Harry Potter's revenge

A dragon! A mother fucking dragon!" Harry screamed at the roof, "Seriously!? Why not a hydra while you're at it! Or maybe a nundu! Because, you know, I don't have enough crap to deal with already!"

His shield would've held for a while, he knew, but it would also have drained him a lot for no good reason. He glared at the doorway and tried to think snakelike thoughts before scream-hissing,"$Hey! Winged Serpent! Would you mind not toasting me? I mean you no harm!$"

There was silence for a moment, before another train of fire answered his call, forcing him further into the room, arms held protectively against his face. It roared again.

Well, it might have worked. Old Voldy had always been too much of a pussy to go one-on-one with these buggers.

Harry hit himself on the head with his wand and felt the familiar egg dribbling over his body, signalling the sensation of being disillusioned, then disapparated with a crack.

He appeared, floating, some fifty metres behind the dragon, which was now scrabbling at the entrance. He recognised it as a Hebridean Black. A very sarcastic part of his brain screamed, 'A Hebridean Black!? In the Hebrides?! No really?, but he shoved the git into an occlumency prison to focus better on the task at hand.

The dragon seemed to realise Harry wasn't there any more, and turned to look for him.

Harry shot towards the beast and passed just beyond its lunge range.

Probably both seeing the change in colour of Harry's body as he moved, and picking up his smell, the dragon reared onto its hind legs and with one more deafening, "AAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNGH!" leapt into the sky.

Harry didn't look back. He sped away from his cave, trying to lure it out as far as he could.

Come on. He dodged a random fire ball. These guys were known for being aggressive bastards. He'd see just how far it would go.

Thirty minutes of chase later, and it was still right behind him.

Okay. That was more than enough of this bullshit.

Crack!

Harry appeared back at the entrance of his cave and immediately started the complex wand movements for one of the most overpowered charms in the wizarding world's arsenal… The fidelius charm.

Ten minutes later and he'd finished the wand waving work and switched to using his wand to carve the runes at each corner of the cave. The fifteen-inch yew focus had never meant to be for carving work and the runes were massive as a result, but they'd do for now.

Fifteen minutes after that, Harry ran to the cave's entrance and started the visualisation exercise, putting his master occlumency to good use, imagining the cave in every minute detail with pin point accuracy. It was a good thing the cave was so basic or this would take ages.

He opened his eyes, and saw the returning dragon in the distance, surrounded by a team of wizards on broomsticks, all shooting red spells at the fearsome creature.

He smiled and brought his wand up and down in a single strong gesture, touching a single rune on the floor, and channelling all the power he could into it.

"Fidelius Occultum!"

And knowledge of the cave, and its soon to be hoard of treasure, disappeared from the world.

Curtis Lawless was frustrated. Why couldn't those Gobshites get anything right? He'd been expecting a big shipment to arrive last week, but they'd been intercepted by the plods and his stocks were starting to run dry. He had a good chunk of the city to supply and there were plenty of other wholesalers who'd take advantage and move in on his turf, if he ran out.

Normally, he mused, if some unknown ponce had walked in off the street promising to supply, he'd have told him to fuck off, but right now? He was getting desperate.

He glared at the open door to his office in the nightclub he'd made his base of operations. Well, he'd give the wooler five minutes and if the man was fake he'd throw him out and let the lads deal with him.

Said man now entered, being led by his chief enforcer. The would-be supplier looked… different. His hair was platinum blond, messy, and came down in a sweeping fringe, covering half his forehead. His beard was short and trimmed and blond like his hair. But his eyes… Curtis stared. The eyes were gray and, when they met his, seemed to pierce straight into him to examine his soul.

"A-alright," he started, "What's your business then, Mister? I'm a busy man."

The man nodded. "Mister Lawless. I have a way to move goods across the border safely and quickly. I supply when no one else can. I can supply all your needs without inconvenient interruptions… like shipments being seized at petrol stations."

Curtis looked the man over again. Most drug smugglers looked ordinary so as to attract the least attention possible. This man did not look in any way ordinary, and he doubted the posh looking tosser had ever not been stopped at customs.

"Look Mister… ah, what's your name?"

"Malfoy."

"Look Mister Malfoy, I don't need to hear stories about what you think you can do. Do you have something for me right now?"

"I have five kilos stored in a safe place from my test run. Now I've sorted it, I'm doing a much larger run in the next few months. The price is ten thousand a kilo."

Curtis exhaled. Five kilos would keep him going for another two months, which would give him breathing room, at the very least, and ten grand a kilo was surprisingly fair. He doubted the man was a plod, he was too flamboyant for that. He was either the real deal or a conman.

"Fine," he said, reaching down into a desk draw, drawing out a chunky mobile phone and tossing it to the blond. "I'll call you sometime in the next few days to give you the where and when. I hope for your sake that you can deliver."

The man nodded respectfully and left the office, leaving Curtis and his chief enforcer alone.

Harry, deep in his makeshift, accidentally dragon-guarded vault, collapsed into a conjured armchair, and contemplated his progress. Mr. Lawless's men had been shocked when he'd just stepped out from behind one of the trees—he guessed they'd been expecting him to drive to the specified, middle-of-nowhere field—but it had all gone well, for once. He now had a small bag filled with fifty-thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes.

He looked at the phone, now resting on a table. He'd had to camp out in a muggle hotel for two days to wait for the call—the phone wouldn't receive reception under the fidelius, or other high magic areas—and it had taken a lot to convince the men they wouldn't be able to contact him in future. He'd placated them by explaining he was working on a communication method that was safer and more secure than the public phone network, but it hadn't been easy.

It was now mid October and he needed to get a move on to keep things on track. He was working to a schedule and the first deadline was getting closer… the winter solstice. On December 21, his family magics would kick in and create a seat for him on the Wizengamot. If he didn't have a proxy ready to accept it for him, then, if a full assembly were called, he'd be legally required to turn up in person, which he still wasn't ready for. Annoyingly, the winter solstice was one of those full assemblies.

He sat up straighter, grabbed his wand, and started transfiguring his appearance again. It was time to make his first foray into the British magical community. He needed a trunk—a nice, expensive, roomy, multi compartment, shrinkable trunk—and he sure as hell wasn't going to look like either a Potter or a Malfoy as he did it.

And after that… well, if he hurried, he could dash to Afghanistan—Turkey couldn't really supply in bulk with the new regulations—load up his new trunk with farm-gate priced junk, pop it in his pocket, and be back in Britain for early to mid November.

That should net between 400 thousand to 600 thousand pounds, or around eight thousand to twelve thousand galleons, which should be sufficient for what he was planning next. Lord Slytherin was an unknown quantity after all, and if he wanted any hope of securing the allies he'd need, he needed to make quite an impression.

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