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"So, what's the town lore? Ghost stories? Paranormal activities?" Sam Winchester asked the band of teenagers with cocky looks on their faces. "Come on, every town has one. What's this one?"
The oldest looking boy had a cruel look darkening his face that made Sam almost regret asking these heathens as they hovered outside of an arcade like a bunch of thugs.
"We have our fair share of ghost stories that would get you to piss your trousers, but over on 4 Privet Drive there was the Dursleys' and their freak nephew..."
*
"The legend is that the Dursleys’ cruelly murdered their nephew when he was eleven, and he killed the Uncle, Vernon Dursley, and ran out the cousin and Aunt, Dudley, and Petunia. Now no one can live there because everyone reports that they hear a child screaming, and bones breaking. Blood appears on the walls for no reason, there is a scent of burnt breakfast and sizzling skin."
"Damn," Dean let out a low whistle. "No one knows the kids name?"
Sam shook his head, still looking at the open website in front of him. "Nope. He's only known as the Dursleys’ freak nephew, it's in every report, and it's said that Petunia Dursley was screaming something about her freak sisters devil spawn killing her husband as she ran with her son in tow."
"What's the address again?" Dean asked, to which Sam reported back promptly after finding it again.
"It looks like we have a little salt n burn tomorrow morning and then we can get the hell back to Bobby's." Dean grunted and toed off his shoes. "I'm ready to get back to my baby."
"You and that car," Sam muttered with an eyeroll.
"I heard that," Dean snapped from his bed.
"Whatever."
"Bitch."
"Jerk."
*
"This place is weird as hell." Dean muttered as he pulls the rental over in front of their destination.
"This is what a well to do normal neighborhood looks like Dean." Sam rolled his eyes, surveying the house.
"Yeah," Dean huffed, looking at Sam. "Weird as hell. Why would a ghost haunt here?"
"Other than the obvious reasons?" Sam looked away from the house and to the woman staring at them.
She had about thirty cats around her, and strange clothing.
"Good morning," Sam nodded at the woman. Her frown increased.
"Good morning." She pursed her lips and walked closer, her swarm of cats coming with her and somehow getting even more erratic.
"You aren't hoping to buy number 4, are you?" Her frown turned sad, and her shoulders slumps.
"We were coming to look at it. How come you say that?" Dean asked coming around the car to stand with Sam and the woman.
"Something awful happened in that house. It's no surprise no one told you. No one sane wants anything to do with that house." Her tone was one of mourning.
"What happened in there?" Sam asked, looking back towards the house.
"A boy, about eleven, lived there. Well, two of them. Harry Potter and Dudley Dursley. Harry was orphaned when he was a baby, and was sent to his mothers awful sisters house with her family. Harry was sweet as can be, always offering to help, even when he was almost passing out due to malnutrition and abuse. Dudley Dursley on the other hand would gather his mates and beat down Harry as much as they could catch him, but that boy was a fast runt, let me tell you. He would have those boys running up and down this street for hours before they caught him." She shook her head, a tear dripping from her eye. "I babysat him, you know? Harry. When the Dursleys’ went on their fancy vacations, they would drop Harry off with me, and he would stay and hardly say a word."
"Vernon Dursley was an awful man, there was no way all those bruises came from Dudley alone. There were man hands on that boy." Her eyes were distant as she spoke, staring somewhere off to the house. "I wrote and wrote, and yet, no one ever came. And then he was dead."
She gave a humorless laugh. "They sure came then, but they were too late."
"Who came?" Dean's voice sounded beside him, and the woman's eyes drifted shut in pain.
"No one that will help in any way unless it benefits them." She sniffed and one of her many cats yowled in distress.
"I better go, I have dinner on the stove and it's time to feed the cats." She turned and added over her shoulder when she was a bit away. "You're free to come over to get something to eat, you boys do seem like you need some meat on your bones. If he hasn't ran you off yet."
"Wait, we didn't get your name!" Sam called out while Dean went around the house.
"Just call me Ms. Arabella Figg, everyone does." She waved an absent hand and disappeared into her house with her swarm of cats.
*
"Hey, the EMF is picking up something," Dean said as soon as Sam entered the house.
"Where?" Sam asked, taking a curious look around.
His brother was standing in front of an old closet. "Here," his voice was low and his head was dipped to the cabinet.
"Bust it open," Dean whispered, and held up a hand with a finger held up. He had just gotten to three when a loud stomping noise sounded upstairs.
Dean nodded sharply to the door and Sam followed the directed and swung the door open on squealing hinges.
Just to reveal a boy that couldn't be more than seven looking up from the cupboard with a growing look of horror on his face.
*
"What are you doing in here," Dean hissed, throwing glances up the stairs and reaching in the cupboard, just for his hand to go through the boys arm.
The look of horror increased and Sam could see the boys wide, terrified eyes fill with tears.
"Freak!" A bellow sounded through the air.
"He'll hurt you if he sees you. I can help you. I can protect you." With a flick of his wrist the Winchesters’ are thrown silently in the cupboard and they heard the sickening click of the lock slide true.
*
It was crowded, Dean thought as the first half hour passed. The ghost boy allowed them to take up most of the space, but they were still two grown men in a tiny space.
Dean wasn't sure who was stomping around upstairs, but he had a good idea who it was, by the shaking of the child ghost in front of them.
Immediately after they were slung into the small closet, the boy gave out strict instructions on what to do and what not to do.
To do: stay silent, don't venture out of the cupboard, don't cry, don't ask questions, stay still.
What not to do: make noise of any kind, move, go out of the cupboard.
Sam was getting angsty and Dean frequently had to nudge him with his elbow to stop him from fidgeting.
Dean didn't know exactly why they were hiding from a ghost with a ghost, but he saw the wide, round green eyes of the child and caved.
It made Sam look at him strangely many times as they stayed, but he didn't say anything.
*
Harry didn't know who the two men in the cupboard with him were, but they felt safe. He felt the need to keep them safe away from Uncle Vernon.
Uncle Vernon shouldn't be able to touch a hair on these men's heads. They hadn't done anything wrong. They weren't freaks. They weren't like him.
They shouldn't be in the cupboard. They shouldn't be in 4 Privet Drive. It wasn't safe, it wasn't happy.
Harry had complete plans on getting the two men out as soon as Uncle Vernon was back in his room and quiet once more.
Of course, he knew what came before that, but he could keep Uncle Vernon away from the two, he could.
*
The boy, assumingly Harry Potter, gave a sad smile to Sam and Dean and before they could even speak of the dread that poured in their stomachs—dread that wasn't entirely theirs—the door was thrown open and the boy snatched out, without a glance towards the two much larger and much more solid looking men.
The door shut with a slam, but they were relieved, even if they could easily burst through the door, that they did not hear the click of the lock.
There was screaming, obscenities, curses, and then nothing. It was sudden. It was unnerving.
Sam looked over to Dean with a frown. This silence was the normal, just the absence of sound, this seemed artificial. Unnatural.
Dean looked at the motion he seen in his peripheral vision and nudged Sam's leg. There was thick, red blood slowly inching its way into the cupboard.
The silence was oppressive, loud in a way silence shouldn't be.
Just as they were about to burst through the door, it quietly opened. A mangled, bloody boy stood at the entrance, his eyes were cast down, but it didn't cover the fact that the boys face was caved in on the left side.
His body was shaking like a leaf, swaying with a wind the two men didn't feel.
"You shouldn't be here," the broken whisper sounded like a gunshot in the air. "It's not safe. You haven't done anything wrong. You're not a freak."
His voice was quiet, almost as quiet as Sam's breathing, but the brothers heard every word that passed the boys bitten lips.
"You should go, before he comes back." The boy leaned on the door heavily, his blood staining it. He looked at it with a frown on his face.
"Can you show us where his body is?" Sam kept his voice just as quiet, crouching a safe distance away just in case the spirit lunges.
"I can't leave my cupboard." He admitted quietly, a tear leaving his eye.
"You're out of it now, aren't you?" Dean butted in, speaking softly.
Something like hope shone in the boys single eye that wasn't damaged. A creak sounded from upstairs. The spark was stamped out just as quick as it came.
"He'll notice." The boy shook his head. "I can't show you."
Sam let out a breath, his shoulders falling.
A determined and sad look appeared on the boys face. As if he knew what the two grown men were going to do.
"There's a cemetery, three blocks from here. If you take a left, you'll find the cemetery. Look for Vernon Dursley, it should be near the entrance."
"If you can't leave your cupboard, then how do you know this?" Dean asked, a suspicious look on his face.
"I don't really know," Harry tilted his head. "But there's a man who comes around every now and then. He's really busy so he doesn't come around often. He usually tells me if one of the people in robes are coming, and tells me to hide if they do. He didn't tell me about you."
There was a childlike curiosity on the boys face, and in front of their eyes, the boys limp arm that was bent at an angle, straightened into place, the bone grinding and he moved it as if it had never been broken.
His face and head took more time, but Sam and Dean watched with disgusted faces as the boys head healed and he appeared to be the boy they had met first.
He saw their disgusted looks. "It doesn't hurt, not anymore. It looks pretty awful, but I can't feel it."
He cleared his throat, pointedly looking up the stairs. "You should go, so he doesn't come back sooner rather than later. It's not exactly nice being cramped up in a cupboard, is it?"
"Just one more thing," Sam promised. "Arabella Figg, she knew you. Would she know where your body is?"
Harry shook his head. "Uncle Vernon hid it well. I can't even find it, but the nice man said it's safe. I'm sorry, you need to leave now."
"We're going," Dean nodded, grasping Sam by the bicep.
"Thank you," the boy said softly as they reached the back door. "You made me feel safe for the first time in my life. I hope the man lets you live long lives, out of everyone, you deserve it."
Sam and Dean watched the boy return back to the damning cupboard, with quiet horror on their faces.
*
"Why don't we go to Ms. Figg's house for dinner?" Dean asked, leaning against the car.
"You're really thinking of eating after that?" Sam made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.
"Free food and intel. The woman knew Potter before he died." Dean pointed out, already making his way to the woman's driveway.
Sam scoffed, but following his brother.
*
"Hi, Harry," the nice man whispered, pulling his knees up in the cupboard. There wasn't really a need for them to be in the cupboard; Vernon stayed far away from the man every time he came.
"Hi," the boy whispered back, looking at the robed figure who had a triangle with a circle and line in it pendant on it.
"How are you doing today?"
"Same old," Harry admitted, resting his head on his knees. "There were two men here today."
The man tensed, his spine going ramrod straight. "The robed men?"
Harry shook his head. "They were in normal clothes. Had an American accent, too. They felt..safe. Like you, but different."
"Did Vernon see them?" Harry shook his head once more.
"I pulled them in the cupboard with me."
"With your magic?" Harry's alarmed look was all he needed to know. "Did they bother you?"
"They were nice." Harry shook his head, a smile playing on his face. "They asked weird questions, though."
"What kind of questions, Harry?" The man asked, his head tilting and robe hood shifting.
"Where Uncle Vernon's body was located, and if Ms. Figg would know where mine is." Harry pulled at a loose string in his trousers.
"Do you know who they were?" Harry shook his head.
"I'd never seen them before, and they didn't say each others names." Harry sighed, dropping his trouser leg to pick up the dark green army man that was broken.
He turned the toy over in his hands as they sat in silence.
"Can you show me?" Harry nodded and stared up into the mans hood, where he instinctively knew where the mans eyes were.
"Sam and Dean Winchester. Sons of John and Mary Winchester, both deceased." The man hummed.
"So, they're orphans, like me." Harry nodded, a frown pulling at his face. "At least they have each other."
"Harry," the man whispered, carding a hand through the boys hair.
"I know," Harry huffed. "I can wait. I just hate being here, in this house, in this cupboard. When I died, I thought I was finally going to be free from this place, only to wake up back here."
"Soon, Harry, soon you won't be here anymore, you won't have to see this place ever again." The man promised, his parting words every time he came.
"Alright," Harry nodded, a forlorn look on his face.
*
Turns out, Ms. Figg had quite a bit of information, even though it wasn't where the child ghost's body was, it was all still quite useful. Like the exact directions of Vernon Dursley's plot in the cemetery, and the approximate place for where Petunia lived now, which was four towns over.
Apparently, she didn't wish to go too far from her husband's grave.
Ms. Figg told the hunters that Harry had been born the 31st of July 1980, just a year after Dean and a couple years before Sam.
She liked to gush on how kind the boy was, and how he would rather spend the day alone in the public library than with those horrid relatives of his.
Dean was infuriated with the relatives of Harry J. Potter and the only thing that was stopping him from marching across the street to shoot a round of special bullets for kicking ghost ass was his brother's shocked face.
Even then, they went that night, and the salt and burn of one Vernon Dursley was a pleasure to do for both the Winchester boys.
*
The night was quiet, but more peaceful than it was earlier. They weren't entirely sure if Potter wasn't a vengeful ghost, or merely just a bad memory tied to the house or Dursley himself.
It was a 50-50 chance on whether or not the boy from the cupboard under the stairs would be there, but as Sam quietly picked the lock with Dean on the lookout for spying neighbors, both of them smelling of smoke and fire, they couldn't help but feel better . Even if they would have to track down Potter's bones, they felt good having taken a horrid ghost out of commission and let the boy experience a bit of peace.
Sam gently eased the door open. No ghostly sight greeted them and Sam shook his head. Dean gave a sigh of relief, and turned to head back outside when Sam made him pause with a grip on his arm. Dean scanned the parts of the house he could see but nothing struck him out of the ordinary–until he heard giggling. That definitely wasn’t normal in the dead of the night to be heard in a recently haunted house.
Dean follows his brother as they creep up the stairs and get on either side of a door. Salt and burns usually work if not always, but some ghosts are more tricky than others. Dean takes the lead and lets the door swing open.
The giggling stops and Dean peeks his head in… "Harry Potter?”
“You came back?” Harry asked and Dean lowered his gun. He crouches down in front of the boy in a room filled of broken or discarded toys. “Why?” He tilted his head, but he didn’t look hostile, so Sam eased his gun down as well and looked around.
“We wanted to make sure Dursley was gone,” said Dean hesitantly. “What are you doing?”
“I figured that might have been the two of you who done that.” Harry nodded and looked back at his hands, where a small army man figurine that was disfigured was. “I was looking for more army men, Dudley used to have a lot. He liked to break them so Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would get him new ones. If I was sneaky enough, I would be able to snag one, but Uncle Vernon caught me once. I never came back in here until now.”
Harry’s voice trailed off and the two men shifted uncomfortably. Sam shifted and asked, “hey, Harry?” The boy looked up at the sound of his name and tilted his head. “Want us to help you try to find some?”
“You’d do that?” His eyes darted from Dean and Sam and when they nodded, he gave a big grin. “I’ve already went through these,” he motioned towards the semi-clean and straightened group of toys they hadn’t noticed at first. “Some girl was writing love letters to Dudley, of all people. They were weird.”
Dean laughed and shook his head, “yeah, I’ll bet reading love letters to your cousin almost three decades later would be weird.”
A silence came over the room; Harry was staring at Dean with an indescribable look on his face. “Has it really been that long?”
“It’s 2007, you would have been murdered in 19–” Harry cut Sam off.
“1990.” Harry’s face was stoic. “Nine years after my parents.” Harry took a deep breath and abruptly choked. “I’d be twenty-nine if I lived?”
Sam started laughing as Dean’s face corroded into sorrow. Harry was confused by the contrast of reactions and Sam explained, “Dean just turned thirty, he’s a year older than you.”
“Oh.” Harry tilted his head and gained a mischievous grin. “You don’t look thirty.”
“Thank you, Harry,” he smiled. It soothed to hear he didn’t look—
“You look thirty-nine.” Harry said in a matter-of-fact way. It sent Sam into lung squeezing belly laughs and Dean wailed of betrayal and hurt.
*
“Well, I guess this is good-bye.” Sam said to Harry. Dean had been on the quiet side all morning, and Sam was anxious to know why.
Harry wasn’t violent, and if they ever found out he was, they’d just have to come back and gank him, but Sam wasn’t worried.
Harry nodded from the door. It was the beginning of sunrise and Harry let them sleep in the still furnished house without any ire. “I don’t think it’s much of a good-bye, more like see you later.”
Sam tilted his head, a habit he’d picked up from Harry in their short time together. He went to speak, but Dean beat him to it, “what are you going to do now?”
“I reckon I’ll stay here like I have been doing until the nice man takes me away. He say’s soon but he’s said that ever since I met him.” Harry shrugged and sank to sit on the door jamb.
“Who is the nice man?” Dean asked, a protective streak flaring up that Sam was shocked to see.
“I don’t know his name; he never told me.” Harry shook his head and looked at the two brothers.
“Right, well, good-bye, Harry.” Dean said gruffly, slamming the car door just a little too hard to be accidental.
“See you later, Sam and Dean.” Sam raised a hand in farewell and got in the car with Dean. They were cruising down the road when Dean glanced in the rearview mirror and braked hard.
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam slammed his hands on the dash and glared at his brothers. He looked back and seen what caused Dean’s reaction. A man was standing right behind Harry, his hands clasped over his shoulders in a protective hold. “You reckon that is the ‘nice man’ Harry talked about?”
“I think it is,” grunted Dean, driving once again with only one more glance at the now empty doorway.
*
Harry strode up the driveway. There was a bunch of towering cars broken down and beaten up, and Harry thought that it was a fitting image for a garage shop, or whatever it was called, from the ground. If you looked at the sky point of view, though, you would see it was a huge devils trap, with Bobby Singer’s house right in the middle of it.
And that was right where he was heading.
He knocked on the door and met eyes with Dean Winchester. “Hey, Dean. Hey, Sam. I heard you blokes were in a bind and needed some help. I was in the area. I got a friend that will help.”
He nodded respectively at Bobby Singer, who wasn’t even trying to hide his gun from where it was pointing at his chest. “I’m Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter. And Master of Death.”
As if summoned, Harry’s ‘nice man’, or as they soon learned to be Death, appeared right behind Harry with a cordial nod.