Harry Potter hates overcooked eggs more than anything. Sure, assassins are inconvenient, but they're nowhere near as horrible as overcooked eggs. Psychopathic DarkHarry. Post war.

Assassins, Eggs, and Other Morning Routines

Eggs and lemonade are the two constant components to Harry Potter's perfect breakfast. He would always keep a jug of that sweet-sour drink in his fridge so he could drink a glass as he cook his eggs.

An old friend once came over and asked him, "Why do you choose such a peculiar drink? I mean, It must not be pleasant to drink something so tart in the morning."

"As unpleasant as it sound, it's cold tart kiss is very effective for knocking me awake. I like being aware of surrounding; and being alert is the first step towards disabling your opponents. "

"Harry you live in the middle of nowhere!"

"All the more reason to stay vigilant Hermione."

Harry knew that his friend didn't buy a single word that he said. She gave him a very funny look and started lecturing him about mental health. She said that he sounded like he is suffering from a very serious case of PTSD. He's constantly on edge, he doesn't sleep well, and he keep knifes in odd places around the house.

When he heard that Harry merely scoffed and laughed her away. He didn't buy a single word that she said. He's not on edge. He is simply alert. One could never be too prepared. That's why he stashed so many knives in his kitchen. As for his difficulty sleeping, it's usually solved by drinking down a shot of Draught of Living Death. Even nightmares about Voldemort couldn't penetrate the potion's effect

"You're not supposed to drink-those-every-day!" She said, hitting him with a cushion between each word. "You. Could. DIE."

Silly Hermione. She always did like to exaggerate things.

Harry smiled fondly at the thought of his old friend and continued his morning routine. After the glass of lemonade, he'll move on to the eggs. He would put on a pot of water and do at least fifty pushups before the water boil. After dropping the eggs, he would do another fifty before he allowed himself to take them out. Do it quick enough, and he'll be rewarded with a perfectly cooked egg, but if he takes his time he would overcook the egg. For Harry Potter, there is nothing more unpleasant than a stinky, rubbery, overcooked egg.

Crash!

Harry stopped his exercise at the faint sound. It sounded like somebody knocked over the pile of woods he had out outside. He glanced at the clock and sighed regretfully. The eggs haven't even been on for a minute.

"Well, I guess I'll have to make it quick then." He murmured, grabbing a small dagger and slipping it under his hand.

With the confidence of a seasoned hunter, he strides up to his front door, unlocks it, and waited. "W-who is there?" he stammered, rolling his eyes at the tacky routine. As cheesy as it might be, sounding like a scared old man is the most effective way to draw out an assassin.

Thirty seconds passed and he is still alone.

Deciding that he had enough, Harry turned on his heels and began walking away. Then out of nowhere a blast of green magic destroyed his front door, leaving it splinted on the floor.

A slim figure stepped in, wielding a formidable machete in one hand and a smoking wand on the other. Even with a hood on, he could figure out that his assassin is a female. Pleasantly surprised, Harry gave her a predatory smile and threw a knife at her chest. She raised her machete to block it, but the force of the knife was too much. It stabbed through the machete's blade and sunk them into the wall behind her.

Using the distraction to his advantage, Harry rushed forward to his assassin, armed with only a table kitchen knife he swiped from the counter. Even with such harmless weapon, his speed was so intimidating that the assassin couldn't stop herself from leaping away.

'Gotcha.' Harry smiled like a cat toying with it's prey.

As she was leaping away, he caught the corner of her robes with his knife. Using it as leverage, he pulled her closer in one big swoop. Panicked, the assassin tried to kick him, only to be met with a knife to her thigh. She screamed, her cries ringing through the house. Harry pulled on her hair and threw her on the floor, stepping on her wand. The fragile wood cracked and splintered open under his boots. She had no more weapons.

The assassin tried to scoot away, but the knife was still deeply impaled on her thigh. Harry follows her pathetic attempts to escape and kicked her legs down. Another pained cry forced it's way out of her throat as she clutched the knife. It's pushing deeper into her flesh, and her hands was too shaky to try and pull it out.

Grabbing her robes, Harry smashed her light body to the floor and pinned her tight. Armed with only a piece of cutlery, Harry Potter had just taken down a fully armed assassin. All of this happened in an instant. He felt rather proud of himself. He likes cleaning things up quickly. After all, he has some eggs he has to finish cooking.

"Forgive me miss, but I'm afraid I can't give you a quick death." He said with an eerily calm voice.

With her face kissing the floor, only muffled obscenities could be heard as her answer. Harry smiled. He liked it when they fight. When hunting down a human, he prefers to make it a bit of a sport. Harry saw enough of her to know what she looked like. Young, under twenty by the looks of it, and pretty. Very pretty. She's so pretty that Harry wondered about what she had done to be doing things like this.

No matter, he thought. An assassin is an assassin, and a world with one less killer is a world worth killing for. With the efficiency of a practiced craftsman, he pulled his spare knife and sunk it repeatedly into her back, missing all of her vital points but slicing through all the right muscle to immobilize her.

"Shhh…" He cooed as she screams into his hand "It will be less painful if you stay quiet." He advised her, plunging the knife onto her back for one last time.

The girl's eyes darted wildly in pain. She tried trashing against her captor in a futile attempt to escape, but Harry's hold was tight and secure. It took less than thirty-second for her to give up and went limp in his arms. Though death was inevitable, her eyes never lost that fight.

'Silly girl.' Harry thought.

Harry pulled all of his knives from her body, eliciting a moan that was almost beautiful. He still had sixty seconds until his eggs are ready. So he bent over the carnage and admired his work. The girl robes were open, and the tight white undershirt was painted crimson. A poem from a dying soldier crossed through his mind, one that fits her situation so well..

"Music and roses burst through crimson slaughter…" He quoted the poem quietly, letting his eyes feast at the carnage laid before him.

What a beautiful phrase it was. It was a poem written about a dying soldier, but in his line of work, the metaphor works so well when he kill off his victims. As he stared down at the whimpering girl, with her hauntingly beautiful moans and blooming crimson flowers, he finally understood what a beautiful death means.

Harry smiled, satisfied with his work, and walked away to wash the sticky blood from his hand. He leaned against his counter and tapped a strainer against his chest, waiting until the perfect moment to fish out his eggs. Like how he cooked his eggs, he used to make sure that he remembers each and every one of his victims. He thought that by burdening his consciousness with guilt, he is giving them the proper respect that they deserve. As the war progresses and the Order needed more people to die, Harry Potter realized something.

He loved killing people. The same time that realization hits him, the names he remembered began to lose their meaning.

As Harry reminisced about the war, the assassin managed to turn herself upright. "…Kill me…" She choked out, fighting through the blood that's filling her lungs.

Harry snapped out of his musings and titled his head in confusion. "What an odd thing to ask. Most people would ask to live." He laughed at his own joke. When he realized that his victim does not share his sense of humor, he coughed in embarrassment and turned his attention to his eggs.

The assassin was in no mood more jokes. She spat up more blood, trying hard to keep her throat clear of the congealed plasma. "It hurts too much. Please… Mercy." She pleaded. Beads of tears began to roll down her cheek.

"Mercy?" Harry scoffed, cracking the cooked eggs forcefully. What a ludicrous notion, he thought to himself. "I'm afraid that 'mercy' is no longer in my vocabulary miss. I'm sure that it's not in yours either."

The girl groaned and rolled to her side, coughing out the blood so she wouldn't choke on it. For a while, the man peeling eggs and the girl bleeding to death was silent.

"I would." She croaked. "If you asked for mer-"she violently coughed up more blood, creating new rivers of red with every breath. Harry glanced back, but other than to see how much of a mess she was making, he didn't give her much attention.

Realizing that help will not come from the man, she took off her belt and looped it around her torso and pulled it tight, propping herself against the wall to help stop the blood flow. As painful as it was, she had to do something. Dying was not part of her plan today.

Harry noticed her effort from the corner of his eye. Smart girl, he thought, but it was far too late. The pressure on the wounds will help her live for a few more minutes, but she had lost far too much blood to be able to do anything to save herself.

Even as her life force slowly drains out of her, Harry could feel her two eyes burning holes into his back. It makes him uncomfortable. Sighing to himself, Harry finally relented.

"What a horrible host I've been." He said and began bustling around the kitchen. After a few rustle in the background, he went over to the girl and set down a pitcher of lemonade and empty glass.. "You must be thirsty. Help yourself."

She stared at the glass, unsure weather to trust him or not. She did not touch the two shinning island sitting in an ocean of her blood. Harry remembered that while she was dying, it might be hard for her to help herself. So he poured her a glass and brought it up to her lips. She gave him a look, but after seeing him took a sip from the same glass, opened her mouth and gladly receive the gifts.

"You're" she took a deep gasp and swallowed, pointing at his long faded scar. "You're -Harry Potter…"

With a broken smile Harry nodded and chuckled sadly. "The boy who live." He sang spitefully.

A new flash of hope glittered in her eyes. "I'm from the ministry." She started, pushing herself upright. "I can bring you in, tell them that there was an error in the kill order."

"How very kind of you to offer."

"And… and we can find a place for you there. If they saw how much you've helped me, then they'll be sure to give you a place in the government."

"What are you going to do with me in the ministry huh? Make me work for the government? Be a hired gun like you?"

"I-I…" She stuttered, her speech slurring. "I don't know! I don't!" the girl sobbed, panic began coloring her words. "You can do whatever you want, but you're a Hero, for god sakes! Heroes aren't supposed to kill people like this!"

"Oh Miss." Harry chided, his eyes turning sad and lonely. "You were not sent to the wrong address."

"That's impossible! You're Harry Potter! Why would they send me here?

"It's very simple my dear. The ministry wanted me dead."

He chuckled, walking circles around the kitchen. "You see, they wanted a hero that can kill, so they made me kill everyone that needed to be erased. They taught me terrible things my dear, and after I won the war for them, they expect me to switch back into a normal civilian.

"How asinine is that? They broke me down into my frames and scraps so they can pound me into a blade, and once I've cut through enough flesh, they wanted me to become a spoon again. Ha! So when they found out that their hero is really a psychopath, they did what anyone else would do. Can you guess what it is?"

She could only answered in heavy gasps.

"Exile." He revealed, his smile becoming more twisted with every syllable. "Exile because the public cannot know that the great Harry Potter, the one who killed Lord Voldemort, actually enjoys doing it. I enjoyed it so much that I hunted down every last one of his followers, even when they told me not to.

"Those cravens. They pick and choose whom to punish. Well I'll say screw nepotism and let's kill those who have killed. Sounds simple doesn't it? Well it turns out that there are more murderer than I expected, so for a year or two, I had my job cut out for me.

He looked down and saw that his guest paid little to no attention to his words. Instead, she was doubled over her wounds. "Oh I'm sorry, did I went on rambling again? You'll have to forgive me, I get very little company, So I tend to-"

No other words are needed. Dead bodies make terrible listeners.

Harry rushed down and tried to find her pulse. Nothing. Her supple skin was no longer warm. Working quickly, he pressed his wand onto her temple and pulled, hoping that the body was fresh enough to extract her last memories.

Lo and behold, the slivery string off memory began to emerge like glittering silk. Casting a silent accio, he slid the silvery string into a floating glass vial.

Harry twisted the corked cap closed, his eyes a picture of disappointment as he watch the very last memory of the assassin sloshed around like an ocean wave. He really thought that this one could stay conscious long enough to hear the end of his story. She even put pressure on her wounds and everything! He sighed out loud and turned to the window. "Hedwig." He called out for his childhood pet.

A large snowy owl glided down from a nearby cliff, flying into the house with a flurry. She looked at her owner, offering a bloodied mass of flesh in her claw with a hoot.

Harry couldn't help but smile at the gesture and accepted the kind offering. That old bird always knows how to make him smile. He tied the little vial of memory onto her claw. "The ministry." He said like he does everyday. Hedwig nipped his finger affectionately, pecking on the blood spot on his finger. With one last soft kiss, he released his snowy owl and watch as she disappeared into the morning sun.

Maybe this memory would be enough to reason with the ministry. He may be a monster, but he refuses to lay himself down and die. As he walk past the girl's lifeless body, Harry felt a twinge of guilt, something that he haven't felt for a long time. Shame, he thought, the girl was just his type too. She just had to be an assassin sent to kill him. Now, he will have to throw the body into the mass grave that house so many other dead bodies.

Brushing all of those thoughts aside, Harry turned to his kitchen. He'll torture himself with guilt and despair later, but now he can finally sit down and enjoy his eggs.

AN:

Witten for round four The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition

your task is to write a fic that starts and ends with the same word. Things like "a" and "I" and all those fillers do count as words, so be careful of that!

First sentence: Eggs and lemonade are two constant components to Harry Potter's breakfast.

Last sentence: He can finally sit down and enjoy his eggs

Prompts:

CHASER 2 - a concrete noun (things you can feel through your five physical senses, eg. book)

(poem) Conscious by Wilfred Owen

(word) bird

(word) leaping