(A/N This is unbeta-ed and I wrote this a very long time ago, so don't expect anything worthy of an award. I already hate myself for posting this but I don't back down from a dare so... Also I've heard some horror stories about this website so please just don't be that guy who copies someone else's work. Just leave me and my writing be. Anyway, here you go.)

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 no money off of this story. Don't sue me.

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Chapter One: Genesis

The dirt was cold and moist in Harry's desperate grip. They had left her. Her only family. She snorted at that, or tried to. The Dursleys were not her family. They were the people who locked her in a dank, dark, frigid cupboard under the stairs, people who starved her and beat her and ridiculed her and hated her and they were the people who had left her in the middle of the woods in the cold, alone. She shivered again, curling into a ball on the ground to conserve her heat. "Happy Birthday", Aunt Petunia had said. "Special gift, vacation". The dysfunctional family had loaded into Uncle Vernon's shiny company car, rode out to the countryside, and hiked through the woods. She should have known something was wrong, the Dursleys didn't hike, and they didn't act cheerful about hiking either, so the vicious grin on Dudley's fat face should have unnerved her more. That and there was no supplies. They hadn't brought anything, just torches. They had led her into a small clearing when it started.

Vernon had shoved her into the ground, kicking her over when she instinctively curled into a ball. Dudley aimed a heavy kick to her stomach. Gasping for precious air, her spotty red-and-black vision became further obscured by dirt as her face collided with the ground, courtesies of her Aunt. Chubby hands fell down through the air to land blows on her malnourished frame. Aunt Petunia had grabbed her ponytail, dragging her a couple steps through the dirt, ending with a sharp yank and a slap as she crouched down to look Harry in the eye. Blood streamed down the young girl's face, originating from a cut above her eyebrow. Sniffles punctured the tense silence.

"We should never have allowed that old fool to drop you with us, and we will not allow you to taint our household with your abnormalness any more. I hope you die here. Freak." The last words were spit from her mouth like some disgusting disease. Aunt Petunia straightened up, and stalked away with Vernon and Dudley in tow, laughing. Harry curled tight, squeezing her eyes closed into the ground as she tried to move her aching limbs. She could not cry. Crying is for weak, pathetic freaks like her, according to her uncle. Harry didn't want to be a freak anymore. She could not cry.

She cried.

Harry figured she might have broken her arm, and there were sharp pains panging shattered beats through her bruising chest.

She didn't know how much time had passed. It could have been a minute. Or an hour. Or a day, or a month, or a second, or no time at all. The only thing Harry could register was the cold air biting at her exposed features, barely protected by the baggy hand-me-downs of Dudley's that were too loose on her gaunt figure. The thin rags were drawn tight around her body now, used as a blanket to drive away the incessant chill of the forest air.

Harry sniffled into the dirt, her glasses cracked and pressed into the bridge of her nose. A sudden rustle to the left drew her attention. Harry tried to sit up, wincing at the pain blossoming from her middle. "He-Hello?" she called out, wiping her dripping nose with the back of her hand. Something rushed by the bush to her left, something impossibly fast. Registering only as a silhouette, a dark shape flew past the weakened girl. She whimpered, drawing her knees to her chest as she cradled her injured arm. The creature flashed past her again. The shadows thickened, clinging to her prone body, the darkness solidifying.

Something grabbed her ankle tight, and she yelped as she was suddenly being pulled from her position on the ground over the shoulder of a figure. It sped through the woods so fast the trees were little more than green and brown blurs. The jostling of the journey agitated her injuries, and she was soon crying out in pain as well as for help. Moonbeams fought through the dense branches, casting silver puddles on the ground, illuminating the creature darting past. All of a sudden they stopped, and Harry found herself in a shack, hidden away in the dark woods. Thick, coiled ropes looped over the rafters, the ends tied and bloodied. Harry twisted, desperate to escape as the monster tied her wrists in one of the ropes. The course material cut into her wrists. She hung a couple inches off the ground, barely brushing it with the tips of her toes. The creature stopped in the corner, and she was just able to see its profile in the scant moonlight filtering through the broken roof. It was horrifying. Bald, withered looking, and dark. Rough skin patches stretched over its chest, which was hollow and depressed enough to see the spaces between its ribs. Its stomach touches its spine, making it appear as a skeleton with one layer of black, translucent skin clinging to malnourished bones. Its haunted eyes locked onto hers, devoid of any emotion except hunger.

She screamed, screamed until her throat was raw with the unheard cries of fear and despair. Her broken arm was long forgotten with the rush of adrenaline pumping through her veins as she tried to wriggle free, using her fight or flight response. Harry's breathing turned ragged, heavy breaths sucked in and shoved forcefully out. The creature approached her. Harry stretched her toes, frantically attempting to touch the floor. Her body flailed about, swinging desperately, afraid as she tried to scoot back. The monster stood next to her, grabbing her bound arms and steadying her. Harry's eyes widened dramatically when it opened its mouth to reveal rotting, blackened, fangs inches away from her arm. It bit her, and she yelled in pain, kicking out sharply at the monster next to her. She hit solid matter, and the monster opened its mouth, growling. Clear pockmarks belonging to teeth disrupted the smooth skin that had been there moments earlier. The wound in her shoulder began to bleed, and Harry panicked. She was scared, and cold, and wished for the monster to get away, to die.

A burst of warmth and light gathered at her fingertips, burning the rope. It launched itself at the monster. Fire engulfed the dark figure, and anguished howls emanated from the creature. Harry stared in shock as it fell to the floor, dead, fueling the flame that washed over her chilled bones in warm relief. She was okay, she was safe.

Rustling outside caught her attention, and her heart jumped in her throat. Another monster? She wished, more than anything, to be gone, to be far away from the dinky cabin in the woods where a dark monster burned bright on the bloody floor. With a pop, she found herself standing in the middle of a park, blood sticking to her clothes, hands tied in front of her.

Harry turned, shocked. The air seemed calmer, settled. The night sky above her sat blank and unthreatening, the monochromatic shade of midnight spotted by swirling portals of light and a thick crescent moon. The grass stretched out for a while, before it gave way to pavement, then asphalt and shop windows that held brightly lit displays, calling out to Harry saying, "Come get me! Shiny! Pretty!"

She looked around and saw a grove of trees near the back of the park, before a path cut through them and led to a forest of gigantic green trees. The air was warm and heavy, weighing on Harry. She suddenly became aware of how very tired she was. Harry heads to the little grove of trees with big branches and comfy nooks. Sitting down at the base of one of the oaks, she turned her attention to her arm.

The gash had stopped bleeding so much, only the occasional trickle leaked out of the drying blood. Teeth marks ripped through her skinny arm, and Harry could tell she would have a scar. She ripped off a bit of her overly large shirt, using the clean side to wrap her arm after washing it in a conveniently placed public fountain. Checking her other injuries, Harry found that they registered only as dull pains now, rather than the overwhelming and heated stabbing rhythm they had been earlier. She glanced up at the trees, and nodded once to herself. Climbing the largest one carefully, not putting too much strain on the injured arm, Harry reached a couple of close together limbs about fifteen feet up. They were perfectly placed to act as a nest for her, and she curled up against the trunk, supported by the branches.

Her thoughts turned to the monster, undoubtedly still burning on the grubby floor of the decrepit shack back wherever she had been. She had killed it. She had killed it. Using some kind of power, some kind of magic! Harry thought about its hungry look, the firey pain of teeth sinking into her tender flesh. Then she snuffed it out with a fireball cast from her hand. She had come into contact with a monster, a real monster.

Well, one that people didn't usually believe in. Harry knew all about monsters. She lived with some.

But still, she had killed an honest-to-God flesh eating thing that came straight out of the dark. And the feeling, watching the...thing strut forward, knowing you can't do anything to stop it. She didn't want to feel like that again. Helpless. Broken. She wouldn't.

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The next day, Harry was standing in an alleyway not far from where she had slept, rifling through a dumpster behind a clothing store. She found a couple shirts and shorts, and a skirt, that weren't too damaged or stained. Slipping on a green sweater with a hole in it near the bottom, and a dark gray skirt missing the buttons on the inside to tighten it. Harry walked to a library near the row of storefronts, entering quietly. Keeping her head down as she perused the shelves, Harry realised she didn't really know what she was looking for. Harry stepped over to a computer at a desk, searching the media catalogue for key words or phrases. She tried "starving monster" and "dark hungry monster", and didn't find anything. When she searched "starving cannibal monster" she came up with a couple results. Harry crossed the library, stopping in front of the lore and folk tale books. She picked up one that told the story of the Wendigo. It was described exactly as the monster had looked, not to mention the pesky little tendency to eat people while they were still alive. She read a couple more sections of various books and journals, before she got a good idea of what the monster was, and how it could be stopped. It was extremely lucky that Harry had conjured fire, as that was one of its only weaknesses.

Harry flipped through a couple more of the texts, and found descriptions of several different supposed "mythological" creatures, and came to the conclusion that if the Wendigo existed, it was perfectly logical that others could as well.

Harry spent the rest of the day looking through various books, reading about supernatural creatures and beings. Most of them tended to lean to the "violent" side of the scale. Thinking back to the Wendigo incident, Harry wondered how many of the monsters in the books were real, and how many of them populated the world. People must know about them, somehow, it's not like someone was following the monsters around for the sole purpose of erasing memories. Or maybe they were. Some people must be out there, killing or locking away the monsters that roam the earth.

Harry was not angry. She wasn't scared. If anything, she believed the Wendigo had been partly if not mostly beneficial. She was no longer left alone and freezing in the middle of the woods. The Dursleys were not around to hurt her or force her to do their chores. And she had discovered that she possessed some modicum of power, magic, whatever it was. In fact, last night had been incredibly helpful. Of course, she was glad she had killed the Wendigo. According to some of the lore books she had read, it would have kidnapped more people, always feeding until it went back into hibernation, just to restart the cycle some twenty years later.

Maybe she could grow up to hunt these monsters. They caused pain and suffering, and Harry had had her fair share of that. She didn't wish for anyone to go through pain as she had, and if she could make the world a brighter place, she would be happy. Plus, it would be pretty cool to hunt monsters for a living. Harry nodded, her black curls bouncing, as she so carelessly decided her future.

After spending the day in the library researching, Harry felt a rumble in her stomach. She was no stranger to hunger, but she hadn't eaten for a couple days. Add that to her exhaustion from the Wendigo fight and blood loss, and she was almost dead on her feet. She knew that she couldn't buy any food, and she would rather starve than get caught by Child Services and sent back to the Dursleys. So she decided to be sneaky. People who wanted to hunt monsters had to be sneaky.

She walked into an old fashioned diner at nine pm, a couple minutes after the library had closed. A waitress was wiping down the counter at the back of the room, and there weren't any other people in the restaurant. Harry took a moment to pull her face into a frown, letting tears flow from her eyes.

"Mi-Miss? I can't find my Mummy, I think I lost her, and I'm hungry and tired and I can't find her and-" Harry blubbered on, making sure to keep the tears streaming down her face, her body hunched in a defeated manner. The waitress swished around the counter, coming to a stop in front of Harry. She crouched down to eye level with the child, reaching her hands out tentatively.

"It's alright, sweetie, what's your name? I'm sure I can help you. In the meantime, why don't we get you some dinner, hmm? You're all skin and bones!" She smiled reassuringly at Harry, who merely lifted her ducked chin, nodding a little as she let loose another whimper. She was pretty good at this acting thing. Although, she wasn't incredibly surprised. Surviving the Dursley's meant good acting skills.

The waitress led her to a seat in front of the counter, leaving to grab some food from the back where the cook still had some meals out. She returned quickly with a plate of pancakes and orange juice. Harry gave her a wet smile, thanking her. She ate as the waitress asked questions about her family, which Harry improved the answers to. Just as she was finishing the second pancake, she spotted a black haired woman walking outside. Figuring this was too good of an opportunity, she turned back to the waitress with a smile beaming on her youthful face.

"I see my mum! Thank you so much for the meal and everything! Bye!" She hopped out of the seat, running out the door and followed the lady with the black hair until the diner was out of sight. Feeling secure in that the waitress was no longer watching her, Harry headed back to the copse of trees in which she had spent the previous night.

As she neared the area, there was the sound of water streaming over rocks. Harry followed the trickling noise, and found a small creek. She smiled, and turned to her bandaged shoulder. It was still wrapped in the strip of shirt cloth, now dark red from the blossoming blood. She carefully undid the binding, hissing when it got stuck on dried blood. Harry worked it loose as she held her arm in the water. It was cold and fast, a good sign of clean water. Harry pulled the bandage loose, checking out her injured arm. The teeth marks were scabbed over, or at least mostly covered. She couldn't see any obvious signs of infection. Harry crouched and washed her arm in the stream, then washing the bandage and wringing it out until it was reasonably dry. She wrapped it back around the gash, pulling the clean fabric tight against the depressed skin.

Harry settled into her tree groove. The air was warm, warm enough to feel like a blanket of air against Harry's cooling skin. She stretched her arms out behind her head, staring up through the foliage at the starry sky. She fell asleep searching for the Little Dipper.

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Over the next two weeks, Harry had gone through at least twenty supernatural books. The only messy spot was when she read the section on witches. They had magic, and were evil for it. Harry terrified herself with the thought that maybe she was a monster. Maybe that was why the Dursleys had hated her so much, left her in those woods.

She escaped this mindset a day later, when she read the section on natural witches. That must be what she was. Although, she had never done any rituals or even uttered a spell, yet strange things still happened. Still, she had to be natural. Had to be.

Every day at dinner time, she would find another diner or cafe to pull her pity act, then scamper off afterwards, never to be seen by them again. She was quickly running out of places to swindle.

After wiping the remaining evidence of her last scam from her face, Harry realised she had hit every restaurant in the area. In the next couple days, she had discovered a useful skill known as pick-pocketing. She used the magic power she seemed to hold to make her unnoticeable. Then she would either levitate wallets from pockets, or pluck them from unsuspecting victims. She built up a steady supply of cash this way, leading her to purchase some new clothes and blankets from surrounding stores. She also picked up a thick journal with a leather cover, intending to chronicle her knowledge of the supernatural beings she had read about. Harry tried to write down their strengths, appearances, weaknesses, motivations, and only those that coincided with most if not all published works.

She scavenged blankets and pillows and sheets and boards and basically anything she thought would add to the little home she had built. A couple of nights sleeping in the trees resulted in waking up rain soaked and miserable. Harry had sheets and ponchos and plastic wrap curled around the trees above her nook, effectively keeping rain and glaring sunlight from intruding on her. She had also laid boards and planks across the interloping tree limbs that stuck out perfectly enough to form supports for the wooden planks. She had created a sort of floor from discarded wood, cut wrong and thrown out of shops. Multicolored sheets and curtains hung from high tree limbs, forming a flowing wall enclosing a space in the trees. It was a floating circus tent, translucent and shining iridescently in the afternoon sun. When people came near it, if they did come near it, they seemed to get confused, and turn around, never noticing Harry's hideout.

The warm nights turned cool, and Harry suddenly found herself in October. Over the couple months she had lived in Georgia, which was where she had appeared on her birthday, she had followed the same routine. Wake up at six o'clock (a habit she couldn't shake from the Dursleys), go on a run, exercise, have breakfast, go to the library, research and record in the journal, leave when it closes, have dinner, go to sleep. She showered when she could sneak into community gyms, and on weekends she relaxed and explored the forest, taking note of plant and animal life there, as well as decent hiding places.

During the weekdays, she had to stay in her treehouse, or in the forest, reading from instructional texts she had picked up from a bookstore. Children were supposed to be in school, and it would seem entirely too suspicious if one just happened to spend every single day at the library. Harry liked school, it used to be a hideaway from the Dursleys, well at least the older ones. She liked to learn. So, from eight-to-three every day, she would read from her math and science books, practicing problems and experiments found in them. She also read fictional and nonfiction books for her language arts section. Harry found herself becoming a large fan of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, as well as The Lord of The Rings.

Every Sunday, Harry would head down to the laundromat, washing her clothes for a stolen dollar or two. Then she would snuggle up in the nest of pillows and blankets inside her treehouse, re reading her journal to memorise critical information.

By November, Harry was set in her decision to hunt monsters when she grows up. She started reading about martial arts and hand-to-hand combat. She needed to be prepared for whatever was out there. Harry also practiced attacks and accuracy with knives and guns, stealing them from stores with her magic. The police were baffled with how a Glock 42 could just vanish from it's locked container. She was becoming quite the character. Stealing, lying, and fighting came so naturally to her. In no time at all, a year had passed in her sunny-side-up suburbia life. She kept to her routine, relishing the freedom in her choices, and the excitement of training. She was seven years old, and she was a warrior. Harry knew several forms of hand-to-hand, she was accurate with a gun, knife, and even a bow and arrow. Her magic had flourished. In her more mundane studies, she had learned some if not most of several languages, including Latin, Spanish, French, Greek, Sanskrit, and parts of Old Chinese. It was extremely confusing when she was learning some of them at the same time and accidentally replied to a 'good morning' from the librarian trying to start a conversation with the latin "salve". Not that she had a lot of conversations.

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In February of 1988, Harry caught wind of a strange death from the newspaper. A healthy thirty-two year old male, Charles Cooper, had died in the middle of his living room. Apparently it looked like he'd been mauled by a large animal, but all his doors and windows were locked and shut. Harry, proficient with weapons, combat, and magic, decided that she would investigate the crime scene, to at least know if she was in danger.

She arrived at the house with army green cargo pants and a black top, her wild raven colored curls pulled into a ponytail. She snuck behind the house to look into the first floor window that led directly to the living room. The cops weren't there, only the yellow crime scene tape stretched over the doorway of the room. Harry grabbed the window, carefully sliding it upwards until it was open, and she climbed into the room without a noise.

Her eyes traced the room. The body outline was surrounded by deep scratches, carved into the wood floor. The grooves were vicious-looking, tainted deep red-brown, unquestionably because of the blood that must have spurted from Charles' wounds. Harry could smell rotten eggs, and her suspicions were confirmed when she spotted some sulfur powdering the edge of the windowsill. Harry reached out to touch it, but was jarred by the sudden sound of footsteps coming from the hall outside. She quickly leaped out the window, ducking into the bushes below so that her head was just under the window. Heavy thunks led into the room.

Harry heard the person in the room circle it a few times, stopping in a corner. She held her breath when she heard the person stop right at the window. A deep gravelly voice floated out the window to her.

"Sulfur." Harry's eyebrows raised, eyes widening comically in a look of frank disbelief. Whoever was in there knew about monsters, the monsters she looked for. But was he a hunter or prey?

Harry smirked, shuffling silently from under the window. She stood and brushed her clothes off, making her way to the front of the house again, where the door was still open. Ducking under the crime scene tape and adopting a look of childish innocence and curiosity, she tiptoed through the house. Harry turned a corner and stared into the room where a tall man was bent over rubbing the powder from the windowsill between his fingers. She stepped into the room, purposefully placing her foot on a loose floorboard she noticed earlier. The board creaked under her boots, and the man swung around wildly, drawing and aiming a gun at her. Harry shrieked and held up her hands.

"Wait! Stop, mister, I'm sorry! I just wanted to see if what I heard my parents talking about was true and Mr. Cooper was a nice guy and I just couldn't believe he was dead and I just wanted to check so I came over here but the door was open and please don't shoot!" Harry rambled, appearing panicked. The man hurriedly put down his gun, apologising.

"I'm sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I'm Agent Keith Richards. I work for the FBI." Agent Richards stowed his gun, pulling out a badge and flipping it open for Harry to see. She was doubtful on the last part; Didn't FBI agents have partners? They also didn't show up for random deaths. She decided to play his game.

"Mr. Agent Richards sir, is Mr. Cooper dead?" her lower lip trembled. Agent Richards sighed, kneeling down. He nodded once.

"Sorry, kid, he is. You said you lived in the neighborhood?" Harry nodded. "Mind if I ask you some questions?" Harry nodded again.

"Lately, have you seen anything strange? Felt any sudden changes in temperature, or have there been any electrical mishaps? Flickering lights, that sort of thing?" Harry forced herself not to narrow her eyes. Instead, she looked slightly confused.

"I don't think so. What's that got to do with Mr. Cooper?" Harry had a bad feeling about this so-called Agent.

"Just standard procedure, checking everything. Got a name, Kid?"

"Of course I do." Harry inwardly smiled at his exasperated sigh.

"What is it?"

"Oh! My name's Liz, Liz Bennett," Harry explained, betting that he hadn't read Pride and Prejudice. Hopefully.

"Well, Miss Bennett, this is a crime scene, so I have to ask you to leave." Harry nodded her head, walking out the door. Hypocrite.

She kept her pace steady, heading down the street past the other normal looking houses with normal people living normal lives. Something was not right about that Agent, and she had to find out if he was connected to the death.

Harry darted behind a crop of bushes a couple houses down from Cooper's place. Practiced hands pulled the thick leaves apart, her emerald eyes searching the street. She waited ten minutes, and was about to leave when she spotted a car drive past. It was old fashioned looking, but the black paint gleamed brand new on the cared for car. She saw the Richards guy in the driver's seat. Rock music blared from the speakers.

After only adding to Harry's suspicions, she decided to research Cooper and Richards. Sliding into her usual seat at the library computer counter, Harry piled the records from the town hall on Cooper in front of her. She spent an hour searching through Cooper's adult life. He had a divorce, no kids, and too much money to know what to do with. Apparently in college, he had won the lottery. The same day was when he supposedly met his wife, according to several public accounts. Actually, the date in question and his date of death were ten years apart. Exactly ten years apart.

A light when off in Harry's head, and the case made sense. Cooper had made a deal. A demon deal. She pulled up a map of the town, searching for cross roads, especially near bars. Because of course a frat boy would sell his soul if he was drunk enough. She got a couple pings, prompting her to jot down the addresses on a pad of paper. She then pulled up another tab and looked up FBI Agent regulations. Then, she looked up his name on the agent database, finding no hits on a Keith Richards. Harry printed out the info on Richards and Cooper, which cost a dollar, filing away the pages until she got back to her tree base.

One thing was abundantly clear. Keith Richards was not an FBI Agent. Which begged the question; Who was he? Or rather, what was he?

After dropping off her notes at the base, Harry walked a couple blocks to the first crossroads. She stopped outside The Smoky Star, a questionable bar. Inside the dirty windows were defeated figures, slumped over bars or huddled in booths. Glasses of amber liquid dotted the pub. Harry focused on the crossroads outside the bar. Raising her right hand, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the intersection.

The gravel path shifted, giving way to a box. Harry opened her eyes, grabbing the hovering box from the air. After over a year and a half of practice, her magic was coming along nicely. She flipped the rusted lid open, finding an assortment of ingredients, all pointing to a demon summoning. She pulled out a faded photograph, the snapshot depicting a tall lady with a long blonde ponytail and piercing blue eyes. The date on the back read 1978 in hastily scribbled black ink.

At least she knew there was a demon in town. It had probably strolled through ten years ago, making a couple deals, and now it was back to collect. Harry sighed, then began walking to the next spot. All in all, over the next two hours, she found at least seven different photos buried at a crossroads, all of them marked as taken in 1978. One of the pictures bore a striking resemblance to a college-aged Mr. Cooper. Harry stuck the photos in her pocket, already on her way back to the treehouse.

If she wasn't mistaken, the demon was back in town to collect. She had no idea when the next soul would be taken, for all she knew it could be tonight. It could be Richards, he definitely wasn't FBI. She stared up at the colorful canopy of her base, eyebrows furrowed as she chewed on her lip. Just because they were stupid enough to make the deal didn't mean those people deserved an eternity of suffering. She could go after the demon, force them to let go of the contracts...Harry curled up in a ball, blankets cocooning her in a cotton web. She'd deal with it tomorrow.

The next morning dawned bright and early, and Harry got up with the sun. She pulled out the library print-outs and the photos from the crossroads. Using push pins to hang them up on a corkboard she had found, she tied bits of string to the pins, connecting the victim to other potential-victims. Friends, familial connection, motive. She brought out a sharpie and scribbled notes on the pages, particularly on "Agent John's" pages. The margins were black.

She could see a pattern. Many of the potential-victims were young, college age, and were now very well off. Whether it be money, fame, political or social stature, they were valued members of the town. Harry stood up, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. She needed to go back to Cooper's place, look for more clues to see if she had missed anything, see if there happened to be a connection between the photographed people, besides the actual deals. It was doubtful, but thoroughness was a must.

Harry left the "house" with two knives, hidden on her waist and ankle, and a Glock in a holster inside her army jacket. People in this town were very careless when it came to properly locking up their stores. Her mini combat boots slapped the puddles as she creeped up the front drive, subtly applying a notice-me-not spell. She failed to notice the familiar black car parked at the side of the road a few houses down.

The door creaked on squeaky hinges and Harry winced, the small noise going off like a bomb in her cautious opinion. Low mumblings drifted from the room Cooper was found in. She pushed the door open slightly, peering through the crack to see Agent Richards. He was on his knees, a bowl of something in front of him. A constant stream of latin poured from him, the rumbling tone creating a fascinatingly morbid rhythm. Harry pushed the door wider, stepping up to lean on the doorway.

"Fancy seeing you here, Agent Richards." the so-called agent spun quickly, pulling a gun from his belt in the blink of an eye. Harry was on her feet, a knife in her hand.

"Didn't think demons used children as meat suits. Noted," grunted Richards, his sawed off shotgun aimed at her chest.

"They don't, usually. Misdirection, however, that's what demons do. You seem to be performing a demon ritual, wonder why that would be?" Harry returned, grasping the dagger in her sweaty palm. Her first "hunt". Exciting yet terrifying at the same time.

"I'm not a demon!"

"Well neither am I," she retorted. A shared look of understanding and both of them were suddenly uncomfortable. The lights flickered. Uh oh.

"Humans are so entertaining, don't you think? I mean they just argue and fight and distract themselves from the real problem. I think that's beautiful." A brunette stood in the corner of the room, walking forward to the edge of the rug. She lifted it up, exposing a hastily drawn demon's trap on its underside. Her eyes flashed black. "Really?"

Harry and John looked at each other, simultaneously swallowing nervously. Well shit. They were blasted backwards, stuck to the walls. The demon strutted up to Harry, a devious smirk twisted into her skin.

The small girl was breathing heavier than normal. 'This was a bad idea,' she thought, 'a

bad bad idea and why did I ever think I could do this?' She was terrified, but she had to admit the smirk was getting to her, and she lashed out recklessly, as one does. Harry spat at her face, which was, in hindsight, not the best decision. Her face widened in surprise, then shrunk in anger.

"Brat. What's your name, kid? I'll make sure to tell your torturer down in Hell." The demon's glare burned her gaze, but she locked eyes with it and shook her head. This was apparently the wrong decision. The demon reached out and pressed a finger against her stomach, pushing harder and harder until Harry was quite certain the demon would break the skin and stab her. "Tell. Me." She ground out.

"Harry Potter," she gasped, the pain lessening slightly when the demon drew back in surprise.

"Harriet Potter. Well, isn't this just precious. Unfortunately, you don't have a wand, do you? Oh, it's too much! The Girl-Who-Lived, everyone's favorite witch, a hunter. I'm honoured," simpered the villain, bowing sarcastically. She turned to John, smiling at him.

"John Winchester, I've heard of you. Where are the boys? Staying home with Mary? Oh, wait, she's dead." John growled, straining against invisible restraints that kept his wrists firmly attached to the wall. The demon continued to taunt him, paying no attention to Harry. The seven-year-old had her eyes trained on the ceiling, where the bowl from John's earlier chanting was hovering, the liquid rising out and drawing a devil's trap on the white paint.

"I'm going to have so much fun killing-" The rest of her sentence was cut off, as she stopped abruptly and put her hand in front of her. She couldn't put it farther in front, almost like she was stopped by an invisible wall. Harry sagged in relief, giving a small smile (a smirk) aiming her eyes pointedly at the ceiling. The demon looked up as something red dripped on her shoulder. The devil's trap glistened deep red on the stark white ceiling.

"How dare you!" Harry stood up, brushing off her hands from when they hit the floor from her sudden release. John was sitting against the wall, staring confusedly between Harry and the demon, his eyes flicking up to the devil's trap sporadically.

"What was that about killing us? Hmm? A rather unattainable goal, seeing as you're stuck in your crib, but good for you, having hope. Now, I have a couple of photos in my pocket. Found at crossroads from the last time you passed by here. If you would, please render any deal or contract you have with any of these individuals null and void." Harry smiled, her hands clasped behind her back as she stood directly in front of the demon, just beyond the edge of the trap. She hid her fear behind snark, hoping the trap would hold. The photos appeared out of her pocket, hovering next to her in two rows where the demon could see it clearly.

"I will not! That's my revenue! I didn't come out here to this bible thumping state to give away the deals I made to some six year old kid!"

"Seven."

"It's ridiculous! You mouth-breathing brat, I refuse!" Harry pretended to frown at that, drawing out her other knife. It was engraved with runes for purification, fire, and death. The demon looked at it and snorted.

"But you see Rosemary, I have a way of making you accept. I like to read, especially when I'm reading books on the supernatural. It calms me. So, when I read that way back when, you know when demons were still pretty widely accepted as a real danger, the Kurds made these knives and daggers that could, theoretically, kill demons. Of course, this made me look into the theory itself, and isn't it surprising how easy it is to replicate these things if you know the theory behind it. Basically, some magic imbued runes and a burst of energy, and BAM! Demon killing knife. Now, I'm not entirely sure if it will work all the way, but I'm happy to experiment." Harry smiled evilly, the light glinting off her shining dagger. "So, your options are one, somehow escape this lovely trap in the next minute. Two, dissolve all the deals and stop any consequences said deals had and I'll exorcise you nice and quick. Or three, I play around with this shiny thingy here until you crack or you die. What's your choice?" The demon stared at Harry, her mouth and eyes wide open, terror wrinkling her features. John was equally scared, confused, and in awe. Of a seven year old.

"FINE! I'll dissolve the deals. Don't touch me with that!" Harry nodded her head, the pictures crumbling as the deals did, dropping to the floor in small piles of ash. The girl looked back at the demon.

"One last question. What did you mean by Girl-Who-Lived?" The demon froze, then smiled, then cackled.

"You don't know? Harriet Potter! Vanquisher of Dark Lords! You don't know who you are? Let's see, witch, find a place in London called Diagon Alley. Leaky Cauldron, tap the bricks, blah blah blah. I'd like to see how long it is before a Death Eater snuffs you." Harry glared at her, and began chanting in latin.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura, tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos!" The demon's screams were heard as black smoke ejected from her mouth, swirling at the top of the trap, then sinking into the floor leaving an oozing wet, burned looking circle. Harry stumbled forward to catch her meatsuit before she fell to the floor. The lady fell on top of her, ad Harry struggled to support so they wouldn't both fall.

"Some help over here!" John sprung up, helping her secure the lady on the floor, her back propped against the wall. Harry held a hand to the woman's chest, looking for any injuries. Bright patches of light appeared over her shoulder and lung. Harry covered the spots with both hands, closing her eyes and drawing her magic up to the surface. Pushing it into her hands in a burst of energy, she spoke.

"Sana!" The woman's breathing evened out, the patches of light faded. Harry slumped against the floor, tired from the sudden transfer of energy. Of course, John had to choose that moment to pull his gun.

"Really? I just got rid of a demon, saved the host, and probably saved your sorry life too! Are you seriously going to point that at me?" Harry complained, throwing her hands in the air.

"You're a witch! You work with demons and-"

"No, Agent, I do not work with demons. I just exorcised one. Like right in front of you! I was born like this. I concentrate on the result and the steps to get there, and it happens. No rituals or demon gatherings. Now please, stop pointing your gun at me before I take it from you." John still looked a little hesitant, but he dropped his aim to the floor, though he still held the trigger.

"How do I know you aren't lying?" Harry sighed, pulling out some salt and shaking some into her hand. She tilted her head at him, as though to say 'see? Told ya.'

"Alright. Fine. You're not a witch witch." Harry smiled, pleased. "Does the knife work?"

"I've absolutely no idea. That was pretty much a bluff, I haven't exactly figured out the recipe yet, and I wasn't about to stab it when the host was still alive."

"Well, do you think... when you do figure out how to make one of those, could you make me one?" Harry looked up in thought.

"Hmmm. Maybe," conceived Harry. John squinted his eyes.

"Wait a minute. You're a kid. You just exorcised a demon after threatening to torture it with a freakin' magic knife, and you're just a kid. How does a six year old-"

"Seven."

"-Do that? Shouldn't you be watching tv and drinking juice boxes and playing with dolls? Do your parents know what you're doing? Come to think of it, where are your parents?"

"My parents don't care," Harry lied. Well, not a lie exactly. The dead don't care much. "I have training. I can defend myself, so if you would stop your worrying, as polite as it is, you are giving me a headache. Now, I have some letters to write and a book on programming to study. You obviously have some children, if the demon wasn't lying, to get back to. I think we can leave from here, the ambulance is already on its way, and as you can see that devil's trap is dissolving." It was.

"So your parents just - they let you - this is ridiculous. I mean, Dean knows how to use a gun and all, but really? Hunting? At seven?"

"Just get over it."

"Fine. Well, I'm sure you already heard, but I'm John Winchester." He held out a calloused hand.

"Nice to meet you John Winchester, I'm Harry Potter." Her tiny hand, rough from climbing trees and practising defense, disappeared in his large one. She shook once, then turned and strolled out the door. Sirens could be heard a street away as she stuck her hands in her pockets, singing a soft tune as she breathed in the fresh October air. The smell of fall clogged her senses as her feet crunched on the leaf-strewn path.

"Johnny, rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard,

'Cause hell's broke loose in Georgia and the Devil deals the cards

And if you win you'll get this shiny fiddle made of gold,

But if you lose, the Devil gets your soul!"