The Teaser

A collection of HP fics/ideas that may or may not come to be by Dirty Reid

A.N.: Well, once again dear readers, I'm turning out a piece of work… composed of pieces of work I'd like to write, but don't currently have the time/inspiration to do so. Well, I guess that's not true, but in order to write these, I'd have to drop quite a few of my older works in progress.

Keep in mind though, that if I get a particularly positive response for one or more of these teasers, I might turn it into a full-fledged fic. Or, if you ask nicely, I may let you adopt a chapter and turn it into a fic yourself. Remember that. Note as well that these are snippets of fics, so they're fairly unrefined and there will be a lot of gaps.

Disclaimer: I own nothing

Chapter 1: Dad the Original BAMF


"So… this is it."

The words were spoken… no, drawled by a hulking brute of a man. He stood at least six feet tall, and could not have weighed less than two hundred pounds. But to say he was fat was to say that Justin Bieber didn't look like a fag. The man's bare muscular arms were as large as a small tree, and his faded jeans were stretched to near breaking point. Around his large waist was a bullet belt composed of real .50 BMG bullets. The buckle was shaped like the universal symbol for nuclear radiation. A red tank top was stretched over his rock-hard abdominals and basketball-sized pectorals. His bored blue eyes were concealed by sunglasses and his platinum blonde crew cut dimly reflected the sun shining into King's Cross Train Station. Of course, most of this was hidden beneath an incredibly expensive, anaconda skin trench coat. The brute was arguably the most famous person on the planet, but these Brits weren't as fond of him as the Americans; apparently what he 'stood for' offended a whole lot more people over here.

"I guess 93/4 is hidden somewhere." Said the brute's much smaller companion. Despite that, he was quite a bit bigger than most people at eleven years of age. He 'blamed' it on the brute teaching him the values of physical activity when he turned eight. Due to him not having experienced the horrors of puberty yet, his muscles fell far short of bulging to settle comfortably in 'wiry' territory. He too wore a set of jeans with a belt composed of .50 AE rounds and a lightning bolt buckle. Unlike the brute, he wore a set of red Converse sneakers instead of Doc Martens. He wore a white t-shirt that fit him quite snugly, and a high quality leather jacket. Instead of sunglasses though, he wore a set of frameless designer glasses which did nothing to hide his jade eyes. His tar black hair was as out of control as a breached Japanese nuclear reactor, and partially shaded a jagged scar on his forehead. Beside him was a large trolley with a trunk and a huge cage with something that could- at best- be described as a purple, winged lizard with three eyes. It drew quite a few curious or creeped out looks.

"You sure you want to do this?" the brute asked as he turned his blocky but well-chiseled face to his younger counterpart. His mouth angled down into a concerned frown. "You really sure you wanna give up becoming a doctor to learn how to wave a stick an' shout 'Abracadabra'?" he continued. The kid chuckled restrainedly at the stereotype.

"I think of it as a mostly free trial offer. If learning magic ain't for me, I can always leave. Screw that old, Limey bastard and this destiny bullshit." The kid had a very colourful vocabulary for someone his age. He blamed it on the brute and his choice in… pleasurable company. Said brute smirked in satisfaction and placed one of his large hands on the kid's shoulder.

"That's my boy." He crowed quietly to his son. The son smiled and leaned into his father's side. The father had only recently gotten comfortable with public displays of affection. He'd had his thoughts (He would never admit to fearing something) that doing so would negatively affect the image he had crafted through his achievements. When he discovered it made women think he had a more sensitive side, he quickly became all for it. As he patted his son's arm a couple times, he reached inside of his snake skin coat to withdraw a wide, near flat wooden box.

"Just an extra wild card." He explained at his son's inquisitive look. The black-haired boy slowly released the latch and opened the box. He whistled softly as he was treated to the sight of a loaded black Jericho 941F semi-automatic and four clips of .40 S&W rounds. Lying beneath the gun and clips was a leather holster

"You really think this is necessary?" he asked as he closed the box and held it under his arm. His father shrugged his enormous shoulders.

"Uncle Chuck said that dealing with some of these people's more of a bitch than that one uber-feminist chick I got drunk with and brought home." He admitted. The kid shuddered; Haley Briscoe had screamed at his father for almost an hour about how his being famous made his chauvinistic attitude all that much worse because of the people who desired to emulate him. If Uncle Chuck said something like that, you believed it to the letter. I mean come on, this was the word of a man who had won The Game… TWICE.

"Alright, just hope I don't have to use it." He wished. The father grinned.

"Even if you do, I'll still love ya kid." He fondly ruffled the kid's hair, who was blushing as he told his father he loved him too. "Now go out there and show the world what it means to kick ass and chew bubble gum; the reputation of your family demands it."


"Excuse me," a timid voice came from the door, causing the boy to look over and gaze at a pudgy, round faced boy and a bossy but cute-looking girl with large teeth standing in the train compartment's hall. "Can we sit here? Everywhere else is full." He added.

"Go ahead, toots." The boy answered, indicating the seat across from him.

"'Toots'?" the girl repeated, looking just a bit peeved.

"Cutie, hot stuff, beautiful, take your pick." The boy added. The girl narrowed her eyes but blushed at the same time when she realized he was complimenting her. They both took a seat across from the boy. It was only then that they both noticed that he was a good couple inches taller than either of them, and quite noticeably more physically fit. The round-faced boy found those details rather intimidating when coupled with the fact that his glasses flashed eerily in the light of the late morning. The girl, while a little young to be concerned with this particular topic, found him rather handsome.

The boy looked over his two silent train mates. Both were smaller than him. He had already identified the girl as cute ('She'll be a bombshell in a couple years,' he concluded), and the boy looked as jumpy as…

"Is that a toad on your shoulder?" he blurted out. The smaller boy flinched at the sudden question. He reached up and pulled the corpulent amphibian down.

"Y-yes. This is Trevor." He explained. "I'm Neville Longbottom, by the way." Neville added. The taller boy flicked his eyes over to the girl.

"Hermione Granger," she answered his unspoken question.

"Charmed," he said as he flashed a smile that showed off the thousands of dollars worth of work that had gone into his pearly whites. Hermione and Neville became distracted for a second by his teeth, but their attention quickly became refocused on his face.

"And your name is…?" Hermione trailed off just a little impatiently. The boy blinked.

"Oh, sorry. I'm so used to people recognizing me that I haven't had to introduce myself for quite a while. Name's Harry." Harry answered. Hermione wasn't satisfied.

"Harry who?" Hermione pressed. Harry sniffed.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he answered dismissively. She raised one of her eyebrows.

"Try me." she shot back, crossing her arms. Neville looked on quietly. Harry was silent for a few seconds until he shrugged his large shoulders.

"Nukem," he finally said. Hermione blinked.

"Newcombe?" she asked. Harry was about to say 'What the fuck? I didn't stutter!' until he deduced that she probably thought that his American accent (Las Vegas accent, to be specific) had made him slur his words or something.

"No. Nukem, spelled N-U-K-E-M." Harry clarified. Hermione's eyes widened and she clapped her hands over her mouth. This was only for a second though, because doubt quickly entered her eyes.

"No way. You're having me on." She proclaimed with a shake of her head. Neville looked thoroughly confused.

"Did I miss something?" He murmured. Hermione turned her attention over to him and her expression softened.

"Harry here is claiming that he is the son of one of the most famous- and arguably the most dangerous- men alive, Duke Nukem. Seven years ago, an armada of extraterrestrials invaded Earth, mostly America, and began to abduct and kill people. By some miracle, Nukem was able to drive them off. Since then, he's become one of the most recognized Muggles in all of history." Hermione explained. Neville nodded in understanding. Harry was just nonplussed; this kid hadn't heard of Duke Nukem? How isolated could this ass-backwards culture possibly be?

"I figured I might have to prove that." Harry said calmly as he reached into his coat and withdrew a photo. Hermione took a hold of it gently, and her jaw fell open again. In the photo was Harry, looking a couple years younger, standing next to his hulking brute of an adopted father, Duke Nukem. Duke appeared to be smirking (It was hard to tell the difference between a smirk and a smile when he wore those shades all the time), and Harry was smiling the biggest smile she had ever seen. Seconds passed in silence before Hermione looked back up at the grinning boy across from her.

"You don't look anything like Duke Nukem." She remarked. 'Saw that coming.' Harry remarked silently.

"I'm adopted." He stated. "Dad's not the type to get married and settle down, if you know what I mean." He added.

"Actually, I don't." Neville piped up.

"Yeah, it's probably better that way." Harry admitted.

"So Harry, what's it like living with Duke Nukem?" Hermione asked with a hungry look in her eyes. Harry adjusted his position.

"Well one, I'm living in a palace in Las Vegas…"


"Potter, Harry!" Minerva McGonagall called. Whispers immediately erupted from the four tables of students.

"Potter did she say?"

"The Harry Potter?"

Harry's eyes darted around as the whispers continued. Apparently the name from the life he had left behind held something of a reputation. Despite being called, he did not respond; he wasn't Harry Potter any more.

"Potter, Harry!" McGonagall called again, louder this time. The students were looking around for Harry Potter, clearly dumbfounded. Harry looked up at the staff table, clearly bored, and saw several teachers staring at him. That insufferable goat fucker Dumbledore, some man with a hooked nose who had clearly never touched a bottle of shampoo, and a rather attractive woman with a sharp face. There was something off about the weird dude with the turban though…

Harry was startled out of his thoughts when McGonagall roughly grabbed his arm. "I've called you three times Mr. Potter! It is your turn to be Sorted." She said sternly. Over five hundred sets of eyes were now focused on the muscular Nukem heir. He sighed.

"Well, you were calling me the wrong name." Harry said like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. That little statement was enough to give McGonagall pause.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"For all intensive purposes, Harry Potter is dead and gone, Professor; my name is Nukem, not Potter. Harry Nukem." Harry elaborated before he ambled lazily up to the stool, sat down and threw the frayed hat on his head.

"Hmm, what a mind. No shortage of courage or intelligence, I see. Loyal only to those who prove themselves to you, a rather fickle trait. My my, such a desire to prove yourself at least half as good as your father… such an interesting man. But where to place you, Mr. Potter?" A voice echoed through his head. Another twinge of annoyance coursed through Harry.

'For fuck's sake, weren't you listening a moment ago? My name is Nukem.' Harry corrected the sentient article of clothing.

"Ah, my apologies, Mr. Nukem. I must admit, no student has ever been brave enough to back-talk me in such a scathing manner. With such bravery, you clearly are a-" "GRYFFINDOR!"

The table full of lions erupted into cheers as Harry pulled off his hat and marched over to the table with his arms raised. Neville moved over with a small smile as his new friend sat down beside him. Once the Sorting ended, Harry was greeted by half a dozen or so people who kept calling him Harry Potter. Naturally, he didn't respond and turned to the other people who were trying to talk to him. People started to get annoyed when he turned away from them, but he paid them no mind until Hermione- who was on his other side- smacked his chest.

"What?" He asked. She glared at him.

"These people are talking to you Harry! And you didn't tell me you were really Harry Potter!" She chided. Anyone who knew Harry well enough knew that no matter what, he never missed a beat. And that's exactly what he didn't do at that very second.

"No they're not. They're talking to Harry Potter; I'm not Harry Potter." He replied. Everyone around him looked confused.

"What?" Asked another firstie who had been sorted into Gryffindor, Ron Weasels or something like that. "But you… you've got the scar and everything!" he protested, pointing at the reddish brown mark that had never left Harry's forehead- despite thousands of dollars in cosmetic surgery- and was partially veiled by his mess of black hair.

"That may be true, but I think you missed what I meant, shrimp." Harry said with a smirk as Ron frowned when his size was made fun of, mixed with a healthy amount of not understanding.

"I stopped being Harry Potter years ago. From then until the end of time, I swore to be known forever as Harry Nukem, son of Duke Nukem, the biggest BAMF on the planet." Harry proudly proclaimed, holding his right hand over his heart. Several people could have sworn they saw a ghostly American flag and the words 'DAD KICKS ASS' phase into existence behind him. Silence reigned for almost a minute.

"What's BAMF mean?" asked a cute dark-skinned girl named Parvati Patil. Harry looked over at her with a critical eye; she'd be smokin' hot in a couple years.

"It's an acronym. It stands for 'Bad-Ass Motherfucker'." Harry informed her. A gasp went up around the table.

"Harry, language!" Hermione shrilled.

"I'll stop swearing when you stop being cute." Harry shot back, making Hermione flush beet red.

"Your father is Duke Nukem?" A black boy named Dean exclaimed.

"Who's Duke Nukem?" asked a red-headed twin. Dean rounded on him and claimed 'There is no way you've never heard of him!'

"Relax Dean," Harry said with a raised hand. "You can regale them with tales of my dad's badassery once someone explains why this whole school seems to have a hard-on for Harry Potter."


And there we have Chapter 1 of 'The Teaser'. I know it's not that great, but it's the first idea of its kind: Harry Potter raised by Duke Nukem! Please:

-1- Tell me whether or not you liked this installment
-2- Tell me what you SPECIFICALLY liked about this installment
-3- Tell me what you DIDN'T like about this installment
-4- Recommend a suitable improvement

Peace out,

Dirty Reid

P.S.: Can you figure out who Harry's 'Uncle Chuck' is? I left a pretty big clue somewhere in here… ;)