I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural.

Pairings: Harry/Sam (might be Dean/Cas later).

Beta: None.

Author's Notes: I wanted to point out that it's been nine and a half years since the last chapter and Harry has obviously changed – lost some of his human habits and phrases – so that's why he seems so different. Thank you if you followed, favourited, or reviewed.

Summary: He saved Sam Winchester's life six times and Sam might have saved his too somewhere along the way.

Seven

2 – the second time harry potter saved sam winchester's life

A stray cat fled down the vacant alley, disappearing into the shadows. The rain fell heavily from the dark, intimidating clouds. The town was a really dreadful sight; a rundown gas station sat on the corner, a small family owned diner to its left, and the small, scattered houses stood frowning against the muddy green grass. The motel was small; the sheets were itchy, the shower had bleach stains in it, and there was a mysterious stain on the carpet, but it could have been worse, right? At least that's what Dean had told him.

Sam looked up, sighed and returned to his work, head dipped low to watch the movements of his pencil. His cursive was still shaky and his last teacher, Mrs. Wheeler, had told him to practice. The ten-year old bit his tongue lightly as he trying to mimic the 'Q' as it was written on the page. Sam wished – not for the first time – that his father wasn't so detached or his older brother, Dean, wasn't so hard to talk to. Maybe then one of them might sit down and show him how to draw a capital 'S' without making his wrist ache. But his father didn't like to talk about school and his brother had no interest in his studies.

It wasn't as if Sam really enjoyed the work. Frankly, math made his head hurt and science was one of the most confusing things he'd ever encountered. But school, school was normal. In a life that was so freakishly abnormal, full of monsters that are only supposed to exist in storybooks or horror films, Sam clutched onto anything normal. Normal was good. Normal was normal.

His stomach growled and Sam shifted uncomfortably on the uncomfortable bed. Closing his book, leaving his pencil in it to mark his page, Sam stood and stretched. He knew he wasn't allowed to go out – even if for food. His dad and Dean had gone to finish the hunt they had spent the last two days researching and dissecting. His father could have handled it alone, but he wanted Dean to have as much experience as possible before they took on whatever killed their mom – even if it was just a simple salt and burn.

Sam didn't really understand why his father was so obsessed with getting his revenge, but whenever the subject came up, Dean would just tell him he was 'too young' and 'wouldn't understand'. Okay, so maybe Sam had never felt their mom's loss, not like Dean who could remember her or their father who had loved her did, but that didn't mean he was stupid or a baby. He knew how to take care of himself quite well. He could put up with the bullies at every new school he was enrolled in, the taunts for being the 'new kid'; he could live with the lumpy mattresses and the pull-out couches; he could take the long hours in the car, only stopping for gas and toilet breaks; he could even deal with the fact monsters were real. However, there was something that had always bothered him – something that left this hollow inside of him.

He wanted them to care.

Oh, Sam knew that his father and Dean loved him. But you can love someone and not truly care about them, can't you? You could die for someone, but not really care what grade they got on a test or what their favourite colour was. Isn't that what mothers preached about their newborn babies? They didn't know the kid! They had no idea who they would grow up to be, what they would do with their lives, but from the second the infant is placed in their arms they would dive in front of a bullet for it?

It didn't make sense. A lot of things didn't make sense.

Sam moved over to the small table where his bag was placed. He shoved the book inside of it, and after a few hesitant seconds, extracted the money his father had given him for emergencies.

I'm hungry and they won't be back for hours, he rationalized to himself. I'll just walk down the street to the gas station; get a bag of chips or something. It's not that far. They'll never know I even left the motel.

Nodding to himself, Sam grabbed his jacket and stuck the wad of bills in his pocket, reaching for the spare motel key lying on the small table. As he closed the door he couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

One newly purchased soda and bag of chips later, Sam was walking quickly down the street. His feet were moving faster than he normally would; he wasn't sure why, but it might have something to do with the eyes he could feel boring into the back of his head. Sam had been on a few hunts before – mostly sitting in the car and waiting for his Dad to come back covered in dirt and smelling of sweat – and if his dad had taught him anything, it was to trust your instincts.

Keeping his pace, he slowly removed the small silver knife from his back pocket, holding it in his palm out of sight. It seemed silly, a ten-year-old walking back to a motel carrying junk food and thinking he was about to be attacked in broad daylight.

Monsters don't just live in the dark, you know.

It came out of nowhere, running at him with a speed no one should be able to possess. Sam stumbled back, frantically trying to get out of the unknown shape's way. It was useless. The figure grabbed him, pulling him from the open street to the dark space in between two rundown houses. The silver knife was roughly taken from his hand, the blade swiping against his palm leaving a painful, stinging cut.

Tears unwilling built in Sam's eyes as he pulled at the hand around his throat. It was too tight; he couldn't breathe.

"Mr. Fielding, please let the child go." A voice from behind them asked politely.

The hand tightened. Sam's lungs burned.

Suddenly, as if it he had been pushed away by a gust of wind, the man attacking Sam flew back into the air, landing in a pile a few feet from where he had once been standing.

"I did ask nicely."

Sam turned his neck painfully, to look at the voice. He was obviously a man, dressed casually in dark jeans and a gold coloured shirt. He wasn't as tall as Sam's father, but wasn't short either. Disheveled black locks fell clumsily onto the man's forehead, brushing the collar of his shirt. He was young, without a beard, but his face was strong and his eyes...

He's not demon. No demon has eyes like that.

"Are you just going to stand there?" Unlike how Dean would have said it – mockingly and insulting his intelligence – this man asked it as an honest question, no underlining emotion in his voice.

Sam stumbled back, tripping on his long pant leg and falling to the pavement, jeans now covered in wet dirt. The rain had stopped a few hours ago.

The unnamed man raised an eyebrow at him, face contorted in an unknown emotion, before turning his back on the boy. "Mr. Fielding, why attack the child, may I ask?"

The creature rushed at the man in response. Sam squeezed his eyes tightly shut, unwell to watch his rescuer be disassembled by some bloodthirsty being. He could hear the sound of a knife meeting flesh and he felt bile rising in his throat.

The next thing Sam was aware of was a cool hand on his forehead.

"Are you alright?"

His hero was crouched in front of him, face soft as he stared at Sam. The question brought many sensations to the surface – his hand was burning, his neck ached, and his back felt like the skin had been grinded off of it.

Nothing his father ever taught him included this.

Tears burned down Sam's cheeks. He knew he should move away from this man – don't trust anyone, his father's voice echoed in his head.

But this man had saved him.

But he also made that thing fly feet in the air without touching it.

But he had saved him.

"W-who are you?" His tongue felt like lead.

The man looked confused, as if he hadn't expected such a question. Then he smiled; it was sad and strangely hopeful. "You can call me Harry."

Harry touched Sam's forehead again. The pavement and headless body disappeared and the ten year old found himself sitting on the floor in the motel room he had left only a half-hour ago. It seemed much longer.

"How did you do that?" He stood, stumbling away from Harry, who now stood straight and looked much taller than he probably was.

Witch. The words chanted themselves in Sam's head. His father had hunted a witch only two weeks ago, coming home with a long, deep cut on his side that Dean had stitched up, hands shaking.

"I'm not a witch." Harry said, as if he could read Sam's mind.

Sam didn't relax.

Harry sighed. "I'll leave, but please let me heal you first?"

"How do I know you won't just kill me?"

"I just saved your life; why would I kill you now?"

"I-I don't know!" Sam burst out. He just wanted to curl in his bed and hide his face under the pillow. He wanted Dean to come back and give him that cheeky grin and ruffle his hair. His brother had always made him feel safer, no matter how annoying the older boy was.

Stepping slowly, Harry touched his forehead lightly for the third time, encasing Sam in a warm heat that made his head tingle pleasantly.

"There." Harry said, nodding his head, black hair drooping over his eyes. "And I believe these are yours?"

There, in his hands, sat Sam's dropped soda and bag of chips.

Sam nodded absently, too busy examining the healed cut on his palm. It was still that light pink of a new scar, but it would fade.

"What was that thing?" He asked, looking back up at the man, no small amount of awe in his eyes.

Harry had just healed him after all. The previous pain in his neck had evaporated, the burning along his back had faded, and his fingers were still stroking the healed skin of his hand.

Harry sat the untaken soda and chips on the bed, folding his hand behind his back. "That was a newly turned vampire."

Sam shook his head. "I've seen vampires before. They've never acted so..." He searched for the words. "They seemed smarter than that."

Harry frowned. "Perhaps the ones you've seen have been taken in by other vampires – taught to blend in. Mr. Fielding was newly turned and sought to take his revenge on those who wronged him with his new found...abilities."

"But none of the bodies had teeth marks." Sam interjected, remembering the sheets of paper lying across one of the double beds, the various debates spoken by his father and brother on what might be killing these people. "They died by strangulation." Sam brought a hand to his neck.

Harry nodded. "Mr. Fielding was one of the oddest vampires I'd ever seen. He did not drink from any of his victims... He did however drain his wife dry. They will find her body in a few days, I suspect. Mr. Fielding has not been reported missing because of that. Had your father had any of this information, I'm sure he would have come to a different conclusion."

"That doesn't explain why he came after me, though."

"Perhaps you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." Harry offered, one shoulder lifting up in a small shrug. "Now," Harry walked towards the door, "I shall leave you to your own devices. Do not run into danger like that again, please."

"I didn't know a vampire was going to come after me!" Sam retorted hotly.

Harry gave a smile, the only happy and genuine one Sam had seen yet. "I know exactly what you mean."

And then he vanished.

"You found him then?" Death asked, placing his burger to the side as he examined Harry with sharp eyes.

"Yes," Harry replied. "I think so." He resisted the urge to twist his fingers around his sleeve or perhaps bounce his knee. He felt too still – like everything else was moving, but he was just sitting here unchanged.

"He saw you, correct?"

"No human should have been able to detect my presence."

"And Azazel's blood?"

Harry grimaced, before composing his face back to that impassive mask. Death had told him he needed to stop it – stop feeling all those human emotions.

You are not a human anymore, Harry, and keeping those emotions will kill you.

But I can't die.

It is not a matter of your body losing its life. The mind is a wonderful and terrible creation. Compassion will be your death, child.

"That is the question, isn't it? Sam only noticed my presence after the blood had touched his lips..." Harry trailed off, feeling the knot in his stomach. He had been so hopeful, but the longer he thought (and merlin he had all the time in the word to just think and think and think) it seemed less and less likely. "But he had been asleep before that. Also, none of the other infected children acknowledged me."

Hope is meaningless. Your friends will never come. You will die here, Harry Potter. Voldemort's voice whispered in his head, curling around his thoughts like smoke.

Death seemed to echo Voldemort's words. "Do not get your hopes up."