Southern Hospitality
Harry staggered through the front door, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. His ribs were wrapped tightly beneath his shirt, and his fractured shoulder throbbed with a dull, relentless ache. The potion he'd downed right after the hunt had started to work, knitting bones back together with the speed only magic could offer. But he knew the soreness wasn’t going anywhere for at least a few days.
The house was dark, cold, and—he realized with a sigh—just as he'd left it. Dirty clothes scattered on the floor, papers piled haphazardly on the table, and empty takeaway containers stacked in the kitchen. His last hunt had been a nightmare, and right now, food was the only thing on his mind. But standing, much less cooking, felt like climbing a mountain.
Harry winced as he sank onto the edge of the couch, holding his ribs. Merlin, he thought, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He was desperate, hungry, and too damn tired to even Apparate to a takeaway.
In a moment of desperation, something sparked in his mind—a half-formed memory.
Trixi.
He hadn’t thought about her in so long. The house-elf he and Ginny had purchased just before everything had gone wrong. When Ginny left, Harry had let Trixi stay on but… he hadn’t thought about her since he left.
And Harry had never called.
“Worth a shot,” he muttered under his breath, though part of him didn’t think it would work. He hesitated for a second, then snapped his fingers, “Trixi?”
Nothing happened.
Harry groaned and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Should’ve known.”
But then—POP!
A sharp crack echoed through the room, and Harry’s eyes snapped open. Standing in front of him, looking completely stunned, was Trixi.
“Oh! Master Harry!” Trixi squealed, her enormous, teary eyes growing wider as she took in the state of the house. “Oh, oh no! What has happened here?” Her voice trembled as she clapped her tiny hands to her cheeks in horror. “Look at this mess!”
Harry blinked, still processing that she was actually here. “Trixi?”
But she wasn’t listening. Her eyes darted around the room, her expression one of sheer panic. “This is not acceptable! Not for Master Harry Potter!” She hurried into the bathroom before he could even explain. “Oh, no, no, no! Bloody rags on the floor? Clothes covered in blood! Oh, Master Harry, you poor thing!”
Harry could hear her gasping as she picked up the bloodied towels from the floor, her tiny hands shaking.
He winced, pulling himself upright despite the pain. “Trixi, I’m sorry— I didn’t know I could… send for you.”
Trixi froze, looking at him as though he had said something utterly absurd. “Didn’t know you could send for Trixi?” She rushed over, flinging herself at him in a tight, warm hug despite his injuries. “Master Harry can always send for Trixi! Always! Trixi is here to help! Why didn’t Master call sooner?”
Harry chuckled, though it hurt his ribs. “Honestly? I didn’t want to bother you. And—well—I didn’t think it’d work.”
Trixi’s wide eyes brimmed with tears as she pulled back to look at him. “Trixi is never bothered by Master Harry! Never! Oh, the state you’re in! You’re hurt! Master should have called for Trixi!”
He felt a lump of guilt rise in his throat. “I can handle myself, Trixi. But, yeah… I might’ve overdone it this time.”
Trixi sniffled and hurried back to the bathroom, gathering up the rest of the mess. “Master Harry is too brave, and that’s the problem!” she muttered as she set the bloodied rags to vanish with a snap of her own fingers. “Not sending for poor Trixi when Master is all hurt and hungry!”
Harry sank back into the couch, relief washing over him. She was really here, and she was already fussing over the mess he hadn’t had the energy to clean.
As she worked, Trixi paused suddenly and turned to him, her hands on her hips. “Has Master Harry eaten?”
He shook his head sheepishly. “Wasn’t up to cooking.”
Trixi’s eyes widened. “No cooking?! Oh, no, no, no!” She clapped her hands together, her face brightening. “Trixi will make Master Harry his favorite. Yes, Trixi will make stroganoff!”
Harry’s eyes lit up. “Stroganoff? Really?” His voice cracked slightly, a squeal of excitement escaping him before he could stop it. “Trixi, you’re amazing!”
Trixi beamed at him, her ears twitching with pride. “Of course! Stroganoff for Master Harry! It will be ready in no time.”
As she darted into the kitchen, Harry sighed in relief, a soft smile spreading across his face. For the first time in days, the weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter. The pain in his ribs and shoulder was still there, but the thought of a hot meal—his favorite meal—lifted his spirits.
“Trixi,” he called after her, “thank you.”
The house-elf popped her head back around the corner, her eyes shining with warmth. “Trixi is always happy to help Master Harry. Always.” She disappeared back into the kitchen with a determined look, already starting to gather ingredients with a few magical flourishes.
Harry leaned back, closing his eyes with a contented sigh. Maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
Harry had promised Trixi a week of rest before taking on another job, but peace never lasted long for hunters. A call came in about strange deaths in Baton Rouge—bodies with bizarre markings, whispers of dark rituals, and talk of voodoo. Harry was familiar enough with voodoo to know that if someone was abusing its power, it could lead to a world of trouble. So, he packed up and hit the road, his bike roaring beneath him for a nine-hour stretch.
By the time he arrived in Baton Rouge, he was sore and stiff, but the warm, sticky air and the scent of mossy wood almost felt like a welcome. The city had an old magic in it, thick and heavy, buzzing under the surface. After parking his bike in front of a dingy bar with a flickering neon sign, Harry set off into town, not for a drink but to gather intel.
His first stop was a small street vendor selling gopher dust. The vendor, an older man with a gray beard and a raspy voice, eyed Harry curiously as he approached.
"Afternoon," Harry greeted with a friendly nod. "Heard you got some of the good stuff—gopher dust, right?"
The man grinned, revealing a missing tooth. "That I do. Keeps away bad spirits." He pulled a small pouch from beneath the table. "You know how to use it?"
Harry nodded, picking up the pouch and inspecting it closely. "Sprinkle it at your doorways, windowsills. Keeps out anything unwanted."
The man gave him a knowing look. "You know your stuff. You got trouble followin’ ya?"
"Maybe," Harry said, handing over more than enough cash for the gopher dust. "Heard some people’ve been having trouble lately. Strange deaths, mysterious markings. You know anything about that?"
The vendor’s smile faded slightly, and he shook his head. "Not much, but folks are talkin’. Things ain’t right, that’s for sure. You be careful askin’ ‘bout that, though. Some purple might get nervous. We're weary off outsiders here and you ain't exactly local.”
Harry gave a light chuckle, tipping his head. "Appreciate the warning." He handed the man an extra bill, who blinked in surprise but pocketed it quickly.
His next stop was a small corner shop selling red brick dust. A woman sat behind the counter, her bright headscarf wrapping her hair tightly. Her eyes were sharp as she saw Harry walk in.
"Lookin' for something special?" she asked as he approached the counter, her gaze studying him closely.
"Red brick dust," Harry said with a grin. "Need some extra protection."
She raised an eyebrow, grabbing a jar of the fine dust from the shelf. "Protection, huh? You gettin' into trouble, or is trouble followin’ you?"
"Trouble seems to find me," Harry replied with a casual shrug, placing the money on the counter—more than what the dust was worth. "Heard some folks around here have been having a rough time. Strange deaths, dark magic. Have you heard anything?"
The woman hesitated, glancing around the shop as if checking if anyone else was listening. "People talk. Sayin' dark magic’s at play, but most folks ‘round here don’t mess with that. We use voodoo for good—healing, protection and such."
Harry leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You think someone’s using it for something else? Darker stuff?"
She eyed him for a moment before sighing. "There are always a few who don’t respect the power they’re messin’ with. You askin' the wrong folks, though. If you want answers, you need to talk to Kaha, she a voodoo priestess. Learned from her daddy who learned from his. She the one who knows what’s goin’ on, if anyone does."
Harry smiled warmly. "Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep that in mind." He slid an extra few bills across the counter, and the woman raised her eyebrows.
"You tip too much," she said with a small smile, pocketing the cash. "But I won’t complain."
Harry chuckled and nodded. "Just trying to spread some goodwill."
Leaving the shop, he continued deeper into the market, eventually stepping into a small, dimly lit voodoo shop. The air was thick with incense, and talismans hung from the ceiling, swaying gently as Harry walked in. The shopkeeper, a wiry man with bright eyes, greeted him from behind a glass counter.
"Lookin' for something specific, friend?" the man asked, watching Harry with keen interest.
Harry approached, glancing at the talismans on display. "Maybe. I’ve been hearing about some strange things happening around town. Figured it’d be smart to grab some protection while I ask around."
The shopkeeper’s smile widened, and he slid a protection talisman across the counter. "This one’s good. Keep bad spirits at bay. But sounds like you're askin' about more than just a talisman.”
Harry picked up the talisman, inspecting it thoughtfully. "Yeah. Heard about some deaths. Bodies turning up with markings, people whispering about dark rituals. You ever come across anything like that?"
The shopkeeper’s face tightened briefly before he forced a more relaxed expression. "We do voodoo here, sure. But we don’t mess with the dark stuff. That’s bad for business—and for your soul. Leave a strain no’tin can scrub out."
Harry chuckled, setting the talisman down and reaching for his wallet. "I hear you. But someone in town is. Any idea who?"
The shopkeeper shifted slightly before leaning in closer, his voice dropping. "There’s a priestess, Kaha. She’s the one you want to talk to. She don’ deal in the dark stuff, but she got her ear to da ground. If anyone’s heard about these deaths, is her."
Harry nodded, handing over more cash than necessary, as he usually did. His money grew at a rate he'd never spend so he didn't mind. The shopkeeper blinked at the amount but didn’t argue, slipping it into the till.
"Appreciate the help," Harry said with a friendly smile.
"You be careful, man," the shopkeeper warned. "Messin' with dark magic can bite back hard."
"I know," Harry said, tucking the talisman into his jacket. "But I’ve been bitten before."
With the tips in hand and a clear direction, Harry took off. He found Kaha's shop, it had a plain purple door that was unlabeled and had no windows. He almost missed it except for the familiar pull of magic in the air.
As Harry stepped into Kaha’s shop, the rich aroma of herbs and incense washed over him. The place was dimly lit, but warm, with various talismans and jars lining the walls. Kaha herself sat behind a wooden counter, her dark eyes sharp and intelligent as she watched him approach. She wore a headwrap of deep purple, and her fingers moved with a practiced grace as she mixed herbs into a small pouch.
"You're Kaha?" Harry asked, his voice soft but respectful.
"I am," she replied, not looking up from her work. "And you must be the british one dats been askin all those questions.”
Harry smiled. "I guess word travels fast around here."
Kaha chuckled. "Word travel faster dan any spell could, hun. Now, what you think?” She asked, gesturing to the shop around her.
He took a moment to look around the shop, noting the careful arrangement of items, the subtle power in the air. "It's beautiful," Harry said thoughtfully. "I’ve always been fascinated by magic. The way different cultures approach it, the respect they give it. You’ve got something special here. It almost feels like the shop is alive.”
That caught her attention. She paused, raising her eyes to meet his. "Not many who come t’rough ere understand dat. Most just see what we do as some superstitious nonsense. But you…you know better, don’t yah?"
Harry just smiled back and Kaha studied him, her sharp eyes narrowing with curiosity. "So," she said, her voice low and smooth, testing the waters. "Let’s see if you really know your stuff. What’s the difference between voodoo and hoodoo, hm?"
Harry grinned slightly, catching the challenge in her tone. "Voodoo’s a religion, rooted in West African traditions, combined with elements from Catholicism and other beliefs. It’s a whole way of life—ceremony, community, spirit worship. Hoodoo, on the other hand, is more of a folk magic practice. Less about worship, more about using the power in nature, herbs, and ritual to influence things like luck, love, and protection."
Kaha raised an eyebrow, impressed but not showing it yet. "And the loa? What ya know bout dem?"
Harry nodded. "They’re the spirits in voodoo—intermediaries between the human world and Bondye, the big creator. Each loa has their own personality and domain. Like Papa Legba, who’s the gatekeeper to the spirit world, or Baron Samedi, who watches over the dead."
Kaha leaned back slightly, impressed. "Not bad for an outsider. You study it, practice it, or born wit it?"
"A bit of all of the above really," Harry admitted with a shrug.
Kaha leaned forward slightly, her eyes glinting with intrigue. "And in hoodoo, how would you call on protection if you were fixin' to deal with some dark stuff?"
Harry thought for a moment, and then said, "Depends on what I had on hand. Red brick dust, to start. Lay it across the threshold, it’ll stop anything evil from crossing. Or I’d use gopher dust, mixed with black salt, maybe even a bit of agrimony for extra strength. And if things got really bad, I’d burn some dragon’s blood resin to banish whatever was hanging around."
Kaha’s lips curved into a slow smile, clearly impressed. "Not bad. Not bad at all. Most folk comin' t’rough here tink dey can just t’row some sage ‘round and be done wit it. You know your roots."
Harry shrugged, his smile humble. "I’ve done a little research.”
Kaha chuckled, her eyes softening with approval. "Alright, Harry. You passed ma little test. But tell me," she said, her voice dropping, "what are ya really after?"
That’s when Harry leaned in, dropping the pretense. "Honestly? I hunt monsters. And with all these strange deaths, people talking about dark magic… I had to come. Word is, if anyone knows what’s going on, it’s you."
Kaha sat back, giving a slow nod, clearly pleased that Harry had earned her trust. "Well, now we’re gettin' somewhere." A smile tugged at the corners of Kaha’s lips. "I appreciate dat ya told me da truth. Two boy come in here earlier today, trying to dig ‘round, ask some question I don't want be answer. When I asked why, dey lie. Say dey workin’ on some local paper. Psh," she scoffed. "Ain’t no paper runnin’ a story on dis now."
Harry couldn’t help but chuckle softly. "Yeah, sounds about right. Most hunters are secretive"
Kaha shook her head in mild irritation. "I don’ trust people who lie to ma face. But you, you’re honest. So, I’m tell you what I wouldn’ tell dem." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Few year ago, a man come in here. Wantin’ my help contactin' an old voodoo spirit. Say he wantin’ ta make a trade—magic and power, in exchange for whatever the spirit wanted."
Harry frowned. "And you refused."
"A’course," Kaha said sharply. "We don’a play wit dat kind'a foolishness round here. I told him ta leave, that we don’ mess with dat for a reason. Da spirits, dey ask a price no decent man would pay. It leave stains and tears in da soul. But the man spit at me! He try ta curse me in ma own shop, he did. I been usin’ every protection I know since den."
"And he just decided to delve into voodoo all of a sudden?" Harry asked.
"He was a practicer ‘imself for a long time. Just da basic stuff. Used to own da old book shop down at the corner," Kaha said, her voice quieter now. "But it burn down, with him wife and children inside. They die in dat fire while he was drinkin’ at sum bar. Me tinks he was tryin ta bring dem back! But dat kinda magic…it don’ come cheap.”
She shook her head sadly, “him still own the place—it be condemned now, but the basement still standin’. I think he been hiding out there ever since. If you wanna find him, you be careful. He got friends on da other side.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed, a chill running down his spine. "Do you know if he’s still… practicing?"
Kaha nodded grimly. "That kind of darkness don’ just go away. It cling to a person. He still playin’ wit powers he shouldn’ be. Don mind payin’ dark price when he got nothin’ left ta lose. I’ve felt it—an unease in da air. The taste of death and darkness."
Harry exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the information settle over him. "Thanks for telling me. This helps a lot."
Kaha’s expression softened slightly. "Jus’ be careful, hunter. Dat man dangerous. One more ting.” She added, voice softening, “When ya see ma cousin, Missouri ‘er name, you tell ‘er I said hi, alright? Ain't seen her in a long time, she be down in Kansas now last i ‘ere. But she be good to ya. Ta all 3 of you. And go easy on dat boy…he's rough ‘round da edges but he had a harder life dan most should. You got that in common.”
"Missouri?" Harry asked nodding, he didn't understand what she was talking about, but had been around enough people like Luna not to question it. “I sure will. Can't wait to meet her.”
She nodded, then unexpectedly pulled him into a warm hug. "Stay safe. And I don’ know why but ya got the smell of death wrapped around you tighter den a snake ‘round a mouse. But it ain't t'reatenin’ ya. It aint gon hurt ya. It just be der. Almost like it's part of ya. Whatever ye be playin’ round wit’...you be careful. Death comes for us all in da end.”
Harry hugged her back and nodded, “death…is an old friend. We have a mutual understanding. I know one day we'll greet each other as old friends and he'll escort me into the next place. But until then he's no threat to me.” She nodded softly, pulling back looking confused but content.
As they parted, Harry’s stomach gave an audible growl. He laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Uh, one last thing. Where’s the best spot around here to grab some food?"
Kaha chuckled. "Head down to Mama's Diner. Best home-cookin’ in town, ya won’t regret it."
Harry gave her a grateful nod, already thinking about the promise of a hot meal. "Thanks again, Kaha. I’ll let Missouri know you said hi. And as for “him”... I'll try to go easy.”
With that, he left the shop and made his way through the humid streets, his mind swirling with the information he’d just gathered and his stomach leading the way toward Claire’s Diner.
The hunger gnawing at his stomach was growing by the minute as he walked. It had been too long since his last meal, and Louisiana’s soul food was practically calling his name.
He made his way to the small dimly lit place. the kind that always smelled like fried food and coffee. The ceiling was painted in patches of similar shades like someone only painted sections as needed, the floors and walls were worn, and there was music blasting in the back where the cooks worked. Harry smiled, knowing the food had to be delicious.
As Harry walked into the cozy, dimly lit diner, the smell of frying food and the warm buzz of conversation washed over him. It was a welcome break from the investigations that weighed heavily on his mind. The clinking of cutlery and the hum of voices filled the room, providing a comforting background noise. He slipped into a booth by the window, his eyes wandering over the other patrons before his stomach growled loudly, reminding him of his hunger. With a sigh, he leaned back and glanced out the window, trying to shake off the weariness of the case.
A round, dark-skinned woman with a broad smile and warm eyes approached his table, her presence as comforting as the aroma of the food wafting through the diner. Her thick accent immediately set the tone of Southern hospitality. "Hey, baby, welcome in. How ya doin' today?"
"I'm alright," Harry replied with a tired smile, rubbing his eyes. He could already feel the weight of exhaustion creeping up on him.
She chuckled softly. "Long day, was'it? Well, let me make it a little better for ya. Here's the menu. You take your time now."
Harry glanced down at the worn, laminated menu, but his decision was almost instant. His stomach growled again, pushing him toward comfort food. "I'll have the house special, please. All the sides you've got."
Her eyes twinkled with approval. "Now that's what I like to hear! You got good taste, honey. So, fried catfish with collard greens and fatback, red beans and rice, fried okra, and some cornbread. You want that with a sweet tea?"
Harry nodded, feeling his mouth water just from the description. "Sweet tea sounds perfect."
"Comin' right up, baby. You sit tight." She gave him a wink before turning away with a soft hum. As she walked off to place his order, Harry couldn't help but feel a bit lighter. There was something about the small acts of kindness and the simple pleasure of good food that made him feel more human again, even if it was just for a moment.
Time passed slowly as he stared out the window, lost in thought about the investigation. His yawn interrupted his reverie, and before he knew it, the waitress was back at his side with a steaming cup of coffee and a small plate of powdered beignets. She set them down gently on the table, her smile widening. "On the house, sugar. Look like you could use a little pick-me-up."
Harry blinked in surprise at the gesture, his heart warming at her kindness. "You didn't have to do that," he said, but she waved it off with a light laugh.
"You're too tired to argue. Just enjoy it."
He grinned softly, realizing she was right. As she moved to walk away, Harry quickly fished a $100 bill from his pocket and slid it across the table toward her. "Thank you, really."
She hesitated, her eyes widening as she saw the bill. "Oh no, baby, that's way too much—"
"It's just money," Harry interrupted gently. "Trust me, you deserve it."
For a moment, she looked like she might argue, but then her expression softened, and she gave him a quiet nod, quickly slipping the bill into her apron. "Thank ya, sugar. You’re too kind. I’ll make sure they get your order out quick."
As she walked away, Harry leaned back in the booth and sighed, feeling the tension slowly ebbing away. The creole woman’s kindness, the smell of fried catfish in the air, and the soft chatter of the
Harry had just finished the last of his coffee and beignets, the sweetness of the powdered sugar lingering on his tongue, when the familiar jingle of the diner door cut through the soft chatter. Of course, the universe decided to pull a cruel joke on him. The last two people he wanted to see swaggered inside, like something straight out of a bad dream.
Dean and Sam Winchester.
Sam, with his puppy-dog eyes and soft expression, looked about as tough as a pillow after a long day. Dean, however, was his usual cocky self—handsome as sin and twice as dangerous, with a swagger that screamed trouble. Harry almost groaned aloud. They hadn’t been able to leave his mind since their last unpleasant run-in in Idaho, and now here they were, strolling into this peaceful corner of Louisiana like they owned the damn place.
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his booth, instinctively leaning forward to hide his face. Maybe, if he was lucky, they wouldn’t spot him. But luck had never been on his side, had it?
He stood up, ready to make a quiet exit before things got ugly, but Sam’s familiar voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Hey, hold up, man,” Sam called, his voice a little too loud in the cozy diner. His long arm stretched out like he was trying to calm a spooked horse. “We wanted to apologize…”
Harry paused, jaw tight, but didn’t turn around. "Don’t bother," he muttered under his breath, trying to keep his voice steady. He didn’t have the energy for this today.
Dean, predictably, wasn’t about to let things go so easily. He swaggered up behind Sam, crossing his arms in that smug, antagonistic way he always did, like he was spoiling for a fight. “I ain’t apologizin’ to some British freak with a magic stick!”
That word. Freak. Harry’s back stiffened like he’d been doused in cold water. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Without thinking, he spun on his heel, his voice coming out sharper than intended. “Don’t call me that.”
Sam, always the peacemaker, stepped in front of Dean with a worried look. “He’s just... distrustful of people who aren’t, uh, you know... human.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed, and his patience snapped. "I am human, you jackass! Magic doesn't make me any less human. I'm just as human as you, I was born the same way and I bleed the same way. Don't like it? I don’t care! I don’t need your approval, Winchester. I'm just doing my job, same as you.”
Dean opened his mouth to retort, his eyes blazing, but before either of them could escalate the situation, the sharp, no-nonsense voice of the waitress cut through the tension like a knife.
"Now you all wait one damn minute!" She stood there, hands on her hips, her gaze burning holes into the Winchester brothers.
Both brothers froze, completely caught off guard.
"You!" She pointed at Harry, her finger jabbing the air. "You sit your little butt right back down, sweetie." Then, without missing a beat, she turned to Dean, her expression fierce as a summer storm. “And you! Don’t you ever call anyone a freak in my diner again, you hear?”
Harry blinked, trying not to laugh at the way Dean’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. The waitress was fearless, and Harry suddenly had a new appreciation for her.
“This boy,” she continued, jabbing a finger at Harry, “is the sweetest boy I've met in a long while and just so happens to be the nicest tipper I’ve ever had. Now he’s gonna sit here and enjoy his meal! And if you don’t like it, well, there’s the door.” With a hand on her hips, she added, “and this is Louisiana baby, you start calling folks freak for dabbling in the magical arts…you're gonna piss off some people you don't wanna cross.”
Dean’s eyes widened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he seemed at a loss for words. Sam, looking about as awkward as ever, shot Harry an apologetic glance, but even he looked a bit impressed by the woman’s nerve.
The waitress wasn’t done. “Now sit down, all of you, and let me do my job!” She turned back to Harry, her expression softening into a warm smile. “Your food’s coming right up, baby. Don’t you worry bout a thing. Mama Marjorie will take good care of ya.”
Harry, still stunned by the sudden shift in power dynamics, slowly slid back into his booth. He blinked in disbelief as the waitress sauntered off, probably to scold the cook next.
A deep blush crept up Harry’s neck when she returned moments later, placing his meal in front of him with a wink. “You enjoy that, baby,” she said sweetly, patting his shoulder as if he were her own kin.
“Uh, thank you ma'am,” Harry mumbled, barely able to process what had just happened.
The woman waved her hand dismissively, “you call me Mama or Marjorie honey, you practically family, far as I'm concerned.”
Harry smiled brightly at her and nodded, “thanks Marjorie,” he said softly and she nodded with a smile, practically threw menus at Sam and Dean and strode off.
Harry snickered at the sudden turn of events. One minute he was about to deck Dean Winchester, and the next he was being doted on by the fiercest waitress he’d ever met.
Sam, for the first time since he’d walked in, smiled awkwardly. “Thanks, man. For not walking out.”
Harry just stared at him for a moment, then popped a bite of fried catfish in his mouth and almost moaned. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until now. “Yeah, well,” he said through a mouthful of food, “I wasn’t gonna give you the satisfaction of a dramatic exit.”
Dean, on the other hand, just muttered under his breath, still scowling. “I don’t like it, but whatever,” he grumbled, sliding into the booth beside Sam.
Harry couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at his lips. He turned to Sam. “What do you want, Sam?”
Sam sighed, looking like he’d seen the moment with Dean as a lost cause. “I just wanted to apologize again for Dean. He’s... hard to deal with sometimes.”
Harry scoffed, “understatement.” And Sam just shrugged apologetically.
Dean grabbed a menu with an exasperated sigh. “This is a waste of time,” he muttered, glaring at the menu as if it had personally insulted him.
Harry couldn’t help but smirk. “You’re welcome to leave anytime, Dean.”
Sam, being Sam, cleared his throat awkwardly and flagged down the waitress. “I’ll just, uh, have a salad please. Blackened chicken, with dressing on the side.”
The waitress gave him a look that could have soured milk. “A salad? Here? In Louisiana?”
Dean rolled his eyes so hard Harry thought he might pull a muscle. “Salad, really? Come on Sammie, this please has real food.”
Harry couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer, and neither could the waitress. She let out a snort and shook her head. “I’ll see if the chef even remembers how to make one. And you?”
Dean sighed and tossed the menu aside. “I’ll have what he’s having mama,” he grumbled, gesturing to Harry’s plate.
The waitress gave him a sassy side eye, “that's ma'am to you.”
Dean straightened up, “yes ma'am,” he corrected.
As the waitress sauntered away, Harry leaned back in his seat, finally feeling the last bit of tension ease away. The situation had diffused into something bordering on absurd, but at least it was better than fists flying.
By the time the food arrived, the atmosphere had shifted again. Dean and Sam weren’t exactly his friends, but for now, the three of them could at least pretend to tolerate each other. Harry finished off his plate with a satisfied grin, already feeling the weight of the case return to his mind.
But at least for now, the night didn’t seem quite so bad. They didn't speak, just ate in a comfortable, if a little awkward, silence.
After they'd all finished their food, Sam turned to Harry, his expression shifting to something a little more businesslike.
“So, any leads on this case?” Sam asked, taking a cautious bite of his salad.
Harry shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back in his seat and tapping the edge of his glass. “You wanna share yours?” he asked, a knowing grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
Sam didn’t answer right away. He just peered at his brother who gave him a hard look, and Harry could practically see the wheels turning in their heads.
Harry sighed dramatically. “Thought not,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you boys aren't gonna share, neither am I. I'll figure it out myself, and move on to my next hunt.”
Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick stack of bills. He glanced at the waitress, who was refilling coffee cups at another table, then slid $500 onto the table.
Dean’s eyes widened, and he immediately leaned forward. “Whoa, that’s like 5 times more than the bill.”
Harry shrugged, his expression unreadable. “It’s just money,” he said with a lazy wave of his hand. “And she was sweet to me, more than I can say for most people.” He made sure the waitress saw him leaving the tip as he stood up.
She caught his eye, and gave him a warm, grateful smile. “Thanks, sugar,” she said, her voice full of genuine appreciation.
“Anytime,” Harry replied with a wink, before he turned and walked out of the diner.
He headed straight for his bike, the engine purring to life under his hands as he mounted it. The warm, sticky air of Louisiana hit him as he pulled onto the road. He didn’t look back as he revved the engine and sped away, the familiar feeling of the road beneath him pulling him into the night.
The Winchesters? They could sort out their own problems. Harry had his own hunt to finish. And besides, he didn’t care if they didn’t trust him—he was perfectly content to work alone.
Harry had followed the trail for hours. The bookstore basement had some stuff but it was obvious, he'd moved his operation somewhere more secluded. The poor guy, in trying to raise his family, had become the vessel for a voodoo spirit.
He found an abandoned factory on the edge of town that purred with dark magic and Harry knew it was the right place. His senses tingled with the strange energy, and as he approached the decrepit building, he could feel it—a heavy, oppressive force that seemed to throb with dark power.
He parked his bike around the corner and pulled the black hoodie up over his head, making sure no one saw him as he slipped into the shadows. Using the disillusionment charm, Harry silently snuck closer, keeping to the walls and weaving between trees and broken fence posts until he reached a cracked window. The murmur of voices floated through, and he squinted, peeking inside.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
Sam was tied to a stone altar, unconscious and with his chest rising and falling shallowly. Dean was bound to a nearby pillar, struggling against his restraints, glaring at the ritualistic scene unfolding before them. In front of them, the possessed man, his eyes glowing with a sickly yellow light, stood over Sam with a voodoo knife raised high, preparing to sacrifice him.
The spirit inside the man seemed to pulse, as if feeding off the fear in the air. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the magic in the air, thick and dark, and knew he had to act fast.
The spirit hadn’t noticed him yet. Taking a deep breath, Harry flicked his wrist, summoning his wandless magic. He shattered the knife in his hands, breaking his concentration and keeping Sam alive for the moment.
The possessed man reared back, eyes glassing, looking around for his attacker. Harry focused on the spirit—pulling on the dark energy within the man and using his magic to twist it out.
The spirit screeched, as if it could sense the power pulling it away, but Harry’s focus didn’t falter. The dark shape of the spirit tore itself from the man’s body, hovering in mid-air, a writhing, dark mass of energy. Harry quickly transfigured an iron box he had brought with him into a containment vessel strong enough to hold it, using the ancient incantation he had learned from one of the rare books Death had given him.
The spirit slammed against the box, screeching in fury, but Harry sealed it shut with a flick of his wand. The air seemed to clear immediately, the oppressive weight lifting. The possessed man dropped to his knees, his eyes no longer glowing, and the magic that had held him captive faded. He crumpled to the ground, unbreathing. The final cost for what the spirit gave him. Too bad it wasn't worth it.
“Sam! Dean!” Harry called, turning his attention to the two brothers.
Sam was starting to stir, groaning as the bindings on his wrists loosened with a quick flick of Harry’s fingers. Dean, though still tied up, was staring at Harry with an unreadable expression, his eyes flicking to the iron box in Harry’s hands.
“What the hell?” Dean grumbled as Harry cut the last of the ropes from around his wrists.
“Long story,” Harry replied, his voice dry. “But you owe me.”
Dean didn’t respond right away, his gaze flicking from Harry to the now-captured spirit and back. The tension in the air was palpable, but finally, after a long pause, he gave Harry a sharp nod.
“Thanks, man. For saving Sam,” Dean said begrudgingly, as if the words were forced out.
Harry just shrugged. “Don’t mention it,” he muttered, turning to check on Sam. He had regained full consciousness and was rubbing his wrists.
“Thanks,” Sam said quietly, though there was a wariness in his eyes. “You really didn’t have to help us. But I’m glad you did.”
Harry’s lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. “Yeah, well, it’s what I do.”
Dean shot him an incredulous look, but Sam didn’t let the moment linger.
“So, uh…” Sam began, looking at Harry. “Do you drink?”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Do I drink?” He chuckled lightly. “I’m in Louisiana hunting a voodoo spirit. You’re damn right I drink.”
“Then let us get you a beer,” Sam said, grinning. “I owe you for saving my life.”
Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. “Yeah, yeah, we owe you one after all.”
The three of them piled into the Impala, driving to the nearest gas station for beers and back to a cheap motel that they had been staying in. Harry settled into one of the seats with a beer in hand, trying to ignore the discomfort he felt at being around the brothers, especially after everything that had happened.
The mood lightened as the night wore on. Dean was telling stories, making fun of Sam’s salad obsession, and Harry found himself genuinely laughing along with them. It felt nice to forget about the hunt for a little while, to just drink and relax.
But then, out of nowhere, Dean’s voice cut through the laughter, the tone serious.
“Hey, Harry,” he said, eyeing him carefully. “Earlier… when I called you a freak, why did that set you off so much?”
The question hung in the air, and Harry went still, the laughter dying in his throat. He took another swig of his beer, a moment of silence stretching between them. It wasn’t something he liked talking about. But tonight, maybe it was time to finally say it out loud.
He set his bottle down and let out a deep breath. “That’s what my uncle used to call me,” he said quietly. “When he’d beat me. I was just a kid, and he hated me because I was different. Hated that I had magic, that I wasn’t like everyone else. He’d try to beat the freak out of me.”
Dean froze, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He looked disgusted, sickened even, his eyes darkening. “That’s… that’s sick,” he muttered under his breath. “No one should ever hurt a kid like that.”
Harry shook his head, a sad smile curling at the edges of his lips. “Yeah, well, you don’t get to tell me that. You hate me because of my magic too, don’t you? What’s the difference? You think I’m a freak, don’t you?”
Dean’s expression shifted, the realization hitting him like a freight train. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Sam, sitting quietly beside him, shifted uncomfortably, but Harry didn’t notice.
Harry stood up slowly, his chair scraping against the floor. He looked down at them, his gaze colder than it had been all night.
“Thought so,” Harry said flatly, pushing the beer aside. “I saved your asses, with that magic. And you still think I'm a freak for it. No need for me to stick around and chum it up like we're mates.”
Dean opened his mouth to say something, but Harry was already walking out the door.
As the cool night air hit him, Harry turned to the nearest empty room and used his key to return home.
The morning air was crisp as Harry stepped out the door the next day, already picturing the warm beignets and coffee he was about to grab. But his plans hit a snag the moment he spotted Dean leaning casually against his black Impala, arms crossed, waiting. Harry sighed, groaning under his breath.
"What do you want, Winchester?" Harry asked, walking past Dean as though the conversation wasn’t worth his time.
Dean didn’t budge. "I pounded on your door all night, checked all the windows—nothing. Not even a flicker of light. But I saw you go in. Now here you are, waltzing out. What the hell does that mean?"
Harry shrugged as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. "Yeah, well... I wasn’t home."
Dean blinked, his confusion deepening. "Not home? I saw you go in, just like I’m seeing you come out now."
Harry shot him a glance, rolling his eyes. "Magic, Dean."
Dean visibly stiffened at the word, a discomfort flashing across his face. "Look, man... I ain't gonna lie, I don’t get you, and I don’t understand this... stuff. You saved my brother, and I’m grateful. I really am. But we were raised to believe everything that ain't just a normal human is... well, unnatural. Evil. Something we had to handle."
Dean’s words were careful, like he was forcing them out despite himself. He looked at Harry with a mixture of unease and respect, trying to make sense of it all. "I've never met someone who could do what you do. And it makes me uncomfortable. But you ain't a bad guy. You saved Sammy. And you didn’t have to. But... magic killed our mom, alright? Killed Sam’s girl too, not too long ago. We ain’t really... accepting of things that can’t be explained."
Harry studied Dean’s expression, seeing the wariness in his eyes. He nodded, understanding where the hunter was coming from.
"I get it," Harry said quietly. "I grew up with my uncle because some evil man with magic killed my parents when I was a baby. My mom died trying to save me. But it isn’t magic’s fault they’re gone. It’s his fault. Magic isn't evil, Dean. People are."
Dean shifted on his feet, his discomfort growing, but Harry’s words seemed to make him pause. He gave a slow nod. "Yeah, maybe... Look, I’m sorry. I just wanted to say that. And thanks, again. For saving Sam."
Harry nodded back. "You’re welcome."
The silence between them stretched for a moment, the tension gradually fading. Then, without another word, Harry raised his hand and summoned his bike. The sleek, powerful machine appeared before them, and Dean let out a low whistle.
"She’s a beauty," Dean said, eyes admiring the bike.
Harry smiled faintly, swinging his leg over it. "Thanks. It was a gift from a friend. He gave it to me when I became a hunter."
As he adjusted himself on the seat, Dean raised an eyebrow. "No helmet?"
Harry smirked, shaking his head. "Don’t need one."
With that, he revved the engine, the bike roaring to life. Dean watched as Harry sped off down the road, disappearing into the distance, leaving him standing there by his Impala