Disclaimer: I own nothing. This was largely inspired by a hilarious drabble from Rorscharch Blot posted on his Yahoo!Group, and a few woozy comments at the fabulous DLP lair. Justin Hawkins is the lead singer of 'The Darkness'.
Summary: (AU) What if Harry Potter really was an Incurably Criminal Boy - a trouble maker, a rule breaker, a psychotic pyromaniac. Albus supposed he should have seen this coming. An Azkaban!Harry fic of sorts. Subtle Hellatrix!'n!Honks.
...Part Two: The Great Escape...
Tonks would be lying if she said she didn't fancy Harry - he had that odd roughish form of appeal, the 'bad boy' attraction. That and her mother certainly wouldn't have approved, which was always enlightening. This bubble of fantasized reasoning was why she had agreed to accompany Remus on his suicidal-rescue fixation, but now, as thunder broke through the sky and lightening cracked its ominous threats, Tonks felt the first nagging ebbs of rash (too late) regret.
Herself and Lupin had flown in on broomsticks, over the murky waters of the English Channel and on to the small island that housed Britain's lone jail, Azkaban. It was raining, yes, and Tonks wasn't at all pleased - the wet mussed her spiked pink hair. Lupin had lead the way from there on in, often consulting a damp, ratty old map - Tonks had to question its reliability once or twice, as they trod by the same corridors and thrice narrowly avoided the Dementors' cafeteria. The duo climbed leagues of stairs, bypassed the prancing keepers and finally, after much time wasted, reached levels reserved and renowned for imprisoning only the most celebrated celebrities, captioned with the words 'Hic Intereo Thy Plurimus Praeclarus'.
Harry's cell wasn't hard to pick out at all - it shone to them like a beacon of burning flames.
Tonks blinked.
No, she hadn't been mistaken.
It was indeed a beacon of just that; heated, venomous fire.
… … …
Black coils of smoke were winding inside Harry's cell from the tiny peep hole, twisting in spirals of beautiful, baneful vapor.
Harry felt that (within great reason too) if he died of toxic smoke asphyxiation it would be entirely the Poof's fault. And he told him so, just for good measure. "Brilliant plan, Poof. That's one more to add to your list of murders. Quite an accomplishment if I do say so, with current circumstances in consideration."
"Shut it," Poof snapped back, and Harry could hear him flapping an ancient rag - they were supposedly sheets, but Harry disagreed with such terminology - vigorously blowing the fumes away from his own burning door and, yes, right through the little hole into Harry's cell.
"Oi!" Harry cried, rubbing his nose. "Watch where you flap that - "
"If I'm going down," Padfoot began, pure vehement loathing in his voice, "then I'm taking you with me."
… … …
"We were here first!" Remus cried, brandishing his wand furiously. "Piss off!"
Severus leered at him, snorting. "Tough luck."
The werewolf growled, barring his teeth - but taking a quick peep at the sheer amount of black attired, white-masked foes - and the army of joyful Dementor's, finally cottoning on to the intrusion, that were closing in around the two oblivious parties -
Remus felt there was only one thing for it, really.
"Run!"
… … …
Harry was feeling guilty.
Well, just a tad. Maybe. Slightly.
When the smoke had began to itch his nose Harry had taken his own rags (aka bed sheets) and stuffed a fraying edge into his peep hole, successfully blocking the trundles of smoke from entering into his cell. He had tried everything then - from spinning fast in circles to a poor imitation of Justin Hawkins - to block out the awful sounds of Poof's gagging and choking, but the nightmarish noises still managed to tug his ears, pull on his conscious.
Damn stupid morals.
"Are you alright, Poof?" Harry yelled though the wall. "Padfoot, can you hear me?"
Another bout of exaggeratedly dramatic coughing answered him.
Harry rolled his eyes, disdainful at such theatrics. "Well, I wont lie to you then. It wasn't particularly nice knowing you at all."
Padfoot began to pound desperate fists on his wall. "Help! Help me!" he cried, choking on his own words.
Harry had never (and he was quite relieved to be free of such a constraint, honestly) suffered from anything remotely tall of a 'hero complex'. But Padfoot's piteous wails really did irk him.
Harry sneered, relaxing in the comforting sounds of lapping flames, the crackle of burning, the heat of the fire. He leant back on his tattered mattress, not just a little aroused, and felt himself immerse in the wonders of such taunting, enticing brightness - Poof rather carefully forgotten.
… … …
Bellatrix had heard her Master give the order to that greasy bastard, had known that Snape would not follow through - and so she had done the only thing she could have, really. Honest.
Coming in on Nott's 'borrowed' flying carpet, the Deatheater - one of Voldemort's most worthy, most trusted, most highly acclaimed - had set about on her own mission to rescue her clingy lover-boy. Heavy lidded eyes flicked from the compass on her lap, and Bellatrix cast another specifically modified pointer spell. Drawing closer to the towering block, she realized she needn't have bothered - the whisks of noxious smoke was a dead giveaway.
… … …
Sirius had lost hope before then, many years past, when he had thought of death with longing, with subservient, negotiable clause. He didn't think he quite enjoyed the feeling, the queasy churn of his stomach, the dull thudding ache in his heart. Sprawled on the floor of his cell, Pickles' cigarette lighter cradled miserably in his trembling hand, Sirius eyed the flames that continuously consumed his door, unhindered - his only escape out - with piteous, grudging depression.
He considered offing himself right there and then.
He considered calling out to the guards, the Dementors', to come gliding to his rescue.
He couldn't work out which option sounded less appealing than the other.
That was when the wall behind him, just mere inches to the left of his shoulder, exploded inwards to mounds of dusty rubble, stone flown hither. Sirius jumped up, crying out at the terrible sight to befall him -
Bellatrix - whom appeared momentarily confused by Harry's rugged, disheveled appearance (he'd only been in Azkaban three days, after all) - shrugged, realizing her mistake. "I'm a nudist - what do you expect?"
"I like you naked!" Pickles called out from his own cell.
Bella winked. Sirius vomited.
… … …
"Well, are we getting out of this shithouse or what?" Harry asked, jumping onto Bella's flying carpet and wrapping his filthy hands around her waist. Before either could protest, Sirius leaped up behind them.
The trio flew away into the sunset, alongside chattering flocks of birds and right through the stormy grey clouds, on henceforth to victoriously encounter another of life's great adventures. Twice Pickles had to remind Padfoot that is was supposedly good luck to get shat on. Damn pigeons.
… … …
Albus Dumbledore popped another aphrodisiac centered lemon drop into his watery mouth, heaving a great sigh of relieved frustration, and yet again started to masterfully plot. It was what he did best, after all.
Where exactly Harry was, Albus hadn't the faintest clue, but that was not important -
The Light might just be alright yet.
Maybe. Perhaps.
… … …
Lord Voldemort was beyond livid.
Harry Potter would pay - preferably by way of luminous sickly emerald green.
But for now he'd have to contend with the sniveling Snape.
… … …
It was a lovely day for a picnic, Harry thought.
And they looked like a right old family then too, the three of them sitting cross-legged on the red tartan rug, looking off from the cracking, ancient pier and into the great oceans off Columbia, waves pounding to the rhythm of their newfound free heartbeats. Eternal, perpetual waves licked the shoreline. Harry bet he could gaze into the glorious waves forever - but a moment later he changed his mind, growing bored of the sight.
Harry passed Bella the whipped cream.
Bellatrix passed Sirius the marmalade.
Sirius passed Harry the tub of asparagus, grinning evilly.
When they left, Harry set the pier alight. He said it was to eliminate any evidence that they had been there. Sirius helped him. Bellatrix thought, secretly, they both just enjoyed it. And she thought she might too.
… … …
Remus Lupin was at a loss. Firewhisky helped, a little.
He married Tonks the following July - on Harry's birthday.
… … …
When Voldemort took the Ministry, no-one could stop him.
When Voldemort took Europe, no-one that cared was left.
When Voldemort succeeded in his quest for world domination, he celebrated with muggle champagne.
No-one dared slate the action rather hypocritical.
But Harry Potter still lurked somewhere unknown, out of his reach, out of his hold - and Tom Riddle never slept. Never. A year later and the chronic insomnia had taken its toll, the Great Dark Lord giving in to fatigue, to rest, to a solitary and sleepless death.
No-one mourned.
Harry Potter, previously prevailed under titles such as The Boy Who's Insufferable, was hailed again the savior, the hero, the Chosen One of the Wizarding World. All charges held against him were dropped.
Lapdog Lucius Malfoy held a 'welcoming home' party in his manor, but no-one showed up.
Minerva McGonagall put up a bounty for anyone to catch sight of the green eyed, black haired youth.
She got many letters in return, but none of them lead to any further findings.
The search went on to no avail.
In the year 2001, five years after he had disappeared, Harry Potter won the Most Charming Smile award, hosted by the Daily Prophet. But no-one really knew what he looked like anymore.
The year after he was crowned deceased by the Ministry.
… … …
Years went by unnoticed, stumbling on and on.
Eventually people began to forget.
And then one day late in August a new Astronomy Professor arrived at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
He spread graffiti over the walls of his office and threatened late homework with the penalty of certain death - by way of burning. He liked fire. He like flying. He liked the sky, and the sea, and - for no reason in particular - hated redheads. Strangely, he also carried an odd appreciation for asparagus. He was not married, but he did have twelve children of his own. They were all named after the stars.
He confided to Minerva, one chilly evening between round goblets of warmed pumpkin juice, that he thought of Hogwarts as home, that he had always known he would return. Minerva didn't know how to reply.
… … …
Albus Dumbledore laughed, turning over in his grave.
Tome Riddle, watching the scene from below, glowered, grounding his molars together with a nasty crunch.
… … …
finis.
A/N: Whoola. Enjoy?
Oh, and a little translation: 'Hic Intereo Thy Plurimus Praeclarus', meaning Here Die The Most Famous;'Esse Quam Videri' - To be, rather than to seem. Please don't quote me on that, either - my latin skills fall entirely to the all-powerful Google. Thanks for reading ;)
Review!
xxoo
