Disclaimer: You know the drill—this is a work of fanfiction. I don't own the characters or the worlds. I'm just borrowing them to go places that ought not be explored and do things that ought not be considered. All things Potter are, of course, JK Rowling's. There's a fair dose of games like Grand Theft Auto, Saint's Row, and Mafia III in the mix, and I may have used a little Forged in the Dark thing called Copperhead County to keep things on track and organized. Please assume that AU and OOC warnings are in effect at all times, because I use canon the same way my cats use scratching posts. Feedback is nice. Flames will be loaded into the rooftop catapult and launched at the No-SASE Ogres who used to work for TSR. Pre-read but not Brit-picked.

GRAND THEFT FIREBOLT

(Another Fanfic from the desk of the MadPanda)

Act One: Back In Black

I had five years and change to think it all over after my part in the Blood War finished up, and in truth I was good and pissed off when someone at the Ministry of Magic finally decided that just maybe tossing the Boy-Who-Kicked-Arse into Azkaban without a trial might not have been a good idea. A fat lot of good it did me, too. The minor functionary who showed up blabbed a lot about errors and misfiles and gosh, it wasn't like they realized that they'd conveniently forgotten to actually hold the trial, but since it wasn't actually illegal at the time to do that to persons of interest we're terribly sorry about the balls-up, old chap so here's forty galleons and a ride off the island. No hard feelings, what?

The same people who cowered behind a senile old fuck's fixation on a half-arsed prophecy not only stole both the Potter and Black estates from me, whatever was in them, but also forgot to bother with a hearing because wasn't I just so utterly inconvenient for them and their plans? If I'd had a wand, I probably would have hexed the chinless prat right there and then.

Lucky for me Azkaban's not quite the hellhole it used to be, since one of the things I managed to do during the War was get rid of the Dementors permanently. That was one of the reasons I got thrown into prison: "wanton destruction of Ministry property". I think the other charge was some blather about having murdered so many fine and upstanding community leaders of impeccable lineage, all of whom just happened to have this neat tattoo on their left arms that somehow didn't matter anymore. Since one of the fun new laws that Tommy No-Nose's Fan Club shoved through during his brief control of everything in Wizarding Britain that wasn't Hogwarts was something enabling the expedited super-judicial processing of undesirables, the Ministry hadn't done anything legally wrong by not holding a trial. Imagine that. Something even worse than what happened to Sirius. On the bright side, I spent less time inside than he did, and that was without the dementors to make life miserable.

What I couldn't figure out was why they'd bothered releasing me. Perhaps they expected that this would keep me nice and docile and less inclined to make waves? Or perhaps someone with enough leverage got one of those nice little 'do this or else' Ministerial orders pushed through. Maybe my release was as big a mistake as my incarceration. Whatever the reason, it was going to take a lot more than the chill of the North Sea to cool my temper. As for the chinless wonder, he had enough self-preservation instinct to stay at the other end of the ferry and didn't try to talk to me at all after a few more hastily mumbled apologies. He seemed genuinely embarrassed about the whole thing, which was better than I'd expected. Some arse like Dawlish would have expected me to be grateful.

We reached the mainland dock and I took stock: forty galleons, a set of well-worn but clean second-hand robes to replace the scraps and rags of my original clothes, a head full of plans and belly full of burning rage...but no clue as to how I could convert plans to action and rage to revenge. Not much to work with, but then I got my second happy surprise of the day.

Neville Longbottom was waiting for me, his bum propped up against the bonnet of a snazzy sports car, looking sharp in a muggle suit and a devil-may-care grin on his face. He looked pretty good, actually—nothing like the pudgy and nervous young lad I'd fought beside only a few years prior. Life had treated him well, I figured. He was probably settled in as Lord Longbottom now, and it touched me that he'd taken a moment to come give me a hand, however he'd found out about my sudden release. I just couldn't see the Ministry broadcasting the whole affair.

"Hello, Harry. Fancy a lift back to the world?"

I laughed. It didn't sound too good. But then I didn't look too good so at least I matched.

"I'll take you up on that, Nev."

He held the door for me, I got in, and he drove us away in relatively companionable silence. We didn't go very far. He'd booked a room at a hotel not too far away so that I could clean up and change into some clothes he'd brought for me. Muggle stuff, which struck me as funny for a moment, but then I thought about how he'd shown up in a suit rather than robes, driving a car...acting far more at ease with the non-magical world than I'd ever have expected a scion of an ancient house like Longbottom. But why not? Things must have changed quite a bit since I was tossed into that cell.

After I felt at least a little more human again, we hit a cheap diner for a meal. I finished one sandwich and half of Neville's while he brought me up to speed. The Statute of Secrecy being the cast-iron bitch that it was, he kept things nice and general but I could read between the lines easily enough. Shattered my rose-colored expectations of his life in the process, too.

"Long and short, mate, it's gotten interesting. Gran and my folks bought it not long before things settled out. The manor got damaged and a certain Toad pushed through a full confiscation because reasons. She's been working with the last of the Fan Club to keep some of the nastier bits on the books, and of course nobody's been willing to step up. The 'Gamot's barely got a quorum, and that's only because they rammed through an emergency bill to lower the number of members needed. Lots of seats are empty." He shrugged. "It gets worse."

I remembered to swallow the last of my sandwich before I asked what I thought was a ridiculous and fate-tempting question.

"How can it get worse? It's like the only thing I achieved in the war was getting myself railroaded by pureblood tossers!"

"Hermione sent me a letter a while back. She got out. Way out. Made some contacts across the Big Drink, sent me a few notes on what our cousins are up to over there." Neville frowned. "The Statute's on thin ice and there are some ugly cracks showing. The War made a lot of muggles sit up and take notice and you know how a lot of purebloods never get the hang of little things like subtlety."

I gave a harsh little laugh and nodded.

"Fashion sense, common sense, what rubber ducks are for...yeah, I get it."

"The only people who'd even be likely to help straighten this stuff out are the muggleborn. They're still leaving or getting their magic bound and obliviated because Merlin forbid those stuffy old farts on the Rump 'Gamot actually listen when someone points out that it's already too late to put the kneazle back in the bag." For a moment he looked furious. "But you don't want to hear about that right now. We gotta figure out what you're gonna do next, Harry."

"My reputation's shot. Record's clean, for what it's worth, but the Prophet's been dragging my name through the mud ever since Skeeter made Editor in Chief." His eyebrows went up at that. "The guards made sure I heard about that. One of them...Robards, I think? Would come around every so often and read her articles at me. Fucking prick. And they stole whatever legacy I might have had from either the Potter or the Black estates and everything. Which is illegal without a trial to justify asset forfeiture , but the Goblins hate my guts after that thing with the dragon so..."

"That was you?"

"Yeah. We got stabbed in the back by the Goblins while trying to take care of something Tommy No-Nose had stashed in the old Lestrange vault and had to fight our way out." I made a face. "Anyway, I have almost nothing to my name, the world I got dragooned into saving wants to write me off again, and I'm rather quite cheesed off about the whole thing." I said this far too cheerfully, but I saw Neville's eyes light up for some reason. I guess we had that much in common, but I didn't really feel like digging into it right at that moment. I changed the subject. "Did you know the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin?"

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. Only I'd met Malfoy a couple of times already and he didn't make the best of impressions. I wanted to stay as far away from the little ponce as I could." I snorted. "Acted like a total Gryff for most of the next seven years and it's cost me. Now? I do believe it's time to let my Slytherin side out of the broom closet." I met his eyes. "You okay with the thought of a little payback, Nev?"

He grinned.

"Where shall we start?"

After a good night's sleep, my best in several years, we hit the road again. We did a bit of brainstorming on that drive, throwing ideas around—people to call, places to go, who to hit and how hard. Nev was worth his weight in galleons and by the time we got closer to London he'd even thought of a good safe house. I felt a twinge of guilt about not being able to contribute much and said so.

"Don't sweat it, Harry," he laughed. "You're a pretty safe investment for me. A little time to let you soak up the changes, a few good scores, and you'll be good for it."

Then he tossed that morning's copy of the Daily Prophet on the table. The lead article on the front page announced my release from Azkaban. It used a couple of photos from my Hogwarts days, nothing current, and I noticed that their attention to pesky details like the actual facts was the same as it ever was. What really got me riled up were the quotes I did not give from an interview I didn't have that boiled down to my forgiving the Ministry for their mistake in rather glowing language and promising to be a good boy from now.

"They don't know you very well, do they," Nev grinned. "So. Who are we going to go after first? The Toad? Lord Malfoy? Skeeter?"

I nursed my tea and considered the question.

"No, that's what they'll expect. I'm just a stupid Gryff, remember? If I can be bothered to go against such lofty expectations," I gestured at the paper, "then I will surely go directly for people with whom I have a history."

"True, and we're aiming for...what, Slytherin?"

"Pretty much." I frowned in thought. "You've gotten comfortable with the muggle side of things?"

"Had to," he shrugged. "With the Manor burned to the ground, our fortunes confiscated, Gran and my parents dead, and the title of Lord Longbottom all but tied up thanks to a lame duck Wizengamot, I had to find some way of making ends meet. Between some fellow members of the Dee Ayy and a little luck, I made a few contacts. Hence this palatial mansion, suit, car...what do you have in mind?"

"Until I can get a replacement wand, we need to do this the non-magical way. Build up a network. Get supplies. Make allies." I thought. "How many of the old Order of the Phoenix are still breathing? I owe those fuckers some payback."

"All those summers spent isolated under their watchful eyes with no actual help." Nev nodded his understanding. "So who do you have in mind for starters?"

That's how we found ourselves outside a dingy warehouse in downtown London at two in the morning, following a trail that led straight to Mundungus Fletcher. Dung was a prize candidate for this in many ways. He straddled the magical and muggle worlds, dealt largely with shady goods and people, and had an impressive list of people who wanted his pudgy arse beaten, broken, or dead. He'd stolen from Sirius—a certain locket and some antique tableware at the very least-and his negligence had almost gotten me killed a few times. The odds of our finding something useful in his 'secret lair' were pretty good, and the chances that any mishaps would fall on someone else's shoulders almost as good.

The idea was simple—bust the lock, slip in, grab anything that looked useful, and scram. No fuss, no muss, no hanging about waiting for the heat to show up, and the less noise and strife the better it'd be for us. And since ol' Dung was helpful enough to have one entrance on the muggle side of life to go with the one on the wizarding side, that was twice the helpful points of entry. We managed to borrow a lorry from a mechanic Neville had met through the dealership where he'd scored his sporty little roadster, parked just past the loading dock of Dung's hideout, and got to it.

Neville cast a silent, wandless Alohamora on the padlock, popping it like a chocolate frog package hit by a beater's bat, and we slipped through the door like shadows...and immediately realized that the plan had already gone pear-shaped. There were lights on and we could hear Dung whinging and pleading with someone. Bastard wasn't even supposed to be here, according to what I remembered of his habits! This was his pint-at-the-Leaky night, wasn't it? Just our luck.

Still, no point in wasting the opportunity. I gestured for Nev to follow and we made our way deeper, advancing from cover to cover like a pair of hit wizards stalking a wounded death eater. I was feeling rusty as all get out, but Nev stuck to me and we managed to get deep enough into the cluttered, disorganized storage area without too much trouble.

Suddenly Nev was no longer behind me! I turned and found him looking up at a high shelf piled high with boxes with a grin on his face that seemed just a little too giddy for the circumstances. I crept back over.

"Top shelf," he said quietly. "That's an auror evidence chest. Probably something useful in that."

Useful or valuable, I nodded. Taking a quick look around, I took a risk and climbed up the front of the shelving, breathing a sigh of relief when it proved more than capable of holding my weight. From here, I made my way along until I reached it, shifting the other boxes around it one at a time with my heart in my throat. From across the warehouse I could hear Dung's wheedling clearly...and I recognized the other voice finally. The name didn't come to me at once, but the face sure did. Bloke was a 'Puff a year ahead of Cedric. He'd gone into the Aurors, survived the war just fine, and by the sound of it he was here to put the squeeze on a dishonest businessman.

Hard to feel sorry for Dung, really.

Once I got the chest clear, Neville whispered "wingardium leviosa" and lowered our potential payday to the floor, then added a featherlight charm just to be funny. It was almost anticlimactic. We could just pick up the trunk, stroll right out the door, and nobody would ever know we were in here! Money for almost nothing, and that's even considering that we'd planned on this place being empty.

The problem with these little auror-scoundrel conferences is that they aren't always very long. We were almost all the way to the door when Dung and the 'Puff emerged from the office, forcing Nev and I to duck back behind some crates.

"Look," Dung was babbling. "You'll get your money, all right? You know I'm good for it. Things are just a bit tough right now what with the new policy on line-crossing goods!"

"You have until the end of the week," the auror sneered. "Otherwise I may have to alert the Office of Economic Rectitude about your indiscretions."

I glanced at Neville, but his expression was as confused as mine, in a "never heard of them either" sort of way. Oh well. In the meantime, the pair were moving closer to the door that we'd used to make our entrance...

Wait. The auror was heading for the muggle-side entrance? And his voice was getting louder as he started discussing the upcoming quidditch season in a way that suggested that he was trying to cover up his intentions. Another glance shared, and Neville and I set the locker down on the ground. I pulled out a handy little toy that Neville's mechanic friend had given me when we picked up the trunk—a collapsible baton that he promised would be useful if we got into a fight, and Neville proved to have something far deadlier up his sleeve than a rabbit.

Too bad for the auror, who whipped around the end of the crates with his wand in his hand, his mouth open as if he was about to cast something, only to take a bullet to the gut from Neville's silenced handgun. My old school chum didn't even hesitate to put two more into him—heart and head. But by then I was snatching the wand out of his fingers and whipping around myself, and Dung went down to my overpowered Stunner. Guess I hadn't lost my touch after all.

In the relative quiet that followed Neville cleaned up the blood and bits and I dragged the semiconscious Dung back to his office. A sloppy Oblivate and half a bottle of cheap gin helped set a scene of a drunken idiot who fell asleep at his desk. That added maybe five minutes before we grabbed the locker and got on our way. We even relocked the door on our way out just to confuse the issue.

About halfway back to the safe house, Neville asked the question I'd been expecting to hear.

"Why didn't you just kill him?"

"I want Dung to suffer. Plus I put his fingerprints all over that wand and left it in his bottom desk drawer. Let the aurors have fun with that. What'd you do with the body?"

"Transfiguration is fun. Dung's going to have a very inconvenient doorstop in about, oh, twelve hours." He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "That was close."

"Yeah. We're gonna need to figure our next move out more carefully."

We stashed the locker in a storage facility, returned the truck, and went our separate ways with a plan to meet up in a few hours after getting some sleep and breakfast...I to the safe house and Neville to wherever it was he was going to be staying. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe the thrill of kicking a man who'd helped screw me over, but I was feeling pretty good about how things had gone.

I should have remembered about the Potter Luck, because what we found in that locker proved to be more trouble than it was worth.

...to be continued...

AN: This fic exists for two reasons. First, I got a blibbering humdinger of a plot bunny gnawing on my brain about what-would-happen-if by extrapolating what we know about the Tommy No-Nose Fan Club and the kid-lit rule of Adults Are Useless while watching a no-commentary walk-through of The Getaway, which is like Grand Theft Auto, London Edition. Second, I thought of a really fun gangster nickname for Lucius Malfoy and wanted an excuse to use it.

This will follow a plot arc familiar to anyone who has played anything from the Grand Theft Auto, Saint's Row, or Mafia franchises. There will be romance, violent revenge, explosions, and at least one incident of sudden but inevitable betrayal. It comes with an awesome soundtrack playlist assembled by Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorsese.