Harry growled obscenities under her breath. Finally she answered as they climbed over the gate.

"Fine. Don't get in my way, Agent Wright."

"Bobby."

"What?"

"My name's Bobby, Bobby Singer."

Bobby Singer had a car, which Harry was only too happy to use. She walked everywhere, seeing as she was seven, and it was quite tiring after a time. She went through shoes faster than anything else, and the relief of motorized passage was a welcome one.

Bobby parked against the curb a couple houses down from the haunted house. They got out of the car quietly, shutting the doors softly. Two pairs of feet crept around the dark walls to the back entrance. Bobby pulled out his lockpick kit and began working at the door, while Harry just climbed the gutter again.

"Kid!" he called out in a harsh whisper. "What are you doing?"

"I'm breaking in, duh," she called back, climbing onto the roof, gripping the gutters laying down, her head sticking out to look down at him. Her dark braid whipped around to hit her face. "Hurry up, Mr. Singer, or you'll miss all the fun. Although I doubt there's anything up here. Darn, I should knock on wood. With my luck it's probably too late," she mumbled, turning to push open the window from her break in hours earlier.

"It's Bobby," he corrected. A click signaled his success in lockpicking. A couple miutes later and they were both inside, looking around the top floor, focusing on areas near the murder site.

"Looks clear," Harry noted. The temperature dropped and a loud bang could be heard as all the exterior doors and windows in the house baged shut. "Darnit."

She grabbed Bobby's arm and steered him into the nearest room, knocking the door shut and pouring salt in a line all around the room, including the window sill.

"How is she still here? We burned her bones, and I'm pretty sure there was nothing she could have latched onto, keeping her here," yelled Bobby. He was holding his pumped shotgun out, salt rounds loaded in the barrel. Harry had a sudden, terrible thought, which she felt the need to whisper aloud.

"Poltergeist."

Something large slammed into the door. It rattled in its frame, the walls were shaking. They didn't have much time. Harry shoved her hand deep into the recesses of her pocket, groping around for something.

"Aha!" she exclaimed triumphantly, drawing from her pocket several bottles of something and squares of cloth. She sat down, grabbing pinches from the jars and dropping various ingredients onto the eight cloth squares laid out on the floor in front of her.

"What the hell are you doing?" yelled Bobby, his head tilted at her while his shotgun remained aimed firmly at the shaking door.

"It's a poltergeist, I'm sure of it. Which means, it can't be killed by normal spirit evicting methods. See, Poltergeists aren't human spirits, they're just attention-seeking spirits, their entire existence revolves around it."

"But then why does the spirit's motive match up with Clara Baxter if it's not a human spirit?"

"For some reason, human spirits can become poltergeists. It's all one paradox in itself, but as Miss Casper is still very much active, it's safe to assume she became one herself. Now, the only way to defeat these poltergeists is a supposed purification ritual. You take these and place them in the North, East, South, and West corners of a tainted house on every floor. Which is what we're going to do when she breaks through that barrier. Now shut up a minute." Bobby sputtered at being told to shut up by a girl at least thirty years younger than him, but was cut off by an impatient shush from Harry.

"Angelica root, Van Van oil, crossroad dirt, I think it's all here," she mumbled, mentally calculating how much time they would have before the salt gave way. The doors gave another great shudder and she burst tio her feet holding eight cloth baggies. Handing four to Bobby, she worked on shoving all her vials and bottles back into her voluminous pockets.

"I've made some modifications. The cloth is soaked in the oil, and the root is completely surrounded by dirt, so it should have a stronger potency. Really, the spell could go wrong if the ingredients are prepared incorrectly, so it's lucky I read about it." She gathered the bundles in her hands, tying them to her belt. Harry turned to face Bobby, still vigilant in his guarding of the door. "You need to get these in the North, East, South, and West corners of the bottom floor. Break a hole in the wall with this," she handed him a seemingly inconspicuous hammer, "and put this overtop of it." Harry set four slips of what appeared to be paper in his hands. Bobby pocketed everything with one hand still on his shotgun. The window to the room burst open and a cold wind rushed into the room. The salt lines broke, and the main door was thrown open. Bobby shot once, causing the little girl to flicker and vanish. He rushed downstairs, reluctant to leave the seven year old closer to the spirit, but he had a job to do.

Bobby ran over to the corner in the kitchen, taking the hammer and smashing the head into the wall. A perfectly round hole was made, and he shoved one of the bags into it, before holding one of the pieces of paper over the damage. A sealing sound startled Bobby,and he looked at the wall to see whit plaster smoothing over the hole in the wall, the only evidence it had ever been there. He allowed himself a small grin, and headed off to find the next corner of the house.

Upstairs, Harry dashed down the hall, throwing open the door to the smaller bathroom. She magicked an opening in the wall, tossing the bag into it, before sealing it once again. She turned around and felt her feet get pulled out from under her. Landing on her bottom, she gave startled yelp as the invisible force held her legs in the air, dragging her down the hall. Flickering into sight was Clara Baxter, a malicious grin on her face. Harry's eyes widened, and she reached for the knife at her waist, hurling it at the apparition when her fingers grasped the cool leather grip. Baxter vanished, an annoyed screech emanating from her previous position, and Harry's legs dropped back to the floor. The witch scrambled to her feet, taking off in the direction of an empty room in the east corner of the top floor. She quickly secured the hex bags in the Eastern and Southern corners, heading back to the master bedroom where the victim's body was found to complete her floor. Bobby met her at the top of the stairs, his cap knocked askew, shotgun held tightly in his hands as he loaded another round.

"Been too quiet," he observed. Harry nodded in agreement, still striding down the hall. She flung open the door, diving for the corner of the room. Her hand clenched as the wall crumbled a bit, revealing an empty hole for her to plunge the bag into. A yell from behind forced her to turn around. Clara had her hand held out and Bobby was pinned to the wall, his shotgun forgotten on the floor. Harry slid on her knees and scooped up the weapon. Pumping once and firing a salt round into her chest, Harry squeaked as the increased knockback of the larger shotgun shoved her off her feet. The specter screamed and disappeared, and Bobby fell to the floor, released from the ghost's grip. Clara reappeared and Harry tossed Bobby the hex bag.

"Finish it!" she yelled. Bobby lunged for the wall, hex bag held out. But Clara reacted too quickly, a spectral hand behind a kitchen knife. It spun in the air as she shoved her hand forward, making a straight path for Bobby. But Harry was quicker.

The cold blade sliced past Harry's skin as the witch shoved her hands outwards and redirected the knife, the blade flying just past her. Grunting against the sharp pain,Harry fell to her knees as Clara advanced. Struggling to slide herself over to the wall, where she slumped agaisnt it, Harry grabbed the iron dagger in her boot, ready to fight against the lunged foreward with murder in her dead eyes, but the damage had been done. The bag was safely inside the wall, locked inside with a weak wave of Harry's hand.

"Et auferes malum de beneficio -" she coughed, wincing as her cut pulled tightly. "Terrae huic!" A terrible screaming filled the room, sending Bobby's blood cold. It was only when he turned to watch a burning Clara Baxter that he saw Harry. Blood covered the side of her left arm and torso.

"Kid!" he yelled, falling to the floor and grabbing her shoulder, trying to shift her somewhat to find the wound. "We gotta get you to a hospital," he murmured, putting one hand behind her back, ready to lift her.

"No," she winced and her hand went to the still-bleeding cut. " It's just a cut, don't worry. Plus, we've got to leave before someone comes to investigate all the screaming and the light show." Her voice was slightly strained as she put weight on her good arm, pushing herself up. "In my bag, there's a bottle called dittany. Grab it for me?" Bobby held out the vial. Harry opened the cork and gave the cut a small splash. The deeper skin seemed to grow back somewhat amid the smoking effect, and the bleeding decreased to a slower oozing.

"Alright, let's blow this popsicle stand." Bobby looked at her like she was crazy, but nodded anyway. Harry grabbed for a bandage in her pocket,hastily wrapping it around her arm while they hustled down the stairs. Bobby was staring at the white linen skeptically, his hand still loosely gripping the Dittany she had shoved back towards him.

Bobby gave her a ride back to the hotel because he was already overprotective of the brat and was still worried about the huge slice mark in her short ride to his motel was painful, to say the least. Not physically, really, but the awkward silence was killing Harry. Plus, he made her ride in the backseat when she had clearly called shotgun.

Bobby helped her out of the car, Harry slapping his hands away because she wasn't crippled by a measly cut. They sat in the room and Bobby examined the wound.

"It needs stitches," announced Bobby, setting the cloth aside. He reached for his hunter first aid kit and whiskey bottle.

"It will heal on its own, you're making too big of a deal out of this." Bobby frowned.

"It's still open, and an infection is not something you wanna get, idgit." Harry pouted. "If you don't want stitches, why don't you just do your whole abracadabra shtick and fix it?"

"For some reason I haven't quite mastered the healing magic. My body will repair itself faster than normal, and I don't get sick as often, but I can't really consciously heal myself yet. I tried to fix a papercut the other day and ended up turning my finger purple."

"Stitches it is then."

"I can do it," Harry jumped in, reaching for the kit Bobby held. He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"And let you look like a Frankenstein reject? Sorry kid, I ain't that cruel."

"Come on Bobby, don't be a sourpuss." Harry grinned.

"No, kid. I'm not letting you operate on yourself." Harry gave a half-hearted glare, but nodded and clenched the towel she sat on. Bobby took out a long curved needle, floss attached and looped around the metal. Harry yelped when Bobby splashed some whiskey on her arm.

"Gimme some warning next time!" She complained. He silenced her with a look, and she grumbled and closed her mouth as he made the first stitch.

While Harry squeezed her nails into the palm of her hand, Bobby was freaking out in his head. Well, as much as Bobby Singer could freak out. First, he almost had a heart attack when she surprised him at the grave site, then he thought he might have had a minor one when the dirt rose out of the grave. With magic.

He had to admit, it was cool. He'd almost blown her brains out, but it was cool. Most hunters heard about natural witches, but they were so rare it was almost like a myth. Well, a real myth. After learning that the seven year old in front of him was indeed a natural-born and a hunter, no less, he'd left with her to go to the house. Just in case. Of course, that's when everything went to shit.

The ritual was smart, and Bobby knew he wouldn't have been able to do anything if he'd been alone. He read the books, but he was also relatively new to hunting and hadn't really come into contact with poltergeists yet. But this seven year old had leapt into his life, then leapt in front of the blade and deflected it, veritably saving his life twice in one night. He didn't know why she took the knife, they only really knew each other's names.

But that wasn't what Bobby was really freaking out about. No, what he didn't understand was the hard look in her eyes. Her bright green eyes were frozen and cold, burning in frigid fury as she stared. He also didn't like how she had such a high pain tolerance. And offering to patch herself up? How was she able to do that? Sewing one's skin together was not only difficult, but damn painful too. Where had she learned those skills, and where had she gotten those scars? Those were his questions. Obviously it wasn't from hunting, she didn't do it often and they were far too numerous. And the way she just sat there with her hands and jaw held tight, eyes burning a hole into the wall behind him. She didn't make a sound other than the occasional grunt or smartmout remark. Bobby would yelp when he had to fix his wounds. Something was off about this child.

Bobby finished the stitches and tied them off. He busied himself with cleaning up; washing the equipment, fixing it back into the kit. Finally, he came to sit on the end of the bed, looking at Harry with a concentrated frown on his face.

"If you're going to question me, get on with it. I'm tired," burst Harry, her eyes heavy. Bobby furrowed his brow, and sat up a little straighter.

"Alright, kid, first things first: Why did you jump in front of me?" It was the question he really wanted answered. Harry sighed, looking up and blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face. Rolling her head back so her eyes met Bobby's she nodded.

"Right, well, simple really. Judging by the angle of the blade that the ghost was going to stab you, she was aiming to rupture one of the vital organs in your chest or stomach. I wasn't really in danger, my magic will help heal me faster than you, and anyways, and I didn't even get stabbed."

"No, you were almost filleted!" barked Bobby.

"Well, what was I supposed to do. I couldn't leave someone so defenseless." She smirked. "Your poor muggle self would have been severely injured if I had not extended my gracious sympathy and generous assistance."

Bobby looked at her dumbly. "How do you know all this medical jargon?"

"Well, living on your own becomes rather boring after a while, and the public library has an amazing assortment of books. Plus, I basically educate myself out of textbooks from the library, and I've already gone through a lot of the basic math and science books."

Bobby shook his head. A prodigy hunter with a saving people problem who also happened to be a non-evil witch. What a day. He morphed his features into something more serious.

"So you live on your own? That's not a good idea." Harry scowled at him.

"I get to decide when I wake up, and where I eat, and what I do with my time. I don't laze around, I read. And I train, and I research, and I take care of myself more than anyone else ever has. So, I think it's pretty okay."

Oh. Bobby cursed himself, he should've noticed the signs, seeing as he'd also been abused as a child. And Harry Potter had most definitely been abused. He knew from his own experience that she would be stubborn at this point. But Bobby was also stubborn, and just a teeny bit reckless.

"Still, you're just a kid."

" A kid who just saved your life. Are you going to turn me in, Bobby?" Harry met his eyes with a challenging expression.

"No." he sighed. "Kid, I know what you're doing is fun for you, but there will come a day when you're gonna need some help. Whether it be supernatural or normal, you can stop by my place. Here." He reached into his wallet and pulled out his F.B.I. card.

"Call that and I'll pick up." Harry reached out and grabbed the card.

"Thanks. You should probably get going, before the cops show up tomorrow. If you could just give me a ride home?"

"Sure kid."

"It's Harry."

"Okay, Harry."

Bobby helped her into the car again, but this time she was able to walk a little. They drove past the house she was squatting in, where she picked up her things, then back to the little town with the tree she called home. Waving goodbye to Bobby, Harry limped over to her tree, where she cast a gentle ascendo on herself, allowing her to float into the blanket nest. Throwing her bag off to the side, Harry keeled over in her bed, closing her eyes and letting the comforting darkness consume her.

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Bobby flew down the road in his car, speeding back to Sioux Falls. He didn't like leaving Harry there, but she was stubborn, and calling in a tip would only result in putting her in the system, or having her returned to whoever gave her those scars. Discontented grumbling filled the car as he rode down the bumpy asphalt, tapping his fingers on the wheel in beat to the song blaring from the radio.

"We don't need no education.

We don't need no thought control.

No dark sarcasm in the classroom.

Teacher, leave them kids alone."

A/N So it occurred to me that it seems like I'm morphing some of Harry's character to resemble Hermione. I just wanted to put a note here that explains that yes, Harry does go to books instead of people in the earlier chapters, but I'd like to point out that Hermione probably decided books were better than people at some point when the school bullies got to be too much for her. Harry went through similar trauma, and her turning to boks instead of trusting people could be considered in character for her in this situation. There's also the point Bobby makes where she's a "prodigy". I figured the Harry in the canon books could have been very clever and booksmart, but the Dursleys discouraged good grades from him, so the behavior of actively holding himself back stretched into his later years at Hogwarts. In this story, the Dursleys aren't there long enough for Harry to develop the behavior.

Also apparently I had a thing for songs at the end of chapters. I don't know if the pattern continues, I have to check the other chapters, but anyway.

(Guest?) sam: I have some ideas about ships for later, but I'm not definitively deciding on anything at the moment. I can tell you it probably won't be Dean, but it's not a sure thing so.

Sorry for the long note.