Prologue

A/N: The crossover mostly ends with this chapter.

"Now get the hell out!"

The door made a slamming noise at him as it shut in his face. Harry countered effectively with a harrumphing noise, to which the door had no response. He grinned in triumph, but then it occurred to him.

"I don't have any of my things!"

The door didn't respond. Neither did the person inside. Harry stood as tall and proud as a diminutive eleven year old can, challenging the door to another battle of wills. A minute and thirty-four seconds later, Harry declared himself victorious as the door creaked open and a leathery old man stuck his head and hand out, clutching a large bag.

"Your bugout bag, young sir. I suggest you take it and go, before—"

At that, a loud crashing noise and some definitely feminine shrieks exploded from the back of the house, along with a voice yelling "God damn it. I'm going to need two new… actually, I think the midget can fit in a towel. So, one new rug. Harry, I swear to god!"

The man winced. "Before he shoots you."

This was followed by hooting and squawking, several gunshots, thudding noises, then silence. Harry sighed and grumbled at the misfortune that had landed him in this mess.

"Listen, kid, I may keep you here because I have to, but I swear to God if those owls interrupt me and my visitors one more time I will cut your head off and use your skull as… some kind of decorative candle holder. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I—"

"Of course you do, because you're a genius. Trained by the greatest secret agent ever to be a super child spy the likes of which the world has never known. And yet you still can't cover up that stupid accent. Did we spend three weeks in accent training for nothing?"

"No, I spent three weeks in accent training for nothing. You spent it trying to get that Bulgarian game show host to have sex with you."

"Trying? Did you not see-?"

"Yes! Yes, I did see her hideous naked body and its deformity in all its disgusting, God-given glory."

"A third breast is not a deformity. God, you're such a pre-teen."

"That's… exactly what I am, yes, actually, so—"

"And you'll be exactly dead if you or your stupid letter owls interrupt me while I entertain these lovely twins."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Twins? One of them is three feet taller than the other."

"Fraternal twins, whatever, I'm almost somewhat positive that they may have been born on the same day. You're missing the point."

"That this is creepy and disgusting?"

"No, idiot, the point that you're going to be homeless if you don't keep your stupid flying wombats out of here." A pair of voices called out from the back of the apartment. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some entertaining to do."

"Fine, just… please don't hit the button on the backside of the lamp, for the sake of all us still sane people."

"Hey, one time I—"

"One time seeing you and some Italian bint drinking champagne out of each others'—"

"Is more than enough for a lifetime, I know, god. You're such a child. And what the hell is a bint? Isn't that the stuff you get your servant to remove from your suits with a roller?"

Shaking his head, Harry grabbed the bag proffered to him by the wrinkled old fruit and opened it. "Nice, Woodhouse." Fake IDs, passports, disguises… "Bloody hell, there's two hundred grand in here!"

He avoided Harry's gaze nervously. "I may have… accidentally jumbled some of the items in your bag with some of the ones in Mister Archer's bag. A simple mistake, I'm sure, young sir. A ticket to London and a certain medal also might have made their way into your supplies."

Harry stared down the old man before relenting with a sigh. "Fine, god, I'll put the stupid medal on your stupid friend's grave. He's just a bunch of bones anyway, what does he care?"

Woodhouse gave a rare smile. "Thank you, young sir."

Harry groaned. "I can't believe I have to say this now, but… thanks, Woodhouse. For everything. Now get back in there and fetch him a rug before I take it back. I have to go to this dumb boarding school now. Does he not find that ironic?"

"I am unsure of Mister Archer's ability to perceive irony, young sir."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Ha ha, hilarious. Now get out of here you old fruit bat, before I… shave you bald, weld a glass maze to your skull, and start an ant farm on top of your head. Damn, that was bad. I'll do better next time."

"I'm sure you—"

His reply and two of his fingers were crunched off by Harry smashing the door shut with his outstretched foot. "Sorry!" Harry paused. "I'm not actually sorry. Idiot. Hey! Woodhouse! There's only one turtleneck in here! What if this one rips? Woodhouse!"

Harry sat in first class on an overnight flight across the Atlantic with a scowl on his face.

"Sir, we can't serve alcohol to minors—"

"For the last time, it's called pituitary dwarfism you old hag. Read the passport! Just because I was born with a hormonal disorder does not mean you get to be a total bitch, or a half bitch, or… any fraction of bitch to me." Harry stopped to breathe, still fuming. "Now listen to me. I swear to god if I don't get my Spanish Armada in three minutes I'm going to throw you out this window. Do you hear me? I will depressurize this cabin and hurl your frail, broken body into the Atlantic Ocean from thirty-five thousand feet up!"

"I don't even know what's in—"

"For the love of god, woman! One-third Captain, one-third Admiral Nelson's, and one-third Tabasco, and if there is a drop more than one-third Tabasco I will turn your finger bones into bullets, with which I will then shoot you. Are we clear!"

"Y-yes sir, I'll bring it back shortly."

Harry waited for her to disappear out of sight, then laughed lightly aloud. "Is pituitary dwarfism even a real thing?"

He glared at the trembling old woman as she tentatively set down his drink and scurried off to help the next row. He took a sip. "Thirty-five percent Tabasco. Say good-bye to your fingertips, Glenda."

An hour and a half later, Harry had completely forgotten about Glenda's fingertips, as he was now on his fifth drink. "Oh man," Harry said with great fervor and volume, "how long is this flight? What are we on, a blimp?"

Glenda sidled over to his seat. "Sir, please quiet down, some of the passengers are trying to sleep."

"And some of the passengers are trying to monologue loudly, yet I don't see you waking everyone up to hear that, Brenda."

"I… what?"

"So put that drink on my tray before I turn your osteoporosis riddled body into fish food."

"Excuse me!"

"No! Not until you give me my drink!"

"I don't think you should be drinking anymore, sir."

"You don't tell me—"

"Sir, you're cut off from the bar."

Harry abruptly slammed his mouth shut, finally understanding the gravity of the situation from the words of the co-pilot, who had come to his harried stewardess' aid.

"Cut off? You can't… that's not…"

"Belligerent drinkers are not allowed to purchase further drinks from the airline staff. That's corporate policy. And aren't you a little young—"

"It's called pituitary dwarfism, idiot."

"Sir, hand over the drink and we will recompense the cost of—"

The plane suddenly shook with turbulence and stewardess stumbled forward, knocking the drink she had been reaching to remove from Harry's grasp over and spilling the entirety of its contents. Harry looked down at his chest, then back up to the stewardess and the co-pilot. His face was the epitome of sober.

"This is my only turtleneck."

The two glanced at each other nervously. "Erm…"

"This is my only turtleneck for a year-long trip to Britain, and you just spilled forty percent Tabasco sauce on it."

They didn't say a word.

"You know what you have to do."

"Oh man! I am flying an Airbus Seven-Forty-Seven, baby! Feel the envy rising in your throats, peasants, and lament that you can never be as awesome as me."

The pilot sighed. "Actually sir, it's on autopilot and the PA system is muted."

"Actually, shut up and shut up," Harry said, grinning. "Now how do I land this thing?"

Harry groaned as he woke up several hours later back in his seat. "Bloody hell, my head… feels like an immigrant van running a Chinese fire drill inside my skull."

A petulant, flamboyant voice from the seat in front of him snapped back. "Well maybe you shouldn't be killing your liver before you hit puberty. Dumbass."

Harry winced at the conversational tone. "Augh. That's far too loud for this time in the… wait, what time zone are we even in? And what the hell are you doing here Ray?"

"I'm on my way to thwart an assassination plot on the Queen of England… and I bet you're going to boarding school, aren't you?"

Harry glared. "Oh, great, just tell everyone about this. Does he not find it-?"

"Ironic? No, he still doesn't understand what irony is," Ray replied, then chuckled. "And speaking of ironic, that turtleneck was your only one, huh?"

"What kind of idiot doesn't realize Tabasco stains don't come out?"

"Lucky for you, I happen to know the name of a great tailor in London. He'll give you the works."

"No thanks. I'm pretty sure he reserves that privilege for people like you. Ow! What the hell, Ray?"

Ray smirked as Harry flailed uselessly after he smacked him. "Well, I was going to just send you his way, but not with that attitude little man. You're going to help me on this case."

Harry stopped attacking Ray and crossed his arms. "No."

"Unless you want to walk around in that thing for the next nine months."

There was a pregnant pause. Harry glanced at the giant reddish-brown stain on his black turtleneck.

"Fine. What do I have to do?"

"No!"

"C'mon, this is going to be easy!"

Harry was in a standoff with Ray; Harry was wielding a Heckler & Koch MP5K Maschinenpistole, while Ray was holding a Harry-sized dress and shoving it towards him.

"I am not putting on a dress. And I am not easy!"

"Oh please, I know about you and that Mexican maid Archer hired. Does she not understand American age of consent laws?"

Harry chuckled. "Seriously, can anyone tell me if pituitary dwarfism is a real thing?"

"It's probably not, ass," Ray said, rolling his eyes. "Now put it on! The best way to infiltrate Beauregard's apartment is in disguise and his appreciation for young boys is… well, apparently he likes to beat it plenty."

"His name is Beauregard?" Harry said incredulously, ignoring the pun. "What, is he some kind of time-traveler from the 18th Century?"

"Actually, he's an ex-Army officer from central Mississippi—"

"Like I said, the 18th Century."

"Shut up. But he does happen to be a hillbilly with a hard-on for John Wilkes Booth, so he's blowing his great-uncle's fortune in the chicken processing industry on assassination plots against heads of state."

Harry's eyes widened. "Is that why I didn't get a birthday party? Because this idiot tried to kill the Sultan?"

Ray bit back a snort. There wasn't actually an assassination plot in Brunei, just Archer's two week binge and a few close encounters with VD. But… "Yep. That's why."

Harry ran his hand through his hair in frustrated contemplation. "Give me the damn dress."

Harry looked down at his new turtleneck. "This slightly darker black is something else."

"Told you," Ray replied, smirking. "Now I've got a plane to catch—"

"More like AIDS to catch."

"So if you'll excuse me, I've got to clean the blood off these pants before I board. The only other pair I brought is white and… well, it's close enough to Labor Day."

Harry grimaced. "That's not my fault. You were the one who came barging in as I had the situation under control."

"Under control? You were down to your underwear and surrounded by five burly men," Ray said, then paused. "Actually, that does sound—"

"God, don't say it," Harry said, wincing. "I had my Chekhov gun on me. That's how you got brains all over those pants of yours which, by the way, went out of style in the Thatcher years."

"Don't be a dick. Beauregard's men all had automatic weapons and I pegged more than you did."

"Really," Harry said, dripping with sarcasm. "I didn't know you were into pegging."

"Oh you are just your dad all over again, Harry," Ray said with a mock sigh, knowing he hit a sore spot.

"Archer is not my father! He's a… weird uncle figure at best. Possibly older nephew, I dunno. Can you imagine that dick being your dad?"

"Yeah, the wee baby Seamus is going to have worst life ever isn't he? Well, I'm out of here, you get to your stupid magician's boarding school," Ray said, leaving the store. "Which I didn't even know they had. I'll be sure to rub the irony in Archer's face."

"As long as that's the only thing you—gah, fine, stop throwing belts at me! Jesus, the leather!"

"Later, kiddo!"

As Ray exited the tailor's store, Harry smirked and withdrew a check from his pocket. "Too bad you won't know I claimed the bounty on Beauregard until after you get back to the States. You dumb idiot." Harry looked up at the silent, looming man still taking measurements and scribbling on a notepad. "All right Lurch, wrap it up. I've got to be at some bar in an hour. Apparently that's where they sell magician's school supplies these days... maybe this won't be as excruciatingly boring as I thought. I could use a pint. Or three."

When Harry finally found The Leaky Cauldron three hours later—when the hell did that building show up anyway?—he had already dipped into his emergency reserves. Reeking of gin, he stumbled inside and made his way to the bar.

"Pint please."

The bartender looked down to see the bleary-eyed boy staring up at him with his hand outstretched.

"We don't serve—"

"Dwarfistic pituitaryism."

"What?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"You're not getting a drink. I don't even take… what, are those deutschmarks?"

"Fine," Harry grumbled, removing a second flask from his back pocket and unscrewing the top. "What can I have?"

The bartender mused. "We have pumpkin juice."

"They have that?" Harry said incredulously. "Fine, give me that."

The bartender gave Harry a glass, which he dumped onto the floor after pouring a sixth of it into his flask. He scowled at Harry as he screwed the top back on, shook it up, then unscrewed it and took a sip.

"What in the-this is an incredible mixer. This has to be like… eighty percent gin and I can barely taste it," Harry exclaimed. "Although that could be because I drink it like water any time the temperature goes above seventy."

The bartender just sighed as Harry shoved a wad of yen onto the bar. "No charge. Name's Tom, by the way. You must be new here."

Harry took another swig. "Yup. I'm here for some kind of magician's school. I guess that explains why everyone is dressed in bathrobes. Can you show me where," Harry paused, slowly enunciating the name, "Dye-a-gone All-ee. Hey, Tom, you know that sounds just like diagonally right?"

"Magician's school?" The bartender asked aloud. "Poor kid. All right, let me show you where to find it."

He led Harry to the wall to Diagon Alley and started tapping the bricks.

"Seriously, you know it sounds like the word diagonally? Like a bishop?"

As he tapped the last brick, the passageway opened up and he led the stumbling boy into the magical marketplace. Tom smiled as he saw the look of unrestrained shock grow on Harry's face as he took in his surroundings. This was one of those unheralded benefits of running the bar: seeing little Muggleborns lose their heads over their first Diagon Alley trip. His smile grew into a grin when Harry whispered loudly, "Oh my god." But then his smile twisted into a frown.

"These have to be the worst-dressed people of all time."