The door of a small, dark apartment burst open, flying across the room and landing in a cloud of dust upon the extremely dirty floor. Four men sitting around a tiny card table turned their heads in surprise, two of them staring blankly at the door lying in front of them, the other two gazing in alarmed fascination at the figure standing in the door. A slender young man of about 17, dressed in a dark suit and tieless shirt stepped over the threshold of the dingy flat, forcing the other two men to shift their attention from the ground to the their unexpected guest. One of them gasped, clearly showing a sign of recognition, while the other three continued to gape in amazement, their repulsive, sweat stained undershirts hanging as loosely upon their flabby bodies as the cigarettes sitting precariously between their lips. For several seconds a complete silence filled the room; none of the four men at the table dared to budge a muscle, while the emotionless youth stood perfectly still in the door frame. The tension hung as thickly as the cigarette smoke in the air. Who would make the first move, if anyone? The man who had made the start of recognition began to tremble slightly, and his eyes grew more and more restless as the seconds ticked painfully by. His hand shook as he withdrew it from the table. The young man's glasses flashed as he sharply twisted his head in the man's direction. His fingers twitched. A flash of light erupted from under the table, speeding towards the youth, and hitting him squarely in the chest. A thin wooden stick flew from his pocket and arched into the air, scratching the ceiling as it did so. The man stood up, attracting the shocked and frightened looks of his companions, as he reached out to grab the piece of wood, all the while clutching his own tightly in his other fist. His focus was directed completely towards catching the thing, and he did, snaring it between the thumb and first finger of his left hand. He let out a bark of triumphant laughter before redirecting his eyes, this time more confidently, at the individual standing in the black suit. But whatever victorious sentiment he was feeling as he caught the stick vanished instantly as he caught a glimpse of the dark image in the doorway, who was steadily aiming a silver handgun directly between his eyes.
"Don't give me a reason," said the youth, "Because I can assure you that I do know how to fire one of these."
He had a British accent, and his green eyes looked cold and determined beneath his glasses. No bead of sweat was glistening on his scarred forehead. This young man was as cool as they came.
The man raised his hands slowly, holding one of the wooden sticks in each hand. His knees shook violently at the look in his opponents eyes.
"Harry," he said, "Mr. Potter... Sir..."
His voice broke as Harry's lip curled.
"Please Harry. I swear I wasn't involved with him. I'm from America. I live in America. How could I ever have anything to do with him? You've got to believe me. I swear to Christ I'll do anything to help you!"
He sank to his knees, and began crawling towards the door, tears intermingling with the perspiration that was dripping freely from his face.
"I'm begging you Mr. Potter! I'm fucking begging you! You don't even know who I am! You don't even know-"
But whatever else it was that Harry didn't know would never be revealed, for a bang and a flash of light had exploded from the end of his gun, and the man lay dead on the floor, his face planted firmly into a quickly expanding pool of blood. Harry nimbly avoided allowing his leather shoes to be engulfed by the deep crimson liquid, and scooped his wand out of the dead man's hand. He turned to the associates of the man, none of whom had uttered a single syllable. Instead, they gaped in horrified silence at the corpse of on the floor of their apartment.
"'Scuse me," said Harry quietly, and they all looked at him, "I'm going to need to touch up your thoughts a bit before I leave. Sorry."
And quite quickly, he erased his image from all of their memories, before stupefying them one by one and leaving them lying unconscious on the floor. He stepped over the body without looking down at it, and slipped out of the window, deciding to head down the fire escape to the ground.
This was the secret life of Harry Potter. The life which he had adopted directly after the burial of Dumbledore without confiding in anybody; not Ron, not Hermione, not Ginny, not Lupin. He had made it his mission, along with discovering the secrets of the remaining Horcruxes, to methodically eliminate each supporter of Voldemort around the world, no matter how significant. He had travelled to far Russia, South China, Brazil, Italy, every city in Britain, and, as of this moment, to New York City. The Dark Lord's influence had spread rapidly since his public reemergence, and his supporters in countries around the world had become more and more active, more and more dangerous. He had just killed a man by the name of Bruno, a wizard who had the unfortunate habit of gathering unsuspecting Muggles towards him as friends, before killing them all. He had claimed at least eight victims before he too was sent to whatever lay beyond life.
Harry walked through the busy streets, waiting patiently for darkness to fall, so that he could mount a certain flying motorbike and travel as quietly as possible back to London.