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In the grimy, pulsating heart of New York City, where neon lights flickered like dying stars and the city's pulse throbbed with a relentless beat, there existed a hidden world. A world where magic was real, but it wasn't the kind you'd read about in fairy tales. It was dark, dangerous, and as addictive as the drugs that flowed through the city's veins.
Harry Potter, or rather, Harry "Gunhand" Potter, as he was known in these streets, was no ordinary magic-user. Born with a lightning bolt scar etched into his forehead, a memento from a bullet that should have killed him, he was a survivor. He'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, his life a symphony of poverty and violence. But he had a gift, a powerful magic that danced at his fingertips, and he used it to survive.
The city was divided into five boroughs, each ruled by a different gang, or as they called themselves, a "House." There was Gryffindor, the reckless, street-smart gang who ruled the streets of Manhattan. Slytherin, the cunning and ruthless, who controlled the drug trade in Brooklyn. Ravenclaw, the intellectuals and hackers, who ruled the digital world from their high-rise in Queens. Hufflepuff, the loyal and hardworking, who controlled the unions and the docks in Staten Island. And finally, the outcasts, the ones who refused to affiliate with any House, who lived in the shadows of the Bronx. They were known as the "Muggle-borns."
Harry was a member of Gryffindor, but he was no ordinary member. He was their enforcer, their gunhand. When a deal went sour, or a rival House stepped out of line, it was Harry they sent to remind them of their place. His magic was powerful, but it was the Glock 19 tucked into his waistband that made him truly feared. He was a reminder that in this world, magic wasn't always the answer. Sometimes, you needed a bullet.
But Harry wasn't just a thug. He had a code, a set of rules he lived by. He didn't hurt the innocent, and he never touched the drugs. He'd seen firsthand what they could do, how they could tear lives apart. His own mother, a powerful magic-user, had been lost to the dark arts, her body found in an alley, her eyes hollow and lifeless. He wouldn't let that happen to anyone else.
One night, a job went wrong. A simple collection turned into a bloodbath, and Harry found himself on the run, his face splashed across every news channel. He disappeared into the shadows of the Bronx, joining the outcasts, the Muggle-borns. He figured he'd lay low, ride out the storm. But the Bronx had other plans.
He met them in a rundown apartment, a group of misfits and outcasts. They had no magic, no gang, no protection. But they had something Harry didn't expect - a dream. A dream to take back the city, to free it from the grip of the Houses. They wanted Harry to lead them, to use his magic, his guns, his knowledge of the streets to change the game.
Harry laughed. He'd spent his life fighting for survival, not for ideals. But as he looked into their eyes, eyes that burned with hope and determination, he saw something he hadn't seen in a long time. A chance to make a difference. And so, Harry "Gunhand" Potter, the enforcer, the outcast, became something else. He became a symbol. A symbol of rebellion, of hope, of change.
The city watched, holding its breath, as the outcasts rose up. The Houses sneered, confident in their power, their magic, their guns. But they hadn't counted on Harry. They hadn't counted on the lightning scar, the gun, the dream. They hadn't counted on the storm that was coming.
And so, the battle for New York began. A battle of magic and bullets, of dreams and reality, of hope and despair. A battle that would change the city forever. But that, dear reader, is a story for another time. Harry stepped into the grimy, graffiti-covered subway car, the doors sliding shut behind him with a sigh. The train lurched forward, jostling him as it began its journey to Dawgwartz. He leaned against the cool glass of the window, watching the shadows of the city flash by. He was tired, his body aching from the relentless pace of the rebellion. But there was no rest for the weary, not when the city was on the brink of change.
A figure shuffled towards him from the depths of the car, a man with sunken cheeks and eyes that darted nervously. He was a stranger, but his desperation was as familiar to Harry as his own reflection. The man held out a small, clear bag containing a white powder. "Meth," he rasped, "Clean stuff. Makes you fly."
Harry hesitated. He'd seen the destructive power of drugs firsthand, had watched them tear apart lives and families. But he was tired, so tired. And the man's words echoed in his mind, "Makes you fly." What would it be like, just for once, to escape the grimy reality of the city, to soar above it all?
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill, and handed it to the man. The man's eyes widened, greedy and hungry. "You won't regret it, man," he said, pressing the bag into Harry's hand. "Welcome to the party."
Harry looked at the bag, then back at the man. "I'm not looking to party," he said, his voice low. "I just need a break."
The man nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Whatever you need, man. Whatever you need."
The train pulled into the next station, and the man melted into the crowd, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the bag of meth. He looked at it, then rolled it between his fingers, feeling the fine powder shift inside. He was playing with fire, he knew. But maybe, just maybe, it was time to dance with the devil.
He stepped off the train at Dawgwartz, the bag tucked safely in his pocket. The city awaited, and with it, the battle for its soul. But for now, Harry "Gunhand" Potter, the enforcer, the rebel, the symbol, was just a man, tired and worn, looking for a moment of peace. And he was about to find it, in the most dangerous way imaginable. Harry stepped into his grimy, sparsely furnished apartment, the door slamming shut behind him. His hands shook as he pulled out the bag of meth, the white powder shimmering in the dim light. He hesitated, then scooped a small pile onto a rusted spoon, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd never done this before, but he'd seen it done enough times.
He held the spoon over a flame, watching as the powder turned to liquid, then to smoke. He took a deep breath, and inhaled. The smoke filled his lungs, burning, then expanding, pushing out every other thought, every other sensation. He exhaled, and the world shifted.
At first, it was just a warmth, a buzzing in his veins. Then, it was like he was floating, the grimy walls of his apartment blurring, the city outside fading away. He was flying, just like the man had said. He was free.
Then, the voice came.
"Harry," it whispered, cold and smooth, like ice on bare skin. "Harry Potter."
Harry's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding. He looked around, but he was alone. "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.
"Me," the voice said, closer now, echoing in his mind. "You know me, Harry. You've always known me."
Harry's blood ran cold. He knew that voice. He'd heard it in his dreams, in his nightmares. "Voldemort," he whispered, his hands clenching into fists.
"Ah, you remember," the voice said, a smile in its tone. "I've been waiting for you, Harry. Waiting for you to see the truth."
"The truth?" Harry spat, anger surging through him, pushing away the warmth of the meth. "What truth?"
"The truth about the Muggle-borns," Voldemort said, his voice cold and hard. "The truth about the abominations that walk among us, tainting our pure blood with their filth."
Harry's mind flashed back to his mother, to her body in the alley, her eyes hollow. He remembered the anger, the hate that had fueled him, that had made him into the enforcer he was. But this... this was different. This was hate on a scale he'd never imagined.
"Kill them, Harry," Voldemort whispered, his voice like a serpent's hiss. "Kill them all. Cleanse the city of their taint. Make it pure again."
Harry's hands were shaking again, but this time, it wasn't from the meth. It was from the anger, the hate boiling inside him. He looked at the bag of meth, at the spoon, at the flame. He could do it, he knew. He could lose himself in the drug, in the voice. He could become a symbol of something else, something darker.
But as he looked around his apartment, as he saw the graffiti on the walls, the memories of the outcasts, of the dream they had, he hesitated. He thought of the eyes that had burned with hope and determination, of the chance to make a difference. He thought of the battle for the city, of the change they wanted to bring.
And he made his choice.
"No," he said, his voice firm, steady. "I won't do it. I won't become what you want me to be."
The voice hissed, angry, but Harry ignored it. He stood up, his hands steady, his resolve firm. He walked to the window, opened it, and threw the bag of meth out into the night. He watched as it fell, as it hit the ground, as the white powder scattered in the wind.
Then, he turned back to the room, back to the voice. "I won't become your weapon, Voldemort," he said, his voice cold, hard. "I won't let you use me. I won't let you win."
And with that, he closed his eyes, and waited for the voice to fade away. The battle for the city was far from over, but Harry "Gunhand" Potter, the enforcer, the rebel, had made his choice. He would fight, but not for hate, not for darkness. He would fight for hope, for change, for the dream. And he would win. Harry opened his eyes, the voice of Voldemort finally fading away. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the day ahead. Today was his first day at a new school, a Muggle school, a place where he could blend in, where he could be just Harry, not Harry "Gunhand" Potter, the enforcer. He dressed quickly, his hands steady, his resolve firm.
The school was a bustling place, filled with the chatter of children, the smell of chalk and books. Harry walked through the hallways, his eyes scanning the faces, searching for a familiar one. But there was none. He was alone, a stranger in a strange land.
His first class was History, a room filled with desks and chairs, a blackboard at the front. The teacher, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile, welcomed him warmly. "Welcome, Harry," she said, her voice soft. "We're glad to have you here."
Harry nodded, taking his seat at the back of the class. He listened as the teacher, Mrs. Thompson, spoke about the history of the city, about the wars and the victories, about the people who had shaped it. He found himself drawn in, his mind racing with thoughts of his own battles, of his own victories.
The class ended, and Harry stood up, gathering his books. As he turned to leave, he felt a hand on his back. "Good to have you here, Kid," Mrs. Thompson said, her voice warm. "I think you'll fit right in."
Harry froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He heard the word, the one that had haunted his dreams, the one that had set him off in the past. "Boy," he heard, clear as day. He felt the anger, the hate boiling inside him, just like it had when he was on the streets, when he was fighting for the outcasts.
He turned around, his eyes burning, his fists clenched. "NOBODY FUCKING CALLS ME 'BOY'!" he screamed, his voice echoing in the empty classroom. Mrs. Thompson stumbled back, shock and fear on her face. "I'm not a kid, I'm not a boy," Harry continued, his voice shaking, his eyes wild. "I've seen things, done things, that you can't even imagine. I've fought, I've bled, I've lost. I'm not a fucking kid."
The classroom was silent, the other students frozen, their eyes wide, their whispers silent. Harry stood there, panting, his heart pounding, his fists still clenched. He saw the fear in their eyes, the shock, the disbelief.
"Harry," Mrs. Thompson said, her voice soft, her hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I just meant-"
"No," Harry said, his voice cold, hard. "You didn't mean it. But you said it. And I won't stand for it. I won't be called a boy, a kid. I'm Harry 'Gunhand' Potter, and I won't be underestimated. I won't be treated like a child."
And with that, he turned and walked out of the classroom, leaving behind a room full of shocked whispers, leaving behind a day that had started with hope, and ended with a reminder of the past, of the battles he had fought, of the wars he would continue to wage.
The news of Harry's outburst spread like wildfire through the school. Whispers filled the hallways, eyes followed him wherever he went. Among the many who heard the tale was a man named Dumbedizzle, a notorious figure known for his sharp tongue and even sharper suits. A pimp by trade, Dumbedizzle had a particular fondness for the teachers at this school, seeing them as easy targets for his schemes. He was the one who had been beaten up, his pride more bruised than his body.
Dumbedizzle was sitting in his office, a seedy room in the back of a seedy bar, when he heard the news. His face darkened, his eyes narrowing to slits. "That little punk," he muttered, slamming his fist on the desk. "Thinks he can just waltz in here and start throwing his weight around?"
He stood up, grabbing his jacket, his mind racing. He had underestimated Harry, thinking him just another kid, another easy target. But Harry had proven himself to be something else entirely. Dumbedizzle respected power, and Harry had power. But respect didn't mean he would let this slide.
He stormed out of the bar, his mind set. He would teach this Harry 'Gunhand' Potter a lesson he wouldn't forget. He would show him that this was his city, his playground, and he wouldn't let some kid, no matter how tough, come in and disrupt his game.
As he walked, Dumbedizzle pulled out his phone, dialing a number he knew by heart. "I need a favor," he said, his voice cold, hard. "I need you to find someone for me. His name is Harry Potter. And I want you to bring him to me." Mad Dawg Moody, a grizzled, one-eyed man with a reputation as dark as his name, listened to Dumbedizzle's request. He knew the pimp's reputation, had seen firsthand the kind of 'favors' he asked for. But Moody had his own scores to settle, and if bringing Harry Potter to Dumbedizzle was the price, so be it. "Consider it done," he growled into the phone, hanging up before Dumbedizzle could respond.
Moody knew where to find Harry. The kid had a reputation of his own, and it was a reputation that led straight to the heart of the city's underbelly. He found Harry in a grimy back alley, leaning against a wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was surrounded by a group of kids, their eyes wide, their faces pale. They were listening to Harry, their leader, their hero. They were learning about survival, about fighting, about winning.
Moody stepped into the alley, his boots crunching on the broken glass. Harry looked up, his eyes narrowing as he saw Moody. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice hard, cold.
Moody smirked, his eye twitching. "I want to talk to you, Harry," he said, his voice a low growl. "About a certain pimp named Dumbedizzle. He wants to see you. And I'm here to make sure you get there." Harry's gaze flicked from Moody's one eye to his mouth, then back again. "Dumbedizzle, you say?" he echoed, trying to place the name. It rang a distant bell, but his thoughts were as foggy as the alley they stood in. He took a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke burning his lungs, clearing his mind for a moment. Then it hit him. The pimp. The one he'd beaten up. The one he'd traded his gun for... meth.
Shit.
Harry's grip tightened on his cigarette, the embers glowing brighter. He'd been so fucking spun out, he'd forgotten about the trade. About Dumbedizzle. About everything that wasn't the next hit. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and excitement. He was in deep, and he knew it. But he also knew he couldn't back down. Not now. Not ever.
"Alright, Moody," Harry said, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his boot. "Let's go see Dumbedizzle. But know this, I ain't going quietly. I'm Harry 'Gunhand' Potter, and I won't be anyone's pawn."
The kids in the alley watched, their eyes wide, as Harry and Moody disappeared into the night. They didn't know what was happening, but they knew one thing for sure - Harry was walking into a storm, and they hoped he'd make it out alive. Harry's hand moved faster than Moody's eye could track, pulling a glock from his waistband and bringing it down hard on the grizzled man's head. Moody grunted, stumbling back, but Harry was relentless. He struck again and again, the gun connecting with Moody's flesh with sickening thuds, until the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Harry stood over him, panting, the gun still clenched in his hand. He looked down at Moody, then back at the kids in the alley, their eyes wide with shock. "I told you I wasn't going quietly," he said, his voice harsh, breathless. He turned back to Moody, raising the gun one last time. "And I always send a message."
He struck Moody one more time, hard enough to leave a mark but not hard enough to kill. Then he holstered the gun and spat on the ground. "Tell Dumbedizzle," he said, his voice low, dangerous, "Don't. Fuck. With Potter."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Moody bleeding on the alley floor. The kids watched him go, their hero, their legend. They knew one thing for sure - Harry 'Gunhand' Potter had sent a message, and they hoped Dumbedizzle got the point. Just as Harry turned the corner, the unmistakable wail of police sirens filled the air. Two NYPD squad cars, lights flashing, screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley. Officers spilled out, weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the scene. Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he realized his mistake. He'd been so focused on sending a message to Dumbedizzle, he'd forgotten about the most basic rule of the streets - always have an exit plan.
"Freeze! NYPD!" an officer shouted, his gun trained on Harry. The kids in the alley scattered, disappearing into the shadows like rats. Harry stood his ground, his hand twitching towards his gun. He knew if he reached for it, he was as good as dead. But he also knew he couldn't let them take him. Not now. Not ever.
"Hands up! Now!" another officer barked. Harry hesitated, his mind racing. He could fight, try to make a run for it. But he knew the odds were against him. He was outnumbered, outgunned. He looked at the officers, their faces stern, their guns pointed at him. Then he looked at the alley, the place where he'd ruled, where he'd been a king. He thought about the kids, the ones who looked up to him, who followed him. He thought about Dumbedizzle, about the message he'd sent. He thought about everything he'd built, everything he'd fought for.
And then, with a heavy sigh, he raised his hands. "Alright, alright," he said, his voice echoing in the empty alley. "I'm unarmed. You got me." The officers moved in, their guns still pointed at him as they kicked his legs apart, patted him down, and cuffed his hands behind his back. Harry stood there, his head hanging low, as they read him his rights. He'd been so sure he was untouchable, so sure he was the king of this city. But now, as he was led away, he realized he was just a pawn. A pawn in a game he didn't even know he was playing. Harry was sentenced to five years, but with good behavior and a bit of under-the-table maneuvering, he found himself out in just three. The city hadn't changed; it was still grimy, still dangerous, still his. As he stepped out of the prison gates, the familiar smog and noise welcomed him back like an old friend. He took a deep breath, the air tasting like freedom laced with exhaust fumes. He knew he had some ground to make up, some reputations to restore. But Harry 'Gunhand' Potter was back, and he wasn't going down without a fight.
Harry Potter, or rather, Harry "Gunhand" Potter, as he was known in these streets, was no ordinary magic-user. Born with a lightning bolt scar etched into his forehead, a memento from a bullet that should have killed him, he was a survivor. He'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, his life a symphony of poverty and violence. But he had a gift, a powerful magic that danced at his fingertips, and he used it to survive.
The city was divided into five boroughs, each ruled by a different gang, or as they called themselves, a "House." There was Gryffindor, the reckless, street-smart gang who ruled the streets of Manhattan. Slytherin, the cunning and ruthless, who controlled the drug trade in Brooklyn. Ravenclaw, the intellectuals and hackers, who ruled the digital world from their high-rise in Queens. Hufflepuff, the loyal and hardworking, who controlled the unions and the docks in Staten Island. And finally, the outcasts, the ones who refused to affiliate with any House, who lived in the shadows of the Bronx. They were known as the "Muggle-borns."
Harry was a member of Gryffindor, but he was no ordinary member. He was their enforcer, their gunhand. When a deal went sour, or a rival House stepped out of line, it was Harry they sent to remind them of their place. His magic was powerful, but it was the Glock 19 tucked into his waistband that made him truly feared. He was a reminder that in this world, magic wasn't always the answer. Sometimes, you needed a bullet.
But Harry wasn't just a thug. He had a code, a set of rules he lived by. He didn't hurt the innocent, and he never touched the drugs. He'd seen firsthand what they could do, how they could tear lives apart. His own mother, a powerful magic-user, had been lost to the dark arts, her body found in an alley, her eyes hollow and lifeless. He wouldn't let that happen to anyone else.
One night, a job went wrong. A simple collection turned into a bloodbath, and Harry found himself on the run, his face splashed across every news channel. He disappeared into the shadows of the Bronx, joining the outcasts, the Muggle-borns. He figured he'd lay low, ride out the storm. But the Bronx had other plans.
He met them in a rundown apartment, a group of misfits and outcasts. They had no magic, no gang, no protection. But they had something Harry didn't expect - a dream. A dream to take back the city, to free it from the grip of the Houses. They wanted Harry to lead them, to use his magic, his guns, his knowledge of the streets to change the game.
Harry laughed. He'd spent his life fighting for survival, not for ideals. But as he looked into their eyes, eyes that burned with hope and determination, he saw something he hadn't seen in a long time. A chance to make a difference. And so, Harry "Gunhand" Potter, the enforcer, the outcast, became something else. He became a symbol. A symbol of rebellion, of hope, of change.
The city watched, holding its breath, as the outcasts rose up. The Houses sneered, confident in their power, their magic, their guns. But they hadn't counted on Harry. They hadn't counted on the lightning scar, the gun, the dream. They hadn't counted on the storm that was coming.
And so, the battle for New York began. A battle of magic and bullets, of dreams and reality, of hope and despair. A battle that would change the city forever. But that, dear reader, is a story for another time. Harry stepped into the grimy, graffiti-covered subway car, the doors sliding shut behind him with a sigh. The train lurched forward, jostling him as it began its journey to Dawgwartz. He leaned against the cool glass of the window, watching the shadows of the city flash by. He was tired, his body aching from the relentless pace of the rebellion. But there was no rest for the weary, not when the city was on the brink of change.
A figure shuffled towards him from the depths of the car, a man with sunken cheeks and eyes that darted nervously. He was a stranger, but his desperation was as familiar to Harry as his own reflection. The man held out a small, clear bag containing a white powder. "Meth," he rasped, "Clean stuff. Makes you fly."
Harry hesitated. He'd seen the destructive power of drugs firsthand, had watched them tear apart lives and families. But he was tired, so tired. And the man's words echoed in his mind, "Makes you fly." What would it be like, just for once, to escape the grimy reality of the city, to soar above it all?
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill, and handed it to the man. The man's eyes widened, greedy and hungry. "You won't regret it, man," he said, pressing the bag into Harry's hand. "Welcome to the party."
Harry looked at the bag, then back at the man. "I'm not looking to party," he said, his voice low. "I just need a break."
The man nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Whatever you need, man. Whatever you need."
The train pulled into the next station, and the man melted into the crowd, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the bag of meth. He looked at it, then rolled it between his fingers, feeling the fine powder shift inside. He was playing with fire, he knew. But maybe, just maybe, it was time to dance with the devil.
He stepped off the train at Dawgwartz, the bag tucked safely in his pocket. The city awaited, and with it, the battle for its soul. But for now, Harry "Gunhand" Potter, the enforcer, the rebel, the symbol, was just a man, tired and worn, looking for a moment of peace. And he was about to find it, in the most dangerous way imaginable. Harry stepped into his grimy, sparsely furnished apartment, the door slamming shut behind him. His hands shook as he pulled out the bag of meth, the white powder shimmering in the dim light. He hesitated, then scooped a small pile onto a rusted spoon, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd never done this before, but he'd seen it done enough times.
He held the spoon over a flame, watching as the powder turned to liquid, then to smoke. He took a deep breath, and inhaled. The smoke filled his lungs, burning, then expanding, pushing out every other thought, every other sensation. He exhaled, and the world shifted.
At first, it was just a warmth, a buzzing in his veins. Then, it was like he was floating, the grimy walls of his apartment blurring, the city outside fading away. He was flying, just like the man had said. He was free.
Then, the voice came.
"Harry," it whispered, cold and smooth, like ice on bare skin. "Harry Potter."
Harry's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding. He looked around, but he was alone. "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.
"Me," the voice said, closer now, echoing in his mind. "You know me, Harry. You've always known me."
Harry's blood ran cold. He knew that voice. He'd heard it in his dreams, in his nightmares. "Voldemort," he whispered, his hands clenching into fists.
"Ah, you remember," the voice said, a smile in its tone. "I've been waiting for you, Harry. Waiting for you to see the truth."
"The truth?" Harry spat, anger surging through him, pushing away the warmth of the meth. "What truth?"
"The truth about the Muggle-borns," Voldemort said, his voice cold and hard. "The truth about the abominations that walk among us, tainting our pure blood with their filth."
Harry's mind flashed back to his mother, to her body in the alley, her eyes hollow. He remembered the anger, the hate that had fueled him, that had made him into the enforcer he was. But this... this was different. This was hate on a scale he'd never imagined.
"Kill them, Harry," Voldemort whispered, his voice like a serpent's hiss. "Kill them all. Cleanse the city of their taint. Make it pure again."
Harry's hands were shaking again, but this time, it wasn't from the meth. It was from the anger, the hate boiling inside him. He looked at the bag of meth, at the spoon, at the flame. He could do it, he knew. He could lose himself in the drug, in the voice. He could become a symbol of something else, something darker.
But as he looked around his apartment, as he saw the graffiti on the walls, the memories of the outcasts, of the dream they had, he hesitated. He thought of the eyes that had burned with hope and determination, of the chance to make a difference. He thought of the battle for the city, of the change they wanted to bring.
And he made his choice.
"No," he said, his voice firm, steady. "I won't do it. I won't become what you want me to be."
The voice hissed, angry, but Harry ignored it. He stood up, his hands steady, his resolve firm. He walked to the window, opened it, and threw the bag of meth out into the night. He watched as it fell, as it hit the ground, as the white powder scattered in the wind.
Then, he turned back to the room, back to the voice. "I won't become your weapon, Voldemort," he said, his voice cold, hard. "I won't let you use me. I won't let you win."
And with that, he closed his eyes, and waited for the voice to fade away. The battle for the city was far from over, but Harry "Gunhand" Potter, the enforcer, the rebel, had made his choice. He would fight, but not for hate, not for darkness. He would fight for hope, for change, for the dream. And he would win. Harry opened his eyes, the voice of Voldemort finally fading away. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the day ahead. Today was his first day at a new school, a Muggle school, a place where he could blend in, where he could be just Harry, not Harry "Gunhand" Potter, the enforcer. He dressed quickly, his hands steady, his resolve firm.
The school was a bustling place, filled with the chatter of children, the smell of chalk and books. Harry walked through the hallways, his eyes scanning the faces, searching for a familiar one. But there was none. He was alone, a stranger in a strange land.
His first class was History, a room filled with desks and chairs, a blackboard at the front. The teacher, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile, welcomed him warmly. "Welcome, Harry," she said, her voice soft. "We're glad to have you here."
Harry nodded, taking his seat at the back of the class. He listened as the teacher, Mrs. Thompson, spoke about the history of the city, about the wars and the victories, about the people who had shaped it. He found himself drawn in, his mind racing with thoughts of his own battles, of his own victories.
The class ended, and Harry stood up, gathering his books. As he turned to leave, he felt a hand on his back. "Good to have you here, Kid," Mrs. Thompson said, her voice warm. "I think you'll fit right in."
Harry froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He heard the word, the one that had haunted his dreams, the one that had set him off in the past. "Boy," he heard, clear as day. He felt the anger, the hate boiling inside him, just like it had when he was on the streets, when he was fighting for the outcasts.
He turned around, his eyes burning, his fists clenched. "NOBODY FUCKING CALLS ME 'BOY'!" he screamed, his voice echoing in the empty classroom. Mrs. Thompson stumbled back, shock and fear on her face. "I'm not a kid, I'm not a boy," Harry continued, his voice shaking, his eyes wild. "I've seen things, done things, that you can't even imagine. I've fought, I've bled, I've lost. I'm not a fucking kid."
The classroom was silent, the other students frozen, their eyes wide, their whispers silent. Harry stood there, panting, his heart pounding, his fists still clenched. He saw the fear in their eyes, the shock, the disbelief.
"Harry," Mrs. Thompson said, her voice soft, her hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I just meant-"
"No," Harry said, his voice cold, hard. "You didn't mean it. But you said it. And I won't stand for it. I won't be called a boy, a kid. I'm Harry 'Gunhand' Potter, and I won't be underestimated. I won't be treated like a child."
And with that, he turned and walked out of the classroom, leaving behind a room full of shocked whispers, leaving behind a day that had started with hope, and ended with a reminder of the past, of the battles he had fought, of the wars he would continue to wage.
The news of Harry's outburst spread like wildfire through the school. Whispers filled the hallways, eyes followed him wherever he went. Among the many who heard the tale was a man named Dumbedizzle, a notorious figure known for his sharp tongue and even sharper suits. A pimp by trade, Dumbedizzle had a particular fondness for the teachers at this school, seeing them as easy targets for his schemes. He was the one who had been beaten up, his pride more bruised than his body.
Dumbedizzle was sitting in his office, a seedy room in the back of a seedy bar, when he heard the news. His face darkened, his eyes narrowing to slits. "That little punk," he muttered, slamming his fist on the desk. "Thinks he can just waltz in here and start throwing his weight around?"
He stood up, grabbing his jacket, his mind racing. He had underestimated Harry, thinking him just another kid, another easy target. But Harry had proven himself to be something else entirely. Dumbedizzle respected power, and Harry had power. But respect didn't mean he would let this slide.
He stormed out of the bar, his mind set. He would teach this Harry 'Gunhand' Potter a lesson he wouldn't forget. He would show him that this was his city, his playground, and he wouldn't let some kid, no matter how tough, come in and disrupt his game.
As he walked, Dumbedizzle pulled out his phone, dialing a number he knew by heart. "I need a favor," he said, his voice cold, hard. "I need you to find someone for me. His name is Harry Potter. And I want you to bring him to me." Mad Dawg Moody, a grizzled, one-eyed man with a reputation as dark as his name, listened to Dumbedizzle's request. He knew the pimp's reputation, had seen firsthand the kind of 'favors' he asked for. But Moody had his own scores to settle, and if bringing Harry Potter to Dumbedizzle was the price, so be it. "Consider it done," he growled into the phone, hanging up before Dumbedizzle could respond.
Moody knew where to find Harry. The kid had a reputation of his own, and it was a reputation that led straight to the heart of the city's underbelly. He found Harry in a grimy back alley, leaning against a wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was surrounded by a group of kids, their eyes wide, their faces pale. They were listening to Harry, their leader, their hero. They were learning about survival, about fighting, about winning.
Moody stepped into the alley, his boots crunching on the broken glass. Harry looked up, his eyes narrowing as he saw Moody. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice hard, cold.
Moody smirked, his eye twitching. "I want to talk to you, Harry," he said, his voice a low growl. "About a certain pimp named Dumbedizzle. He wants to see you. And I'm here to make sure you get there." Harry's gaze flicked from Moody's one eye to his mouth, then back again. "Dumbedizzle, you say?" he echoed, trying to place the name. It rang a distant bell, but his thoughts were as foggy as the alley they stood in. He took a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke burning his lungs, clearing his mind for a moment. Then it hit him. The pimp. The one he'd beaten up. The one he'd traded his gun for... meth.
Shit.
Harry's grip tightened on his cigarette, the embers glowing brighter. He'd been so fucking spun out, he'd forgotten about the trade. About Dumbedizzle. About everything that wasn't the next hit. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and excitement. He was in deep, and he knew it. But he also knew he couldn't back down. Not now. Not ever.
"Alright, Moody," Harry said, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his boot. "Let's go see Dumbedizzle. But know this, I ain't going quietly. I'm Harry 'Gunhand' Potter, and I won't be anyone's pawn."
The kids in the alley watched, their eyes wide, as Harry and Moody disappeared into the night. They didn't know what was happening, but they knew one thing for sure - Harry was walking into a storm, and they hoped he'd make it out alive. Harry's hand moved faster than Moody's eye could track, pulling a glock from his waistband and bringing it down hard on the grizzled man's head. Moody grunted, stumbling back, but Harry was relentless. He struck again and again, the gun connecting with Moody's flesh with sickening thuds, until the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Harry stood over him, panting, the gun still clenched in his hand. He looked down at Moody, then back at the kids in the alley, their eyes wide with shock. "I told you I wasn't going quietly," he said, his voice harsh, breathless. He turned back to Moody, raising the gun one last time. "And I always send a message."
He struck Moody one more time, hard enough to leave a mark but not hard enough to kill. Then he holstered the gun and spat on the ground. "Tell Dumbedizzle," he said, his voice low, dangerous, "Don't. Fuck. With Potter."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Moody bleeding on the alley floor. The kids watched him go, their hero, their legend. They knew one thing for sure - Harry 'Gunhand' Potter had sent a message, and they hoped Dumbedizzle got the point. Just as Harry turned the corner, the unmistakable wail of police sirens filled the air. Two NYPD squad cars, lights flashing, screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley. Officers spilled out, weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the scene. Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he realized his mistake. He'd been so focused on sending a message to Dumbedizzle, he'd forgotten about the most basic rule of the streets - always have an exit plan.
"Freeze! NYPD!" an officer shouted, his gun trained on Harry. The kids in the alley scattered, disappearing into the shadows like rats. Harry stood his ground, his hand twitching towards his gun. He knew if he reached for it, he was as good as dead. But he also knew he couldn't let them take him. Not now. Not ever.
"Hands up! Now!" another officer barked. Harry hesitated, his mind racing. He could fight, try to make a run for it. But he knew the odds were against him. He was outnumbered, outgunned. He looked at the officers, their faces stern, their guns pointed at him. Then he looked at the alley, the place where he'd ruled, where he'd been a king. He thought about the kids, the ones who looked up to him, who followed him. He thought about Dumbedizzle, about the message he'd sent. He thought about everything he'd built, everything he'd fought for.
And then, with a heavy sigh, he raised his hands. "Alright, alright," he said, his voice echoing in the empty alley. "I'm unarmed. You got me." The officers moved in, their guns still pointed at him as they kicked his legs apart, patted him down, and cuffed his hands behind his back. Harry stood there, his head hanging low, as they read him his rights. He'd been so sure he was untouchable, so sure he was the king of this city. But now, as he was led away, he realized he was just a pawn. A pawn in a game he didn't even know he was playing. Harry was sentenced to five years, but with good behavior and a bit of under-the-table maneuvering, he found himself out in just three. The city hadn't changed; it was still grimy, still dangerous, still his. As he stepped out of the prison gates, the familiar smog and noise welcomed him back like an old friend. He took a deep breath, the air tasting like freedom laced with exhaust fumes. He knew he had some ground to make up, some reputations to restore. But Harry 'Gunhand' Potter was back, and he wasn't going down without a fight.
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