Disclaimer: I'm not J. K. Rowling and do not own Harry Potter.

The Cleaner

Worry About Cleanliness

1851

Harold pulled his bare legs up to his chest, biting his lips as dry skin was split and bruised by the uneven flooring. Brick crumbles from the wall and sand brought in by cruel beings covered the cell. He imagined he could create a bed out of it soon.

A death bed.

Yes, Harold could no longer imagine any other outcome. Without liquid or solid substance there was little keeping his blood flowing. Harold had studied under his father, and was fully aware of the horrors man had carried out of hunger. Mothers eating their children and likewise. Everything for survival. Maybe he, too, would fall under the madness of hunger and eat his own flesh.

Chuckling hollowly, Harold congratulated himself on his wistful thinking. His cause of death would not be from starvation. After all, he was a mortal man, unlike them, and diseases, anguish and death was inevitable. The games they played with him was ruining him. And just like a deconstructed house, Harold had lost his inner walls. Now, only a shell was standing, ready to fall at the slightest push.

'Never cry, my dear son. As the heir you have an obligation to succeed in areas your father failed.' Tears swelled, threatening to fall. Oh, how he had fallen for grace.

His dear, beautiful mother would surely look away in shame if she ever saw him curled up on the floor like a child. Dirty and crying, dismantling his honor as a man.

Despite that, Harold longed for her. Her warm voice, protective embrace and overpowering perfume. Together with her, his flawed but gentle father and his beloved elder brother. Yes, he would even marry his appalling fiancé if he survived this ordeal.

Even so, he was probably dead to them.

Harold curled his freezing toes, imagining the numbness was a cause of heat and not of cold.

He did not wish for death. He longed for life. Even a crippled life was preferable to death. Anything was better than breathing out for the last time, succumbing to his injuries.

Having grown up in a house of purity, Harold had early learned to think himself invincible from everyday sorrows. His mother had made a habit of reminding him of his position in society every night when he was a child, a candle sitting by the bedside, flickering as she chanted the same truth again and again.

'We are better than them, pure and blessed by magic. Never forget, my dear son, never forget.' And he had believed her until his world shattered around him at twenty.

Harold licked his chapped lips. Producing offsprings with his fiancé was preferable now that he had lost everything. His mother would be pleased. He would leave the love of his life and marry his cousin.

"Harold, my love " His captor's smooth voice boomed through the cell. "Oh dear, what are you doing on the floor?" Harold recoiled in horror, blinking away his tears in a futile attempt to hide them. "My poor, poor boy, are you crying?"

Steps closed in on his position. The heel of his shoe clicked against the flooring. Harold could not help his trembling and in a sudden eruption of courage he pushed himself up and away from the man, not the devil, in front of him. Shackles were clinking together, ragged and fearful breathing, sounds of metal scraping against stone. A nightmare refusing to let him go.

"No, no, no, no - please, no more, just - no, please… I beg you… anything, anything but that!" He cried, raising his hand like a shield, but as soon as he blinked the man vanished. His breath was caught in his throat and he looked desperately for his enslaver.

Gentle fingers threaded through his dirty and greasy hair. Harold froze, unable to defy him any longer.

"Harold, I am so sorry, but -" Cold arms embraced him from behind, drawing him up close to the man's chest. "-We have no choice but to do it, you know that." Harold let his head be pushed back against a freezing shoulder. He had to give him some credit: it almost sounded like he cared.

"Let me go…" He whispered, broken in the arms of the devil.

"My sweet one, you know we cannot do as you wish. No, not after all the trouble my children went through to rescue you from the wicked Potter family." Chuckling, he strengthen his hold. "Do you really think I will ever let you go?" He whispered in a sickly sweet voice, unnecessary breath blown into Harold's ear.

The devil scooted back, gently placing Harold down on his side. "You're beautiful, my beloved," He laughed, staring into Harold's forest eyes and beyond.

Smiling widely, Harold's personal monster exposed elongated fangs.

"You will be here for the rest of your life, darlin'."

1988

Harry Potter walked briskly down the street of Diagon Alley, ignoring the dark-hooded men and light-dressed women roaming the side alleys. Few dared enter the main street, aware of the recent laws that had been passed. An old and dirty man had gathered enough courage to enter the street and was on his knees, slurping up water from a muddy puddle. Harry glanced away in disgust at the man's attire and unwashed hair.

Inhaling the chilly midnight summer air, he tightened his red cotton scarf, hoping it would keep the cold out. An unnecessary habit he refused to let go. He was dressed in a seemingly new pitch-black suit, appearing like a very serious businessman out to succeed. In his right hand a heavy-looking suitcase, looking just as clean as every other part of the young man.

He made a stunning image. However, his most noticeable feature was his eyes, ominously green, shining against his pale skin. Jet-black hair was pulled back tightly against his head, though it seemed forced because short hair straws were escaping their prison behind the hair gel and were standing out in all directions.

Glancing into a showcase window, his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. He would have liked to fix his hair, but without the eyes of another being there was no way he could perfect it. No, the lack of reflection was more a curse than anything else, denying him order and cleanliness.

Soon, he was stepping out the lights and order of Diagon Alley and entering the consuming darkness of Knockturn Alley.

He was late, he noticed as he looked down at his wristwatch.

Knockturn Alley was the exact opposite of Diagon alley, but at the same time exactly the same. Built by wizards for wizards, they were both alleys of freedom, acceptance and rejection. Harry adored them both. Knockturn Alley was built up on fascinating shops and restaurants, all of them open at night, catering either creatures of the night or wizards of darkness. It was a place of total lawlessness, no one would be suspicious because everyone was suspicious.

Harry came to a halt in front of a darkened shop, The Coffin House, one of the few places closed. 'Closed Until Further Notice', was carved into the stone stairs leading up to the entrance. He frowned upon the dust gathered in the windows.

Stepping up, Harry noticed the door was slightly open and he hesitated slightly before he pushed his elbows into the door, opening it.

There was a small candle left on the counter, trying and failing to light up the room. It flickered slightly as Harry closed the door behind himself.

Coffins, strange objects and shelves of books were standing up against the wall. Dusty and old. His shoes left footprints on the wooden floor and the air was thick with dust. Exhaling, Harry pinched his nose, trying to stifle his panic. It was too grimy here.

The shop was empty, not a single living being inside. His costumer had yet to arrive, perhaps he had lost his nerve. 'No surprise there," he thought quietly to himself, walking carefully deeper into the room, trying not to disturb the layers of dust on the floor.

Noticing a lack of chairs, even behind the counter, Harry halted, refusing to search in the cluster of objects any longer. He sighed and was about to place the suitcase on the floor, but he froze before slowly lifting it up again. No, it was not worth it, there was too much dust. He exhaled at the averted danger.

Leaning closer to a bookcase, he picked up the closest book, staring interestingly down at the cover. 'Skin Walkers', Harry pursed his lips in wonder as he opened the book. Anything to make time go by.

After 20 minutes of exhausting, illegible theories the client had yet to arrive. He sent a worried glance at the door as he placed the book back at its previous place. Harry's black gloves was dusty now. Feeling chilled to the bone, he pulled them off carefully before letting them fall to the floor. He fished out a new pair of gloves, pulled them on and sent a silent, wandless, spell at the gloves on the floor. Flaming up, they pulverized, leaving a black spot on the floor.

It was a compulsive habit, an obsession some would say, but there was nothing to do about it. Harry Potter despised the dirty and foul. He blamed his creator.

The door creaked and his client entered. A portly little man, with rumpled grey hair and sweat gathering at his hairline.

'Disgusting,' Harry though, but smiled nonetheless. "Mr. Fudge, I was worried. Arriving late does not give a very good impression, now does it? Hmm?" He was not afraid of verbalizing his thoughts. And why should he? There was no point in hiding behind a mask.

Fudge shifted, a chubby finger coming up to loosen his scarf, as he stared transfixed at Harry's teeth. "Well…"

Harry's smile widened and he laughed. "I have no interest in obese men, you have nothing to worry about! " Men had a fear of his species and often found it unpleasant when he openly exhibited his teeth.

Fudge nodded slowly, not trusting Harry's words. "I had business of my own and could not make it earlier… For that I apologize." Authority, Fudge obviously wanted to be perceived as a man of importance.

Nodding, Harry stared shrewdly at the man. "Some advise, Mr. Politician - loose some weight, drink beauty potions and sell your soul, then - please - tell me the same thing again."

Fudge opened his mouth slightly before he closed it again, at loss for words. "Uh - I… Well, listen…" He stuttered.

"Breath," He answered. "Now! Let us find somewhere to sit, have a cup of coffee, something nice, clean - yeah?"

Fudge shook his head. "I have rented an office here… in this shop."

"How unnecessary, my dear baconer! Let's go somewhere cleaner."

"I am a man of importance, you unsightly little man! I have an appearances of responsibility I need to keep up. Maybe you are unaware of it - it wouldn't surprise me if you were - but there is an election coming up and every vote is crucial for my success!" Fudge snapped, walking briskly past Harry, who stared in surprise at the man's back. Well, he would not be getting any vote from Harry, that was for sure.

"I understand, I do have a brain, Mr. Toffee. No need to be an arsehole." He whispered in reply as he followed the man towards an office in the backroom.

Dominance, an iron will and purity was crucial to succeed in their world, even Fudge realized what he needed, but he could only fumble around in the dark trying to turn on a light that did not exist. Not anywhere close to the man at least. Two times had Fudge lost an election for the position as the Minister of Magic. Two times to the same man. And he would fail the next time too, without a doubt.

The office was no cleaner than the rest of the place and Harry wondered if Fudge had more of a brain than anticipated. Layers of dust covered the chairs like blankets. Ghosts gathered for his horror only. There were no windows, only a small mirror in a corner, reflecting Fudge's heavy movements and listening to the screaming wooden floor, suffering under the man's weight.

Fudge took a seat behind a large desk located in the middle of the small room and in an unnatural and practiced movement folded his fingers. "Please sit," He said and Harry sent a distasteful glance at the empty chairs. "Oh, no - I would like to stand,"

Fudge shifted, clearly debating wether to stand up too. Coming to a decision, he leaned back in the chair, looking pleasantly hideous.

"Let's get down to business, shall we?" Harry murmured, absentmindedly brushing invisible dust-specks from his coat. "You want me to clean something up, right?" Stricking eyes fixed themselves on the sweating man.

Fudge nodded grimly. "Yes, that's right."

"And you're aware of my occupation?" Elaboration was everything in his line of work. A client lacking understanding was a burden Harry had no desire to carry. Either he was in the saddle or he was not. There was no - 'Well, I don't know'.

"Yes, I do." Fudge's voice was wavering. "I… I know what you'll do," Scared of corruption he chose to place the responsibility of Harry. A guilty mind trying to justify its immoral actions. Oh well, Harry had little interest in a client's mental health.

"Wonderful," Harry answered. "Alright, there are some general rules - here," Harry swished his wand and a paper popped up on the table in front of Fudge. "You need to sign that, with blood please, and if you are clever read it carefully," He murmured and Fudge nodded in response, sweat dripping from his nose down at the paper. 'How vile.' "Please know, Mr. Fudge, that while you've paid for my services it does not determine the deed. What do you mean by that? You may ask. Well, listen. My services are dependent on the sum you pay for the job. If there's, let's say, a man who'll pay more for the death of your enemy than you, then good for you! Free services! I don't double book a death, you see. Money rules the world. So, if someone - maybe, I don't know - the man - or woman - you want me to kill contacts me to kill you and pays more, then too bad! You're the victim! Money rules it all, my dear! Easy!" Fudge swallowed nervously, but Harry paid it no attention.

"There's a second rule, but that's in relation to my services and nothing to do with you. When you pay, and a long as you're the main client, then I keep the money in an untouched bank account until I've succeeded. If I fail, unlikely to happen, but you never know, then you'll get all your money back. A wonderful system isn't it?! Inspired by Muggles there, can you believe it? No? Oh well, I believe that was it. Is there anything - oh, wait, I forgot. If you look at the bottom of that paper, you'll see a third paragraph. That one is pretty much protecting your identity, I won't share it as long as you're paying the most! Alright! That's it, please read it meticulously before signing." Smiling, Harry ticket of the last thing on his list. Everything was said and done. Wonderful.

Fudge read it twice before signing it.

"Who is it?" Harry asked excitedly as he picked up the paper, folding it and pushing it into his pocket. He was curious, but already suspicious of who it would be.

"Well, you see… oh…" He stuttered and Harry could understand the difficulty in saying it out loud so he wanted patiently.

"His name is… It's the Minister of Magic…. T-Tom Riddle," Fudge whispered. "He's a-"

"I know who he is," Harry murmured, saving Fudge from embarrassing himself. "You do know that he'll pose as a greater risk than normal targets, so that'll up the price." No service was cheap, but this was something else entirely.

"I have money - I'll give you anything, just… make him disappear." Fudge answered hurriedly.

"Careful, Mr. Fudge, never say 'anything'," Harry whispered in reply. "But anyway! If you have the money then there's no problem!"

"Do you have any personal information on him?" A professional question serving no other purpose than keeping a professional front. Harry had no interest in his client's opinion of the target. He had a routine where he stalked the dirt for some months before cleaning it up. Half the excitement came from gathering information.

"Yes, I do," Fudge shifted in his chair and brought a small crumpled letter out from his pocket. "Everything…. Is in here," His voice was soft. He glanced at him for a moment before, once again, folding his hands, quieting. Looking back at Harry he opened his mouth, but closed it seconds later with a snap.

"What?" Harry asked.

"When," Coughing, Fudge continued. "When will you do it?" The general question; when? Human beings had not patience, none at all. Could they not understand that things took time. Harry was a painter and he needed time to consider each stroke he applied on the canvas.

"Minimum one month," He murmured, considering it. "Maximum 1 years, it depends, but don't worry, he should be dead before the election."

A satisfied smirk pulled at Fudge's lips, threatening to break out into a smile. The death of the beloved Minister would not only bring sorrow and despair, but pure contentment and happiness. Death was a two-sided occurrence.

"Very well, I shall leave you now," Fudge stood, nodding to Harry. "Have a good day."

"Good night, you mean?" He answered, but Fudge ignored it, hurriedly walking out of the office towards the door.

The door slammed close leaving Harry alone in the suffocating place. Fudge had left a pungent smell of sweat and perfume inside the office, occupying space even when he had left in the worst way possible. Harry walked up to the entrance door, avoiding coffins and decaying spider carcasses. Bringing out a handkerchief, he eased it around the doorknob before twisting it, stepping out into the fresh air.

To be continued

A/N: Rewritten: 10.10.15, and a 1000 words longer.