Chapter 1
Harry Potter was a small child. He wore threadbare second hand clothes that were so large they dwarfed his tiny frame, and had round glasses that didn't actually fix his eyesight, held together with tape. He was thin, some might even say scrawny, and had a lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead; the result of the car crash that had killed his parents, he had been told. His hair was black and constantly messy regardless of his attempts to tame it, and his eyes a startling luminescent green that had old ladies cooing and teenaged girls pouting in envy.
Harry Potter was five years old.
He was a very smart child, unusually so, able to put together the most basic information and see patterns in things that other people seemed to overlook. He learned quickly, and never needed to be told something twice. He learned at a young age to keep his intelligence hidden, and to never appear smarter than his cousin, Dudley. Unfortunately Dudley was denser than reinforced concrete, with about as much personality, so Harry found it easiest to stay silent. His relatives seemed to prefer that anyway.
His Aunt Petunia and her husband, Vernon Dursley, didn't like him very much. He lived in the cupboard under the stairs, and was often refused food or basic hygiene facilities, even though he worked very hard with his cooking, cleaning, and gardening, trying to be a Good Boy like his cousin, who never had to do any chores, let alone the physically demanding ones assigned to Harry. He had yet to succeed.
"Boy!" His aunt shrieked, banging on the door to his cupboard. "Get up!"
Harry quickly straightened his oversized clothes to the best of his ability, and slipped out into the hall, following his aunt's tall and thin figure into the kitchen. Without a word, he began cooking. He did this every morning; he also cooked lunch, and dinner. If he was lucky, he was allowed to eat some of it.
Serving the food, Harry turned and began cleaning the kitchen without a word of acknowledgement from his family. He was so used to it, that it barely even stung any more.
Today was grocery day.
Aunt Petunia bundled Dudley into his thick woollen coat, straining to do it up over the obese child's girth. Harry was carelessly tossed a thin jumper that Dudley had outgrown. It was so huge that it came halfway down his shins when he put it on, but he didn't mind, it was one more layer that he wasn't normally given. Rolling up the sleeves, Harry waited patiently while Dudley had his usual tantrum and was bribed with all manner of new toys, before they could finally leave.
Harry hated it when Dudley came shopping with them.
Aunt Petunia decided as usual that Harry could wait outside, ignoring the snow and lack of suitable clothing on the tiny boy, while she and 'Precious Duddikins' did the shopping.
Shivering, Harry looked around for somewhere he could wait out of the wind. It was biting cold and his ungloved fingers were already turning blue. He knew the store owners didn't like him standing out the front since Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had told everyone that Harry was mentally disturbed, a criminal in the making, and definitely not to be trusted. Harry was none of these things of course, but it wasn't like anyone would believe him.
Huddling miserably in an alley, Harry fought to stop shivering. The snow had gotten into his shoes through the holes, and he couldn't feel his toes.
"Well now, look what we've got 'ere!"
Harry looked up, his blurred vision quickly taking in the people standing in front of him. His eyes flicked over them, assessing, recording, absorbing as much detail as possible.
The boy who had spoken would have been in his mid-teens, his messily cropped blond hair flopping limply onto a sickly pale forehead. Pale blue eyes were hidden behind sleepy looking lids, but they shone with sly intelligence. His clothes were ratty and worn, but in better condition than Harry's, fitting his wiry form fairly well. There was another boy about the same age, with dark brown curly hair and slightly darker skin, and two younger children. The boy looked to be around ten and looked a lot like the first teen, while the girl would have been about seven and had curly red hair to her shoulders and sparkling hazel eyes. Harry thought she was very pretty, some long forgotten memory stirring slightly in the dark recesses of his mind.
Harry shuffled closer to the wall, trying to make himself inconspicuous.
"Oi, 'sall right kid. We won't hurt ya none. Name's Mike. There 'ere is Dave," he indicated the other teen, "Mickey," the boy, "and Sally. What's ya name then?"
Harry peered up at them hesitantly. "Boy. Freak." He shrugged.
Mike's face softened with sympathy. "Ya need somewhere to stay? 'S a mite cold to stay on the streets this time 'o year."
Harry pondered this for a moment. He really didn't like living with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, but he didn't really have anywhere else to go. "M-my Aunt and Uncle…" He trailed off. His teeth were chattering so hard he couldn't talk even if he wanted to.
Crouching down in front of him, Mike placed a finger under his chin, lifting his head up so he could see Harry's face clearly. His eyes roamed over Harry's features critically. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find it, and he smiled slightly. Harry didn't miss that the smile didn't reach his eyes. "They the ones that call ya Freak?"
Harry nodded.
"Well that just won't do. Pretty boy like you should be looked after the right way. Ya could make some real money with a face like yours. Them eyes'll bring in a few regulars I reckon. Come on, let's get ya somewhere warm, aye?"
Harry barely thought about it. These boys had been nice to him, the nicest anyone had ever been, and he was so cold he could barely see through the vibrations of his teeth chattering. Standing, he followed his new friends down the alley without a second thought.
Harry looked around the building. It was a small abandoned warehouse, filled with assorted boxes, crates, and a table with lots of chemicals and complicated looking equipment against the far wall. There was a walkway creating a small second level, with an office off to one side.
The older boys threw themselves onto a ratty old couch, while Mickey and Sally curled up on a small stained mattress, wrapping a blanket around their shoulders and huddling together.
Harry stood, shuffling awkwardly.
"'S alright, kid. Already said we ain't gonna hurt ya none." Mike grabbed a baggie from under the couch and started fiddling with it, rolling something into a white tube that he twisted at the ends. He noticed Harry watching, and shot him a grin. "Want some?" He lit the joint, then held it out in offering.
Harry was trembling, uncertain, but he didn't want to disappoint his new friends. Taking it, he tried to mimic Mike's drag, only to double over coughing at the burning in his throat.
The others laughed loudly, except for Sally who simply smiled shyly.
Their laughter died down a little when Harry staggered, knocking over a crate and spilling its contents.
"Oi! Watch it!" Dave yelped, leaping up.
Harry panicked, and tried to straighten the box so he could repack it. He fought tears, kicking himself for messing everything up already.
"Calm down, kid. Ain't the end of the world, just gotta be careful, right? We're just holding these for some mates, 'fore they get sold. Can't sell 'em if they're wrecked now, can we? An' the sorta people who buy these, well, they ain't the sort you wanna upset. Understand?"
Harry nodded vigorously.
Dave pursed his lips thoughtfully as he watched Harry carefully repack the rifles into the crate. It was clear he couldn't see properly, but despite that, his movements were unusually precise, especially for someone so young.
"You ever handled a weapon before, kid?" Dave refused to call him Boy or Freak. His own family had used such monikers when his homosexuality had been revealed – before he'd run away - and he had a strong aversion to using the same words to describe a kid who actually seemed pretty sweet.
Harry shook his head, keeping his eyes low and repacking the crate as quickly as he could manage.
Dave took possession of the last rifle, resting on one knee so Harry could stand close and see.
"This is a Vahan assault rifle. It's Armenian, like me," he smiled. "Not as popular or reliable as an AK47, but it's cheap and we can move enough of them to make it worthwhile." Dave showed Harry how it worked, letting him hold it, and teaching him how to dismantle, reassemble, load, and aim. He admitted to being very impressed at how quickly Harry picked it up, earning him a beaming smile in return. Harry could recite the complete run down of the weapon without Dave having to repeat it even once. Kid was a freaking genius.
Mike just watched in amusement, smoking his joint and relaxing. He had big plans for this kid.
The afternoon passed pleasantly. Harry discovered that Dave was an incredibly patient teacher, and Harry delighted in learning as much as possible to please his new friends and mentor. By the time night fell, Harry knew all about several different firearms, had cleaned and sharpened all of their knives (a useful skill gained courtesy of his aunt and uncle), and had learned how to take a hit from the apparently never ending supply of joints without hacking up a lung. He wasn't sure if he liked the floaty feeling they gave him, but his new friends seemed pleased, and he was warm and felt welcome for the first time he could remember.
"Alrigh', time for you kids to earn ya keep. Come on." Mike stood as night fell. Leaving Dave behind, he ushered Harry, Mickey and Sally out the door, and down the alleys until they stood in a seedy looking area.
Harry was a little unsure what was happening, but followed his usual rule of keeping his mouth shut and doing what he was told.
Mike plucked the glasses from Harry's face. "Criminal to keep those beautiful eyes hidden, kid. An' you don' really need to see anyway. I'll give 'em back later."
Harry nodded silently. He still wasn't certain about what was going on, and he had a bad feeling that he wasn't going to like it, but even if he wanted to run, he wouldn't get far without his glasses. It never occurred to him that Mike might have taken them for that exact reason.
Harry watched as Mike talked with a blurry shape that looked vaguely like an older man. The man seemed to look over Harry, Mickey and Sally, then gestured to Sally with a negligent wave. He handed some money to Mike, then took the young girl further into the alley.
Harry couldn't see what was happening, but he could hear perfectly well. The man was doing to Sally what Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia did once a month. He could hear her whimpering in pain, and the man grunting, and Harry felt sick, the bile rising in his throat. He wanted to help her, but what could he do against a fully grown man? And besides, Mike had said that they needed to earn their keep; apparently this was how they would be doing it. Trembling, Harry looked towards Mike, who was negotiating with another man.
Harry sat gingerly on the stained mattress. His bottom hurt, and his jaw ached so much he wasn't sure he would be able to eat the warm food that Mike was passing around. He felt dirty and miserable.
Dave settled next to him, leaning back against the crates. His dark brown eyes showed his concern.
"You alright, kid? I know it can be a bit rough, especially the first time."
Harry swallowed gingerly and nodded, his eyes downcast.
"Here." Dave took away the take away cup of soft drink and handed him a cup of cool water.
Drinking gingerly, Harry was relieved to find the pain in his throat easing slightly.
Dave continued to observe him carefully. "If your life is better at home, then you should go back. Life on the streets is hard, even with people like me 'n' Mike looking out for you. This ain't a life to choose if you've got another choice."
Harry kept his eyes downcast and continued eating silently. He doubted he could speak above a whisper at the moment anyway.
Dave sighed. "Alright. Get some rest. Tomorrow I'll teach you some more stuff." He patted Harry's bony shoulder lightly, and shuffled off into the office that had been converted into a bedroom for himself and Mike.
When he wasn't earning his keep or sleeping, Harry stuck to Dave like glue.
The older boy was always happy to teach Harry something new, and Harry absorbed it like a sponge. He was given clothes to replace Dudley's cast offs, ones that actually fit him decently, and he had started to gain a little weight from the regular meals the older boys provided him. There wasn't a lot, and it wasn't good quality, but it was more than he was used to and so he decided that staying with his new friends was worth the unpleasantness he experienced each night. He didn't like it, hated it in fact, but at least he was warm and fed, and they didn't smack him around. Well worth the price, in his opinion.
It had been a month since he joined his friends, give or take, and Harry was now rather skilled in his new life. He assisted Dave in his drug manufacturing – able to make meth, crack, and speed (though the fumes made him feel sick even with the mask) – and was also a rather accomplished thief and pickpocket.
Mike was thrilled, but Dave looked at him with a mixture of pride and sadness that Harry found unsettling. Regardless, he continued to use his new skills to make himself as valuable to the older boys as possible.
Dave looked after all the kids as best he could, giving them lessons each day on how to read and write, basic mathematics, and any other useful skill he could think of. All the kids adored him, but none so much as Harry. The green eyed boy was devoted to the teen, following him around and hanging on his every word. Harry stored everything away, every word and action from the older boy locked into the Harry's mental vault, deliberately mulled over and integrated. Day by day, Dave unknowingly shaped his quiet shadow, the tiny boy's hero worship amusing his companions.
Harry and Dave were sitting on the walkway in the warehouse with their legs dangling over the edge, leaning forward on the railing, sharing a joint. Dave was unusually chatty, and Harry was his usual silently attentive self.
"I hate it, you know? The whorin' of you kids. Makes me so fuckin' mad. Mike an' me should be doing it, not you lil' uns. Fuckin' sicko's touching you. So many fuckin' kids working the streets, an' it ain't right. I know it makes good money an' all, but I wish…" he trailed off, taking another lungful. "I wish there was someone who looked out for you guys better than me an' Mike. If it was up to me, I'd have you kids doin' other stuff, find you some yard work or somethin', or even just the stealin'. But Mike's the boss, and it's his call." He gazed off into the distance. "You're a good kid, you know. Those relatives of yours don't know what they had with you. You promise me something, kid – we really need to get you a proper name, by the way, it's already been a bloody month – when you're all grown up an' can look afta' yourself, you keep an eye out for kids like you an' Mickey an' Sally, and you look after 'em, make sure they don't need to be whorin'. You're a smart kid. You keep your eyes open and learn from people bigger an' tougher than you, an' you learn how to keep yourself an' other kids safe. If anyone can, it'd be you. Don't make the same mistakes as me, you hear? Gotta be a leader, not a follower."
Harry listened intently to Dave's rant. Dave had always looked after them, but he thought he wasn't doing enough, because he wasn't the boss? Harry stewed over this for a while. If Dave wanted him to do better than Dave did, then the only way he could see to do that was to be the boss, so he got to make the decisions like Mike did. But Mike was tough. Really tough. And mean too, when he needed to be. He treated the kids ok, but Harry knew he didn't really care about them. He got into fights all the time, and he usually won. Harry had seen him knife some guy who was trying to move in on their territory the other night. So that meant that if Harry was going to look after kids better than Dave, Harry would have to be tougher and meaner than everyone else around him so that nobody would challenge him. But how? He was a tiny kid, he didn't know how to fight, and he couldn't intimidate a flea, let alone a grown up. So then how?
Dave watched Harry puzzling through what he'd said. "Start small, kid. You're still a little'un yourself. If you wanna be the boss man when you're grown up, then you've gotta live long enough to be a grown up first. Do what you gotta, no matter how much it hurts or makes you scared or sad, and learn from the people around you. You don't gotta play with the big boys yet. Start local, one step at a time. Watch the kids your age an' see what they do to win against other kids. Then figure out how you can beat them. You're smart, you can do it. Just remember, there is always someone tougher and scarier than you, someone who is willing to go further just to win. When you meet someone like that, watch, learn, and study 'til you can beat 'em. 'Cos when you think you're the biggest badass and stop learning, you'll get yourself killed, and then who's gonna look afta' the kids? You've always gotta go one step further than the other guy, make your victory clear and undeniable. You don't always gotta use brute force, either. You don't need to be a thug, but you do have to be able to defend yourself. Use your head when you can, and your fists to keep your head safe."
Whenever Harry was to think back on that conversation later, he would always wonder if somehow his friend knew that something was going to happen to him. There was no outward sign, of course, but Dave had always seemed to know things, so Harry wouldn't have been surprised. Regardless, Harry was grateful to the older boy, and treasured his advice with a devotion bordering on fanaticism. After all, the advice kept him alive.
The door to the warehouse slid open, and six men in cheap suits entered.
Dave stiffened, and motioned for Harry to hide, while he himself crossed the walkway and made his way down the stairs on the opposite wall.
Mike was already squaring up to the men, bristling.
"I already told ya! We ain't working for ya! We got our contracts, an' we ain't gonna stiff 'em to work for a pittance from you!"
Harry stuffed his fist in his mouth to stifle his scream when a bored looking man to the right of the leader pulled a handgun from inside his jacket and shot Mike in the chest without a word.
Mike fell with a thud and a surprised look, blood blooming on his white shirt like an obscene flower. He coughed once, spitting up blood, before laying still.
Harry stared in shock from his hiding place behind the current load of gun crates. He watched Dave shout as he ran down the stairs on the opposite wall, only to take a bullet in the gut and fall the last few steps with a sickening crack. His neck was on an odd angle, and he didn't move, though he was awake and watching in horror.
Harry heard screams, and watched as Sally and Mickey were grabbed and dragged out of the warehouse. A distant part of his mind registered the remaining men saying something about the other boy, which he dimly realised must be him, but he couldn't move past the view of Dave laying there, painfully still.
One step further. Clear and undeniable victory.
Harry bit back a whimper as he saw the men start to spread out and look for him. Glancing back at Dave's prone form, he made his decision.
Grabbing one of the Vahan rifles from the crate he was hiding behind, he loaded it with quick fingers. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he army crawled to the edge of the walkway, set his sights, and opened fire.
The recoil hurt his shoulder, and the shots were startlingly loud, but Harry refused to let that stop him. Firing off short bursts, he was surprised at how quickly his four opponents went down, blood pouring from multiple wounds on each of them. He was even more surprised when they didn't get up again.
He paused, watching them carefully. They had already shown they would hurt people, and Harry wasn't willing to give them the opportunity to hurt anyone else, especially not him. They'd had no mercy, so Harry would give them none.
When they didn't move for several moments, Harry began to scuttle carefully around the walkway. Dave had always told him to take any advantage offered, and when in doubt, keep moving.
Harry cradled his rifle as he scooted around the walls and down the stairs to Dave.
Dave's breathing was laboured, but he was awake. Harry placed the rifle to his side, easily reached if any of the suited men moved. He looked down at Dave's pained face, tears starting to leak down his cheeks.
"Oi, no tears kid. Nothin' wrong with crying, but never let anyone see you do it, not if you're gonna be the biggest badass around. In our world, tears are a weakness you can't be seen t' have, got me?" Dave's voice was soft, softer than Harry had ever heard.
Harry nodded and wiped his eyes, shoving his feeling down into that part of his mind that he locked away each night that he earned his keep. He would deal with it later, when he was alone, just like Dave had taught him.
A slight scuffling from one of the suited men had Harry grabbing up the rifle and unloading a round directly between the man's eyes. The tiny boy seemed oblivious to the unusual skill and accuracy he had just displayed, his focus already returned to his fallen mentor.
"Reckon we got a name for you now, kid." Dave's eyes lingered on the rifle near his head. "You know what Vahan means in Armenian?" Harry shook his head silently. "Means shield. Just like you'll be for the other kids when you're grown, right?" Harry nodded. He knew Dave was saying goodbye. There was too much blood and he wasn't moving, his neck visibly broken. "A shield can be a weapon too, you know. Depends which side of it you stand on." His breath was getting laboured, his skin pale and clammy, but he managed a small smile for the little boy. "Go back to your relatives, kid. Get yourself big, and remember what I taught you, yeah? An' no matter what those meat sacks tell you, you're special, but that don't make you a freak. Don't let 'em break you. Every time they try, it'll just make you stronger. You're a good kid, Vahan. You're gonna go far, an' do me proud."
Harry sat silent as Dave stopped talking and his eyes went dull. He knew he was gone, he'd seen that same look on the guy Mike had knifed, but he couldn't bring himself to move just yet. He felt cold, like everything around him was moving too slowly and too fast at the same time.
It wasn't until he heard the shuffle of feet near the door that he roused himself. Grabbing the rifle, he slipped through the door to the room that Mike and Dave shared. Had shared. Grabbing Dave's ratty backpack, he disassembled the rifle in record time and wrapped the pieces in a cloth, stuffing it in the bag. A handful of knives and a handgun, a couple of boxes of ammo and a sharpening stone joined it, and Harry looked around for anything else. Spying the tin Mike kept the money in, he grabbed that too, struggling to zip the bulging bag closed.
He could hear cops entering the building now, so he shimmied out the tiny window and bolted as quickly as he could, navigating the back alleys with ease. His activities the last month had given him excellent local knowledge and sense of direction, both of which he employed now to evade the uniforms swarming his former home.
As he made his way back to the hated Dursley's, he kept replaying Dave's words over in his mind, committing them to heart indelibly. And with them, the name he had been given by the one person he could recall ever actually caring about him. The name he would spend every moment of his life living up to. No matter what anyone else called him, he had only one real name.
Vahan.