Last Call

Harry nearly fell when he was finished with Snape’s memories and the truth of the matter smacked him in the face:

Dumbledore never meant for Harry to live, he had planned for him to die.

Worse than knowing that Harry had - he checked the time - only twenty minutes left to live was the knowledge that Dad had been right. Man, if Harry wasn’t going to die, he might wish he had anyway.

How many times did Dad say that he didn’t trust Dumbledore? Didn’t like Harry going to Hogwarts? How many fights had they had about Harry going to Hogwarts?

It had been precisely seven fights about it, one number higher than the amount of times that Dad had met Harry on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Even when they fought over it, even when they both screamed the worst things they could think to say, Harry stopped worrying that his family would meet him at the end of the school year by the end of his fourth year.

Even though Dean wouldn’t fly, even when Sam had been busy at college, Dad was always there. It broke Harry’s heart to think that he would be there again, in just a few weeks, only to discover that Harry wasn’t going to return from a school year he never technically attended.

Their last fight had been awful when Harry cut his summer short with his dad, before he even got a chance to see Dean or Sam. It had very nearly came to blows —

“EVERY DAMN YEAR YOU COME BACK FROM THAT PLACE LOOKING LIKE YOU SPENT NINE MONTHS GETTING YOUR ASS KICKED!” Dad yelled, paying no mind to the neighbors they had in the motel that would definitely hear them through the thin walls.

“You’re not doing it again, Harry, you’re done,” Dad said, pointing a finger at Harry threateningly. “The old man died this year, Black the year before? No. You’re staying the fuck home, got it?”

“What home?!” Harry yelled, knowing he had to go. “This crappy motel or the passenger seat of your truck? At least I’ve got my own bed there!”

Harry wasn’t returning to Hogwarts, he couldn’t. Harry was planning on meeting with Ron and Hermione in three days at the Burrow, then they’d go off to finish the case Dumbledore gave Harry in bits and pieces before he died.

It was habit to say those things again, the two of them were just repeating the same script they played every summer. Harry had only moved the timeline up, feeling the itch of an unsolved case shortening the time he had left with his family.

“You’re a kid, my damn kid,” Dad spat. “I say you’re staying and you fucking will.”

“Or what?” Harry demanded, fearlessly stepping toward his dad when the temper he inherited from him flared up. “Or you’ll disown me? Or Dean and Sam can’t call me anymore? Is that it?”

That was an old threat, one that Harry’s brothers did defy any time it was given. Icing Harry out couldn’t work when Dean would tell Harry that Dad was miserable, or when Sam would swear it would all blow over.

“You’re god damned right,” Dad said, taking his own step toward Harry. They were nearly face to face and Harry knew they both had their fists clenched as they glared at each other, angry over the same old story.

“You walk out that door this time, you don’t come back,” Dad said, looking as fierce as he ever had. “I mean it, Harry, I’m not doing this back and forth shit forever. Pick a damn life and live it.”

“Fine.” Harry was shaking with anger and even if part of him didn’t think Dad meant it, the rest of him didn’t care. “But when you’re bitching at me about living a life, keep in mind that you’re so stuck in this freaking revenge driven madness that you’ll never live your life, Dad. Never.”

Harry had never been so disrespectful to his father, it was as terrifying as it was liberating. When Dad said jump, Dean said yes sir; Sam would question him before ultimately doing it half-heartedly; Harry would fight over it.

Stubborn as a mule, Dad called him when he wasn’t irritated by Harry. A pain in the ass when Harry’s ‘insubordination’ bordered on blatant disrespect.

Even then, that fight was their worst to date and when Harry grabbed his duffel and stormed out the door, he truly didn’t know if it would ever be opened to him again.

Harry was the odd man out in his family. The only wizard. The only one born of a one night stand and then delivered when he was a baby to his closest blood relatives. Harry didn’t know a life without his family, but if Dad couldn’t understand that Harry had his own case - his own version of Azazel to hunt - then maybe they weren’t as alike as Dean and Sam always said they were.

It had only taken an hour for Harry to reach the bus stop, using one of Dad’s many ‘emergency scammed credit cards’ to purchase a ticket to the airport. It only took ten minutes after Harry was on the bus for his cell to ring in his pocket, Dad’s number flashing on the screen.

“Hello?” Harry said, tentative about what Dad would be calling about already. He said his piece, Harry didn’t need to hear it again.

He wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.

“June twenty-seventh, right?” Dad asked, his version of an apology and affirmation.

Harry smiled and leaned his head against the bus window, letting the cool glass soothe the ache that had been building all day.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said. “June twenty-seventh.”

“I’ll see you then. Stay safe, alright?”

Harry said he would and then went on the run with his friends a week later.

It wasn’t wholly unusual for Harry to not call home during the school year. Sometimes his phone was dead and there was truly no way to charge it - though Harry had mailed it to Hermione’s parents a few times with pleas for them to charge it and return it so he could call his family when he got too homesick.

Sometimes Dad or Dean called him, told him that they might be out of touch for a few days, always working cases that could kill them so easily. Those times were the worst because a few days often turned into a week and every classmate of Harry’s tended to know when Harry’s family was on a case because Harry’s temper had a hair-trigger during those times.

Sometimes Harry just didnt know what to say, what wouldn’t drag his brothers into danger or convince his Dad that Harry needed locked away from the magical world that needed Harry.

It was a fine line Harry had walked for his entire life; being the son of a hunter and the Chosen One.

Hermione said Harry was clearly cursed, but Uncle Bobby once checked for Harry and - and…

Harry was hidden beneath his cloak, making his way toward the forest, when a hysterical laugh escaped him when he remembered what Uncle Bobby said after his ‘voodoo checkup’, as Dad called it.

“Boy, there’s somethin’ not right about that scar,” Uncle Bobby told him, pointing at Harry’s forehead. “I ain’t sayin’ there’s a damn thing wrong with you, you’re as good as good gets, but damn if that scar don’t make me think of evil.”

Harry had been startled, Dean and Sam were dismissive, but Uncle Bobby was right, as usual.

It had been a horcrux, lodged in Harry like a ticking time bomb, counting down the time he had left.

Harry couldn’t bitch, he wouldn’t. Harry would go face death like a man, die as a soldier, be burned in a hunter’s funeral. It wasn’t the ending Harry envisioned for himself, but Dad would be proud of him.

Dad had to be proud of him, once he knew what Harry had done. Even if he didn’t care about wizards or witches that weren’t Harry, he would care about the squibs that would live, the families of muggleborns that would be safe.

So Harry did what he had been trained to do his entire life and rebelled against every time he opened his mouth: he soldiered on.

Harry soldiered past the Great Hall, keeping his eyes averted from the others who died in their war or the loved ones that mourned them. Harry soldiered through the lawns, pausing only once to pass on one part of his case to Neville Longbottom, trusting him to finish off Nagini even if Ron and Hermione were too distraught to do it when the time came.

It wasn’t until Harry reached the forest that he stopped feeling like the soldier he was pretending to be and felt like a kid again. A forest was never hiding anything good, only monsters and spirits.

Harry used to have nightmares about his dad and his brothers dying in a forest, the irony didn’t escape him that it was Harry who would die in one instead.

Who would tell Harry’s family about his death? Ron, who had bonded with Harry over being the youngest brother and who had never liked Harry’s dad? Hermione, who once admitted that she thought Harry’s brothers were cute, but that Harry was the cutest?

Probably both of them. Would they know to tell Harry’s dad that he didn’t blink before he did what needed done? Would they watch memories Harry left in the office, know to tell Harry’s brothers that he wouldn’t have left them if he had a choice?

Harry wasn’t sure and that uncertainty made him pause and pat down his pockets, hoping his phone had enough charge for two calls.

Dean was with Sam, last Harry knew. Sam’s girlfriend had died the same summer as Sirius, killed by the same demon that killed their mom. Sam had been too depressed to return to school, then became too obsessed with the same hunt Dad couldn’t quit.

Obsession for revenge ran in the family, Harry had always known that. When Hermione had once - quite warily - mentioned that she thought it was terrible that Sirius went after Peter Pettigrew instead of making sure Harry reached his biological father safely, leaving that to Hagrid then Dumbledore, Harry waved her off.

When a person destroyed someone you loved, destroyed a life you could have been so happy in, it made perfect sense to Harry that destroying them in return could take over every sense a person had.

It was why Harry had to see the war through, he had to know that when he left the world - Voldemort would be damn close to being finished as well.

Harry didn’t tell his family about it, he didnt want them to either get involved in a world of magic where spells traveled faster than a bullet or to try and lock Harry out of a war that he had to fight in. But Harry was the end of it and he could call them then, quickly.

Harry called Dean’s phone first, ending the call when it went straight to voicemail. It must be dead, Dean was the worst about charging the damn thing. Next, Harry tried Sam, hoping that he would pick up.

“You’ve reached Sam. Please leave a name, number, and purpose for your call.”

Harry sighed, rather wishing he could hear Sam instead of leaving what would undoubtedly be a morbid voicemail. A voicemail was better than nothing though, it might be easier too without Sam playing fifty questions while Harry’s time was running out.

“Hey, it’s Harry,” Harry said quietly, leaning back against a tree with his wand in his right hand, twirling it between his fingers to ease the stress in his body.

“I - I hope you hear this, you and Dean both,” he went on, using the very last of his strength to not cry when he pictured his brothers listening to his last message together. It was… it was very like Dad of him to do it, but Harry knew that what he had always suspected: a last message was better than being gone with no answers why.

“There’s a hunt I’m on, more of a war, really… but only way it ends is if I - well, I mean I’m not going to make it back this time. I,” Harry swallowed hard, “I’ve got to die if I want this to be over. But it means a bunch of other people will live, alright? Hundreds of them, thousands maybe. So I just wanted to tell you both that if I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t, okay? I wouldn’t. I’m sorry. I love you.”

It wasn’t a perfect message, it didn’t say all the things that they were all too ‘dedicated to prescribed ideals of masculinity’ (Hermione’s words, of course) to say. It would have to work though because Harry had to make one more call and only had minutes to do it in.

Even when Harry hoped Dad’s phone would go to voicemail as well, it didn’t. Dad answered on the third ring, his voice as clear and sharp as it would be if Harry were standing beside him.

“Son?”

For no reason at all, that was all it took for Harry’s chest to hitch with a sob, one that he tried and failed to stifle and that Dad could hear over the phone.

“Dad, I - I wish I was home,” Harry cried, hating himself for admitting that, for acting weak, when his death would mean something good. “Everything’s gone to hell and now…” Harry sniffed and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get a hold on himself. “I won’t be there on the twenty-seventh, sir. I’m sorry.”

Dad was quiet, he waited until Harry calmed down some, and then he was the same even-tempered and logical man that he always was when one of the boys were hurt.

“You answer me yes or no, real easy questions, okay, son?” Dad asked in the way that was an order, firm and caring if someone knew what to listen for.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said on autopilot, rubbing at his eyes with his shoulder.

“You’re in a bad spot, some big magical bullshit going on around you?”

That was one way to put it.

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew about this before you left?” Dad asked, a hint of anger then.

“Yes, sir.”

What would he do? Refuse to let Harry leave the house again?

Dad sighed and Harry could picture his face, his eyes shut and one hand rubbing his forehead.

“Can you get out of it, son?”

Quiet, almost resigned.

“If I try, a lot of good people will die,” Harry said. He wanted his dad to know that, to know that Harry was just as willing as he was to die for a cause he believed in.

“That’s not what I asked,” Dad told him. “Yes or no, can you get out of it?”

Harry could, but he wouldn’t.

“No, sir.”

There was silence for a long few seconds, a quiet hitch of air from Dad’s side of the phone.

“This a goodbye call, Harry?”

Harry screwed his face up, hating the hurt he could hear, hating the situation fiercely.

“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered.

“God damn it, Harry.” Dad’s voice shook, shook like Harry hadn’t heard since the time Sam nearly got ripped apart by a werewolf on a hunt. Harry had been scared for his brother, more scared when Dad had shakily ordered Dean to ‘drive like laws don’t exist’ to an ER while he held Sam’s bleeding body in the backseat.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Harry told him, meaning it. Harry was sorry… but he wasn’t regretful. When push came to shove, Harry would make the same decisions again. He had to.

“Don’t you apologize,” Dad said fiercely. “Don’t you dare. If this is the - if this is the end, don’t apologize. You stand up straight, tell me right now if this is worth dying for, son. Because you can’t take it back afterward.”

It was, Harry told him so. It would save countless lives, it would make Harry a hero in the same way his dad and brothers were.

“I need to go,” Harry said after he told his dad that. Harry did stand up straight, his shoulders square, no more fear on his face. Harry was a Winchester, he wouldn’t face death like a damn baby.

“Harry, I love you, son,” Dad said quickly, a sentiment he rarely shared and made Harry’s heart ache to hear it when it was almost too late. “I’m fucking furious with you right now, but I couldn’t be more proud of the man you are. You do what you have to do and - and if you can, you come back to me. You hear me, Harry? If you can come back to me, you do it. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

And in the end, after Harry got his chance to hit Dumbledore with an awesome right hook for leaving him in the dark for so long, Harry did get that chance. Harry got a chance to go back and he had never accepted anything so quickly in his life.

Harry delayed his return home by a few weeks, staying to finish the case with the leftover death eaters, giving testimony to the ministry, even helping repair Hogwarts.

A case didn’t always end when the monster was dead, sometimes there was cleanup that needed done and Harry couldn’t leave without knowing it was finished.

By June twenty-seventh, Harry was finished with his last case in Britain and couldn’t help but stop by King’s Cross Station to make his way through the crowds of muggles who had no idea that a war had just ended. Harry wasn’t expecting to see anyone he knew, he just didn’t know when he would be back in London and wanted to see his favorite place once more.

Platform Nine and Three Quarters took Harry to his friends and school every September and returned him to his family every June. It was worth delaying his trip home to see it once more.

It wasn’t the platform that caught Harry’s attention as he neared it though, it was the tall man with the tan leather jacket and curled up shoulders that Harry noticed.

Harry hadn’t called his family since the forest, he thought that it was the kind of news he should deliver in person. So his dad standing outside the platform, looking as lost as Harry felt just a few weeks ago, didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

Except it did… and it made Harry’s heart soar and his footsteps to quicken to a run.

“Dad?” Harry said. He repeated it when his dad looked in the wrong direction with a jerky movement. “Dad!”

John Winchester turned around and saw Harry rushing to him and for the first time in a long time, Harry got to see a true smile spread across his face. When Dad smiled, he looked years younger and just as handsome as everyone said he was. He smiled and Harry whooped and launched himself at him, forgetting that he was a man and not a child and —

“Why are you here?” Harry laughed when his dad caught him in a tight hug, nearly knocking the air from his lungs. He hardly noticed the quick flash of silver against the back of his neck, the whispered beginning of an exorcism. When Dad splashed some holy water on the top of Harry’s head, Harry only laughed more.

It was all so familiar, so comforting for its familiarity.

“It’s June twenty-seventh,” Dad said, finally hugging Harry back once he was certain it truly was his son. “I’m always here on June twenty-seventh.”