Updates for this story will be on and off as inspiration comes, unfortunately for you guys. I've been wanting to do an eavesdropping piece with the brothers; they always seem to be talking about things most would classify as mad, in broad daylight. And of course, Harry Potter makes everything better, so it's another crossover!

Most of these chapters will take place in between episodes. Chapter one occurs in season three, and take's place in January, between Malleus maleficarum (3.09) and Dream a little Dream of Me (3.10). Four months- approximately- before Dean dies on May 2nd.

Chapter One: Try Burning Them.

Augusta, Maine

"I've found it."

The man's voice is young- hushed- but laced with a familiar enthusiasm that brings her back to her time at Hogwarts. It's this tone, more than anything that has her choosing to listen in on the booth behind her.

And besides, her half-pint of whatever they tried to pass off as stout could only go so far in the entertainment department. She makes a point not to turn around and takes a sip of the bitter drink. It's certainly not the best, but America had so far failed to impress her on the beer scale anyway.

"Did you call Bobby?" replies a second voice- also male. It's markedly deeper, with a southern drawl of the sort likely used to having panties drop at the lightest of rumbles. She rolls her eyes.

"I was going to, but then I stumbled across this; look." There's the sound of something hard scraping across the table. She takes another deliberate sip of her beer, curious as to what it is these two men have found. A home? A job? That would be nice; there were too many unemployed young people in America at the mo- "It's called a Redcap."

That… was an interesting topic of conversation to hear in an establishment of this calibre.

"Huh," remarks Panty-Dropper. There's a moment of silence between them, "…I've no idea what that is." He doesn't sound ashamed of the fact.

"It's from Celtic mythology. There's a few variation's going around, but the by and large of it insists that they're creatures that live in the ruins of castles and lure you in. They bludgeon you to death and soak their hats in their victim's blood. They have to continuously kill 'cause if the blood dries, they die."

A length pause. She imagines his companion is frowning. Lord knows she is. She remembers Redcaps from her time at Hogwarts; nasty little shits who were far too fast for their own good. But also largely classified as fictitious by Muggles.

"Right," says Panty-Dropper eventually. She hears a beer bottle settle on the table, "There's just one problem with that theory Sammy; we don't have castles."

Sammy (lengthened from Sam, she'd imagine) huffs, "Well yeah. According to most of the legends they're native to Britain anyway. Plenty of castles and the like there."

Were they… talking in euphemisms?

"So what's one doing here? It's about as far as you can get from ye old London-town." She grimaces at the crude generalisation of Great Britain. Typical Americans. No wonder that family living down the road from them had driven her parents up the wall.

She ruthlessly shoves down a pang of loss at the thought. It was no time to wallow in self-pity when in the presence of alcohol. She'd just end up waking in some stranger's bed, with some vague recollection that the guy snoring next to her was maybe called Todd.

"I don't know, Dean. Maybe someone summoned it, or smuggled it over here somehow."

Okay. So maybe the two were talking seriously about the existence of Redcaps. Weird. They should be more careful with where they speak, she muses in amusement. Anyone else would think them mad, to listen in on their conversation so out of context. She frowns into her dwindling beer as she ponders on what context they are speaking in exactly.

A bottle is put back on the table again, "Are you sure it's a Redcap? There's no mention of them anywhere in Dad's journal."

"Look, we knew this wasn't just your run-of-the-mill spirit. There's no pattern, no clear motive and we salt and burned the first known case. And I don't think it's just some random demon, beating people up for the kicks."

"Plus- I did a little more research- there's a whole string of continued murders like these all up the coast. Each of them in some abandoned warehouse. There's some lore that says they're nomadic."

"Right, so we've got a wandering…" A pause as she imagines Dean gesturing at something, "… Thing on our hands?"

She raises an eyebrow in concern. Their conversation was rapidly growing more and more extreme by the minute. In all her four years of travelling, she'd never once found any evidence of the mystic or the magical, and now there were two young men in serious discussion about spirits and demons and redcaps. For a moment she dwells upon the possibility of a shared hallucination- that town with the mass hysteria for Tourette's comes to mind- but to be honest, they didn't really sound like the mentally unstable sort.

"So how do we kill it?" Silence from Sammy. She's imagining fussily pursed lips on the unknown man's face and she takes a swig of beer to mask her amusement.

"I don't know. There's no lore that I could find."

Panty-Dropper sighs heavily. She takes a deeper drink, grimacing at the sediment at the bottom. There was obviously some serious crap going on here, and hell be damned if she said she wasn't interested.

"Okay, so is there any way to fight them?"

"…"

"Dammit Sam! Anything- anything at all?"

"Uhh- most accounts pin them down as fast- like, real fast. No one can outrun them once they've got your scent." Sam snorts, which is exactly what she's trying to stop herself from doing. Muggles; honestly, "Fun fact- they look like old men with steel-cap boots."

"Great. So we've got some inhumanly fast gramps on our hands and no way of ganking them."

"Yep." Sam pops the p at the end of his sentence.

"Ugh. Remind me again; why are we here?"

Sam's voice darkens. She's guessing this is a sensitive topic. "Because you want to keep on hunting, instead of looking for a way to get you out."

"Sammy, just… let it go."

"Why Dean? You've got four months left! And what, you're just not even going to try?"

"I said drop it Sam." The words are hissed and laced with… not quite venom. Maybe something closer to frustration.

"No! I'm not gonna drop it. Dad died for you! And you're just gonna throw it all away?"

A bottle slams onto the table. "You know what? Yeah, I am!"

"Why?" Sam sounds pained. She's guessing the two are brothers.

"You know damn well why! I should be dead already Sam. I should have been dead for months now. Dad should never have made that deal in the first place!"

That sounds suspiciously like a deal one makes with the mafia.

Sam huffs through his nose but has nothing to say to that. An elongated and tense silence follows.

Hermione Granger sighs, sliding her mostly empty glass away from her. That was enough angsty testosterone-fuelled arguing for one night. She flicks up the hood of her jacket, arranging her curls about the sides to obscure her face from view. She didn't know who these men were (well, apart from their first names), but something told her she doesn't want them on her trail.

In one casual movement she slides out of her booth, sending the barman a dignified nod before turning about face and leaving the bar.

As she does, she lets her eyes slide over Sam and Dean. They're young enough- Sam- the huge one who'd had his back turned to her- looks about her age, with floppy brown hair and eyes that remind her of a golden retriever. Dean's obviously older, with close cropped hair and a tattered old leather jacket that she's half tempted to steal off him. In the dim lighting of the bar, it's hard to tell their eye colour; probably somewhere between hazel and not-quite blue, she guesses.

Shit, but they're both good looking.

Against her better judgement, she makes sure to brush past their booth nice and close; close enough to oh so conveniently drop a piece of paper on their table as she saunters past.

She doesn't try to hide the smirk once the door swings shut behind her.

Sam and Dean Winchester look after the woman with identical looks of bewilderment. With tentative hands, Dean opens the little folded piece of paper she'd left behind.

Try burning the Bastard. Says the note in an elegant hand.

"Well fuck." Says Dean.

Sam's already halfway out the door.

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