Harry Potter and the Physical Adept

Chapter 2: Guns. Lots of Guns.

Karl Armbrüster knew the dangers of the business he was in, but providing buyers with firearms was an extremely lucrative and, as long as the end-user certificates were in order, a completely legitimate, if disreputable, business.

Still, taking on so many new clients at once made it difficult to thoroughly vet them all, and now he was paying the price, standing in a remote part of the convention center's parking lot and staring down the barrel of several guns as would-be clients held him at gunpoint with every intention of relieving him of his wealth and the inventory he had in the vehicle behind him.

So focused was he on the guns pointed at him that he did not notice a boy with dirty blonde hair and a punchable face wandered into the meeting until one of his would-be robbers had drawn their attention towards him, hiding his weapon behind his back, as did his friends, before calling out to the child.

"Hey kid, are you lost?"

"A li'l bit," said the boy in a weak voice, looking around. "Ah cain't find mah Mammy o' Pappy.."

"Well, they're not here," said the man. "Now beat it."

"Oh, Ah know," said the boy, his tone suddenly mocking.

Before anyone could react, he had a pistol in his hands and was firing twice into the chest of the man who had greeted him, rushing forward as he did so and pivoting to quickly put two bullets into one of the remaining two gunmen.

By now, the third robber's weapon had swung towards the boy, but the boy had taken cover behind a car, making it difficult to get a clean line of sight to him. This, however, presented no problems to the boy; there was the loud report of gunfire, and the gunman collapsed as his leg crumpled under his weight, blood gushing from a bullet hole in his shin; an instant later, his skull exploded apart backwards, spattering bone and brain matter in every direction.

Karl gulped as the boy emerged from behind the car, pistol trained on him; carefully, the man raised his hands to show they were empty, not wanting to get shot.

"That was a close call," said the boy, his southern twang suddenly replaced by a British accent as he slipped the pistol into his waistband. "So, you selling product out of the back of your vehicle and these men try to rob you?"

"How did you know?" Karl asked.

"I was watching you at the show; you kept leaving with different groups of people, like you were selling something you couldn't put on display on the floor."

"I suppose that is fair," said the man. "What do you want?"

"Just want to do a bit of business," said the boy, smiling slightly. "That's to say, I saved your life, so I think you might be willing to sell me some product."

"What are you looking to buy?"

"Why don't you show me what do you have?"

Karl frowned; the boy might be quick with the trigger and incredibly skilled with a pistol, but he had reservations about showing him his stock. If the boy couldn't pay, he wasn't sure what would happen, especially after he had witnessed the preceding shootings.

"Listen, I could just kill you and take what I want, but I'd rather keep this cordial," said the boy. "It'd be nice to know someone in the biz."

With a sigh, he opened up the back of the box truck, revealing numerous wooden crates, as well as a few unpacked and assembled samples. As he watched, the boy went to the truck, carefully examining the firearms one by one before taking a step back.

"I'll take two of the 5.56 rifles, the MP5, the shotgun and five of the Berettas 92FSs," said the boy calmly.

"The HK33 is four thousand dollars American each, the MP5 is thirty-five hundred, the USAS-12 is three thousand, and the 92FSs are two thousand each," Karl said, then watched in surprise as the boy pulled stacks of hundred dollar bills wrapped in currency straps from his pocket, totaling fifty thousand American dollars, and tossed it onto the back of the truck.

"Do you have any ACOG, red dot or four-ex sights? What about suppressors and threaded barrels? Underbarrel grenade launcher attachments for the rifles with accompanying fragmentation, incendiary, smoke and tear gas grenades? Subsonic rounds?" asked the boy; when Karl nodded after each, still surprised by the money the boy had at his disposal, the boy said, "I'll take two of each sight, a suppressor and threaded barrels to match each minus the shotgun, two of the grenade launchers with a case of each of the grenades, ten box magazines for each gun, and as much ammo to match as I can get, including about a couple boxes for each in subsonic."

It took the weapons dealer a few minutes to assemble what the boy had asked for; once the products and money changed hands, the boy drew the pistol, which Karl recognized as a Glock now they were closer together, from his waistband and withdrew the magazine even as the man flinched, racking the slide and smoothly catching the bullet that was ejected before offering him the gun.

"Get rid of this," said the boy, and Karl took the weapon gingerly. "Listen, give me your business card and then get out of here; I'll make the bodies disappear."

The man nodded dumbly, pocketing the pistol before giving the boy his card. "Who are you?" Karl found himself asking, as the boy glanced at the card.

"Mister Armbrüster, you can call me Whiplash," said the boy with a smile. "Now get out of here."

Karl Armbrüster would not soon forget his encounter with the small boy who called himself "Whiplash".

~ooOoo~

With disintegrate, cleaning crime scenes was as simple as incanting and gesturing; nonetheless, Harry barely had enough time to stow away the handguns of the dead men along with what he had purchased from the weapons dealer and strip the dead of their valuables, then sanitize the area of blood, bodies, bone fragments, brain matter, bullets and shell casings before police officers appeared, giving him no time to shed his disguise.

"You shouldn't be here," said the first police officer, a woman who looked a little too young to be in uniform, her voice as reassuring as possible. "There were reports of shots being fired; do you know anything about that?"

"No ma'am," Harry lied, trying to look as innocent as possible. "I just got lost looking for an exit."

"Where are your mom and dad?" asked the other officer, a middle-aged man with a moustache, kneeling so he was eye level with the boy.

"Busy, sir," Harry said. "Father is busy playing politics, lobbying the Ministry, and mother is… actually, I don't know what mother is doing, but I haven't seen her in months."

"Who are you here with?"

"I'm actually a foreign exchange student, from London," Harry said. "I didn't have lessons today, so I thought I'd have a stroll on the Strip, but then wandered into the convention hall and got turned around. Next thing I know, I'm here in the garage, completely lost."

"What's your name, kid?" the middle-aged officer asked.

"Draco, sir," Harry lied. "Draco Malfoy."

"Well, Draco, I'm Greg, and if you come with me, I can take you home," said the older officer, his voice calm and reassuring.

"I'd really rather just find an exit," Harry said. "It's still early, and I'd like to find a park so I can enjoy the outdoors."

"In that case, there's a park not far from here; I can walk you there if you'd like."

"I'd like that."

~ooOoo~

Harry Potter was having a problem with guns.

He didn't have a problem with them being tools of war; after all, he was no stranger to violence, as a victim or perpetrator, and he considered armed conflict an inevitability, so it made sense to him that guns would exist, and having used guns first-hand, he would freely admit that shooting guns was a fun thing to do.

No, his problem with guns was that they were too damn loud.

While firing his High Standard HDM when it was loaded with subsonic ammunition reduced the noise level to what was shown in films when a suppressed firearm was fired (even though the sound of the pistol's action was also audible), even loading the weapon with standard Twenty-two Long Rifle cartridges lead to an audible crack, made whenever a bullet broke the sound barrier, when the gun was fired, and the Glock he had used at the gun convention had left his ears ringing; had he not had tongues active, he would never have been able to understand a word the weapons dealer had said, only because tongues had allowed him to read lips and understand what was spoken through that method.

It had been a long walk back to the range Jack had told him he could use, including a heat run to ensure the police were not following him, but he was there now and in front of him was a disassembled AMT Hardballer; he had taken it from one of the would-be robbers he had killed, and along Browning Hi-Power and a Smith & Wesson 4506, and he was in the process of trying to figure out a way to solve the noise problem he had with pistols. These were the guns he considered disposable, because he had not paid for them in any way, so he felt comfortable experimenting on them with his magic.

With the Hardballer, Harry tried something simple: applying a permanency-like effect to a version of silence, 15' radius with a reduced area-of-effect; he did the entire casting spontaneously, and while the magic certainly did take hold, it had the unfortunate side effect of rendering the weapon completely silent, not just the sound of the gunpowder being ignited, but also the bullet breaking the sound barrier inside the barrel, as well as the weapon's action when the weapon was fired and when the weapon collided with something solid, effectively rendering the gun completely silent no matter how it was used, and while it would certainly protect his ears, it would also draw too many suspicions if he were to use it in view of witnesses.

So, with diamond-tipped stylus in hand, Harry began carving runes on the outside of the barrel of the 4506 after he disassembled it, consulting the memo pad filled with his research on runes, sigils and symbols. Repeatedly etching a stylized 静, the Chinese character for jing, "silence", and the Japanese kanji for sei, "stillness", into the steel a few inches apart, he inlaid the inscriptions with a gold and steel alloy he fabricated with magic. When he reassembled the firearm and put it into testing, he found it operated no differently when he simply fired it, but as soon as he passed Astral power into the weapon, it reduced the sound of the initial ignition of gunpowder and the bullet breaking the sound barrier to nothing though doing little else to the sound of the action, while also removing the recoil from firing the pistol completely, doing more than he had expected the engraving to do.

With the necessary process developed, Harry put it into fabrication, adding the remainder of his firearms except for two Berettas to the production line, inscribing and insetting each weapon before testing them out in the firing range to make sure they functioned as intended, with the recoil nullification making the automatic weapons infinitely easier to handle during sustained fire.

Once his work was complete, he stashed the weapons in his haversack.

It had been a fruitful day.

~ooOoo~

Going to the farewell party at the Jade Garden was not Harry's idea of a good time, but he chose to attend it anyways because he understood Liv needed more experience in socializing with large groups of people.

It was the head chef's idea; despite their short employment at the restaurant, Harry and Liv were both well-liked by the staff, front and back of house alike, and the head chef used that as an excuse for throwing a party, mostly because he enjoyed getting pissed and making a fool of himself, and by having it at the Jade Garden, the food costs to be reduced to the price of the product used and the labor it took to cook it, the latter of which the head chef provided for free.

Thus, Harry, Liv and Karen were at the Jade Garden the evening of Monday, the only day the restaurant was closed for business, the day before their flight back was scheduled, Karen as guest of the boy and the dragon.

Though he had roped in some help from the Jade Garden's resident sushi chef, a Mexican immigrant by the name of Catalaya who spoke broken English and thus found it easier to converse with Harry and Liv through their use of tongues than with the rest of the staff, the head chef managed to put out quite a spread for the party; like most catering events, of which Harry had worked two during the six weeks he had been with the restaurant, the bash gave the head chef a chance to showcase his culinary skills with pizzas, burgers and barbecue, and Catalaya seemed happy to contribute sashimi, nigirizushi and a self-serve burrito bar, all off-menu items, to the party on the company dime.

Despite being the one the party was being held for, Harry insisted on bringing something to it, and after Liv learned why, she eagerly insisted on chipping in money for the gift so they would be able to afford something better, and together, they purchased a hundred-dollar bottle of twenty-five-year-old single malt scotch from specialty store that sold only liquor, with Liv taking the form of a wizened old crone to avoid being carded; when the head chef poured himself a shot from the bottle and had a drink from the chilled glass, he declared it the best whiskey he had ever tasted, and the other party-goers, even those under the legal age, passed the bottle around and had a drink.

It was only then that Harry first noticed her, a slender young woman he had never seen before at the restaurant, her flesh the color of alabaster, without any of the undertones of pink usually found in the skin of exceptionally pale people, her diamond-shaped face, lightly spattered with freckles, framed by straight hair that looked like it was spun of burnished copper, albeit with a matte finish. Most striking, though, were her eyes, pale jade green irises rimmed by rings of pearlescent greyish-blue that reminded the boy of labradorite; they were simply beautiful to behold, and whenever their eyes met, he could sense the intelligence behind them.

What really piqued his curiosity, though, were the earrings she wore; though most would mistake it for the anarchy symbol inverted vertically, Harry saw the telltale details in the horizontal line and recognized it as something else, something he was more than familiar with.

He was about to approach her to start a conversation when he found himself suddenly being pulled aside by Liv, who had a tumbler with two fingers of whiskey in each hand.

"You should be careful with her," said the dragon cryptically, handing the boy one of the drinks. "There's something about her aura; I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Normal people don't have auras," Harry said, remembering what Liv had told him about her observations of mundane people.

"Exactly," Liv said, taking a sip of her drink.

"How are you holding up to the alcohol?"

"I like the taste, but otherwise, it does nothing for me."

"And the party?"

"The food's really good; Catalaya really outdid herself with the burrito bar. I've already had four."

"Sushi's good too," Harry said, before lowering his voice. "I'm glad Chef didn't put that together."

"I know, right? He's kind of shite at it," the dragon-in-girl-form agreed, tone conspiratorial. "Guess that's what happens when you're a western chef from Vietnam in charge of a restaurant that serves Chinese and Japanese food."

With that, Liv flitted away and back to the party, leaving Harry with drink in hand.

Turning back towards the young woman he had wanted to speak to, he found her giving him an inquisitive look with her head cocked to the side quizzically, and he took the opportunity to approach her.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, and the woman gestured to the seat.

"What was that about?" she asked, her voice soft and husky, a slight southern accent, much more subtle than the one Harry would assume for Hunter Whiplash, coloring her words.

"She thought I should have a drink," said the boy, shrugging. "Funny, because I'm only twelve.

"I'm Harry, by the way," he added, proffering his right hand.

The young woman clasped it lightly in her own, gently placing her left hand on his forearm; Harry noticed her skin was cool to the touch but not clammy.

"Patience, but my friends call me 'Pace'," said the redhead, letting go of the boy's arm after a long moment.

"So, who are you here with?" Harry asked.

"Oh, she's around somewhere," said the redhead vaguely, craning her neck as she searched the crowd. "Must have went to the bathroom."

"Huh," said the boy, before deciding to change the subject. "Love your earrings. Clan Brujah?"

"Yes," Patience said. "They were a gift; I'm more a Caitiff girl myself."

"Clanless is always a classic, especially if you're playing high generation with thin blood," agreed the British boy.

"Yeah, and that feeling like you don't belong and you're just trying to find your way in life really speaks to me on a personal level."

"I know the feeling. I was an orphan who was placed with an abusive foster family."

"That must suck. How are you here now? From your accent, you must be from England, and I don't see an abusive foster family letting you travel on their dime."

"I got out," said the boy with a shrug. "So, what's your story?"

"I'm from Roanoke, originally," said the redhead. "Moved here about two years ago because I just had to get out of Virginia; it's almost like it's five years behind the times there. Anyways, I had a life-changing event happened to me about a year ago, and that's why I feel like I'm trying to find my way again."

"I had that kind of thing happen to me last summer," Harry sympathized. "I was lucky enough to have a strong support system to help me through it."

"That's good," said the woman. "So, you play anything else besides Vampire?"

"Honestly, I'm not much of a Vampire player," the boy admitted. "I'm more Shadowrun and Dungeons & Dragons, Cyberpunk 2020, Ars Magica, Cyberspace and Millennium's End."

"I've never heard of Cyberspace or Millennium's End," Patience admitted.

"Cyberspace is like Cyberpunk, just percentile system, and Millennium's End is like playing a techno-thriller, like a Tom Clancy novel."

"Cool," said the woman. "What else are you familiar with?"

"DC Heroes, a bit of GURPS, 2300 AD, Talislanta, Hero System, Dark Conspiracy, Tales from the Floating Vagabond, Paranoia, Nightlife and Robotech."

"That's a lot of systems."

"What can I say? Tabletop role-playing games is my main hobby. What about you?"

"Besides Vampire, I know Amber Diceless, GUCS, and TWERPS, and I've read a few Shadowrun novels."

"Gucks?"

"Generic Universal Comedy System."

"And Twerps?"

"The World's Easiest Role-Playing System."

"I've always wanted to learn Amber, but never knew anybody interested in teaching it."

"And I've always wanted to learn Ars Magica," Patience said. "I know this little hole in the wall diner not far from here; want to meet later this week?"

"I'm actually flying out of the country tomorrow," Harry said.

"In that case, if you give me half-an-hour, I can grab the books from my place and meet you at the diner," the woman suggested.

"What's it called?"

"The Nomad Express, on Lytton, near Montclair; it's open all night."

"Sounds as good a place as any."

"See you there?"

"I'll be there."

Author's Notes: Another ahead-of-schedule update is a go! Yayifications!

Gunrunner contact, get! Arms trafficking is actually a completely legal business despite how it's depicted in popular culture; as Karl notes, as long as the end-user certificates are in order, you can pretty much sell any weapon to anybody. Of course, selling guns out of the back of a box van is probably not exactly legal, and as Harry realized in the previous chapter, if you rob somebody who is already committing a crime, they can't exactly report it.

It should be remembered this version of Harry was not just neglected and verbally, emotionally and psychologically abused, but also a victim of frequent beatings from Dudley, as was alluded to in Hermetic Arts, so his view of violence as a tool to get what he wants makes perfect sense, as is his severely muted reaction to it.

Disintegrate is and always will be one of my favorite spells in Dungeons & Dragons; I've found, if there's a problem, that spell will probably solve it, and if you can't think of how disintegrate can solve the problem, then you're not disintegrate-ing enough. My other favorite Dungeons & Dragons spells are grease and shatter; add time hop from 3.5e psionics to the mix, and I legitimately believe you could get out any situation with just those four spells/powers in your arsenal.

I actually don't know what Draco Malfoy's mom does. I mean, she's supposed to be a stay-at-home mom, but, at the same time, I'm pretty sure she's got house elves to handle all the things a stay-at-home mom would normally do, so I'm actually clueless as to what she's doing with her life when the Death Eaters aren't Death Eating. With that being said, I'm also not actually a fan of Harry Potter, so that's probably a reason why I don't know this, and I actually don't care what she does in her role as a stay-at-home mom; I just found it odd that she was one, even though the usual duties of a stay-at-home mom would be things she wouldn't have to do. I guess she just spends all her of time loving her kids?

One of the problems I've always had with the depiction of firearms in popular culture is just how loud they are; even with a sound suppressor attached, firing a non-subsonic round will still result in a very distinct and loud crack when the bullet breaks the sound barrier while it's inside the barrel. In fact, the only reason to use a sound suppressor if you're not also using subsonic ammunition is just so you can avoid using earplugs, because the shot is still going to be heard, even if it's not as loud as a gun without a sound suppressor being fired. Even a sound suppressor and subsonic rounds doesn't make a firearm that quiet, as the sound of the gun's mechanics functioning are still audible, albeit only within the same room or so.

The Jade Garden is inspired by a restaurant I worked at; unlike the fine dining Japanese & Chinese restaurant that is the Jade Garden, the one I worked at was a fast-casual Japanese restaurant meets American bistro, but in both cases, they were two restaurant concepts in one building. The head chef of the Jade Garden was inspired by the head chef I worked for at the restaurant, and Catalaya is inspired by a Mexican sushi chef who worked at the restaurant.

I was always taught to bring a gift when you're invited to a party, even if you're the guest of honor, because it's the courteous thing to do. That said, when I worked at the restaurant, even those under the legal age drank during company parties, which always bothered me, but I think it was restaurant culture and chose to reflect it in the story.

The description Patience gives of Roanoke is actually an exact word-for-word quote from a sushi chef I met when I first moved to Christiansburg when we were talking about the cuisine available in the area, so it's not exactly me bagging on where I currently live in comparison to where I lived previously.

GUCS eventually became Risus and was privately distributed beginning in 1989.

Many, many thanks to the amazing Romantically Distant, who proofed this chapter and got back to me way earlier than expected, which allowed me to publish it and deliver it directly to your eyeballs ahead of schedule. Now you've read it, feel free to leave a review or send me a PM about this story.