Summary: At six years old Harry Potter becomes the heir to a Somali Warlord. This story follows his life from six to sixteen years of age as he grows up in a country ripped apart by war before being dragged into the one waged against Voldemort. AU – eventual slash HPDM – dark!Harry
Disclaimer: If I owned the HP universe, I would currently be vacationing in Fiji with Tom Felton. Sadly, I am but a poor student that worships JK Rowling.
"Somali"
"Arabic"
'Thoughts'
//Parseltongue//
Timeline
1979 – Idris Nasri Abri becomes a Warlord in Mogadishu.
1985 – Idris' family is killed.
1986 – Revolution begins in Somalia; Harry leaves Little Whinging with Idris.
1989 – President Mohamed Siad Barre orders a civilian massacre in Mogadishu.
1991 – Barre overthrown; revolution ends; civil war begins.
1992 – Voldemort regains his body via an enchanted journal; Operation Restore Hope launched.
1993 – Ma-alinti Rangers (the Battle of Mogadishu)
1996 – Harry goes to Hogwarts.
June 1987
"Have a seat," Idris said to Mujahid, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk.
Mujahid sat gracefully, "Good evening, Warlord. You requested to speak with me?"
"Indeed I did. You've been training Harry for nearly nine months now, correct?"
He nodded, "I have, Warlord."
Idris cocked his head to the side, focusing on Mujahid's facial expressions, "How he is progressing?"
Mujahid suppressed a flinch and schooled his features to hide the distaste he had for the pipsqueak. It would do no good to show the Warlord his dislike of the chosen heir.
Idris narrowed his eyes, having seen the irritation and mild anger flash briefly across Mujahid's face. "Tell me honestly how he is progressing. Do not forget who you are speaking about and who you are speaking to," he growled.
Mujahid sat up straighter and looked Idris in the eyes, "His progression was slow to start. He improved a bit quicker when he was working with the soldier that was closer to his size, but since killing the child he has shown a dedication that was previously unmatched. He has progressed more quickly in the last month than he had in the first six.
"He shows a particular skill with weapons, specifically guns. I think he will be particularly good as a sniper once he trains his hands to stop shaking."
Silence fell over the room as Idris considered Mujahid's assessment. He stared at the other man, looking for the truth behind his evaluation. Finding no deception he nodded and said, "I am planning to put him into the militia training in the beginning of August. Do you think he is ready for it?"
A sneer began to make its way across Mujahid's face and he opened his mouth to speak only to be cut off by Idris.
"I respect your ability to train and get the most out of a soldier so I have given you a lot of leeway in how you treat my son. I would not allow anyone else to do what you have done," Idris snarled. "However, there is a limit to what I'm willing to put up with. I do not care how you feel about him because it is not your place to question my judgment. You are not to allow your personal opinions to cloud your treatment of him nor your assessment of his abilities, do I make myself clear?" The warning was evident in his voice.
Mujahid carefully kept his face blank but the way he rubbed the scars on his left arm betrayed his anxiety, "Crystal, Warlord."
Idris nodded, his demeanor still icy. "Good. Now, do you think he is ready to train with the militia?" he enunciated slowly.
Mujahid took a moment to collect his thoughts before answering carefully, "He is several years younger than the other recruits, but with the training I have given him he ought to survive. While most children his age might not be able to keep up physically with the exercises, he has built up a level of fitness that should put him on par with the other children."
"Good," Idris smiled, unnerving Mujahid. "I had another reason for bringing you in to speak this evening. As I said earlier, I respect your experience in training and shaping soldiers to fit your needs. I am concerned about how Harry will respond to the training most of the children go through. The soldiers in the militia are taught to be followers; they are taught to follow orders without question. Harry cannot be like that. He needs to lead. He needs to be able to think independently and decide on the best course of action without relying on others. How can we develop that?"
Mujahid looked down at the floor in thought, rubbing his chin with his hand absentmindedly, hismissing fingers conspicuous. He looked back up at Idris before answering, "We need to make sure that Harry doesn't fully subscribe to the system set up. He needs to be isolated from it enough to promote creativity and independent thought.
"We train our militia to work in groups, not enough so that they get attached to each other but so that they can work effectively together. A leader cannot form this sort of camaraderie. We would have to first ensure that he is isolated from the other children. He cannot see himself as one of them. In order to do that, we need to make sure that the other soldiers don't see him as one of them."
Mujahid sat back in thought, absentmindedly rubbing the stumps of his fingers across the stubble on his chin. Idris sat and watched him, waiting for him to continue his train of thought.
After several minutes Mujahid continued, "We need the other kids to hate him. The isolation and mistreatment will make everything more difficult and he'll have to learn to adapt and persevere.
"If we do it correctly he'll stop seeing the other soldiers as his peers but instead as below him. He'll see himself as above the system we have set up and he'll perceive the structure as flawed. This ought to keep him from following the orders blindly. Once he reaches this point he can be taught to lead."
Idris stared at nothing as he considered Mujahid's assessment. It seemed logical. "What will keep him from breaking? This sort of treatment would be difficult for any child to withstand," Idris asked.
Mujahid nodded, "That is where you come in. I have seen how much he strives to please you. A lot of his drive to succeed is to earn your praise. You will give him the reason to continue with his training when he feels like he can't take anymore. He will persevere for you."
Idris nodded, staring absently in thought. He didn't like any of this, but he knew it was necessary. He didn't want his Harry to break under the strain.
Mujahid studied him for a moment before he continued, "I know you have a soft spot for the boy, but this must happen to shape him into the heir you desire. You need to make sure you do not interfere, no matter how much you want to. He cannot think that anyone will come to his aid when he gets in trouble or he would begin relying on other people."
Idris nodded and sighed. He knew this from his own childhood. Nobody had been there to help him when he was targeted by other kids and even adults. Nobody had been there to save him when a drugged up soldier held a gun to his head. He had to rely on himself and he was stronger for it. He made his own decisions. He was the master of his own fate.
He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his hand. He felt bad about what he was about to put Harry through, but it had to be done. 'He'll be grateful in the end,' he thought.
He sat up straight and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, one pinky hanging loosely, "All right. I'll trust your judgment but I have two caveats. First, there will be no physical punishments by you or any of the other trainers. No one will lay a hand on my son outside of training exercises. Find other methods of disciplining him."
Mujahid nodded, he had expected that and had already thought up several ways to deal with the pipsqueak.
"Second, he will be given no drugs." Mujahid opened his mouth to protest but Idris interrupted him, "I know that they are necessary for the effectiveness of the soldiers, but I will not have an addict for an heir. That is not up for negotiation. Do you understand?"
Mujahid nodded in submission, "Yes, Warlord."
"Good. Now I have other business to attend to. Make sure to inform the other trainers that they will not lay a hand on my son outside of combat exercises. Good day."
Mujahid stood and gave the Warlord a half bow before turning to leave the room. While he wasn't happy with the restrictions the Warlord had placed on him, he looked forward to breaking the child. His lips curled up into a cruel smirk. He enjoyed tearing down and rebuilding the children into the image he wanted. The psychological game appealed to his sadistic nature. He couldn't wait to play with the spoiled heir.
August 1987
To say that Harry was excited would be an understatement; he was ecstatic. He was finally going to train with the other soldiers he had seen on the grounds. Ayann finally gave up trying to keep him still and threw up her hands, sending him off to breakfast. He barely kept himself from bouncing in his seat as he eagerly served himself some canjeero and shaah.
"Are you ready for your first day training with the militia, Harry?" Idris asked, smiling at his son's exuberance.
Harry nodded happily, "Yes, Father."
"Good. Make sure to abide by your instructors and make me proud."
Harry gave his aabbe a huge smile and jumped up to hug him before leaving the room, Roble trailing behind him.
They quickly made their way out to the courtyard where the children were already lined up. Three men stood in a group in front of the children talking amongst themselves.
As he neared the men one of them broke away looking at him with disgust before sneering at him, "I see that the princess has arrived. It is nice of you to join us, your highness. We have been waiting eagerly for you to grace us with your presence."
Harry stopped short as eyes widened at the disgust dripping from the man's lips. He didn't know what he had done to earn his ire.
"I realise that you are afforded special… privileges as the Warlord's son," he sneered, "but please try to arrive on time. We have to get up at dawn to begin training; you could at least do us the favor of arriving here by seven."
Harry nodded hesitantly. Nobody had told him when to show up but that didn't seem to matter. He slipped into the group as quietly as he could, sneaking glances at the other children. There were both boys and girls, although far fewer of the latter. Most of them had the brown cargo shorts that Sefu had worn and nearly all of them were too large. Most of the kids' clothing was dirty and much worn with tears and holes in random places. They all either wore flip flops or were barefoot. Harry noticed just how out of place he looked. His clothing was clean and fit well and he wore fairly new shoes. While Harry's skin had darkened considerably after coming to Somalia, he still looked incredibly pale compared to the deep browns and blacks surrounding him. He fidgeted, feeling uncomfortable around the other kids, many of whom were glaring at him.
"Now that his highness has joined us we can begin. This will be your new home for the next seven months. You will be sleeping in the bunker you were assigned last night. You are to keep your bunker clean at all times, your blanket folded and put away. All of you will be getting up at dawn to begin training, except for the heir of course," he said sarcastically, gesturing to Harry. "You are to come here as soon as you wake up for instructions.
"There is to be no crying or complaining. You are no longer children who need coddling. You are soldiers. Any crying or whinging will be met with severe punishments. The enemy won't care about your feelings and neither do we. Your enemy will give you no quarter and neither shall we. We will be training you to fight, to kill the people that threaten your families and your homes. Do not forget that. You are here for a purpose."
He looked around the group, making sure that everyone was paying attention before continuing, "Sometimes soldiers get it into their heads to runaway. You dishonour your families by attempting to flee your duty. You put them in danger by refusing to fight so that they can live. Any runaways will be punished severely and made an example of. And trust me, we will catch you."
The first man stepped back only to be replaced by another who had a deeper, richer voice. "We will not give you our names. You do not need them. You are to address us as either 'trainer' or 'sir'. Do you understand?"
A scattering of 'yes, trainer' and 'yes, sir' could be heard making its way across the group.
The man snarled before yelling, "You will answer any question loudly and clearly with either a 'yes, sir' or 'no, sir'! Do. You. Understand?"
Several of the soldiers jumped, "Yes, sir!"
The man sneered, "Pathetic. Go run around the field until we tell you otherwise," he pointed to a large grassy plain behind the bunkers. Most of the group started running right away but a couple soldiers were too slow and the trainers kicked them repeatedly as they tried to make their way behind the bunkers. Several of the kids were limping as they tried to run making them a better target for the trainers. Harry found himself grateful for the running Mujahid had put him through. He was able to keep up with some of the fastest kids and wasn't targeted by the trainers.
"Get back into formation!" a voice barked across the field after an unknown length of time. The soldiers scurried across the grass, sprinting to the courtyard and attempting to avoid the trainers. They grouped together loosely in no particular order, the group taking on an amoeboid shape.
The trainers started shoving the soldiers into each other, some of the kids tripping over each other's feet.
"This will be the only time I allow this to happen without punishment. When I say get into formation you are to line yourselves up!" The trainers continued to shove them, pushing them into lines with a foot between each soldier. Instead of a shapeless mass they now formed a block.
They spent the morning running through drills to instill the directions they were to be taught. They moved back and forth, right and left in their formation at the trainers' commands. They dropped to the ground and crawled on their bellies repeatedly, something that particularly seemed to amuse the trainers. While Harry ate breakfast and dinner with his father lunch was to be taken with the other soldiers. He truly missed the rich food he had grown accustomed to over the last year but quickly found that the taste didn't matter much when they were only given two minutes to scarf down what they were given.
They spent the afternoon digging trenches by the grave he had buried Sefu in. He didn't think the rest of the kids knew what the trenches were probably going to be used for and chose not to enlighten them.
Despite all of the abuse he had learned to endure at the hands of Mujahid, Harry was reaching his breaking point. He had only ever been targeted by one person at a time up to that point but now all of the trainers seemed to have it out for him. Not only did they hurl insults at him but they also made sure to consistently point out the special privileges he got. The other kids became more embittered at every reminder and took it upon themselves to do whatever they could to hurt him. They kept tripping him and stepping on his feet, slowing him down and making him a better target for the ire of the trainers.
As it inched towards dusk Harry stood panting in formation as the trainers continued to throw abuses, both verbal and physical, at the group as a whole and insults to him in particular. He thought about his aabbe and his warm bed, wondering what he did to deserve this treatment. The bitterness roiled in his belly and trickled up to his eyes, tears filming them over. One of the trainers noticed this and jumped on him.
"Aww, isn't this baby pathetic. What, you can't handle playing with the big boys?"
The trainer seemed to take the tears that began falling down Harry's cheeks as a personal insult and backhanded him. Harry was knocked on the ground and he could taste the coppery tang of blood.
The trainer spat on him and growled, "You are pathetic. You are not fit to be the Warlord's heir."
Harry wiped the blood off his mouth and looked up at the man glaring down at him. He saw someone moving quickly behind him and recognised him as his aabbe. The trainer narrowed his eyes at him, noticing that he wasn't paying attention and swiftly kicked his side. Harry clutched at his ribs, the pain exploding through his torso as Idris reached them. Harry's eyes widened at the fury evident in his aabbe's eyes.
The trainer looked at him confusedly before turning around to follow his gaze. He only made it halfway around before the world went black.
Harry sat frozen on the ground, looking up at his aabbe who had a handgun aimed at the trainers head. Before he could even blink the gun was fired and blood joined the sweat and dirt covering him. He barely rolled out of the way in time before the body fell on him and looked up at his aabbe in fear.
Idris ignored Harry's stare and lowered his arm, turning to look at all the trainers. His voice was icy as he addressed them, "I thought I had made it clear that none of the trainers were to lay a hand on my son as a punishment. Find other ways to discipline him."
He spent another several moments glaring at the cowering trainers before focusing on Harry. He held out his hand to help him up before saying, "I think you need to get cleaned up, hmm? Dinner will be served soon and it would not do for you to be late."
Harry nodded and stared down at the ground while he followed him back to the manor. He didn't want to see the anger and bitterness that he was sure stood in every soldier's eyes. Not for the first time that day did he wish that he was treated no differently. Make no mistake, he loved his aabbe and enjoyed living in the manor with him, but he wasn't sure he could withstand the anger and isolation that his position engendered.
He sighed and shook his head, making his way to his room. He ignored the pain radiating from his jaw and made his way to the warm bath that was no doubt waiting for him.
September 1987
"How's he doing?" Idris asked before gesturing Mujahid to have a seat.
Mujahid sat and crossed his legs before answering, "He was doing well at first, keeping up despite the years the other soldiers have on him."
"And now?"
Mujahid tapped his three fingers on his ankle absentmindedly, "Now, not so much. He's struggling because the other kids are targeting him, tripping and sabotaging him anytime they can."
Idris looked at him in confusion, "Why now? Why didn't they start right away?"
"I think you killing one of the trainers the first day scared them, Warlord. I believe that they thought they weren't allowed to hurt him either," Mujahid answered.
"What made them change their minds?"
"Our plan to isolate him happened," Mujahid said plainly. "We made them hate him and now they're acting on it. They hated him enough to hurt him in little ways despite their fear and when they realised that they wouldn't be punished for it they got worse."
"And Harry? How's he dealing with it?" Idris couldn't keep a note of worry out of his voice.
"He's persevering," Mujahid sneered. "He has been taking it and pushing right on, ignoring them. He has become more isolated, but it seems like it's by choice now. I can see the anger in his eyes though. He's starting to hate them back. I expect that he won't be able to put up with it much longer," he seemed to answer distractedly, looking like he was talking more to himself than Idris.
"Good," Idris said as he sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his lap. "He can't just roll over and take it. That's not the point of this exercise. He needs to be strong and rule over the other soldiers. They are beneath him and it's time he recognised that. Make sure to let me know if anything changes. You are dismissed."
Mujahid nodded and stood, leaving Idris to his thoughts.
Harry had been watching the other kids play football on one of the few afternoons they had off. He sat at the edge of the field sitting in the shade and out of the hot sun. While his skin had turned much darker than it had been in England, he still got sunburned when the other kids did not.
He watched the other soldiers kick the ball around and wished he was out there but he didn't ask to play; not only did he not know how but he knew he wouldn't be welcomed. The last several weeks had been harsh and while he was grateful for his aabbe's protection from the physical punishments from the trainers, it seemed to only make the other soldiers more angry and, consequently, more vicious. Every caning they got seemed to make them more bitter since he didn't suffer the same pain they did.
He heard the footsteps as they approached him. Between the training he had received and the extracurricular attacks from the other soldiers he had developed a sharp ear. He estimated that there were three to four of them this time. He could see the guards from where he sat but knew that they would not come to his aid. The first time his happened he expected the guards to come help him, to keep the other kids from hurting him, but he quickly learned that he was on his own. Nobody would be coming to help him. He had to deal with his on his own.
"Isn't it the little lung. Why aren't you in your castle, princess?" The name one of the trainers had given him on the first day had stuck and while it made Harry bristle every time he heard it, he learned to ignore it the best he could. But the lung insult made him laugh every time. He guessed that they meant he was pink and spongy but he found it funny all the same. He certainly couldn't fault their originality.
Harry sighed. He knew that ignoring them only seemed to make things worse so he asked, "What do you want, Effiom?"
Effiom growled. He was one of the oldest soldiers in the camp at 15 and he lorded it over everyone else. Harry knew he didn't like people calling him by his birth name, preferring to go by Colonel Rambo, so he made sure to use it frequently. He took what little pleasures he could.
Harry felt one of the boys grab him by his arm and drag him to his feet. He was turned to face them and saw there were three of them this time. He was only ever successful in one-on-one fights. He knew his best bet was to take them out one by one swiftly before they could gang up on him all at once.
He pulled all of the anger he had been storing up the previous couple days and let it pool in his belly. He felt his anger sizzle through his nerves as he twisted and grabbed the arm holding him. He pushed the boy against the tree he had been leaning on and braced his forearm against the bark, pushing on the wrist hard. He felt the arm crack and wrap around the trunk before he let go. The boy cried out and curled over cradling his arm to his chest. Harry grabbed his head and drove his face into his knee. The boy fell over silently, the thump of him hitting the floor drowned out by the boys playing football.
He turned to the other two soldiers, his face blank as he took their postures in. They look like they had been readying themselves to attack but had frozen when the other boy hit the ground. They quickly regained their senses and glared at him.
"Well, well. It seems that the princess has claws after all. Don't worry, sweetheart, you'll get yours." An expression Harry didn't recognise flitted across Effiom's face but he brushed it off as unimportant. The two boys turned and walked away, leaving the third unconscious at the base of the tree. Harry sneered at the prone figure and kicked him in the side, reveling in the crack that drifted up to his ears before walking away with a small smile on his face.
It had been a hard day thus far. The sun was beating down on them and everyone was dripping in sweat. The trainers had them running on an asphalt road in order to build up their feet and pain tolerance, or at least that was what Harry figured. He hoped there was some reason although a small portion of his mind thought it was simply for their own enjoyment. He ignored the blisters bubbling up on his feet and shoulders choosing instead to focus on the table they were being led to.
It was a simple, long and slightly rickety table that they had built the day before out of wood they had to chop. Dozens of Kalashnikov assault rifles sat on the table lined up so that they were easily accessible from the sides. Harry chose to focus on the guns instead of the trainers who were beating the few soldiers who had come in too slowly. He tuned out the dull thudding by running through the information Mujahid had taught them about that model.
Widely known as the AK-47, Kalashnikovs were popular in the African militias. Its design was originally intended for the Soviet militaries in the Arctic. The gloves the soldiers had to wear greatly hampered their ability to use and repair most guns so the AK-47 were easy to maintain and simple enough for children to use. While he had learned how to assemble the rifle months ago, the group had been taught a couple days prior.
Harry hated using the Kalashnikovs. When he was first taught how to use it he could hardly lift the gun up, much less aim and fire. Now he was barely able to go through a magazine and his arms hurt for days after from the strain. Never mind the bruises that the kick back left. He was constantly worried that it was going to dislocate his shoulder.
"Each of you is to take a gun and ready yourselves for disassembly and reassembly. We are going for speed and effectiveness. The one who finishes first, successfully, will be exempt from running the ram," the trainer wore a sadistic smirk.
Harry suppressed a shudder. The ram always reminded him of how grateful he was to be under his aabbe's protection. He never wished to experience it. He looked around and could see the determination in the other soldiers' eyes. The trainers certainly knew how to provide an effective reward. Harry stood up straighter. Even if he wouldn't have to run the ram anyway he certainly was going to try to be the fastest. It didn't matter to him that failing might save one of the other soldiers; he just wanted to be the best.
"Get ready," the trainer barked. After waiting a moment he signaled for them to begin.
The clicks of metal on metal faded into the background as Harry focused on his gun. He pulled the charging handle back and removed the receiver cover without bothering to check to see if the weapon was unloaded. He pushed and then lifted the spring assembly from the raceway and quickly pulled the carrier assembly away from the rear. He rotated and removed the bolt before replacing it and reassembling the whole rifle.
Quickly snapping the magazine back into place he banged the butt of the gun down on the table to indicate that he was finished. Several other bangs sounded quickly after him, something that brought a smile to his face. The trainer nodded at him and he pulled the trigger and the boom that followed indicated his success. He looked around the table at the other kids and could see the vicious look in their eyes. Effiom seemed particularly homicidal but it was mixed in with the unidentifiable look Harry had seen the week before.
One of the trainers patted him on the shoulder and barked at the rest of the soldiers to drop the guns on the table and undress. The children quickly stripped their clothes off, leaving their underwear on, and left them where they stood. They had learned the hard way not to attempt to take their clothing with them.
Harry trailed after the trainers to watch. As the hatred for the others grew he took greater pleasure in watching them in pain. Most of the soldiers made their way over to the rocky pit quickly, wanting to get it over with while a few straggled behind. Those in the back found themselves caned as they ran, speeding up to catch up with the others.
Harry walked up to the side of the pit, looking down at the kids rolling over the rocks. Their bodies were spotted red where the thorns had pierced them, painting the rocks with every roll. He didn't know who decided to add the barbs to the rocks but thought it was a brilliant addition. The trainers walked across the rocks following the soldiers, their shoes protecting their feet. Occasionally they would lash out with their feet or their sticks if they thought someone was moving too slowly. Those that they hit tended to bleed more freely since they were shoved down further onto the thorns.
He felt someone sidle up to him as the first soldiers finished running the ram and turned to see his aabbe.
"I heard you have performed well in your ammunitions training, consistently coming first in all your tests," Idris remarked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Harry nodded and smiled, "I have, f-sir." He quickly corrected himself before he slipped the endearment. It wouldn't do to say such things in front of others.
Idris gifted him with a full smile, pride shining in his eyes. Harry smiled in return, happy to have pleased his aabbe. He gave one last look to the soldiers finishing the ram and sneered.
'Let them get what they deserve,' he thought viciously. He turned and followed his aabbe into the manor, looking forward to a warm bath and good food.
Shaah: Tea
Effiom: African name; crocodile (I thought it was more than apt)
A/N: Disgustingly enough, the 'ram' is real. This is a method used in Honduras on child recruits to instill fear and humility, weakening them and making them pliable. I am having these children learning to use guns earlier than they normally would. Generally it would be a couple months before they were allowed to use them.
Many boys in children militias actually like to go by titles such as 'Colonel Rambo' and 'Sergent Killsalot'. It makes adults from other areas feel really strange when the kids demand to be called that, and you just don't say no to a child hopped up on brown brown with a semiautomatic weapon in their hand.
I found the lung slur in a political blog when I was looking for Somali insults. A Somali yelled: "Medabkiisu waa sambab!" at the blogger which according to him means something to the effect of "You look like a lung". Highly amusing.
I dislike drugs, a lot. I have a lot of personal problems with them. I will not ignore the fact that they are heavily used in the militias and have been for centuries, but I will not have Harry on them.
Inspiration for this and the next couple chapters came from various places including Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, A Long Way Gone by Ismael Beah, My Gun was as Tall as Me published by the Human Rights Watch, and a variety of stories, videos and interviews from child soldiers that I found on the internet.
