A/N: I really shouldn't be doing this, since I highly doubt I'll manage any more than three chapters, but I wrote this because I was curious about how Harry might handle the situation of meeting the Winchesters without being able to hide behind the fact that he wasn't a demon-dealing witch.

All Supernatural info comes from the wikia and other fanfiction. I own neither Harry Potter nor the Winchesters.

Not Beta'ed. Also no slash.

Chapter One

First Meetings

Dean finally looks down at his freshly battered car, swallowing hard. Sammy made it sound so easy, confessing his issues dealing with Dad's death. He knew he was having issues too.

But he and Sammy were different. Sammy was upset because he wasn't close with Dad and he regretted it; the arguments, the misunderstandings, the miscommunications, the lost time. Dean was upset because he was closest with his father, understood him best, and because he knew, no matter how he didn't want to acknowledge it, that the reason Dad died was to save him.

"What do they call this?" Dean thought aloud clinically to himself, caressing a dent he put on the Impala himself just moments before in a fit of rage. "Survivor's guilt?"

"Man, you sure did a number to her."

Dean turned around at the unfamiliar voice with a light British accent, drawing his pistol in a flash and aimed it at the young man he found behind him.

He was short, with messy black hair and green eyes wandering over the damage Dean dealt to his surroundings. What caught Dean's attention though was the blood on the man's hands and a small cloth bag clutched in his right.

Dean cocked his gun and lined it to the man's heart. "What's that in your hand?"

The man glanced down. "What, this thing? I think it's a, er, what did she call it, a hex bag? Yeah, I may be a witch, but Merlin if I understand this stu – "

BANGBANGBANG

The man's, no, the witch's expression was almost comical when he realized Dean just shot a series of rock-salt rounds into his chest. Dean watched with cold eyes as the wounds began to bleed. It would've been more effective to use an actual bullet since witches were human, but his pistol was loaded with salt, and from such close quarters the salt rounds were fully capable of dealing a fatal wound.

Dean didn't know which victim bled on that witch's hands, or what plans the witch had for the hex bag, but his dad trained him to kill the supernatural, and that's what he was going to do.

"Bloody hell," croaked the witch, pushing himself off the car he collapsed against when shot, stumbling a few steps. "Guess I deserved that." Limbs jerking, a hand came up to his shoulder, fumbled a few times, then grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt and pulled it over his head. With a loud crack, the only evidence of his visit left was bloodstains.

Dean stood there, hand raised, finger still at the ready to pull the trigger once more. He didn't know all the powers of witches, but teleportation without chants or rituals or symbols was one he was pretty sure they didn't have.

Eventually, he gave the issue up and returned to his Impala, blanking his mind with the tedious job of popping out the dents.

"I wish we never took this job, just… jacked everything up."

Sam looked quizzically at this strange statement from his brother with no little worry.

"What do you mean?"

Dean paused, looking down to the side, trying to word his thoughts, his new anxiety, before peering at his brother over the roof of the car.

"Think about all the hunts we went on, Sammy, our whole lives."

"Okay," Sam replied, clearly unsure what point his brother was trying to make and doing his best to humor him.

"What if we killed things that didn't deserve killing? You know? I mean, the way Dad raised us…"

"Dean, after what happened to Mom," Sam started. The uncertainty was clear on his brother's face; the shock of seeing the so-called "shades of gray" had shaken his world, that world of black and white Dad took great pains to build. He couldn't condemn Dean, or his dad, for what they chose to do, for being who they were. "Dad did the best he could."

"I know he did."

Dean knew, probably better than anyone, the pain his dad went through and the sacrifices his dad made when raising his two sons, and because he knew, he thought the world of the man. But.

"But the man wasn't perfect. And the way he raised us, to hate those things; and man, I hate 'em. I do. When I killed that vampire in the mill I didn't even think about it; hell I even enjoyed it."

Sam nodded absently at this confession. It was an expected state of mind. It's easier to kill when you hate, after all. But that's not what Dean needed to hear right now.

"You didn't kill Lenore."

"No, but every instinct told me to. I was gonna kill her. I was gonna kill 'em all."

"Yeah Dean, but you didn't," Sam said with quiet confidence, "and that's what matters."

"Yeah," Dean whispered, looking everywhere but at Sam. "Well, 'cause you're a pain in my ass."

Sam let out a breath of laughter through his nose. "Guess I might have to stick around and be a pain in the ass then." He opened the door, indicating that the conversation was over.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Brill! Mind being that pain in the ass right this moment and tell him not to kill me again, Sam?"

The brothers jumped at the voice with the light British accent, turning in unison to face a young man with ruffled black hair and dancing green eyes lounging on the trunk of the car.

Dean, his instincts screaming, drew his pistol and aimed.

"Whoa there, Dean!" Sam called out, reaching an arm over the car roof to place a steady hand on his brother's raised arm.

Dean made no motion of acknowledgement, but he didn't shoot at least.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead, Witch?"

The man only grinned wider.

"Doesn't seem like it, huh? And please don't shoot me again. Last time was during a new moon, so it was quite useful to me. Today, not so much, though I still won't die."

Dean snarled at the vague words. "Are you telling me you aren't human or what?"

"Oh, I'm human," the man reassured, "just a demon-dealing witch with a handy way of staying alive regardless of fatal wounds and sickness. And really, put the gun down, it's making me nervous."

Sam's eyes were darting between the two, trying to comprehend the situation. So far, all he knew was that Dean met the guy before, believes him to be a witch, and may or may not have killed him once already.

"Would someone mind clarifying things a bit?"

Dean ignored him in favor of asking the witch another question.

"Why should I? You admitted it yourself, right demon-dealer? I ought to send your soul straight to hell, you fucking bastard. And if you can't die, why does it make you nervous?"

"Cause it bloody well hurts, of course!"

Sam's eye twitched.

"Enough! Dean, put that gun down and you," he pointed at the man he still didn't know the name of, "put your hands in the air where we can see them so we can have a civil conversation."

Grumbling, the two did as they were told, though Dean chose not to put the gun away and held it ready but lowered.

"First things first," Sam announced, satisfied by the obedience displayed. "Introduce yourself."

The witch gave a cheeky smile and waved one of his raised hands. "It's nice to meet you both again Sam, Dean. I'm a witch; name's Harry Potter."

Dean's hand clenched tight but at this point, Sam had walked around the front of the car to stand next to his brother and put a hand on his arm to keep it down.

"How do you know our names, and what do you mean again?"

"Man, just 'cause your dad worked solo and taught you guys to as well doesn't mean the other hunters don't gossip. Viciously efficient, rumor mills are," Harry stated, wrinkling his nose. "Winchester is a known name in most circles now, but you should know all this from Gordon, yeah?"

"Alright then," Sam accepted, and then continued on, choosing to ignore the reference to Gordon for his and his brother's sanity. "And by meeting us again?"

Harry pouted. "You don't remember me, Sam? I'm hurt. Dean knows me and I've only met him once for a few minutes. 'Course, he was trying to kill me, so that might be why."

Sam eyed the witch contemplatively. It was true that the body structure and accent seemed familiar, but, well, that was to be expected since they seem about the same age, and Sam knew a lot of body structures and accents after Stanford. Actually, there was one short British student two years ahead of him in college, but the hair and eyes.

Sam's eyes came back to the face and widened when black hair and green eyes melted away into blonde hair and blue eyes.

"Stephen?"

"Sam!" the witch chirped.

"You, you're, what do you mean when you're a witch?"

"Just what it sounds like," he replied with a shrug. "I did something stupid."

"Stupid? Stupid!" Dean exclaimed. "You call selling your soul to a demon stupid? How about evil? I should kill you right here!"

"Please don't," Harry frowned, "not dying is bloody painful."

Sam cut in again between the two. Honestly, they were worse than him and Da –

"Explain why we shouldn't in good conscience put you down right now to prevent you from using your magic to kill people."

"Er, 'cause I'm a hunter too? You know, Sam, you never used to be so assertive in college and I always did think that would end up being a problem when you became a lawyer. 'Course, it's an even bigger problem as a hunter, yeah? Merlin knows I'm glad I got pretty good at faking it, and usually I take on jobs where socializing isn't a big deal so that helps loads." The rambling seemed to have no end when finally he was cut off with a furious snarl.

"Don't fuck with me!"

"Dean!" Sam glared at Stephen, no, the hair and eyes were back to black and green so should he call him Harry? "Are you purposely trying to rile us up?"

"Yes? I mean, er, no?" Harry smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, it's been awhile since I talked to anyone. How do I explain? Well, I'm a witch who sold his soul to a demon in exchange for magic. In my particular case, I renew the contract every new moon with an offering of pain and blood. As a result, there is no time limit for me and as long as I stay alive, the monthly fee is all I have to worry about. During the time in between, I do some jobs related to the hunting business – usually by trying to convince ghosts that they should move on and burning their attachments if that doesn't work. I don't harm the civilians, I swear."

"Your immortality?" Sam prompted.

"Special artifact of mine," Harry explained, "hides me from the reapers long enough for my magic to heal any damage that might otherwise be fatal."

"And your ritual?" Dean snarled. "That offering of blood and pain? Just who are using each month as payment?"

"Well, if I'm lucky, I'll have just finished a hunt for something physical, like a shapeshifter, that I can use. It's so unfortunate that I can't use rogue werewolves since I catch all those on full moons, not new. Otherwise, the offering is usually me. It's amazing how much pain and blood one can offer when immune to death."

Sam winced. The tone of voice clashed horribly with the words being spoken, and it didn't help that part of him was still reeling at the idea that this was a former upperclassman of his.

"So," Dean started, having reached some kind of conclusion, "when you said me killing you was useful?"

"Yeah, I just popped myself into the ritual circle for an hour to bleed, and voila, contract renewed."

There was an awkward silence as the brothers just stood there and stared. After all, what do say in reply to something like that?

Eventually, Sam asked one last question.

"Why are you here?"

"Well, I follow a lot of hunters around, actually, to clean up loose ends that humans can't do much about. I watched Peter off to the next world, attended Dean's funeral – it wasn't much really, lifted that bug curse in Oklahoma and let the Pikes know – they don't completely believe it's safe though, convinced Kate she'd be better off underground from now on; stuff like that. As to why I'm actually talking to you guys," Harry shrugged.

"The first time was 'cause I was bored. I actually wanted to say hi to you, Sam, see if you still remembered me and stuff, but, well, the timing was pretty bad I guess. This time, I just felt like I should point out that you really don't have to worry too much about killing things in the past that didn't need killing. I mean, it's not like any of you hunted anything until its murderous deeds were already in the papers."

And with a crack, Harry vanished.

Dean looked at Sam, who looked back bewilderedly.

"Does this mean," Dean asked, "we've got a stalker?"

"Cheh," Sam snorted, circling back to the passenger side of the car. "An immortal demon-dealing witch claiming to be a former college-mate of mine has been following us and a bunch of other hunters without detection for months and the first thing you think is sexual predator. Let's go already. We can ask Bobby or Ash about witches who hunt when we tell someone to untie Gordon."

Sam stood quietly beside the car, refilling the gas tank. When Dean came out of the gas station convenience store with food and water, they nodded at each other and entered the car.

Driving was silent. Ever since Dean finally came out and admitted his guilt in causing Dad's death he didn't play any music, and neither talked. Rather, they both sat in silence, taking comfort in each other's presence.

"Man, this is some angst moment."

With a screech, Dean slammed on the brakes and Sam turned to look at the back seat. Sure enough, there was Harry the witch, sitting in their car with that cheeky grin and bird's nest of black hair.

"Been a few months, yeah?"

"How the hell did you get in here?" Dean demanded.

"Popped in while you guys were taking petrol break. Don't make too much of it, alright? It's not that big an issue."

"I think witches being able to teleport into my car is a damn big problem!"

"Pfft, really. I'm probably the only witch that can so that, and the other people who know how don't give a damn about either of you. Now keep driving, you're blocking the exit and I think the people behind us bought gas so they could go places with it, not sit and burn it on air conditioning."

"Other people?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Huh, well, since you are supernatural hunters, it shouldn't be breaking the Statute of Secrecy to tell you what I mean."

Harry drew a hand through his hair before flopping down to lie horizontally across the backseat.

"Let's see. You guys know about witches that make deals with demons in exchange for magic, usually to give up their soul when they die or just after a certain number of years, right? And to use that magic, they've got chants, and rituals, and symbols, and hex bags, and stuff. But some people are born with magic, and all they need to use it are powerful emotions or a focus like a wand and some magic words. For those people, the women are witches and the men are wizards. This popping thing I do? It's from the second group, and they live in their own community, in the Wizarding World, and it's doubtful any of them know you exist, let alone care to pop into your car or home."

Dean narrowed his eyes. People who had the power of magic without forming a contract with a demon? That's something he had never heard before and he certainly wasn't going to just swallow the idea.

"Say we believe you," Sam spoke up, "that there is some foreign wizarding place of magic people who don't worship demons. Why can you do what they can when you're a witch of the variety that Dean and I hunt?"

"Simple enough," Harry replied, but he kept his eyes on his hands rather than make eye-contact. "I used to be a wizard in that world."

A/N: I just might write one more chapter where Harry explains why he's a male witch instead of a wizard, but after that, this story will be up for grabs from anyone who likes it. Just let me know so I can read it, 'kay?