Author's Notes: Well, here I am with another story. I was working away on Chapter 2 of Vincit Omnia Veritas (rather diligently I might add!) when a real life buddy of mine called up and begged me to go with him to the theatre to watch Crank 2. I hadn't seen the first one at that point, and I promised him that I would go but only after I saw the first. Well, I did, fell in love with it, went to see the second and had this crazy idea with a Harry Potter crossover of sorts.
The result? Poisoned Veins, Vengeful Hearts!
The name is a modified version of one of the tag lines used for the first Crank installment.
However, there are a few things to note. First, it isn't a proper crossover since I will NOT be using any of the characters used in Crank but merely translating them into the HP world. For example, Harry Potter will be channeling Chev Chelios. Second, the chapters will be relatively short and sweet in keeping with the machinegun speed pacing of the movie. Lastly, this fic is in NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM MEANT TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY. If you've seen the movie, you'll know why.
Summary: Harry Potter meet Crank. Just your average Boy-Who-Lived, Harry is poisoned by an ambitious Draco Malfoy setting off a chain of events that include rampant, explosive and over-the-top violence, gratuitous language and sex. If he stops, he dies. HP/NM/?
Warnings: Ridiculous, over-the-top and unrealistic violence, sex and innuendo, and gratuitous language! Just like the movie.
Pairings: Harry/Narcissa/?
HOWEVER, I might add another girl and for the first (and probably the last) time, I'm asking the reviewers for help on this one. Who should it be? Luna? Fleur? Daphne? Go wild.
Chapter 1: Just Another One of Those Days
A heartbeat.
And another.
A thud, thump sequence.
Inexorably slow and unbearably loud, the syncopated beat was a resonating cadence within the deepest recesses of his ears, like an organic subwoofer streaming the four working atriums of his heart.
Harry blinked languidly, once, and then twice. His bloodshot eyes weakly protested the faint background light that seemed to emanate from everywhere within his room; a veritable jail cell with prison windows and guillotine doors.
Christ, it's another one of those days.
Groaning, he clumsily crawled out of the tangled sheets of his undersized twin bed, bare-chested and donning only an oversized pair of black sweatpants over his boxers. His bed hair was as unruly as it ever was, indistinguishable from the norm.
Fucking headaches.
Thud, thump.
He massaged his temples as if willing the headache away with pressure point application, wistfully wondering if the Dursley's kept a stock of painkillers downstairs.
His breath was coming short and hard as if he had just ran a marathon. Or in a less likely event, as if he had, not of his own volition, developed aquatic respiration. He felt as if he was supposed to be breathing from oxygen dissolved in solvent water and not atmospheric air; a homogeneous mixture of non-volatile nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide and various other natural and synthetic chemicals.
Bringing his trembling hands to his face, he noticed they were damp, swathed by a thin film of cold sweat. Hastily wiping them on his pants, he licked his cracked lips. His mouth was arid like wrinkled dragon scale and infused with the bile rising taste of copper and rust.
Without warning, an immense ache pulsated within his chest and he gasped breathily, bowed over and stooped toward the ground.
Thud, thump.
What the HELL is wrong with me?
He groped blindly for his glasses on his dilapidated bedside cabinet and shoved his wand into the belt line of his sweats. The battered spectacles in place on the bridge of his nose, he walked in jerking half steps toward the door as the image of his room blurred and contorted around the edges.
"Shit..."
Panicking, he bodily lunged into the door as his magic flared uncontrollably from within him, desperate for escape. An echoing crack and he burst through the threshold of his room nearly stumbling to the floor from the unexpected absence of an opposite force. The multi-layer system of door locks were sheared cleanly in halves as fragments of the plank frame littered the carpeted floor.
Thud, thump.
Cursing, he struggled his way down the darkened hall of an early morning, the echoing steps of his dragging feet like jackhammers against his skull cavity; unrelenting and jaw-clenching.
Using the immaculate seashell white wall as a guide, he finally reached the stairs, a most unpromising prospect in his condition.
Oh for the love of... god damn stairs.
He tentatively inched down the first step, an iron fisted grip on the flimsy banister.
Success.
He took another step, slipping his hands down the wooden railing cautiously as he breathed a small groan of effort.
And then another step followed, with the same shuffling hands.
Thud, thump.
His heart lurched painfully within his chest cavity – imploding into a microdot before frantically seeking egress from his ribcage – and he immediately released his support to clutch the left side of his chest, realizing his spontaneous mistake far too late.
Oh fuck...!
Stifling a yell, he curled his body forward into the momentum of his descent, lowering his head into his chest, as his hands shielded his upper body. He barrel-rolled down the remaining steps, each a blunted claymore against his tired bones and bruised muscles, grunting as every plane struck him.
The ungraceful fall was a mercifully brief one, but it still left him moaning, and again wondering if the medication he had hoped for was somewhere nearby; perhaps the whole bottle and a bathtub of water in one go.
That fucking hurt.
He valiantly fought to upright himself, using the well-worn banister as a foundational post.
Finally standing, he paused, perusing his body for injuries. He finished his amateur scan only moments later and was grimly satisfied that, at least superficially, he only retained contusions and minor scratches. Nothing in his body felt broken or loose. Although he didn't have the necessary medical training to be confident of such findings, as long as he could move with relative ease and comfort, he wasn't bothered by it.
For now.
After everything he had been through, he was used to living with a body that wasn't fully functional.
Limping slightly and clutching his chest again, he trudged into the living room, grasping at random objects for support with his free hand. Picture frames fell with shattering crashes and a clay potted plant smashed against the cherry wood floor, the fertile soil splashed in clumps against it and the inherent moisture acting as a pseudo-adhesive.
He reached the three seat couch and dropped head first into it.
Thud, thump.
He feebly controlled his exhales and inhales, failing in deepening them.
Why does my chest feel like its on fire?
Conceding his futile attempt of diaphragm control, he rotated his head in both directions, loosening the knotted muscles in his neck as another thousand questions bombarded him.
Why do I feel so sick?
Where was I last night?
What the hell IS going on?
He faced outward from the cheap leather pillows, a buzzing warm cheek against the cool butter-smooth skin of the three-seater. It was then his emerald orbs locked on to a strange device heedlessly left on the oak-wood glass-top coffee table with a scrap of parchment pinched underneath it.
A pensieve? Here at the Dursley's?
He reached out and seized what he believed to be a pensieve, only to recognize that its form factor was too small to be a powerfully imbued object like the memory vessel. Yet, within the matchbook sized urn, the same flowing transparent silver essence of a stored memory, concrete as it was intangible, bubbled within.
He reached for the note next. Inscribed in black ink was a profoundly simple: "FUCK YOU".
Frowning, he flicked the parchment back on to the table.
He studied the pensieve-like object, unsure of what was required to activate it. Deciding on a tactic that involved him jumping feet first with his hands shielding his manhood, he mustered his Gryffindor courage and carefully prodded the swirling mass of quicksilver with his finger.
The effect was immediate. A scalding throb shot through his index and into his hand as he released the memory container with a muffled yelp. He jumped into a sitting position, vigorously shaking his spell burned manus in the air.
What a stroke of genius that was.
Harry's curiosity amplified as he noticed that the damnable vessel, instead of falling to the floor as expected, remained stubbornly suspended in the air while flashes of magical energy illuminated the room in vacillating flickers. The silver plasma within erupted from the diminutive device and rapidly formed two indistinct humanoid shapes.
The effervescent cloud coalesced, the edges sharpening and the silver-white mass gradually acquired colour. Just seconds later, the reaction was complete. Much to Harry's astonishment and disgust, a smirking Draco Malfoy with arms folded in smug triumph and an emotionless Gregory Goyle wielding a beater bat loomed over him.
"Is it recording now?" asked Malfoy impatiently, seemingly to Harry.
Somewhere in the background, there was a vague grunt. By process of elimination, Harry guessed it was Crabbe who was 'filming' this memory.
Malfoy laughed mirthlessly. "Well, well, well... Potty, how are things?"
Harry growled at the memory Malfoy.
I've been better. A hell of a lot better.
"Ah, never mind. It's so unfortunate this is only a memory." Malfoy clapped his hands together, his smirk becoming a foreboding smile. "Potter... Harry... I can call you Harry right?"
No you may not you smug little shit.
Malfoy became contemplative, a rarity. "Hmm, I guess it doesn't really matter... I mean, seeing as your about to die."
Harry stared hard at the recollection, disbelieving.
"Oh yes, my dear Harry." The ferret leaned forward, inches away from the real Boy-Who-Lived. "You will die."
Harry snorted. "You're a bloody muppet for the melodramatic, you know that? Bloody pure-blooded sensibilities."
The recorded figures ignored him. "Don't believe me? I'd say you aren't feeling so good right now. Am I wrong?"
As if on cue, Harry clutched his chest again, another shot of pulsating pain wracking his torso while beads of sweat were beginning to form on his forehead. His perspiration was stinging his scar shaped in the infamous lightning bolt, both an emblem of reverence and a revolting relic of the first war.
"Let's see..." Malfoy concentrated, his face contorting. "Chest pains, cold sweat, impaired motor movement, shortness of breath, dry mouth... need I go on?"
Not bothering for an answer, Malfoy reached into his silk robes, pulling out a syringe filled with a crystal clear water-like liquid; a canister bearing lethal injection."Not that I need to. Watch."
The 'memory camera' panned to the right and down as Malfoy shuffled over to remain within view, his pompous ass self salivating within the lime light. Finally coming to a stop, the immobile and unresponsive body of a face down Harry – himself – came into the scene, Malfoy crouching over him.
"A sleeping Potty. So cute!" Malfoy mockingly gushed.
You have to be fucking kidding me.
Harry suddenly froze, shocked at the location of the memory. His past self lay on a lumpy springboard mattress, supported by a metal frame with chipping paint and rusting metal underneath, and in a room no larger than a walk-in closet, the same one he had struggled to depart from only minutes ago.
How'd he get into Privet Drive?
Malfoy's drawling voice, tinted with pubescent cracking, steered Harry back to the memory. "Normally, I abhor such muggle methods, but this seems oddly appropriate for you, Harry."
Bringing the syringe to bear, Malfoy paused just above Harry's neck. He looked askance at the camera, smirking.
"Watch carefully Harry. I'm only able to do this once."
Malfoy inserted the needle leisurely into the neck of Harry's memory self, gleefully injecting the poison into the Chosen One's circulatory system.
Son of a...
The real Harry subconsciously massaged the back of his neck.
Howling in delight, Malfoy – the ever so subtle un-Slytherin – taunted Harry by shaking a now empty syringe. "I bet you would love to know what this is, wouldn't you? I'll admit, I have no clue, but Sevs sends his love."
"You mean..."
"That's right," crowed Malfoy, answering Harry's unheard question. "Professor Snape made this, this... whatever it is. I like to think of it as snake venom. Deadly, seductive and efficient."
Then, it dawned on him, a lucid comprehension that vaporised away into acidic vehemence. The hit had been planned by someone far above Malfoy's pay grade with Snape as a willing accomplice.
It was the same someone who not only unceasingly protected Snape with illogic that would have dumbfounded Professor Trelawney, but who had fervently insisted upon Harry's return to Privet Drive over the Christmas break.
Only a select few knew where Harry lived during the summer holidays, and none of them were in the league of Voldemort. How Malfoy managed to find him when the Dark Bastard he grovelled to on a bended knee could not, only lent credibility to his theory. That and the contrived telling of the prophecy at the end of last year, suspicious to the highest degree, he could now readily confirm as another rung on the rope ladder of deceit; the story of his life.
Molten anger blinded Harry as his mental capacities were dictated by irrational hate of all things magic up to that point in his life.
You old fucker...
"How do you like that Harry? How do you like being poisoned in your sleep by a Malfoy? Being bitten by the snake?" Malfoy was incessantly gloating now. "Can you feel the venom flowing through your veins? The cold sweat on your hands? Your starving lungs cut off from air? The unquenchable slow burn in your chest?"
All of you, god damn fuckers.
Malfoy, patting his gorilla bodyguard on his arched back, whooped. "Damn Goyle, you got Potter pretty good. I should ask father to get you a beater spot on the Falcons."
Harry zoned out the Slytherin's ramblings as further realizations surfaced within him.
If I die, Voldemort wins...
If Voldemort wins, more people will die...
My friends... Hermione, Ron... My family... Sirius, Lupin...
His attention diverted from Harry, the Malfoy heir pondered to Goyle. "I wonder if Sevvie will brew me more of this... delightful cocktail."
Harry barely heard him, still lost in his reverie.
But what does Dumbledore stand to gain? Or is it just a coincidence?
It doesn't matter now; everyone is going to die because you fucked up Harry.
But I can't die. The prophesy...
Fuck the prophesy and fuck Dumbledore. You've just taken a needle into the neck in your safe house, the same one Dumbledore has said, over and over, was fail proof. The old man has sold you out. And now, you're going to die.
Then, the prophesy... it was a lie?
Apparently.
Harry blinked, and then again, owlishly.
But that doesn't make sense.
Regardless, you're a dead man walking, and you need to get your ass moving if you hope to accomplish anything useful with the time you have left.
Harry relented to his inner self's logic and a soothing sense of numbness that drummed in time with his quivering heart, rose to the surface of his mindscape, a chilling acceptance that was the deathly calm before the raging storm.
Thud, thump.
I'm going to die.
You are.
A small smile escaped Harry, a twisted feeling of determination surging through him.
But, I won't let Voldemort win.
No?
Not if I can help it.
Malfoy was still laughing at his so-called brilliance, while mentioning references to Shakespeare, the protagonist poisoning his enemies while they slumbered; unaware they were soon to be dead.
So, what are you going to do then?
Work. I'm going to work. If I die, they're coming with me.
Every one of them?
A pregnant pause; the turning point of the rest of his life was upon the cutting table and utterly irrevocable. And really, he had nothing to lose by trying.
Every. Single. One.
Growing bored, Malfoy returned to the camera. "Oh Harry? You don't have to worry about your relatives. We took the liberty of disposing of them for you. I know how horrid it must have been to live with... muggles." He smirked. "Of course, we had to use your wand."
Fucking wonderful, now the ministry is involved. This just got harder.
Harry mentally added another strike to his rapidly inflating list of burgeoning problems.
"You might also be wondering why I left you alive."
Predictable answer? It's more fun for you, bloody ferret.
Malfoy grinned sadistically. "It's more fun this way. Knowing that you suffered before the end."
Harry sighed.
Like an open book.
Sneering, Malfoy finished with parting words for the reluctant hero. "Die well Harry. My only regret is not being there to see it."
The quality of the memory film began to diminish as the natural spectrum of colour returned to its airy and monotone silver-white state. The images of Malfoy and Goyle began to distort and wave, while their voices fluctuated from screeching high to inhumanely low.
"Remember Harry. Die well!"
With a soft hiss, the memory was gone. The diminutive pensieve soon followed with a blinding flash, presumably destroying itself or teleporting itself back to the Malfoy's luxurious mansion. Not even Draco Malfoy, the least Slytherin-like Snake to walk Hogwarts in the last millennium, was idiotic enough or blinded enough by his throbbing ego to leave behind incriminating evidence.
The Boy-Who-Lived stared into the wall, just beyond where the recorded recollection took place, a million more thoughts assailing him with big bore rifle velocity.
Frustrated, he slammed his leg into the coffee table, his magic bursting through the tensile chords of his muscled thighs and calves as he utterly demolished the living room piece, a haphazard pile of powdered white sand the only visible indication that the table had existed.
My life has turned out like a 24/7 action movie... bad guys and betrayal, days of non-stop agony for the hero - no, the protagonist...
And it just HAD to be one of THOSE days.
God.
Fucking.
Damn it.