As They Tell You in Boy Scouts
Harry struggled just enough in the hands of the vampires to make it seem as if he was putting up a fight. Really, it was too easy. American supernaturals were so predictable, sometimes he was almost sorry to put them down. Didn't they deserve more of a fighting chance?
In those times, Harry would remember that the people they often preyed upon didn't have much of a fighting chance either. The supernaturals generally lived by the motto of 'stronger, better,' so really, he was playing by their rules. He was stronger, therefore better, therefore he could kill whoever he felt like, however he felt like. As long as he could take them on, it was fair play. And if he tried to take on someone stronger than him, it was his fault if he died.
Harry could live by those rules. Most definitely.
Of course, his appearance really helped him along. Eternally not-quite-eighteen, small and slim, pale with large eyes, healthy, he was perfect prey for just about any supe out there. He'd infiltrated dozens of lairs (which was as good as any general term for a supe's base of operations) under the guise of prey to be enjoyed, only to slaughter his way out. The look of surprise on their faces always gave him the smallest of surprises in turn. Did they really never suspect him? Were these supes really so far gone that they didn't feel the sense of foreboding in his presence that nearly everyone else automatically did? Or were they just far gone enough to ignore it, desperate to feed or mate or maim or whatever else they did to their victims? They were like rabid dogs. Twisted shadows of what they should be.
He preferred to work solo. Strongly. Hunters were such arseholes. He hadn't met a single one he could stand for any extended period of time. They were so... Gryffindor. Brash, obvious, impatient about research, trigger happy, temperamental, and not sneaky at all. Honestly, he could spot one a mile away. They were way too suspicious – to the level of paranoia – all the goddamn time. It was exhausting being around them. And they all acted like such amateurs. They never learned from their mistakes, preferring to drink or hunt them away until they died before they hit fifty at best, thirty on average. That of course didn't count the ones that died on their first hunt.
So spotting two hunters tied back to back to a small post supporting the barn was a serious downer. Why did they have to be here? Couldn't they have gone after that ghost he'd spotted in the papers a state over? His life sucked.
And why would he ever think that in the presence of vampires? Nice going Harry, you're real punny. This is why you stick to sarcasm.
Harry was tied to the next post over, facing both the hunters' shoulders (and faces now, as they eyed him), hands bound behind him with the same type of rope they were now winding around his chest, legs splayed in front of him unbound. Dumb-arses. Too confident to properly bind their victims. Too bad they wouldn't live to do better next time.
Harry kept the distressed expression on his face while the vampires left the room, taunting and teasing and licking lips suggestively the whole way. Harry was not impressed, but didn't let it show on his face until the door closed behind the scantily clad females.
And of course, the second he did, the sensitive one's concerned visage, and the pretty one's mildly frustrated and calculating one (probably reworking scenarios around another victim), turned squinty-eyed and suspicious. Hunters really were just as predictable as the supes around here. Can you say boring? He felt like he was in a goddamn comic book. Harry'd been wanting to have a go at an Alpha or John Winchester for a while, but the former were really so tedious to find (and Harry didn't have the best patience when it came to things like that), and the latter was dead. Shame, really. Rumour had said he was unpredictable and vicious. That could've been fun.
"What?" he snapped, irritated with their staring. He never really got over that pet-peeve.
"Who are you?" the pretty one replied, gruff and aggressive.
Harry sniffed (and was promptly reminded of Malfoy. Ugh.). "None of your business, hunter. Let's just get out of here, yeah?"
Pretty opened up his mouth and looked ready to begin an interrogation, but Sensitive – make that Tall, look at how long those legs went on – nudged at him and they proceeded to silently communicate. Whatever.
Harry wandlessly sent a cutting curse through the ropes. Normally he'd do it the muggle way – just to keep things exciting and semi-challenging – but he liked to hurry things up when it came to being anywhere near hunters.
He shrugged the ropes off, springing up in one smooth movement. He rolled his shoulders and stretched out his back before turning his attention back to the hunters.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" he prompted, startling them out of what seemed to be an argument. They started fumbling around for something to cut themselves free with, and Harry found himself rolling his eyes. Hopeless, the lot of 'em.
Harry raised his arm, brandishing his knife as he made his way towards them. They, of course, tensed. What else was expected of hunters? He rolled his eyes. Again.
This is why I hate hunters. I swear they're trying to make my eyes roll right out of my bloody head.
Regardless of the warnings the pretty one was issuing and the struggles of them both, Harry stepped forward and quickly cut through their bindings. Before they could stand up, he was at the door, machete in hand and charming grin in place.
"Come now, boys," he mocked. "Didn't you know you should always be prepared?"
The next ten minutes proceeded as such. Harry beheaded twelve vampires completely magic free. The two strangers beheaded the six that intercepted them when they tried to chase after Harry. Upon turning and seeing that all the vampires were taken care of, Harry exited the lair. The strangers followed about two seconds later. They saw Harry (although they did not know him as such) walk behind a tree, only to never reappear. Upon further investigation, they realized that the mysterious stranger had disappeared, effectively giving them the slip.
And that's the story of how Harry Potter and Sam and Dean Winchester met. Although met may be a bit of a strong word.
Neither party left a very good impression on the other.