EDIT 10/28/11: Seriously. What the hell, FFN. You've never given me formatting problems before. Why now?
A Smooth Criminal
Well, not really, but it's a good title
Harry Potter knew he was special. He could do things, that his aunt, uncle, and cousin couldn't do. He could make things happen, that they couldn't.
He once tried to talk to his uncle, and got beaten for it.
So he kept quiet.
And then, things happened by accident. Like finding himself on the roof of the school, instead of on the ground so Dudley and his friends could beat him up.
He got beaten for that, too.
So, rather than be beaten again for his freakishness, his abnormality, he decided to leave. He packed his bag one sunday morning, and walked out the door, hoping and praying to never be found.
No one found him for a very long time.
0x0x0x0
At the age of fifteen, Harry is amused by his last name. Everybody assumes it's a joke, not his actual name. He suspects the bobbies knew it's his actual name, but they never really bothered with him. He's a small time supplier and dealer, selling pot to the local school kids, and keeping out of any sort of trouble.
Well, except for this sort of trouble.
There were three large men at the door. He knew this, because he'd drawn a line on the door, and it told him who was there.
The Irish wanted him to sell to them, and they'd sell to whoever they wanted. He told them to fuck off. He liked smalltime, and they wanted bigtime. They'd sent someone to rough him up, and he'd stabbed the fucker in the thigh, and watched him bleed out, before calling the bobby's.
The bobby's had been very understanding. The man was a known Irish mobster. That he was dead was of no consequence to the bobbies, because he was an Irish mobster, and Harry wasn't a mobster. Just some poor, unfortunate soul who'd likely get killed by a few other Irish Mobsters in the coming week.
So Harry quickly sold all of his pot to a friend, told the friend to say where he was if anyone Irish came calling, and sat in his apartment and waited.
And now, here they are. He lets them kick open the door (it wasn't locked), and threw the first knife straight into the first man. The knife was American, an Army knife. He was sure they had a name and number for it, and the man he bought it from said it was from World War II. Harry learned people trusted him. It was rather stupid of them, he felt.
The knife goes straight into the fucker's neck, and down he goes. The man behind is holding a truncheon, and goes for Harry, screaming in a rage. Harry already has another knife out, same as the first. A dodge of the truncheon, and a stab into the man's side. Harry got lucky, the knife slides between the ribs. The man starts making sucking gasps, crashing to the ground, the knife still in him.
"You little shite," the third man growls. He has a knife, a big one at that. Harry, however, does not have a knife, and instead goes for his last resort. He makes a slashing motions with his hand.
It takes off the third man's head, and digs a trench in the wall behind him.
"Arseholes," mutters Harry. He's in the middle of searching the bodies when there's another knock at the door. This concerns him. He didn't feel anything from the line, and suspects this is bad. So he grabs his knife, and cracks open the door a bit, leaving the chain in place.
"Can I help you?" he asks, sweet and innocent. On the other side is a black-haired lunatic bint with crazed violet eyes.
"Are you ickle Harry Potter?"
"Who the bloody fuck is asking, you crazy cunt," replies Harry.
The bitch smiles.
"My name's Bellatrix LeStrange, Harry. And I smell blood. Why don't you let me in?"
Harry stares at the crazy woman for a long moment, before deciding its easier to kill her and clean up afterwards in the room, rather than in the hall.
She considers the pile of bodies in the center of the room, then smiles at Harry.
"Ickle Harry Potter isn't so ickle, is he?" she asks. Harry isn't sure if she's asking him, or herself.
"They decided they'd rough me up. I took offense," explains Harry, standing off to the side, still fingering his knife, ready to throw or stab. The bint is nodding at this, holding a stick like she's a conductor for an orchestra, and dressed real old-fashioned.
"How'd you like to murder someone for me?" she asks, staring at the pile of body's like it's the greatest thing in the world.
"No thanks," replied Harry. "I murder in self-defense only, thank you very much." They both hear three pops, like a car backfiring, outside. The crazy bint considers this something important.
"So ickle Potter's been found by Dumbledore's Order, eh?" she says. "Answer the door, I'll clean up your little mess."
Harry didn't like the bint, but had to admit she had class as she waved her stick at the bodies, making them disappear, blood and all.
"Hadn't finished searching them," grumbles Harry.
"Just muggles, Potter."
"They're Irish. Always worth killing, and they always carry their money with 'em. It's the French that aren't worth killing."
Crazy bint laughs, as she takes up position behind the door, then taps her head. She melts into the background, changing color into the wall.
"Neat trick," says Harry. "Think you can clean me up, though?"
He feels the magic pass over him, wiping away the blood covering his chest and hands. He sneaks the knives back onto his person, and kicks what he found on them under a chair as there's another knock at the door.
"Coming!" says Harry. He opens it a crack, the chain still up. "Can I help you?"
The man behind the door is easily the most garishly dressed faggot he's ever seen. No straight man would be caught dead in that level of eye-blindingly bright clothing. There's a pink-haired chick, and a man dressed in a suit that's definitely seen better days.
"Hello, Harry!" says the cocksucker. "I'm a friend of your parents-"
"That's nice, knob-gobbler. What's your fucking point?"
All three of them are utterly silent, while Trixie breaks out laughing.
"I don't think you need to be rude, Harry, my boy."
"Call me 'my boy' again, and I'll cut off your bait and tackle cock-sucker. You say you're a friend of my parents, well, where were you when the Dursleys were beating the shit out of me?"
"I hardly doubt they gave you any beatings, Harry."
"Then you're a worthless gobshite, and no friend of mine. My parents were worthless drunks who abandoned me to a pair of abusive cunts. Kindly fuck off, and never bother me again."
"Now, I hardly think that's true," says the old man. The bird and the scruffy guy are both sorta silent.
"You were left with Petunia?" asks the scruffy guy.
"Yeah. The giraffe, her bucket of shite husband, and her tub of shite son."
The old fart tries to draw his stick, but gets a knife in his arm for his trouble. The stick gets ripped from his hand, and winds up in Harry's own.
"This feels real nice, goatfucker," says Harry, handling it, feeling something connect with him. "Glad to have a stick of my own, you know? Anybody else feel like trying to pull something on me?"
The cling-ons are silent, staring in horror as Albus staggers to the ground, the knife jutting from his arm.
"Piss off, you old fuck. You take him, and get him out of my fucking sight, you hear?"
The other two grab the old man, and disappear with a pop. Trixie is laughing her ass off, now.
"You stole the old goat's wand?" she asks.
"That what it's called?" Harry points it at the trench in the wall, and watches as it repairs itself. "Oh thats real nice. I like this. I like it a lot. So, Trixie, what did you want, eh?"
"Oh, I think if you managed to do that to the old man, I think I want to work for you instead."
Harry thought he liked the crazy smile pulling its way across the crazy bint's face.
0x0x0x0
Harry picked up some chinese take-away for the pair of them, and Trixie explained just what the fuck was going on over dinner, and well into the night.
"So this mark. Your boss can contact you using it?"
"That's right, Potter." Trixie pulls up her sleeve, showing the skull and snake tattoo on her arm.
"Nifty." He points his brand new wand at the snake tattoo. "Piss off." He can feel the pull of the mark, he can feel it fight against him, not wanting to leave. He tries pulling it, and Trixie shivers in pain, so he changes tracks. If he can't pull it out, then he'll make it his instead. Rather than pull, he pushes, forcing his ownership of the mark onto it, channeling it through the wood and forcing out the skull of the tattoo. In it's place, his knife with a snake wrapped around it.
Trixie shivers with delight, and as Harry looks up… she looks different. Younger.
"Oh, that's very nice, Potter," says Trixie, as she looks at Harry with an even stranger glint in her eye. Harry recognizes that glint. He's seen it before, and he knows what's about to happen as Trixie tackles him, and begins ripping off his clothes.
Author's Note: You know… I have no idea where the fuck this was going, but I thought it was an interesting start. I think I was aiming for a Bellatrix/Harry pairing, and trying to figure out just what sort of person Harry would have to be to go for that sort pairing. I imagine it'd involve a lot of rough sex.
