Note: this is a spoof of Wrong Boy Who Lived fics, so having some idea of the tropes might make this better.
Harry Potter was in Azkaban. You know the deal. Trumped up charges involving the Chamber of Secrets, a smug and arrogant older twin he had never met before, a scheming headmaster who wouldn't give him the time of day because he was a Slytherin…
As much as Dementors could feel such things, there was something approaching surprise when Potter first arrived. Not out of sympathy or even some long-buried need to obey… but shock that anyone could have so much as a speck of bright, active glee after being placed in Azkaban.
Harry's thought upon being placed in a gaol more horrible than almost any on earth was quite simple: "Wow! This is just like The Count of Monte Cristo!"
How a book that could bore some grown men to tears got into the hands of Harry Potter was not too surprising. Someone had discarded a worn copy, and Potter, like a magpie, seized upon it.
Dudley found the prospect of any book with more than a hundred pages horrifying, so the worn tome repelled him like a cross held before a vampire.
Vernon, while also not particularly fond of overlong literature, took another issue with it: it was written by a frog. But of course, a man who thought joining the EEC was one of Britain's greatest mistakes didn't mind the horrors of French literature being inflicted upon one Harry Potter.
Petunia… well, perhaps she saw a little of Lily in that voracious appetite for books. (Well, a book, singular.)
Despite his circumstances, Harry Potter was a fairly keen boy. And the main thing his growing mind had to grapple with while locked away in that cupboard was the one piece of fiction in his life with greater depth than a puddle.
Perhaps the Dursleys should have been more concerned that Harry Potter was growing up solely on a tale of revenge, perhaps the great tale of revenge in the western canon.
But as far as they were concerned? A Monte Cristo was a type of sandwich.
Being lifted from the Dursley's was a blessing, the revelation of a magical world even more so. Any child would be happy with that news, much less realizing they were the unknowing child of a powerful magical family. He also had a twin who was like, a hero who killed an evil wizard or something? Unimportant. There was magic.
That the magical world happened to be… charmingly antiquated, with proud noble houses and unique dress, was only icing on the cake.
Not to mention the actual honest-to-goodness castle that he would get to live in? Harry Potter was on cloud nine, half convinced that this was some elaborate, overlong dream.
In the Great Hall, in front of a massive audience, Harry Potter- poor, slightly obsessed with a childish ideal of revenge Harry Potter- got sorted into Slytherin.
(The Hat, in discussion with Dumbledore, let that particular obsession slip. It poisoned the well, as you might imagine.)
He butted heads with Draco Malfoy and just about anyone else in his house who couldn't appreciate fine muggle literature, butted heads with his brother courtesy of the massive disparity in their upbringing, and butted heads with his father through the mail.
Was it any surprise what happened when Harry Potter- who had leapt at the chance to join the dueling club, caught up in the romance of it all- spoke to a snake in front of a massive audience?
Of course, it was obvious who shouldered the blame when the petrifications started.
The crowds all sagged with relief as Harry Potter, Satan himself, was dragged away by the Aurors. It seemed all the fight had left the thirteen year old, seeing that his non-existent friend group has betrayed him.
Two students at the Slytherin table weren't so happy to see him go, however.
Oke of which was Daphne Greengrass, whose stoic expression as she stoically stared belied a heart which throbbed with emotion-
With a clatter, the cardboard cutout fell over.
Tracey Davis was a half blood, which made her, for all intents and purposes, human chattel. Cute human chattel though, because her half-blood origins spared her from a gene pool as shallow and tepid as a birdbath.
A single tear slid down her face, past her charmingly shaped nose and over her full lips, teetering, for a single moment, before plunging down into her completely against regulation robes, which only flattered her figure-
Wait goddamnit how old is this kid? Thirteen? Shit. Cut to the next scene, folks.
Being near the dementors sucked majorly. Harry imagined that their presence was like prison on fast forward. The emotional damage of years in prison, in a fraction of the time!
Still, he'd carry on. He was certain his sentencing was unjust. And certain that he would reenact the tale of Edmond Dantes in good time.
When Harry heard a faint scratching through the wall, it was like a dream come true. Here was his Abbé Faria! Harry had no tools to work away at the wall, but he did try to make contact with the source of that faint sound, knocking against the stone wall that separated them.
His expectation was that he would have to wait and hope- carving through a wall wasn't easy, he figured. The scratching continued, seeming to move away for a moment… turning towards the exit of his cell, Harry saw it-
A dog rounding the corner. Not a wise mentor, a dog. Harry groaned. "You're not a learned Italian…"
The dog gave him a funny look. Why would they even arrest a dog, anyway? It looked around as if expecting to be caught, before beginning to shift, to change.
Harry could absolutely forgive inaccuracies to the novel here- a man who could transform into a dog was, frankly, awesome. In fact, he looked like the spitting image of imprisoned Edmond Dantes, in Harry's mind.
After a moment of gawking on the stranger's part, he spoke. "Harry?"
"That's me." How did he know his name…?
Suddenly, he was being embraced. "Harry! Oh, Harry!" The man had started to cry, and he was going to soak the only set of rags that Harry had-
"Who are you, exactly?"
The man stumbled back. "Right. Right. Introductions." He nodded and instinctually went to smooth out the bird's nest of hair that sat upon his head. "I'm Sirius. Your godfather."
"You're serious?"
"Serious Sirius, that's me."
"Last name Sirius?"
"Last name Black."
"Why didn't I know?"
"Well, of course, you wouldn't know my last name, you haven't met me-"
"Why haven't I met you?"
"You may have noticed, but they don't let you send letters here."
"Really?"
"Dead serious." They both chuckled a bit at that, before a dementor floated by, souring the mood.
Sirius, who spent the past decade and then some preoccupied with revenge, had a bit of a reality check. This was his godson (Peter had gotten Harry's twin) and he had to be appropriately godfatherly. And Harry would definitely need his help, considering… circumstances.
Sirius tried his best to lift Harry's spirits by telling stories from his school days- carefully dodging the subject of that rat, Peter- but nothing really did much. Dementors, and all. The happy stories lost some of their luster in that ghastly presence and sad stories… well, few things got more depressing than prison.
And of course, he tried to get what he could out of Harry. This turned out to be a mistake. It made Sirius far too angry. The way everyone had treated his godson… he was suddenly feeling like revising the scope of his revenge plans. But having Harry linger on that couldn't have been good- so Sirius encouraged him to tell stories or something.
He was then treated to a blow-by-blow account of The Count of Monte Cristo. Admittedly, the quality was probably not helped all that much by being retold from the memory of a nearly thirteen-year-old, but he liked the concept. Escaping prison to enact delicious, ironic revenge? Yes, please.
It was extra fuel for the fire that burned within him.
They spent quite a bit of time in prison. Sirius taught him the theory of whatever classes he could remember, gave him a crash course on what little he remembered of politics, and filled in some gaps in his knowledge. They couldn't have him looking like some philistine, after all.
With time, they engineered plans for an escape.
Sirius, dazzled by a sudden burst of fatherly affection, wouldn't dream of leaving Harry behind in a place such as Azkaban, even if he wanted to… most thoroughly enact revenge upon Peter, so he was left to make a scheme for two.
His own means of deliverance, an Animagus form, were (obviously) impossible for Harry. They didn't exactly give out Mandrake leaves with the prison slop.
Fuelled by desperation, Sirius poured his soul into wandless transfiguration. He was already a dab hand, but there could be no more room for error here, not with human transfiguration… Practice was difficult, but sheer desperation and force of will proved a sufficient replacement for a wand…
Eventually, a dog slipped out of Azkaban and headed for shore, an emerald green leash tight around its neck.
News of such an escape did sour the mood of magical Britain. The non-imprisoned Potters were ranting and raving about Voldemort coming back from the dead or some such, and now the fourth was out and about, alongside his dastardly godfather?
What followed was perhaps the greatest period in young Harry's life. Roughing it with his cool godfather- who hadn't even needed to die to permit Harry's escape a la Abbé Faria- was awesome. It was like camping, but every day. At least, he figured it was a lot like camping.
Their first stop was obvious: they pilfered themselves a decent meal. It would not be the first thing they stole after their escape, considering that they had to travel most of Britain, staying far away from any place where they might catch attention.
In Yorkshire, they stopped at an absolute dump of a house. The door- which barely stood anymore- had a snakeskin nailed to it. Who would do that?
Still, there was some loose wood they could set on fire, so it wasn't all bad. There was also a pretty cool ring. Harry was already considering how it could be used in some machiavellian plot. Having a poisoned ring sounded pretty cool, although that sounded hard to execute…
In fact, it was such a cool ring that Harry felt some urge to slip it on himself. Before he could put the ring on, Sirius snatched it away.
"Hey!"
Sirius huffed. "I thought that stupid diary would have taught you not to go touching random magical artifacts!"
On principle, Harry felt an urge to argue, but with a moment or two of thought, he did realize that perhaps Sirius was on to something… "Yes, dad."
Sirius grinned. "Could you say that again, please?"
By the time they were getting close to London, they were under pursuit. Not from the magical authorities (as far as they could tell), but the muggle, who had raised a major fuss about a runaway boy and his dog.
As they approached London, Sirius broke down the game plan. The two of them were aiming for Grimmauld Place- this was his old family house, and they should be able to commandeer it for a while, with the caveat that… certain people knew where it was.
(Of course, with a handsome list of Potter properties available for meetings, including twelve separate mansions and a fortified keep in the Hebrides, who would go to the effort of searching and or cleaning that old dump?)
From there, they could plan. They certainly had a lot of planning to do. Of course, the big priority was to bump off Lucius and figure out this whole Voldemort problem. While Harry had some… issues with his brother, he didn't think he'd lie about Voldemort's return. Harry and Sirius also needed to figure out how to ruin Dumbledore's life, preferably in as ironic a fashion as possible.
Admittedly, Harry had expected something a bit more complex than just walking in the front door, but he supposed that there was something to simplicity.
Grimmauld Place was, surprise surprise, pretty grim. It certainly appealed to Harry's sense of the dramatic, even if they had to combat all sorts of horrible magical mildews.
It seemed like every door hid some new setpiece that would be perfect for scheming in, or monologuing dramatically… unfortunately, aspergillosis would throw a wrench in that, even if coughing blood appealed to his sense of drama.
There was also another inhabitant of the house. A poor little house elf.
"Well, I just think it's more than a little wrong to own an intelligent being, to mistreat it, and to make it do your housework." It was… familiar.
"Nah it's good they need us or something." Sirius shrugged.
And then Harry never thought about chattel slavery ever again. There were far too many cool rooms to explore, including a basement complex so large and expansive that it had its own microbiomes.
Their searching down there found no shortage of cool things: the backdoor to Gringotts, a second library with even darker magic, and strangely, a room full of trunks, all in tidy rows. Dust had settled in thick layers over their tops, and Sirius dusted one off as they approached.
Picking one of the trunks, Sirius opened it and peered in with a smile. "That's the ticket."
"What is it?"
Sirius chuckled. "One gazillion muggle dollars, Harry."
"What's that in pounds?"
"Zero point eight two four gazillion pounds."
With money handled, it was time for Harry to become Monte Cristo. One small problem. The small problem was Harry. He was too small.
There was also the whole "being a minor" thing, which he was, despite getting sentenced to Azkaban. Hadn't someone invented the idea of juvie?
So they decided to make Sirius into a proper Count, although that came with its own set of problems.
"No, no, no!" Harry cried. "This situation calls for Condescending Sneer Number Four! Are you blind?" No one could say he didn't pick up some things while in Slytherin…
"There doesn't seem to be much of a difference…"
"Much of a difference?! The hint of pity in Number Four adds layers of complexity! Does it perhaps imply that the scowler and scowlee are perhaps not so different, or is it the powerful condescension of a superior looking down at his lessers?"
"I don't know-"
"You don't know? How are you supposed to act if you don't know what you're supposed to be thinking, Sirius!?"
Things were going well.
There were other things they could do to prepare in addition to the basics of Slytherin Improv. A dueling crash course, courtesy of Sirius was just part of their training. They also had to do something about Harry's lacking physique… and they really didn't have the time for working out.
So like any good magician, they were going to take shortcuts. Thankfully, there was a suitably dark and dank room in the basement (the humidity was very important, actually) which they could use for just such a purpose.
Sirius was in the middle of drawing a large circle with chalk. Harry was trying to herd the chickens.
"Why did we never learn about this in Hogwarts?" Harry asked.
"They don't teach it anymore. Like woodshop."
Sirius also taught Harry to cast magic wandlessly. It's well known that with enough hard work and effort, you can surpass the need for tools entirely.
"Wow, Sirius! Why doesn't anyone else use this obviously superior method to learn magic?"
"Because of the Man, Harry." Sirius spat.
"The man?"
"The Man. Why do you think you have to get a wand? They're controlling you! It's like taxes, or health and safety standards! Gross government overreach!" Sirius had launched into a full on lecture about libertarian economics, but Harry was left with a burning question:
"Wait, do we pay taxes?"
The wizarding government made their money through a mix of donations (read: Lucius Malfoy) and their biannual bake sale.
While Harry and Sirius would never dare to touch the latter, sacred cow that it was (have you tasted those brownies?) they could certainly hit the former. Well, ideally they'd do more than hit Lucius Malfoy. They were hoping for more of an arrange a hit sort of scenario.
Harry was mad as hell that he wouldn't be able to engineer some elaborate circumstances involving Narcissa poisoning Lucius, but Sirius was against it, not wanting to get his cousin in trouble with the dark lord. Fair enough… even if it was a little disappointing.
What sort of cool political intrigue could you do if you couldn't even engineer a good, clean spousal murder?
Harry had hoped for something a touch more… dramatic, but he knew that taking Voldemort's support out from under him would be good. Another step in the Plan involved figuring out how exactly they were going to kill the bastard.
Logically, they figured there was something spooky going on with Voldemort and his apparent revival. Sirius' hypothesis involved these nasty things called horcruxes…
It was a bit too easy for Harry to get his chance to visit the Department of Mysteries. The ministry security was so damned lax he could basically walk in; although the more dramatic part of Harry wondered…
His theory was practically confirmed when he saw a man standing near the elevator, checking his watch. "You're here for a Prophecy, then?"
"Yeah." Okay, a little creepy, but Harry could appreciate the style.
"Come along, then."
"Don't you need my name or something?"
"We knew your name before you walked through that door, Mr. Potter." That was cool, if not a little worrying.
They walked into the depths of the Department of Mysteries, eventually coming into a massive hall absolutely filled to the brim with shelves full of delicate little orbs. Harry gawked for a moment, and the Unspeakable quickly made a turn, heading towards a small little door in one corner.
"Wait- what's all this?" Oh, Harry was going to be pissed if they showed him something that cool but didn't expand on it…
The Unspeakable laughed. "That place is a showpiece. Haven't done serious work there in years."
They went into a smaller side room, where a few muggle devices sat on tables. A few corkboards covered in notes graced the walls. The Unspeakable proceeded to turn on one of the devices, whose screen lit up.
"Alright. What are you looking for in your prophecy, again?"
"Me. Uh, my name. Harry Potter."
"Alright then." He tapped at the keyboard for a few moments, before he hummed. "Don't go into ceramics, Mr. Potter."
"That wasn't quite what I-"
"Typo, sorry!" ("What's a typo?")
After a few moments of searching, he sighed. "No mentions of your name, kid."
"Well, we're hoping there's some sort of prophecy about me and Voldemort…"
"Son of a-" The Unspeakable barely refrained from launching into a tirade of unspeakables. "It's one of those non-specific ones, isn't it?"
The next few minutes were spent watching the Unspeakable mutter curses while scrolling through line after line of prophecy. After some time, he finally found something.
"Right here. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...and the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal but he shall have power the Dark Lord knows not...For neither can live while the other survives..."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"We think it means that you- the equal to the dark lord- are perhaps the only person who can stop him."
"That sucks."
"Well, that's the deal with prophecies, kid." The Unspeakable gave Harry a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "If you'd like, we could give you one of those gimmicky little spheres. Those are fun."
"I'll pass."
James Potter was rather dispirited. His wife wasn't on speaking terms with him, for some reason.
No action on his part broke that painful silence- it was rather her curiosity. Not in regards to him, of course, but instead to the house.
"What are the pipes made of?" She always asked questions like that, his Lily. While she had taken a while to adjust to politics, she had an outsider's perspective. Her new solutions were a little silly sometimes, but he really appreciated her…
"They're lead."
"What do you mean, lead?"
"Lead. They made the pipes of the same stuff at Hogwarts. Muggles… do know what lead is, right?" He thought they did. Maybe.
Lily's look was one of absolute horror. "I need a drink."
Not entirely sure what Lily was on about, but desperate to mend bridges, James summoned a pair of decanters and some Firewhiskey with a wave of his wand.
For a moment, Lily was struck by their sheer beauty- the delicate patterns painstakingly made in glass, stags loping across verdant glades… but then another thought came to mind.
"Is that by any chance lead glass?"
"Of course it is, my dear. Only the best for my Lily-flower-"
With a wave of her wand, Lily conjured two heavy wooden cups from thin air. "Fill this to the top, would you, James?"
James' delicate flower of a wife proceeded to drink herself under the table.
As debut day came closer, they came to an unfortunate conclusion. Calling themselves Monte Cristo might be a bit too on the nose. Sure, a lot of magicians were complete philistines without an understanding of muggle culture… but Harry didn't want anyone cottoning on.
So they came up with a name that was 'completely' divorced from their current identities: they were the mysterious Lord Noir. Give their secret identity a bit of that foreign feel, you know?
(Maybe they should have done a bit more study of their intended culture, considering what Noir meant in French…)
Anyways, translating into a lame language like French was a thing nerds did. All the cool kids learned Old English and Futhark, because that's what all the cool forbidden texts were written in.
Anyways. In addition to an awesome wand they mail-ordered from the continent, they would also be supplementing their arsenal with muggle tools. These include, but are not limited to:
10x Lee Enfields and ammunition (Mint condition)
20x Desert Eagles (For dual wielding)
1x .182
4x Lever action revolvers with ammunition
12x Diesel engine sparkplugs…
(The rest of the list has been cut for interests of length. Please check appendix M for muggle tech wank.)
With these incredible tools, they could begin their epic quest for revenge.
"I mean, ideally, it should be rich with irony," Harry argued. "If it wouldn't satisfy an overanalytical literature teacher searching for symbolism, it shouldn't satisfy us."
"I'm not saying that wouldn't be great, there's just a timetable we've got to keep, Harry."
"Wait, if we've got a timetable, why don't we just use a time-turner?"
"Well, because of the implications of time travel, both metaphysically and narratively. The universe could be torn asunder with the wrong step! The writer could get a headache and scrap the draft! But it shouldn't matter, since we don't have one."
"Oh, I stole one."
"From the department of mysteries?"
"Yeah. Where else?"
"And they didn't stop you?"
"If they didn't, they must have wanted me to have it." Harry grinned.
"Someone wanted you to have it, alright…" Sirius grumbled.
Anyways, they killed Dumbledore while he was going to a sweet shop. Because, you know, lemon drops. They're sour, just like the old man's shriveled little heart.
Geopolitical implications of assassinating a key political figure aside- because I don't want to write them- Harry and Sirius took a moment to ponder something much more important.
"So, uh, how are you feeling, Harry?"
"I mean, I thought I would get all this way only to realize the futility of my pursuit and the emptiness that I was trying to fill with violence… but this feels pretty good."
"No moral qualms about murdering an old man on the street?"
"Not really."
"Awesome. So… who's next?"
"Lucius Malfoy, definitely."
Anyways, now they were fighting Voldemort. Because nothing says cunning villain like taking an obvious bait after seeing several of your key subordinates slaughtered.
"You're looking awfully… short, Noir."
"I'm a seventh goblin, you know. Only on… what is today? Mondays. Yeah. Only on Mondays."
For a moment, Voldemort paused. "Wait a second… how can you be a seventh goblin? The math doesn't work out."
"Well, it's more like eighteen one-hundred and twenty-eighths goblin."
Voldemort spent a few seconds doing some mental arithmetic. "Alright… but you'll find your time on this earth cut short, Noir."
"That… that hurts, Tom." Harry held back tears. "I thought we had something. I thought you were above such petty discrimination. Above mocking me."
There was some grumbling among the death eaters at that. That was just too far, after all.
And then the SAS came in and shot all of them, because Harry and Sirius had actually called up the muggles on the tellyphone and told them about this Voldemort bloke.
Completely blindsided by that stupid plot twist, Voldemort was swiftly dispatched by Harry Potter.
(Horcruxes? Oh shit, right. Uhhhhhh, the goblins got all of them and Nagini choked on someone's femur.)
Voldemort was dead, and someone was already sweeping up his ashes with a broom.
Harry sighed in relief. "Wow. I can't believe we got here. To the end of this wild story."
"It would have really sucked if there was no meaningful conclusion," Sirius muttered, before immediately running from the authorities. Because, you know, Azkaban escapee.
Meanwhile, Harry got the public's adoration for at least five minutes. Harry felt a certain urge to go off somewhere and brood, but he reined it in long enough to bump into his mother. Oh joy.
She embraced him. "I'm sorry, Harry."
"It's… fine." Harry wasn't entirely sure if it was, and she seemed to sense it. "Are you going to try to make up with me now?"
"I'd like to…" she sighed, knowing full well that this wasn't the sort of thing you could just fix… "But let me give you one piece of motherly advice."
Wow! The first maternal advice he had ever received, barring Petunia telling him that he was overcooking the bacon.
"Be careful about where you get your water, please."
"Did… what's his face get to you? Mad-Eye?"
"They use lead pipes. Everyone uses lead pipes." She handed him a beautifully made canteen, covered in silver and with his initials carved in.
It took a moment for Harry to connect the dots. "You're kidding."
"Even if we're…" she trailed off, not quite willing to put it into words, "I'm not going to stand by and watch you get lead poisoning.'
Anyways, the government and school were completely fine despite gaping holes in their staff and infiltration by literal magical terrorists. So fine, in fact, that Harry Potter decided to have a chat with McGonagall.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said morosely. "I'm afraid you're just too cool for this school."
"But what of my education, Professor?"
"I'm afraid that the only school that will accept you is the Var Academy for Veela. They've made an exception."
"Wait, where's Var?"
"Southern France."
"So you're telling me I get to hang out with Veela in Mediterranean France for the rest of my schooling?"
"Yes. I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you, Mister Potter…"
Harry sniffled. "You've already done more than enough."
Why yes, I do think parts of the most cliched WBWL fics would require lead-poisoning-induced brain damage. I don't think I'll be able to write another WBWL fic after this. I've ruined the concept for myself.
I hope this attempt at humor didn't suck. Few things fail quite like bad humor.
Please do tell me if I've accidentally named the brother and missed it in my editing. I think not naming him at all would be a great bit. That and the woodshop bit are some of the better ones, I think.