Killjest, a harry potter fanfic

Chapter One

This is What Losing Looks Like

Ever have days where you wished you'd just die? You know, those days where everything you do is clouded by a vast, endless wave of agony and despair? The kind of days that hollow you out with a dagger and chop your insides into tiny little bits of potions ingredients?

Yeah, I'm having that kind of day right now and it's not just because someone actually has hollowed out my insides for potions ingredients.

It's because they're growing back. They always grow back. And there's not a thing I can do about it —

No, wait, that's not necessarily true. I can get angry about it. That's what I am right now, angry, angry enough to THINK IN CAPSLOCK about how utterly FUCKED the man, the myth, the legend HARRY POTTER is.

Yeah. That's me. Harry Potter. You might have heard of me before, though you probably know me better as Killjest. (Catchy, right?) Well, actually, there's a lot more that you haven't heard about me, my little sugar quill, though I don't want to rush this relationship. I never go in dry 'cause I'm a gentleman that way. Probably the only way that I'm a gentleman, come to think of it, but this side comment is turning into its own thing and we really don't have time for that. Maybe later. With candles and mood music. Do you like the Wizarding Wireless? I don't. You and me, we deserve something mellower. Something timeless. Something tasteful.

How do you feel about Conway Twitty?

Shite, never mind. We'll talk later. The most immediate waste of space in my life is coming back for more. Literally. My liver's already grown back and that's a vital ingredient in whatever sludge he's trying to brew, apparently. This shall be the third time that he's harvested it in as many hours.

Does that alarm you? That's sweet. I'm touched. Really. No sarcasm, pinkie swear.

But your concern isn't necessary. You see, I'm special.

(No, not that kind. But yes, also that kind — I may have taken a few too many knocks to the head ever since ... forever. My aunt really has a way in the kitchen, you know. Terrible cook, but oh how she swings those old cast irons!)

Anyway, as you may have guessed by my momentary lack of internal organs and my delightful overabundance of in vogue snarky commentary, I am — what's the right phrase? — fucking impossible to kill. And that makes some people very, very jealous. Others, like the buggering sack of arseholes who has me chained to this wall

(Normally, I'm a fan of chains, but he's ugly.)

are very, very interested in what makes me tick. Nothing makes me tick. I'm not a watch. More of a sundial, one made from a one-of-a-kind stone with a vein of quartz running through it. Very stylish. What made me me can't be replicated, mostly because my parents are dead and have you ever seen reanimated corpses going at it?

Not. Pretty.

Oh, and I guess it's kind of hard to end up suspended between life and death thanks to a unique combination of foreign bodily fluids infesting your every cell. I'm rarer than a gay unicorn investment banker — and if you know the hiring practices that goblins institute against non-goblins, you'd know just how rare that is. Yay me, right?

Wrong.

But also right.

Because whilst my specialness makes me a freak of the highest order, it simultaneously makes me very not dead, which is a good thing to be when you like living despite the endless, lonely, repulsive torment that is your day-to-day existence. I mean, it's not all bad, is it? The world didn't end this year despite that Mayan prediction, the economy is a smidgen less hopeless than it was four years ago, and the second series of Sherlock is pretty good, provided that you don't mind odd-looking, attention-robbing twats who speak in run-on sentences and dress more smartly than you'll ever be able to do. Also, it's Christmas and I'm sure that means that someone, somewhere, is fondly remembering the wizard that I used to be.

Probably Malfoy. Always had started rows at school, calling me cutesy nicknames like "madman," "unchecked plague on society," and "utter degenerate." No doubt has a shrine to me in some wing of the family manor. A very sticky one.

Urgh, not exactly the thought I want to have at a moment like this. My stomach's just starting to re-form and there shan't be as much as a biscuit in it when it's done. Never pleasant to sick up when you haven't eaten anything.

"Still lively, eh?" says my captor in a rush of fetid breath that smells vaguely of cinnamon sprinkles and cheese. He clutches his potions dagger, covered in clots of my dried blood and viscera, in one greasy fist. The rest of him isn't much better to look at. Imagine an overstuffed burlap sack filled with mud, if mud came from the backside of a Hippogriff, topped with a crooked toupee of what I can only assume is badly Transfigured pubic hair, and a set of teeth that makes Snape's smile look like Lockhart's in comparison.

Is it some kind of requirement for potioneers to make you flinch on sight? Because if it is, I think that I may have a new career ahead of me. Wonder what the benefits are like?

"Not feeling talkative, are we?" he says, shuffling closer to me. "Hrm, I suppose that'd be the lack of tongue." He gives a wheezing laugh and an exceptional view of a mucus-filled maw lined by broken grey teeth. They're like shattered gravestones, only more terrifying and smelly.

Jumping Jelly Babies! What a disgrace. There are spells to fix that. So many spells. Spells to fix your insides and your outsides. A flick of the wrist, a short incantation, and you are good as new. There are potions too. This man seems to make them for a living. The only explanation is that he just doesn't want to fix what he is. Wants to live like this. Wants to stay this, this, this monster.

Well, that makes what I'm about to do to him easier. Not that it would've been hard in the first place — he was going to be dead either way. Now he's going to be extra dead. Oh, and in an extreme amount of pain before the dead.

I work my throat and jaw as if I'm struggling to speak. A quarter of an hour ago, I would've been. The old cauldron-stirrer hasn't noticed that some parts of me grow back faster than others. The smaller bits, like my tongue, for instance. And other parts too. If he cuts off my favorite one, I'd be locked and loaded again in five minutes flat — Hey, don't make that face at your screen when you were just thinking the same thing. Please, you don't need to be shy with me. I know why you were so worried. Trust me, I haven't forgotten our date with the High Priest of Country Music, darlin'. I promise to be tender.

(Sorry, digression. Just seems that I can't help them with you. You're so attentive and I'm so needy.)

My attempt to speak draws him in. Just a step. Close enough for what I need to do.

"S-stop," I say. The stammer's genuine. New tongues are always hard to use.

(Don't tremble in fear at any lack of cunning linguistic feats on my part — new tongues are also like new broomsticks: A little tricky to relearn all the moves with one that hasn't been properly broken in, but true skill is never forgotten ... unless you've had an accident or two with Memory Charms, then all bets are off. But I don't remember him using one on me, so I'm good.)

He heaves a sigh. "Here comes the begging."

"No b-begging," I say. "Offer."

He squints at me.

(Why do so many baddies have beady eyes? Are their terrible looks an excuse to go into villainry or does inherent villainry cause ugliness in the womb?)

When he decides that I might not be pulling a trick — bad decision, that — he says, "Galleons, no doubt."

I swallow down a little saliva. Ah, those glands are back? Good. My throat had been getting a little dry. "No," I say, shaking my head. "Immortal existence."

Those beady little eyes flash wide open. Then they narrow again. "This is a trick."

Aw, how adorable. He thinks that he knows what I'm up to. Unfortunately for him, I barely know what I'm up to half the time. Improvisation is fun. Always makes the screams louder, I find. "No t-trick," I say. "I'll give you my key ... my key to immortal existence."

He steps a little closer. His knife is more enthusiastic about getting to know me — the tip rests against my chin. "What's the catch, ugly?"

Broken mirrors shouldn't complain about lousy reflections. And he should be more compassionate. I can't help the way that I look. This is no time to let him know that I'm crushed, of course. I clear my throat. "No catch," I say. My voice is clearer. Stronger. Faster. Another few minutes and I'll be able to tie a cherry stem into a knot with it. "No catch at all. I'll give you my super-duper secret. Even swear the Unbreakable Vow. All I ask is that you let me go."

His eyes light up. They should. The Unbreakable Vow usually does sound like music to the ears of the foolish, and with good reason. It's a vicious spell, not because it's Dark (it isn't) but because it is the bond of all bonds. You break it, you bite it. Many a wizard has died from improper wording and slippery loopholes. But it has one good thing about it, one thing that keeps the Ministry of Magic from classifying it as bad juju — you can't force anyone to make it. Every step of the ritual has to be done with willingness by the oathmakers. There are no shortcuts, no workarounds, and that includes Memory Charms, Confunding, or using the Imperius Curse. If you don't want to do it, you can't, and I'd make an erection joke here if I wasn't so pressed for time. Deception is an instrument of delicacy and skill, much like my willy.

(No, don't think about him right now. He's feeling shy.)

"Unbreakable Vow, eh?" he says. "That might kill even the likes of you."

"An Unspeakable told me as much once," I say, "so I've never wanted to find out."

Right now is probably a good time to tell you that whilst I'm a capable liar, I am actually telling the truth here. (Surprise!) I really don't want to find out. Death by Unbreakable Vow is a terrible way to go, and believe me, when an unhinged, blood-thirsty murderer who is a shockingly gentle lover says that something is terrible, you can rest assured that it is. True, I can no longer leave a pretty corpse, but if it happens to be that I can die at all, I'd like to retain my last remaining, infinitesimal shred of dignity by not shitting myself to death. Out of my mouth. For five hours. Every day. Thirteen of them. In a row.

Okay, okay, technically, my favorite Unspeakable told me that it was only a theoretical possibility that I could die by breaking the unbreakable, but the point still stands: I want to die in a blaze of glory, not in adult-sized napkins.

And that blaze of glory isn't happening in some prick's dungeon.

Of course, Mr. Short, Dumpy, and Hideous can't hear a single syllable of this inner monologue, so what he doesn't know shall hurt him. A lot. My therapist suggested that I start taking out my "anger issues" on worthless objects instead of people, and there's few things more worthless than an unscrupulous Dark Wizard who doesn't clean his teeth.

"Vow first," he says, "then the immortality —"

"Immortal existence."

He shrugs, which sends a miasma of potent stink in my direction. So yeasty. Bastard could've done me a favor and removed my nose. "Whatever."

"Proper sentences are a virtue, as my Aunt Petunia had never once said to me."

Those beady eyes squint at me again, but he says, "Fine. Vow first, then the immortality, then you can leave."

Ooooooh, it's like sweets for the ears, those words. "Sounds good to me."

He calls one of those delightfully condescending names like Mopsy or Toffy or Wanky, and a small creature pops into the dungeon. Its big, watery eyes glance my way before it looks to its master. A shudder steals over me. Merlin, I'll never get used to them. They all share the same eerie, shriveled ugliness that reminds me of the time I had walked in on Ron getting out of the bath. My captor explains the steps of the Unbreakable Vow to his elf. Said elf is very reluctant to do any magic that might harm a wizard, a reluctance that holds no matter how many times it's kicked.

I say, "It's fine. I like pain. Enjoy it, even. And I'm going to give your master immortal existence. What's more, the Vow can't be made by the unwilling."

The house-elf doesn't object after that. The potioneer lengthens my chains until I'm dropped to a kneeling position. There's no slack, unfortunately. He really would've looked better with some chain wrapped around his neck. After making certain that I'm secured, he hands his wand over to the elf. He kneels too, joints cracking. He keeps his potions dagger in his off hand, using his right to take one of mine. His paw feels just as oily as it looks. The ritual commences without fanfare, and I'm not going to explain it here. You know what it looks like: a little chaste hand-holding, one person (in this case elf) with a wand to bind us, dramatic oaths, blah, blah, blah. On the chance that you aren't a fan of the books or the movies, you can always look up a YouTube video, you absolute heathen.

The only important part of the ritual are the words. Right now, he's not saying anything. Is that nervousness I detect? Must be. His body odor has a hint more of dirty feet in it.

"First time?" I say to him.

His liver-colored lips twist into a sneer. He gives good Snape. Impressive, really. "I know the ritual."

"Knowing and doing are two different things. I've done this" — bugger, how many times? — "enough to do it in my sleep. Can you say the same?" His silence is good enough an answer. "Well, then, I'll go first. Just remember to keep the exact wording. Loads can go wrong if you don't, and by loads, I meant the ones that you'll be making in hospital bedpans as you die for mispronouncing a syllable."

He jerks his head aside and coughs. Spits something halfway across the gloomy space where it splats solidly in the dark. "Get on with it, cunt."

This is agonizing. He really thinks that he's the one with the power here. "I, Killjest, the wizard formerly known as Harry James Potter —"

His eyes bug out. "You're fookin' Harry Potter? You?"

Of course he's the type to get sidetracked. You aren't. You read the description, unlike some people. (Is it too early to say that I love you? Sorry, sorry, clingy, I know.) "I said formerly, mate."

"Harry Potter's dead."

"No, I just faked my death and changed my name." That was more or less the truth, at any rate. "If I was lying under a spell like this, that would end very badly for me." He starts to speak again, most likely to ask more questions. No, no, no, that won't do. I have a schedule. "Can we wrap this up? I kind of have a thing this evening and I'd hate to be late ..."

"Get on with it."

I don't point out that he was the one holding things back. This isn't the time to nitpick. "As I was saying, I, Killjest, the wizard formerly known as Harry James Potter, swear to give — what's your full name, by the by? And don't lie, the Vow won't like that."

He sniffs back a lump of snot that was dangerously close of escaping his nose. "Rotundo Fatbottom-Snagtooth."

Christ, maybe my Unspeakable's theory about names influencing fate has some merit because I don't think that I've heard a more brutally predictive name than that one, and I know a werewolf named Remus Lupin. (His parents really bollocksed that one up, didn't they?) Old Fatbottom-Snagtooth here's far from a wolf, though. Toad, maybe. Goblin, definitely, with that height. "Double-barreled name?" I say. "Posh."

He stares me down as if he'll actually see a hint of mockery on my face. He won't find it. Not because it doesn't exist but because my face isn't exactly readable these days, not unless you can translate secret messages from photo-realistic moon maps. He points his dagger at me. "No more fuckin' about," he says. "Finish."

"Sure," I say. "Wouldn't want to keep you from any pressing business ... Ah, now where had I left off? Oh, right: I swear to give you, Rotundo Fatbottom-Snagtooth, my very own personal key to immortal existence, provided that you set me free without any permanent and/or unrepairable damage to my person, my memories, or my tactical attire."

"Your what now?"

"My uniform, mask included, which you had stripped away before gutting me. Rude." It really had been rude. Most people buy me a drink before they violate me so suddenly. Sometimes they even potion the booze first to spare me any memories. It's the little things.

"The costume?"

"Oh, it's no costume. It's a specially-ordered, specially-made, one of a kind —"

He nods to something behind him and to the left. " 's over there in the corner."

That particular corner is dim and dark and dank like everything else in this hellhole. Gods, my precious tactical attire could be lying in anything. Bloodstains are dead simple to remove from fabric. I can't say the same for the mysterious filth that seems to cover every inch of this place. This Philistine has no bloody appreciation of craftsmanship. The hurt he's going to receive shall be extra hurty for that alone.

Unclenching my teeth allows me to say, "Now your turn."

For the first time since I woke to his food-crusted face hovering in front of me like the world's second ugliest ghoul, he hesitates. His gaze flicks to the wand that his house-elf is pressing against our hands. Ha, look, he's wondering if what we're doing might not be in his best interests. It's almost funny seeing him work those braincells. But I can't allow him to actually think.

"Well," I say, "if you're so scared about taking the Vow, by all means keep me chained to this wall and harvest my insides, not that it shall do you any good."

His gaze shifts to me in a glower. "You can't exactly make threats, mate."

Killjest doesn't make threats. He makes promises. Sometimes those promises take a long time to keep, but he makes them all the same, just as he sometimes refers to himself in the third person. He's no narcissist, though. Only quirky. "Oh, I'd never do that," I tell Fatbottom-Snagtooth, leaning towards him as far as I can do. "I'm just politely informing you that if a dozen Unspeakables couldn't make sense of how I had become so immortal and dashing, you haven't a chance in hell of doing anything. You'll be trying to figure me out for the rest of your life. And me? Well, someone will come and find me once your corpse starts to stink." I smile and he flinches.

"Fine," he says. "What do I need to say?"

"You'll want to keep to the same words that I had used. Otherwise there could be a big whoopsie and we wouldn't want that now, would we?"

I give him the words. He swears to me, Killjest, the wizard formerly known as Harry James Potter, that he will free me without permanent and/or unrepairable damage to my person, memories, or tactical attire as long as I give him my very own personal key to immortal existence. The Vow does some glowy shite, yadda, yadda, yadda, and then the whole thing is finished.

He immediately starts wheezing, as if an invisible giant is clenching his neck. Oh, right. That. Almost forgot. "Yeah," I say as idly as I can manage, since this beautiful moment needs to last, "you'll want to remove my chains before the Vow strangles you for not freeing me."

He snatches his wand from the house-elf. His face ends up looking like one of Hagrid's aubergines before he manages to choke out the incantation that releases me. My landing isn't gentle, but I've had worse. The stories I could tell you, my dear reader. Ah, but I really do have a schedule to keep — for once. After I stuff my guts into place, cover said guts with my hanging flaps of skin, and wait a moment for the wounds to scab, I'm ready for action. Fatbottom-Snagtooth sticks his dagger into my face as I wobble to a stand.

"For me?" I say. "Thank you." Even as wrung out as I am, he still can't stop me from wrenching the blade away. His wand is in my face next. I don't blink. "There's no reason to be hostile, mate. I can't do anything that the Vow won't let me do, remember?"

He lowers his wand. Slowly.

"First, I need to do something very startling," I tell him, "but wholly necessary."

He frowns. "Tell me what it is or I'll —"

I lash out. Blood sprays high against the ceiling, the floor, and us. He looks down in stark horror at his headless house-elf. The body drops to its knees, crumples to the floor. His wand twists in a spell movement and promptly drops atop the elf. Because that's where his hand is now. The stump where his hand used to be pumps great gouts of blood into my face. He bends over, giving an involuntary fart as he gropes for his wand. His left hand joins his right. Blood seeps over the floor. This place is gorier than a vampire's birthday bash. He's screaming, I'm screaming, our screams are echoing off the walls.

It's a long, long time before any of it stops.

When it does, there's the smell of burnt meat in the air, a sweet and greasy smell that reminds me of the time I had to track down some Dark Wizards in the Southern United States. Gods, the Muggles there have invented heaven and it is called barbecue. My newly-formed stomach rumbles. Revenge really whips up the appetite. It also burns calories, which is why I'm going to have Kansas City ribs and burnt ends waterboarded in sauce — after I'm done with this and my damnable appointment.

Fatbottom-Snagtooth whimpers on the floor, trying to crawl away. I don't bother to restrain him. He's not going to get far without hands and knees. It's sort of funny actually, watching him inch along like a grub on those cauterized stubs. He trips a few times over his still-twitching calves. When he makes actual progress, I stroll after him and haul him to the blood puddles by the back of his robes. There's no reason to make a mess of this entire hovel.

"Don't worry," I say, giving him a kick that he curls away from, "it'll only feel like it's taking you forever to die."

He's muttering something. Is it an attempt at wandless magic? Oh, this bloke, what a joker he is! He can barely do magic with a wand. Has to use potions and knives as his first resorts. I lean over for a listen and hear youcan'tkillmeyoucan'tkillmeyoucan'tkillme ...

"That's where you're wrong, my porcine friend," I say, casually twirling his dagger in my blood-soaked hand, courtesy of a wandless, wordless charm that lets me do my best work when I'm elbow-deep in other people. And not the sexy kind of elbow-deep. "Unbreakable Vows are powerful magic, but so too are the proper words: Death leads the soul to immortal existence."

He gives a start when he realizes just how, exactly, he had fucked up. I can pinpoint it to the second by the minute widening of his already terrified eyes. My grin stretches my face so much that hours' old cuts tear open and drip fresh blood into my mouth. The fun part has just started.

[Inspired by this Reddit post and the subsequent comment:

Hybrid ( )

submitted by Stjernepus

Looking for fics where Harry gets some sort of powers through the basilisk venom and phoenix tears.

SaberToothedRock

Come to think of it, wouldn't this be the perfect excuse to turn him into a version of Deadpool? The basilisk venom is constantly killing him, and the phoenix tears are constantly healing him. He still feels all the pain until it drives him bonkers and doesn't bother him any more.

Not saying he needs to start using katanas or grow lumps on his head or anything, just a Harry slowly gaining Deadpool's mentality. Could be either a crackfic or a horrorfic as everyone realises that Harry's losing his marbles, painkiller charms aren't working and he can't be fixed. He can't be killed easily due to the phoenix tears, and the basilisk venom is resistant to all methods of healing except for the tears. Would be tragic as Ron and Hermione slowly see their friend slipping away from them through the cracks of sanity.

[This fic obviously starts long after the above. Flashbacks of Hogwarts years are tentatively on the to-do list. I plan on adding more chapters, but the update rate will probably take a while since I've got other things on my plate.]

[Also, as a note exclusive to FFN, future chapters here will eventually move from T to M. Any scenes that aren't allowed by guidelines here will be censored. You can find the fuller version on Ao3, where I have the same username.]