WE HAPPY FEW

Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling. All things Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke.

Rating: R (or the equivalent). Just to be safe. If you've read it in it's entirety and don't believe it's deserving of the rating, let me know and I'll consider changing it. I'm absolutely horrible at rating stories and could probably use all the help I can get.

Full Summary: Xover with Supernatural (the TV show). AU. In the June of '98, Harry Potter destroyed the Dark Lord Voldemort…and disappeared. Now, ten years later, Voldemort's back. And Harry's no where to be seen.

On the other side of the pond, Harry James Potter is paying his way as a fast becoming legendary Hunter, and going by any name but his own. He hadn't planned on returning to England ever, never mind within the week. He hadn't planned on his homecoming being to a post-apocalyptic world straight out of Dante's Divine Comedy. And it certainly hadn't been expected that he'd fall in love…with the most unlikely of people. Slash

Timeline: Set ten years after Harry's seventh year - though, at the time of conception, the seventh book had yet to be released and so isn't included - and midway through the second season of Supernatural. I've played fast and loose with events in the Harry Potter world - some happened, some didn't. In short: most of the sixth book has been blithely ignored unless otherwise stated, and the ending of OotP was notably different in that Sirius went toppling backwards a few feet to the left instead and missed the veil.

PROLOGUE: HUNTER

"From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember'd;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he today that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now abed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."

-- The St. Crispin Day Speech.

April 5th 2007

His nose was broken.

Cursing, he pressed the knuckle of his thumb against it to try and stem the bleeding. It didn't work; the blood leaked through his fingers, dripping to the floor in Gryffindor red. He hissed under his breath, hand darting out to scuff the blood into the dirt floor.

Too late. The creature howled somewhere back and to his right. It was a preternatural sound - something which had never been human and would never be mistaken for it. But the form breaking away from the shadowed wall, it's nose in the air as it sniffed out his blood, could have been.

He watched it through a hole in the plasterboard, his back pressed up against the wall and his head ducked so his eyes were level with the gap. There was a gun in his hand, a Wilson KZ 45, but it wouldn't do much good, even if he just tried to use it to bash the thing's head in. He was an idiot. A bloody idiotic, unprepared dead man walking.

His breath sounded impossibly loud in the abandoned, rundown old hotel, only rivalled by his pounding heart beat and the scuff of the creature's feet on the dirt - the old panelled wood floor boards had been ripped out years ago. Cringing, he pressed himself back flat against the wall, hand still gingerly clutching his nose.

He was in what had once been the kitchen. It was industrial size, with an eclectic mix of wooden cabinet and stainless steel cupboards. More than one cupboard door was hanging loosely from one hinge. His eyes zeroed in on the selection of knives.

Now what were the chances that those were silver?

Unlikely, he decided. What kind of person had silver bread knives? A very special, paranoid person who probably wouldn't be working as a chef in a hotel. Or on a U.S. Navy battleship, come to think of it. But Casey Ryback was the exception, not the rule. And also not real. Darn it.

Snorting to himself, he eased himself up and away from the wall, keeping one ear pricked for the creature's progress down the corridor. Schurnf, schurnf, schurnf. It should have been funny. It was getting closer every second, though, so he wasn't laughing. He hesitated, eyeing the darkened patch of dirt where his blood had fallen. His nose had stopped bleeding, though he didn't dare breathe through it yet, but the blood on the floor would attract the thing's attention no matter how much dirt he tried to heap on it.

Merlin, but sometimes he missed scouring spells.

Shaking his head, he crept forwards across the kitchen. The cabinets were set up in rows, with corridors of empty space splitting them. He ducked into the first one and breathed a little easier now that there was more space between him and the creature. He locked his eyes on the hole in the wall opposite where once had hung a door - it had to be nearly there, surely - and slowly - slowly - reached up, feeling his way towards the knives by touch.

Nearly…just a little more…

His heart was thumping in his chest like it was trying to burst out of his ribcage and do the escaping itself, and he swallowed. His mouth was dry, like the Sahara in the midst of baking summer - parched and raw and grating and--there!

His fingers skidded over room temperature metal and he hissed, stretching just a little more - handle, handle, c'mon, han--

The wall behind him imploded. Dust and chunks of plasterboard pounded out a staccato beat as they flew into the room and landed around him. He ducked his head, shielding the back of his skull with a hastily thrust out forearm. Just in the nick of time, too; something heavy and sharp - torn ragged, really - slammed into his arm, and he had to choke back a pained cry. He couldn't tell whether the heat in his arm was blood coating his skin or a side affect of the pain.

Something else caught the back of his knee and he went down, only Seeker quick reflexes saving him from landing flat on his face. He overcompensated, jerking to the side, and the crown of his head hit the cabinet next to him with a deafening thud and a blinding flare of pain. He hissed, but the world didn't fade to black.

He was still alive and he was still conscious. And that meant he could still be eaten alive, kicking and screaming.

Kind of put things into perspective, didn't it? Oh, for the days when all he had to worry about was an Unforgivable Curse to the back and the oversexed members of Voldemort's Inner Circle.

He almost laughed, but didn't. Instead, he whipped around, threw himself onto his back in the rubble, and aimed his Wilson KZ 45 at…nothing. Thin air. Empty space.

"…Oh, now what?" He muttered, kicking his legs out to the side and clambering to his feet.

Once he'd straightened up enough to be able to see over the hodge podge of kitchen counters, he snapped his gaze around the kitchen, taking in as much of the room as he could with his back still pressed against something solid. Nothing. A scene from a teen horror movie flashed through his head and, blood turned cold, he ever so slowly looked up.

And there it was, clinging to the ceiling like some sort of demented Spiderman.

He froze, but it had already noticed his attention. Four bulging sets of sharp, golden eyes locked onto him and it snarled, drawing back it's upper lip to reveal a mouth packed full of fangs longer and sharper than the butcher's knives he'd made a play for earlier. It's fur was coarse and black as pitch, the only texture the swirling grey runes making tracks across it's skin. He swallowed reflexively.

And it lunged.

Three Weeks Earlier…

Someone was hissing…no, laughing. Sam whirled and even as he spun, the mouldy dank of the motel room faded away, replaced by stone and tapestry. A body crashed into him and he hit the ground before he could flail for purchase. His eyes flew open and met the most unnatural green he'd ever seen.

"Shit, Sam - c'mon!" English accent.

Flash. And the weight on his chest was gone. He scrambled to his feet, rubbing the back of his head with a pained grimace.

The wall exploded inwards, raining mortar and dust. The shockwave made his ear drums pop and he threw himself down, elbows up past his ears, fingers interlocked over the nape of his neck. He couldn't tell if the roaring in his skull was himself screaming or the utter contrast of the sudden silence.

Flash. Sound. Lots of sound, most of it screaming. He'd moved - it was raining, and he was getting wet. Outside. Into the middle of a war. There was a castle to his back; old English, made to last sieges. A woman - hair cycling through shades of colours to blend in with her background as she moved - raced past him, right hand whipping back and forth, the stick in her hand spewing jets of light. He followed her progress to-

Dean.

His brother's feet weren't touching the ground, his entire body held aloft by the hand wrapped around his throat. His nails were clawing at the fingers squeezing his windpipe, but the man choking him didn't flinch, just turned burning amber eyes in Sam's direction. The demon. Dean. He tried to rush forwards, but his feet felt like lead. He couldn't…he glanced downwards and gasped; his own body lay at his feet, bloody and broken and-

Flash. "POTTER!" His head snapped back up as the enraged voice echoed against stone.

The room he was in was large, full to the brim with scared teenagers. There were banners draped from the walls - lions, snakes, eagles and badgers.

Someone walked past him, slow but determined, and the children parted for him.

"Harry! You can't!" A woman's voice, choked with tears. "Your magic-!"

The boy - man, really - stopped in front of the open door, glancing back over his shoulder. Sam sucked in a breath - bright green eyes, messy black hair, lightning bolt scar; he'd seen that face before - and the man smiled sadly. "He's got Dean."

And then he was gone.

Flash. "He's Potter. Mr Chosen, prophecy child, Boy-Who-Bloody-Well-Lived. If he can't kill the bastard, you'll know by all of the people bending over and kissing their arses goodbye."

Flash. Red eyes on white skin and pupils slit sideways like a goat's. The hissing was back.

The words: "Really, Tom, we've got to stop meeting like this."

The rebuttal: "I guarantee you, Harry, that this will be the last time."

"What, planning on actually staying in Hell this time?"

Flash. Blinding green light and someone screaming.

Flash. "Harry's dead."

Flash. Blood…blood everywhere. It seeped into his hair, stained his skin. He opened his eyes - when had he closed them? - and stared. The entire school, massacred.

There was nothing left to do but scream.

"Sam? Sam! SAM!"

His eyes flew open, focusing on his brother's face. "Dean?" He croaked, pushing himself up from where he'd fallen back onto his single bed.

"Yeah. Dean," his brother echoed dryly, his voice rough. The unspoken 'who were you expecting?' hung awkwardly in the air. He helped him up with a hand at his elbow, scooting out of the way when Sam swung his legs off of the side of the bed.

"I'm okay, Dean." And he was. They just needed to tal-

Dean let out a breath as he straightened, a reluctant, sly grin twisting his lips upwards. Sam mentally groaned and braced himself for it.

"Chocolate and Midol, right?" Dean's grin grew just a little more genuine seeing the put on expression on his younger brother's face, but he correctly interpreted the next expression Sam's face pulled. The elder Winchester grunted. "Or we could just talk about it," he muttered, twitching his eyes left in a poor imitation of an eye roll, "…Bitch." He ignored Sam's reproving look. "So what's going down this time?"

Sam winced as he replayed the vision over in his head. He could still feel it knocking about in his skull like a live thing. Suddenly solicitous, Dean snatched the water bottle from on top of his bedside cabinet and shoved it into Sam's hands. Sam uncapped the bottle and gulped down some of the lukewarm water. It didn't help. He could still see them - none older than eighteen, all slaughtered. The blood…he felt like Lady Macbeth.

"There was a school," he said at last. "English, I think…and this man…the demon was there," he added, remembering. He ignored Dean's curse. "But I knew that man." He pushed himself off of the single bed, making a beeline for his father's journal.

It had been tossed unceremoniously onto the hard backed chair in the corner when they'd first taken over the room, and was now half-buried beneath Dean's leather jacket. Sam hurled the jacket off to one side, ignoring Dean's indignant 'oi!'. Grabbing the journal, he flipped it free of the strap of leather that bound it and began flicking through the pages.

Cradling his jacket like it was a scared child, Dean moved up to his side and peered over his shoulder.

As if that was some unspoken cue, Sam's index finger landed on the right page.

"There!" He said triumphantly, turning to present the page to Dean. "That's him. That's who I saw in my vision."

Dean took the journal, squinting at his father's scrawl and the headshot that accompanied it. The picture had obviously been taken from a badly blurred security camera, but the man's shaggy black hair and ethereal green eyes were still obvious. He whistled low. "Y'sure?"

"Positive."

"He's not going to be easy to track down," Dean observed, eyes running over the list of things John Winchester suspected this man of hunting. It was impressive, to say the least. Ghosts…possessions…minor demons…even a dragon. Conspicuously absent was a contact number or last known address. "If Dad never found him…"

"We have a name. That's a start."

"Yeah. Because in our business having a 'name' really helps," Dean said sarcastically, obviously thinking of the many times he'd flashed a fake badge in someone's face or introduced himself as Father Simmons. He frowned suddenly as he finished reading the passage. "Wait a minute. There's no name here, Sammy."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said, watching his brother's face. "But a lot of people in the vision seemed to know who he was."

Dean raised an impatient brow.

"They called him Harry. Harry Potter."

Harry skidded out of the kitchen, into the hotel's old entrance hall, and nearly went down. His hands hit the rotten floor boards and he flung himself out of the doorway. Behind him, he heard a sharp clang as the creature dove headfirst into the metal of an industrial oven and then the heavy, laboured breathing and steady staccato of impact tremors.

It was coming after him.

Cursing like an entire Navy of drunken sailors, he scuttled, crab-like, across the entrance hall. Halfway across he found his feet. And the creature found the door.

He hit the locked front door - and promptly berated himself for coming through a previously boarded up back window - as the creature stepped into the room. It snorted irritably and bared its razor sharp fangs, pawing at the ground like an angry bull. He barely had enough time to whip around, slam his back into the panelled wood barring his exit, and…notice the large, crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. And then the thing charged him.

Bracing himself, he jerked his Wilson up and fired.

The bullet pierced the frayed cord holding the chandelier suspended cleanly. It came crashing down amid the twinkle of clashing crystal and slammed into the creature's back as it raced across the room. The blow knocked its feet out from underneath it and sent it to the ground. And, he thought, hopefully snapped its spine clean in two.

The creature didn't get back up. He watched it for another three seconds, his heart beat harsh in his ear, but it didn't so much as twitch.

"Yippee-ky-yay, Motherfucker," he said just because he couldn't not.

He clicked the safety back onto his gun, turned, and unceremoniously kicked the door in.

The wood splintered but didn't give; he slammed another snap kick into the door and watched as it shattered, the pieces flying backwards and away from his foot.

When he stepped into the doorway and out of the hotel, he genuinely didn't see the fist coming at his face until he was lying flat on his back with a young slip of a girl straddling his hips. Her combat boots were pressing his wrists into the wooden decking. Pupiless black eyes blinked down at him, accompanied by a malicious smirk and a killer migraine. He groaned. And got a backhand across the mouth for his trouble.

"What the Hell?" he demanded.

"You don't seem so damnably lucky to me," she said in a refined English accent that almost made him homesick and sounded like she was quoting something. "Infact…" And then she was shifting up his body, hands reaching for his jaw. And his neck. The first touch was delicate - questing, really. But the second was rough as her fingernails dug into his throat and beneath his chin and began to turn. The movement was slow - ever so slow - but firm and he had no doubt that she truly did intend to twist his head straight off of his shoulders.

He bucked, jerking and kicking. But she held on like a vicious limpet. She even leaned in after a particularly determined attempt to unseat her and breathed into his ear, "Welcome, Harry James Potter, to the day that you die." She nipped at his ear and Harry felt inhumanly long incisors against his ear lobe. There was the sting of broken skin and then the hot brush of a wet tongue.

Harry shuddered and tried to tear his head away. Her grip anchored him in place. "Don't tell me. I'm wearing my 'my name's Harry J. Potter and I fight evil' name badge again."

She laughed into his ear. "You want to know how I know?" She purred. "How do you think? He's back."

He froze and it felt like his heart had stopped. He couldn't breathe. And it wasn't just because she was sitting on his lungs. "He's-" his voice cracked and he licked his lips before trying again. "He's back, huh? Funny. I didn't slate Elvis for a comeback."

Another backhand that nearly broke his neck for real this time; superhuman strength? Check.

"Try again, Potter," she snapped. "You know who I mean."

And he did; it was his worst nightmare - he still bolted awake in the dead of the night to find his sheets soaked through with sweat and his heart pounding like he'd sprinted the London Marathon. A couple of thousand miles and a new nomadic life in Northern America wasn't enough to purge his mind of the horrors that he'd seen. That he'd felt. That he'd done. "Voldemort."

"Hmmhm," she moaned - honest to God moaned, "And Daddy's very, very angry with you for running away. I think you broke his heart, Harry, and that's a very, very naughty thing to do."

"How long has he been back?" He demanded, his gaze ticking upwards towards his scar unbidden.

"You're asking the wrong questions," she pouted and eased up on the slow decapitation she'd been set on giving him. His neck ached with a mixture of the strain and the sudden relief. "You should be asking what he's done since he's been back. Because it's a doozy."

"Fine. Consider the question asked."

"Why, Harry, he's done everything." She leaned even closer, rubbing the swell of her breasts against his chest and added, in faux conspiration, "You're the last thing on his list, you and your pesky little chicklets."

The Order. Harry felt a flush of relief and it nearly made him giddy. But why would Voldemort leave the Order alive? It wasn't like they'd be disabled, even without Harry - who had spearheaded the organisation for the last year of it's activity after Dumbledore had stepped aside. They'd be a constant thorn in his side, an aching ulcer.

It came to him.

Voldemort wouldn't tear the Order apart until he was there to see it. To watch and be unable to do anything. To hear their screams as they were tortured to death. Eaten alive. Murdered and made to enjoy it.

She was still speaking: "He's ripped the country apart trying to find you, Harry. Can you imagine the disappointment he felt when he didn't find you? It was a good day - we slaughtered children in front of their parents and bathed them in their babe's bone marrow; he wrote a letter to you in their blood. But you didn't answer. So he began to wonder why. And he widened his search. And he found you. And he knew why he couldn't feel you anymore." She cocked her head. "How does it feel, Harry?"

He glared. "How does what feel?"

"Why," she smirked, "to be completely and utterly unremarkable."

"I'd imagine it's something like this," he snapped. And he moved. His skull slammed into hers with a sickening crack and she flung herself backwards. One foot slipped away from his wrist and that was all he needed; he tore her fingers from his windpipe, ripped his other wrist out from beneath her weight and then flung himself at her.

This time when they hit the ground, he had the advantage. He yanked her arms above her head and tangled her legs with his, carefully smothering her knees with his thighs.

"How does it feel?" He growled at her.

He didn't give her time to answer, guessing that it would come in the form of her exerting some of her superhuman strength and kicking his butt. Instead, he dove across her and grabbed his gun from where it was lying a few feet away. He clicked the safety off and aimed it smack bang in the middle of her forehead.

She went very, very still.

And it wasn't because he had a gun pointed between her eyes; she cocked her head, tilting her ear upwards as though listening very intently to something. A second or two later he heard it, too.

The clinking of crystal shards and the deep 'schurnf'ing that was oh so painfully familiar.

She smirked. "I'll be seeing you around, lover," she said. And then she disappeared in a swirl of charred black smoke and the overpowering smell of burning sulphur.

As she faded into nothingness, an impossibly loud crash came from inside the hotel. If Harry had to guess, he would say that the chandelier had just been sent flying across the entrance hall. He didn't want to hang around for the creature to find him again.

He jumped back up onto his feet and bolted across the decking. There were woods surrounding the hotel and the mile long driveway back to the main road and his car. He'd never outrun the creature on open ground; his only chance to make it to his car - and his silver bullets - would be to make a mad dash through the woods and hope that the undergrowth would be dense enough to slow the creature down.

Or maybe he could try dropping a tree on its head instead and compare the results to that of the chandelier.

It would be like the science experiment from Hell. Literally.

As he ran he heard the rev of an engine and, more worryingly, the earth-shaking thuds that heralded the creature's arrival. The decking began to tremble beneath his pounding feet. It was like running on a trampoline. He could feel the creature's hot breath on the back of his neck - images of the thing's teeth sinking into the nape of his neck and ripping out his spinal cord flashed through his mind's eye - as he leapt from the decking and into the road.

A '67 Chevy Impala tore around the bend in the road so fast that two of its tires left the gravel driveway.

His eyes widened - the black, silver-edged Impala was only feet away - and he flung himself off of the road just as the creature pounced and landed where he'd been standing only nanoseconds before. He landed in a ditch by the side of the road and rolled to a stop to the sound of shrieking brakes and the primal crunch of bone.

When he stuck his head out of the ditch and took stock of the situation, the creature was lying on its side a full ten metres away from the now stationary Impala. It was still breathing and slowly regaining its bearings.

The barrel of a sawn-off shotgun suddenly appeared out of the Impala's rolled down passenger's side window. The end of it erupted with a bark. Once. Twice. Three times.

All three bullets hit their mark and where they hit they left a trail of melting flesh. The creature's runes flared a hot, mercurial orange and then faded away completely, the heat of the glow sloughing the creature's skin away from it's muscle.

Silver bullets. The creature was dead.

"Now that's just nasty."

Harry staggered to his feet and clambered up out of the ditch. The man who had spoken - the Impala's driver - was stepping out of the car, his heavy biker boots crunching solidly on the gravel. His passenger slid out of the other side of the car, tall and slim but broad across the shoulders with it.

"Thanks for the save," Harry said. A second later, his Wilson was pointed in the strangers' direction. He said, voice perfectly even, "All things considered, I hope you'll forgive me if I don't rush to believe that you didn't save me just to kill me yourselves. I'm feeling cynical today. Must be the weather."

The driver snorted, "The thanks you get from some people."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Harry said, "for some reason I don't remember asking for your help."

"Right," the driver said, turning to get back into the Impala, "well, that's that then, Sammy. Good try and all, but that is not some sort of English super hero."

"Dean-"

Harry blinked. "Winchester?"

Dean jerked his chin upwards challengingly. "What of it?"

"Sam and Dean. Is that Winchester?" Harry repeated without much patience. He put a bit more life into his practically comatose English accent just to see the bemused look on the driver's - Dean's - face.

"Yeah, that's right," Sam said, beating Dean to whatever he was going to say. His older brother snapped his mouth shut with a frown. "…Harry Potter?"

"Maybe once." Harry said. Grunting, he shoved his free hand into his leather jacket and when it withdrew, three clear vials were trapped in the circle of it. He tossed two of them at the Winchester brothers, who snatched them deftly from the air. "Holy water," he said by way of explanation, "you know what to do."

In demonstration, he uncapped the vial that he'd kept for himself and then unceremoniously upended the contents into his mouth. It was just like water; only dark creatures - and even then, not all - were burned by holy water. Ex-Wizards-turned-Hunters need not apply.

Swishing the water about his mouth for a second or two and enjoying the feel of it seeping into the parched tissue, Harry jerked his head at the other two Hunters. The meaning was clear: well, get on with it, then.

Sam moved first, opening the vial with an easy flick of the thumb. He sniffed the water before tasting it, though what he expected to smell, Harry had no idea. Carefully tipping his head back, he let the smallest drop of holy water splash onto his tongue. At his side, his elder brother was doing much the same. When nothing untoward happened, they glanced at each other and almost visibly shrugged. Dean drank the full vial of it first and, a full ten seconds later, Sam followed suit.

When neither of them dropped dead, Dean tossed his vial off to the side, the glass shattering against the gravel, and Sam turned back to Harry, one brow quirked. "So, Harry Potter?" he asked again like he needed to make sure.

Harry clicked the safety back onto his gun, holstering it between the waistband of his jeans and the skin of his back. "Not for a long time. It's just 'Harry' now; I've found that surnames can be a bit redundant in this business." He quirked a smile, though he really wasn't in a smiling mood; Voldemort was back. And Harry could think of ten million things that would have been on his 'list' along with eradicating him and his 'pesky little chicklets'. Nine million of them he would have happily given his life to prevent. All apparently done.

"Speaking of which, what can I do for you?"

"We're going to England," Sam said.

Harry's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. That was one hell of a coincidence. "And you need a tour guide?"

"Erm, not exactly."

"Didn't think so," Harry said with a resigned sigh. "How much do you know?" He frowned and eyed the two of them in a new, not entirely favourable light. "And how do you know it?" How could two Hunters who shouldn't have a clue about the Wizarding world notice Voldemort's resurrection before him?

And that wasn't just him being egotistical. He was a half-decent Hunter, yes, but he was also Harry Potter, no matter how many nights he spent lying awake, staring at the ceiling, and trying to convince himself that it was just 'Harry' now. As Harry Potter, he had a curse scar that linked him to Voldemort, full prior knowledge of the Wizarding world, and more than a little interest in the state of affairs in England.

Or so he'd thought.

The Winchester brothers exchanged glances. The second or two of silence made Harry uneasy and he was inordinately relieved when Sam turned back to him and Dean leaned back against the side of the Impala in dark acceptance. Whatever they'd been silently arguing about, Sam had won that round. Harry waited expectantly.

"This is going to sound crazy," Sam said.

Harry snorted. "To this audience?"

"Maybe not," he conceded with a wry, unbidden smile. He drew in a breath that Harry heard even across the full ten feet that separated them. "I get these…visions. Of the future. I guess the simplest way to say this is that we know about…this because I saw it."

"Visions."

"You hard of hearing or something?" Dean snapped, arms folded across his chest. "Because he didn't stutter."

Harry ignored him, which only seemed to rile the other Hunter up further. "So you've Seen it," he said, still not entirely sure he accepted the explanation; clairvoyancy was a blurry discipline at best, and that was ignoring Trelawney's existence. "Did you see the end of it?"

If Harry wasn't mistaken, Sam seemed to pale a few shades of green. "I saw how it could end," Sam said at last, looking like he wished he hadn't admitted it, "unless we stop it."

Harry nodded. So it wasn't a happy ending. He wasn't much surprised. "And how does this involve you?"

Sam seemed to pick up on what he hadn't said and raised a brow. "So you're going?"

He shrugged. "It's my fight." He swallowed and tried again, "It used to be my fight. They all deserve to know why it isn't anymore." He snorted, "Guess it's time to face the music…they're going to kill me."

"They might have to get in line," Dean said dryly. At Harry's curious glance he simply smirked.

"I saw the final battle," Sam filled in. "It was crawling with demons."

"And that's where you two come in," Harry guessed. It made sense - the Wizarding world was utterly unprepared to deal with demons; they'd be slaughtered.

The other two Hunters exchanged a quick glance again but then Sam was nodding. "That's where we come in," he agreed, adding, "someone needs to stop what's going to happen. If that's us, then it's us."

"Just call us your friendly neighbourhood demon killers," Dean said.

"It sounds like you've got it covered," Harry said, "why find me?"

"I saw you," Sam said, and Harry reflected that he really should have seen it - no pun intended - coming. "Harry Potter: Mr Chosen, prophecy child, Boy-Who-Bloody-Well-Lived." Sam was watching him closely as he concluded, "You're the only one who can kill him."

Harry couldn't help the short chuckle that escaped from his throat like a rat fleeing from a sinking ship. "Malfoy," he said like it explained everything. To him, it did. "We'd better hope that isn't true or there'll be a lot of people bending over and kissing their asses goodbye."

"He said that, too," Sam said.

"Of course he did," Harry said. He hesitated. Was he going? He'd said that he was, had said it was 'his fight' or, at least, that it had been. It wasn't anymore; he couldn't be the war General that he'd been at seventeen. In a war of magic, he'd be a burden, a sitting duck in the middle of the battle field, even with his gun and Hunting skills. Even just the demons would be a challenge and, with his scar and hair acting like the visual beacon they usually were to people in the know, he'd never be left alone on the sidelines to go about his business.

But the Wizarding world needed all the help it could get.

And it needed to know that was down one saviour. People could die still thinking that he'd ride in on his Firebolt and save them. They needed to know it wasn't going to happen - the pang in his chest let him know that the Gryffindor in him wouldn't let it be any other way.

He forced a smile at the Winchesters.

"So when do we leave?"