Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do not own The Middleman either.

A/N: Welcome to My Fractured Psyche. I don't get many ideas that I write out, and most of the others are barebones premises. This is where I'll try out the premises. I'll start with one I've been kicking around for a while--an entire day, believe it or not! All joking aside, I'll end with the standard statement for 'container' type stories: The ideas here-in may or may not be turned into full on multi-chapter fics.

If anyone reading this has actually read the comics, I'm basing this off of the TV show.

The Dark Wizard Defiance Dilemma

Middleman HQ

Tee time

"Why are we going to England? I thought our jurisdiction was just this city!" the young Hispanic woman said.

"Actually, a Middleman is beyond jurisdiction, Dubbie," her boss said. Despite a uniform that closely resembled that of a mailman, he looked like he had walked straight out of a spaghetti western. "Technically, we do not have any jurisdiction. May I remind you that we, as Middlemen, are really more like independent contractors specializing in the solving of exotic problems."

"Okay, okay, I get it," Dubbie--Wendy Watson to everyone but her boss, her roommate, and her boyfriend--said. "And there's really no need to remind me. I still have the painting of the hentai tentacle monster hanging in my living room."

"Your living room, eh?" a sarcastic voice said from behind Wendy as Ida, the Middleman's receptionist and tech expert, walked into the room. "Sure it's not on the ceiling over your bed?"

Wendy tried her hardest to ignore the ill-tempered android--who looked very much like a schoolmarm, down to the ugly horn-rimmed glasses and bad hairdo. "You never did answer me," she prompted as she turned back to her boss. "What's going on in England that needs solving?"

"O2STK wants us to investigate reports of increasing Dark Wizard activity. They appear to mirror events that occurred in between 1969 and 1981, when reportedly a Mr..." he looked down at the dossier in front of him, "Voldemort attempted to overthrow the Wizard government in England. His profile states that he extended his campaign of violence to nichtmagi--people like you and me, who can't do magic, or muggles as they're called in Britain--and the children of normal, non-magical people who could do magic. He was stopped by unknown means on Halloween 1981, but no body was ever recovered so it has always been assumed that he managed to escape but was mortally wounded and died elsewhere. So, either we're dealing with a copycat, or he survived that night and has finally recovered enough to begin his campaign of terror again."

"So we're dealing with an anarchist with the ability to kill with just a thought?" Wendy said, unfazed.

"Not quite. According to his profile, he didn't want to bring the government down, he just wanted to take over and rid the magical world of those descended from non-magical parents. He apparently found many of their more socially progressive ideas disturbing and felt that they were ruining the culture of wizarding world."

"Ah, we're dealing with someone like Rush Limbaugh who can kill with just a thought, then," Wendy said.

"How do reach that conclusion?"

"He finds their views to be a bit too liberal for his tastes, and in response he wants to return his society back to a more conservative time," Wendy said.

"That...makes sense, I guess," her boss said.

"So how are we getting to foggy old England? The Middlejet only seats one and I'm not getting in the cancersub ever again!"

"Of course we won't be taking the cancersu--darn it, Dubbie, you've got me saying it too," The Middleman said. Wendy suppressed a sigh as yet again her boss--who claimed to be a former U.S. Navy SEAL--uttered yet another of his repertoire of 1950s sitcom swears. "As a was saying, of course we won't be taking the Middlesub. We'll be taking the Middlemobile--"

"Don't tell me! We're going to drive across the ocean floor! Or better yet, it'll glide across the surface of the ocean like a hovercraft!" Wendy interrupted tiredly.

"Actually, Dubbie, I was going to say that we'll be taking the Middlemobile to the airport tomorrow morning and board the six o'clock flight to London using the tickets O2STK sent with the orders and the profile of Mr. Voldemort."

"Voldemort..." muttered Wendy. Something about that name...

"Aha!" Wendy shouted. "I got it!"

"Got what?" Ida asked from behind her. "Did you suddenly remember where you left your hookah?"

Wendy ignored her...it? How does one refer to an android, anyway?

"The name of the guy. It's not just a nonsense name. Voldemort means 'flee from death,'" Wendy said.

"Are you sure?"

"I could be wrong about the conjugation, but I've seen enough Italian zombie movies to know the words for flee and death."

"Go home and get some sleep, Dubbie. We've got an early start tomorrow," The Middleman said, dismissing her.

--

The hallway outside the illegal sublet Wendy shares with another young, photogenic artist.

Party time--where the are you?

"Yo, Wendy Watson," the dark-complexioned man said as Wendy opened the elevator door onto the floor where she shared an apartment with her best friend from art school, Lacey Thornfield.

"Hey, Noser," she replied tiredly.

"You know, the bitch is hungry, she needs to kill," Noser said.

"So give her inches, and feed her well," Wendy replied after a split second of thought.

"You're the only girl that gets me, Wendy Watson," he said as she opened the door to her apartment.

"Hey Dub-dub," Wendy's photogenic blonde roommate/best friend, Lacey, said as Wendy entered, "what's up?"

"I have to go to England tomorrow. I'm not sure how long I'll be gone, but I'll make sure to send my rent money if I'm gone too long."

"Why are you going to England? Couldn't whoever it is have gotten a temp from a local agency?" Lacey asked. The Middleman organization operated under the cover of the Jolly Fats Weehawkin Temp Agency.

"No, not one with the specialized skills that my boss and I have," Wendy said.

"So that means Pillowlips is going with you?" Lacey asked, almost swooning as she recited her nickname for Wendy's boss.

"Would you stop calling him that?" Wendy said resignedly, knowing that the answer was a no.

"You won't let me call him Sexy Boss Man anymore, and neither of you will tell me his real name. What am I supposed to call him?"

Wendy hated to admit it, but her logic was good, if a bit disturbing. She was about to admit defeat when a thought occurred to her.

"How about you use his initials, M.M.," she suggested.

"What do they stand for?" Lacey asked.

"I dunno," Wendy lied. "I overheard Ida, the receptionist, call him that once."

"Okay, I'll try," Lacey said earnestly.

"Good. Listen, I've got an early flight tomorrow, so I need to go to bed now. Could you try keep the noise to a minimum?" pleaded Wendy.

"Sure thing Dub-dub."

--

The hallway outside the illegal sublet Wendy shares with another young, photogenic artist.

Hammer Time

It was well before dawn when The Middleman opened the doors to the elevator onto the floor where Wendy lived.

"Yo, Wendy's boss!" exclaimed Noser tiredly.

"Good morning, Mr. Noser," replied The Middleman amiably as he went to Wendy's door and knocked.

Almost immediately the door opened. "Hello, Sexy bo--I mean Pillowli--I mean M. M. Wendy'll be down in a minute. In the mean time, can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?" Her voice turned husky, "Or perhaps I could interest you in a little--"

"Please, Lacey, could you try and tone it down in front of me?" Wendy said.

"I didn't see you come down, Dub-dub. I was just trying to wish M. M. bon voyage," Lacey said, looking vaguely like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Unfortunately there isn't time for you and my boss to do the tubesnake boogie," Wendy said lightly. "I'll see you when we get back. Maybe then I'll give you some alone time."

Lacey and Wendy shared a friendly embrace. "Bye, Dub-dub, M. M.," she said as the separated.

Wendy followed her boss into the hall. "Yo, Wendy Watson!" Noser exclaimed tiredly.

"Hey, Noser," Wendy said. "You're up early, aren't you?"

"I haven't been to bed yet. Been too busy thinking about flying."

"You mean like an eagle?" Wendy asked.

"No."

"Do you believe you can fly?"

"No."

"You're gonna fly to the angels."

"No."

"I got it. You're gonna fly by night.

"You're the only girl that gets me Wendy Watson," Noser said as he got up to return to his apartment. "See you when you get back."

--

Somewhere in Little Whinging, Surrey.

Big Time

The dark haired youth looked to be about thirteen or fourteen, wiry muscles hardened from years of using them working in the garden. In fact, he was about a week shy of sixteen. He was currently trimming the hedge. He had to be very careful, because if he got any part of it too tall or too short, his uncle was going to beat him. His exact words had been, "If you ruin our hedgerow, boy, I'm going to kick your ungrateful arse up between your eyeballs!"

Harry Potter was used to such threats. Despite the fact that Uncle Vernon had never done worse than using his belt on Harry, Harry never doubted for a minute that Vernon would do far worse given the proper incitement. He'd recently purchased a two-foot length of two by four, which he said was to be used to "discipline any members of this household who exhibit a proclivity for disobedience." He'd also purchased a thesaurus, which he'd flipped through for a week before explaining the two by four.

Harry was disturbed from his reverie by a voice nearby. It was male, American, and possessed with the patience that only teachers explaining concepts to pupils could muster. "According to the HADAR, there is a strong magical signature in this area, one of a type not exhibited by any other site in the world, much less the United Kingdoms," it said.

A bored sounding female voice replied, "But what makes you think this is where we'll find," there was a pause, as if she was trying to remember a name, "Voldemort."

Harry's head snapped around in the direction of the voices so fast he pinched a nerve in his neck. "Ow! Shite!" he exclaimed calmly, followed by a muttered string of swear words delivered in an equally calm manner.

There were only two people Harry could see on the street. He didn't recognize either of them, but they were obviously source of the voices. As they approached--drawn by his invectives, no doubt--he thought it odd that they looked more muggle than any adult witch or wizard he'd ever met. "Young man, perhaps you could go get your father so we could talk," the man said reasonably.

"I would if he were alive, but he died Halloween of 1981," Harry replied. Why did I tell them that?

The two Americans shared a glance, and the next thing Harry knew he was on the ground, his hands held behind his back. "So, taking up the family business, are you? Figured you could get your father's old followers together and terrorize the populace, did you?"

"What the bloody fucking hell are you talking about?!" Harry exclaimed around a mouthful of garden.

"He's talking about the fact that you've been terrorizing Britain under the pseudonym of 'Voldemort,' you little punk," the woman said from somewhere in front of him. He couldn't see her. In fact, all he could see was the anthill his left eye was currently less than an inch away from.

"You're fucking mental!" Harry exclaimed. "Voldemort was the bastard that killed my parents."

"So he killed your parents on the same day he disappeared?" the man asked, releasing Harry. The woman kept a wary eye on him.

"How do you know of Voldemort and not know who I am?" Harry asked, wary of these two.

"All we know is what O2STK tells us," the man replied. He was apparently in charge here.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "O2STK?"

The man began to answer, but Harry cut him off. "Never mind. Still, I'm surprised you've never heard the name Harry Potter."

"Oh my god! You're the Harry Potter?!" The woman suddenly gushed. "I expected you to be taller, but I see it now," she added.

"So you have heard of me," Harry groaned.

"Actually...no," she said. "Should I have?" she asked dryly.

"You know about Voldemort, but you don't know anything about 'The Boy-Who-Lived?'" Harry asked incredulously, making finger quotes as he recited the accursed title. "What rock have you been living under? There's not a witch or wizard who doesn't know my name!" He began to think that his wish for anonymity had finally been granted...at the worst possible moment.

"Actually, young man, we are what most of your kind call nichtmagi--but you would be more familiar with the term muggle," the man said.

I'll call the man 'Dirk Squarejaw' and the woman...Isabella, since she looks Mexican. Then what the man said sunk in. "What?!" Harry sputtered eloquently.

"The organization we work for, O2STK, told us all they knew about Mr. Voldemort, which wasn't much, and obviously was far from enough," the man conceded. "I apologize, Mister...Potter, was it?"

Harry nodded. "Just Harry, if you don't mind. So, who are you anyway?"

The man observed Harry with a suspicious look for a minute. Then, apparently satisfied with what he saw--or at least Harry assumed that's what the new expression meant, but since he'd never seen anyone happy about how he looked, so he didn't know for sure--said, "I am The Middleman. This is my partner and apprentice, The Middlegirl."

He paused for a second, a look of deep thought crossing his features. "Perhaps now that we've gotten the introductions out of the way, perhaps you can fill us in on the story of Voldemort?"

"I'd be glad to, but my Uncle would kill me if he heard me speaking of my 'freakishness' to anyone," Harry replied.

"Don't worry, I'll work on convincing him. He'll see my point eventually."

And he did.

--

A/N: The next chapter, if it gut's written, will take place after the conversation. I honestly don't know where the story will go if I continue it. I started it on a lark, but I worked hard on it.

Questions? Comments? Plotholes (I don't expect there to be any, but you never know.)? Just type them up in a review and I'll get to them when I can.