Still don't own it. J.K. Rowling still does own it.
Welcome to my second story, this time Necromancer Harry, he grew up hard and fast away from Britain, and is in the process of becoming a full fledged necromancer. This magic system is not as complicated as the one in Night is Long. No ships, I don't really write ships. Read and Review y'all. Also enjoy, don't forget to enjoy.
Smoke lazily rose and fell as it twisted through the minor draft moving through the small room, emanating from a thick cigar in a shady figure's hand. The small, but lavishly decorated room had two figures in it, one sitting in a leather chair behind an ornate and expensive looking desk, and the other seated in a less comfortable, less stylishly cliche chair. Every once in a while the figure seated behind the desk would raise the cigar to his mouth, take a drag from it, and slowly breath out the arid smoke, as he listened intently to the other figure speaking. He was displeased with the information the other figure in the dark, smoke filled, room had brought to him.
Slowly turning in his dark green leather chair the wizard sighed as he brought the half finished cigar to his mouth. It was terribly cliche, the slow turn in the chair, the dark room with the shutters and blinds drawn to block the outside light, it was all as if it was from a bad, low budget muggle film, but the figure had no notion of any such thing. The figure quite hated the muggles, to be completely honest.
The second figure, sitting in front of the desk the cigar smoking figure sat behind, flinched slightly as he met the first figure in the eye. He had seen that look before, the cold, hard gaze that promised punishment for his failure. He knew that he had failed his given task, and he also knew he would be punished for it. Hell, he might even be punished for the fact that he flinched. He would not be having a pleasant night.
The other man would be having a very pleasant night, at least by his standards. He laughed as he saw the flinch and fear in the beady eyes of the goblin sitting before him. He was going to have to punish the goblin, they were both sure of that. Setting his cigar down for a moment in the ashtray on the ornately carved, highly polished desk he sat behind he picked up his wand from the midst of the pieces of parchment and paper scattered all across the desk.
Smiling grimly he rose from his chair he brought his wand to bear, pointed at the goblin in front of him.
"Eviscero." Blood splattered all across the wall opposite him as the goblin was messily eviscerated in front of him Harry James Potter smiled for the first time in months. Of course it was a cold, malicious smile that was only brought about by the bloodshed and death he had caused it was still a smile.
Still smiling Harry waved his wand, silently vanishing the blood, and spelling the corpse into a stone chamber that was three stories below exactly where he was standing now. He was in a two story building, crudely hidden from the world inside a small forest, behind some basic concealing enchantments. The corpse would now be in an ice cold chamber in the basement level of his house.
Here Harry lived and he had been living here about eight months. He had lived a fast, tough life, he was only sixteen years old after all. He knew all about his role in society, and even all about the magical world, obviously, he had just killed a goblin with a dark spell, one could not be ignorant of their birthright and kill magical creatures by using magic. From the time he was very little he had been raised by an old man, a hermit of sorts, who had been shunned by society. Technically the man's very existence was illegal. He was a practitioner of old magics, very very old magics, some of the very first to be created and uncovered, but they were quite dark. Dark enough for any practice of them to be illegal these days, in every country that had a unified government and codified laws. The punishment for being caught practicing or teaching these magics was death, in almost every country, no matter how lenient or otherwise tolerant the country this did not stop many people, it just made them go underground, sometimes literally, actually many times literally, to hide their practices from the world. The old man who took Harry in and trained him was a necromancer, a mage skilled and well versed in death magic and reanimation of corpses to do his bidding.
Picking up bis cigar from where he left it Harry took another puff. His old teacher had hated the cigars, and so Harry had rarely gotten to enjoy them. That was up until just over a year ago, when his teacher, friend, and advisor had been killed by none other than Albus Dumbledore himself during an Order of the Phoenix raid on their hideout, probably trying to locate Harry Potter, who had been missing from the magical world for years past when he was due to make his return. But the Harry Potter that Dumbledore wanted and sought after had died long ago, over a decade in fact. The Savior of the wizarding world that Dumbledore wished was replaced by a dark prince, a necromancer in training. Sure Harry Potter had never actually died, but his personality and who he was at his very center, his soul itself, had changed fundamentally from when he was a child.
But ever since the death of his teacher Harry had been unable to continue his training at the same rate, he had been progressing steadily before, now he was unable to make the same progress. He had no teacher anymore, and on top of that he had no one else. It was just him, and his few servants he had left.
He knew he probably should not have killed the goblin, but he had been very upset at the failure. Besides, it was not like the goblin was totally useless dead. Harry could always use practice to help further his necromancy skills. He still had trouble with true reanimation, he could create zombie like creatures, that could do very simple tasks, but he was not at the level of creating Inferi, yet.
Sitting back down at the desk Harry sighed once more, his teacher had left him to inherit several large criminal enterprises, and he had business to do. Of course he was just a fifteen year old boy when his teacher had been killed and left him to run the businesses. All of the larger or medium sized businesses fell apart almost immediately, he simply could not run them without his teacher. He did however manage to hold a few of the smaller ones together, which supplied him with a semi-steady decent flow of muggle money, which he would then convert into magical money or keep as muggle currency.
Twisting slightly in his chair he opened a drawer on his left and removed a stack of pound notes from it, and from another drawer he removed a piece of parchment, quill, and inkwell. Counting the money twice to ensure accuracy he recorded it onto the parchment, and using a muggle calculator did some calculations with the muggle-magical exchange rate.
Most of the money he held in his hands and on the desk in front of him would be reinvested in other criminal business pursuits, but he would be able to take about a hundred and fifty galleons worth for his own use. This was not very much, but it was all he had left over this month after budgeting away the rest. He might have to go out and make some himself sometime soon, he was running low on disposable savings and cash at hand. He would have to fix this soon enough, and probably a week spent in downtown London doing various things would relieve some of the pressure, at least money wise.
He would have to be saving up to purchase another piece of property soon, he had damaged this one beyond the point of being able to repair and sell it, and he had to stay on the move. Perhaps he would just take the next one, he had done so with his mentor before, they had simply killed the muggles and had magically hidden the property, removed it from muggle memory and knowledge. Harry had especially liked that house as well, it had a nice view overlooking a lake, and many nights he would spend wandering the pine forest nearby, watching the stars, and smoking one of the cigars his teacher despised so much. These were powerful magics that were used to hide and block properties in a manner like that, and they were magics that Harry could not perform yet, so that route was likely blocked. He possibly could take over a house through a series of compulsion and memory charms, he would have to think more on that later. In fact that seemed preferable to buying another property, it was a long process to buy one, and he was unsure he would even be able to, they had always been under an assumed name that his teacher had taken on. But now was not the time for that, right now was his time for training, well it used to be his time for training, now it was his time for reading through the old tomes of knowledge and magic that he had managed to salvage after Dumbledore's raid.
The books he had left were not very numerous, maybe half a dozen thick tomes and grimoires specifically about necromancy, nor were they the books he wished he had. Sure, they taught necromancy, but just the most basic levels, the books he had did not even cover human reanimation, nor anything to do with the soul. They had necromantic and dark curses, they had plenty of those, and they also had various other spells, charms, enchantments, and magic that would be useful to necromancers trying to hide themselves and their practices. While all of these were useful they were simply not what Harry was looking for, and that was why he had killed the goblin. He had sent the goblin to Germany, on a mission to find and steal a tome from the library of a pureblooded family there, and bring it back to Harry. He had failed, and he had paid for his failure appropriately, Harry thought.
Exiting his private study, where he and the goblin had been, he walked down the carpeted hallway, looking at the few magical portraits that decorated it along the way. They had belonged to the previous owner, and were not of any importance to anyone, simple decorations. Reaching the end of the hallway Harry opened the door to the room that served as the small library, and grabbing a book sat at the one wooden desk in the room, and began to read.
He had already read this book before, but it would be good to make sure he had not missed anything in it. He had already read most, if not all, of the books in the small library once or more times. It was a side effect of having very few books, and a whole lot of time.