Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling. No money is being made.

This was written for the Secret Santa that the group Voldemort/Harry (Harrymort slash / LVHP) on Facebook created. I was Ren's secret Santa and wrote a story based on the following prompt I was given: 'They never told me the target was also a trained killer. Did they tell you?' AU, Tomarry/Harrymort

Warnings: Slash

Target

Harry took a deep breath. He could do this. He just needed to breathe. He closed his eyes. Steady, deep breaths.

He opened his eyes.

He pulled the trigger.

"The target?" Harry asked his contact. The man handed him a file, which Harry took though didn't open. He had been in the business for long enough to know not to make such rookie mistakes.

This certainly hadn't been how he had envisioned his life. Then again, he doubted little boys grew up wanting to become professional hitman. He certainly hadn't. He had wanted to be a Quidditch player. He remembered flying around with his dad while his mom scolded him for his crazy stunts on a broom. Then his parents died and he had been left with his godfather, Sirius.

It should have been a good thing, he had someone to take him in, but the reality was that Sirius had been completely broken by his parents' death. Sirius blamed himself, which was completely ridiculous since his parents died in a freak accident when his mom had been experimenting with a potion. Still, Sirius blamed himself and spent most of the time Harry was at Hogwarts drunk. Not even Remus had been able to get his godfather out of the hole he had crawled into.

So Harry had found himself newly orphaned and with no one to turn to. Of course, things could still have improved if Sirius hadn't gotten himself killed. Sirius, drunk out of his mind, had apparated to Remus' home, completely forgetting it was the night of the full moon.

Sirius had been killed by the werewolf, and Remus had been executed once he had called the aurors and turned himself in.

All in all, Harry had been more angry at their stupidity than sad at their passing. He had been merely thirteen years old and completely alone. Of course, he had continued to go to Hogwarts, but his summers were spent in a muggle foster home since he had no family left. Well, that wasn't completely true; he had his mom's sister left. But he had spent a whole of three days with them before he decided he would be better off on the streets. His plan was thwarted when he was found by a well-meaning police officer. Refusing to go back to the Dursleys, he had told the man he was an orphan and living on the streets. Thinking back, that hadn't been his smartest move. Then again, he had been thirteen.

Still, being an orphan in a foster home was still a long way from becoming a hit-man. Honestly, Harry couldn't really say how it started. It was one of those wrong time, wrong place situations. Or was it right time, right place? Either way, he had been fourteen at the time, staying out late once more, because there was only so much he could take from the muggles at the foster home, when he came across an injured man.

Now, Harry didn't have a hero-complex, but he wasn't heartless either. So he decided to help the man as much as he could. He dragged the man inside the abandoned warehouse he had been leaning against and tried to treat his wound to the best of his abilities. Only later did he find out that it had been a bullet wound. Though the gun he had seen in the holster the man had possessed had clued him into the idea that the man was probably involved in something shady.

Still, imagine his surprise when another man broke down the door and started shooting like crazy. Harry hadn't even thought before he acted. He took the gun and shot. Honestly, he was still surprised that he had hit the man on the first try. Then again, he supposed that training his aim while casting spells must have contributed to it. All that commotion had woken the injured man up just in time for him to see Harry shooting the man that had burst into the warehouse.

The man had been thankful for the help, and had given him a card, telling him if he ever needed cash to call the number.

Harry had never learned the man's name, nor had he ever seen him again.

Honestly, Harry hadn't even remembered about the card until almost a year later. He had actually done everything in his power not to think about that night, or the man he had shoot. He had been pretty sure that he hadn't actually killed the man, but he hadn't stayed around to make sure.

Anyway, he hadn't thought about that card for a long while. The first time he thought about it was when he was kicked out of his foster home. His magic kept interfering with the muggle electronics. He did his best to control his magical surges, but from what he had read he simply had too much of it, and until his body matured enough the surges would continue to happen. That, of course, messed with the muggle electronics, and the muggles had grown tired of it. So, he had found himself once more on the streets with no place to go.

While going through his things he had come across that card once again. He had thought about it for a long while. Should he call? What would he be expected to do? Because he knew he would be expected to do something. For the first night, he did nothing. The second night, when hunger pains were tormenting his every waking moment, he thought about going to Gringotts to explain what was happening and maybe gain access to his vault. He had squashed that idea quickly. The goblins didn't care about human problems. He couldn't access his vaults until he was seventeen, and that was that. The goblins wouldn't bend the rules for a human. He was lucky enough that his parents had thought about setting up his Hogwarts tuition to be taken from the vault automatically, otherwise he wouldn't even be able to attend Hogwarts. Even so, he hadn't called on the second day either. However, when the third day rolled around, he dragged himself to the nearest payphone and dialed the number.

He had been given an address. Nothing more. He had hesitated, but by the end of the day his desperation was such that he had given in. He went to the address and found a file and a gun. His hands shook as he opened the file, barely glancing at the picture that had been inside. He read the file, his stomach turning with every word he took in. The man, his target, had been a pedophile that enjoyed children that were five or younger. The father of one of the victims had put a hit out on him when the police had been unable to hold the man due to insufficient evidence. Harry hadn't even realized that he had taken the gun. It had been hard – though he supposed that it was always hard the first time, and he had been lucky that his first target had been such a despicable man. He hadn't needed much to go through with it – he had taken a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them again, and pulled the trigger.

After the deed was done, he had gone back to the payphone, called the number that had been in the file, and had been given another address. He had gone there right after and had found his payment.

And that had been how he had gotten into the business as a mere fifteen year old. He could have stopped there, he supposed, but he had still needed money and even though he had been sick to his stomach the first few times, the pay was good and he had always been a survivor first and foremost.

Now, three years later, he was one of the best in the field. He was so good in fact, that he had been approached by a Family. He had refused them – he liked his independence – but the Family had attributed him a contact. Harry hadn't made a fuss about it. It made life easier for him, after all. He just needed to wait until his contact left him a message and when the deed was done he would simply inform his contact. There was no need anymore for him to look for jobs, they were delivered to him. It was an arrangement that left everyone happy.

He relaxed when he got home and felt his wards go up. He might work with muggles, but he was still a wizard. There were things that he just couldn't give up; his wards were just some of them. Considering the job he had, having wards around his home was the only way he felt safe. And, if one day things went to hell in the muggle world, he had always his fortune back in the Wizarding World.

He had come into his inheritance at seventeen and promptly taken his position as Lord Potter. He was fairly reclusive – not many people knew even what he looked like – but he was still active in the political side of the Wizarding World.

He lived a double life, one could say, and he didn't think he would change anything about it no matter how he had gotten to where he was.

"Another one?" Harry raised an eyebrow at his contact. It was unusual to get more than one hit every week.

His contact, Damon, shrugged. "It came today. The guy who put the hit out wanted it done fast, before the weekend. You're one of the best we have."

"Fine." Harry sighed, picking up the file. "I'll let you know when it's done."

Harry apparated home once he found an out of the way alley. He fell gracelessly onto the sofa as soon as he was home, letting the file flop onto the table. He had been looking forward to a nice, free week, because he would have to be at the Wizengamot meeting that weekend. It was one of the few he would have to go to, since it was the election for the new Minister. Honestly, he had no idea who would even be running for it. He hadn't bothered to look, he would make up his mind from the speeches they would give on Sunday, and before that he would research them a little bit. That had been his intention at least. Now he would have to do research for the hit.

He sighed, slumping further down his sofa. It looked like he would just vote on the new Minister at random. If he wasn't happy with him, he could always arrange an accident, though he loathed to do work on the side.

He glanced at the file on the table and contained a groan. Time to work. He sluggishly straightened up on the sofa and picked up the file. He opened it, letting the contents fall onto the table. He raised an eyebrow. Well, that was much less info than he usually got. There was only a picture – he was professional enough to not ogle the man on said picture, no matter how handsome he looked – and a truly short bio. Apparently, the man was named Tom Riddle, seemed to be in his late twenties, early thirties, lived/worked somewhere in London, and was seen often around Whitehall leading them to believe that the man had some sort of governmental job. Harry contained a grimace – he despised political hits, though that would explain the lack of information, as well as the rush to get things done.

Considering just how little information he had on the man, he would have to use magic to find him. He didn't really like using magic when doing a job, but in some cases there truly was no other choice. He could probably track this Tom Riddle down without magic, but it would certainly take him longer than the few days he had to do the hit. It was Wednesday already, he only had a couple days left.

It would be better if he tracked the man at night. With a little luck Riddle would be home and he would take him out right away. Maybe he would still have time to do the research he had wanted to do about the candidates for the Minister position.

In the meanwhile, he had a few hours to enjoy his day.

Harry frowned as soon as he apparated to his destination. This certainly wasn't where he expected the man to be. He sneered at the degraded neighborhood. For a moment he thought that he had apparated to the wrong place – he simply couldn't picture the man he had seen in the photo living in such a place – but that was impossible. He had perfected the charm/ritual to a point where he could apparate up to within a hundred meter radius of the target's location with only a name and an image of the target. He had both those things, so he was fairly sure he was in the right place.

Taking out his wand, something he didn't like doing when he was on the job, he murmured, "Point me Tom Riddle." His wand twirled around for a moment until it stopped, pointing to his right.

Harry turned, making his way towards the only building on his right. It looked like a run down duplex; it wouldn't surprise him if it was used by muggles to do drugs. Honestly, the whole neighborhood had that feel to it. It was places like these that he had stayed well away from when he had been on the streets.

He sneaked inside the building, tucking his wand away and pulling out his gun, silencer already on it. He didn't really think it would be needed in this neighborhood, but there was no need to chance it.

He was just turning a corner when he heard a pained whimper coming from a little further down the hall. Harry cursed in his mind. With any luck it would just be a junky, but he had stopped believing in luck a long time ago. Not really having much of a choice, he followed the sound. He made sure that he was silent in his approach. The last thing he wanted was for someone to notice him. He peeked inside the room, thankful that the door was partially off its hinges.

Only years of restraint stopped him from making a sound.

He apparated away, landing hard on his bedroom floor.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He paced back and forth, pulling at his hair. This was just… fuck! Why him? He grabbed the phone on his nightstand, dialing the number by memory.

"That was quick," Damon said, answering at the first ring.

Harry snorted, glaring at a wall. Sometimes, he truly felt like cursing Damon, mostly because Damon was the only one in the Family he had contact with. Killing the messenger and all that. "You know, I just came back from work. It seems like there was a bit of information they didn't share with me," Harry said pleasantly. Damon made a questioning sound and Harry was only to happy to oblige. "They never told me the target was also a trained killer." He heard Damon choke. "Did they tell you?"

"I… No, I didn't know about that. I would have told you, Mors."

Harry grimaced slightly at the name. It was one of the names that people in the business called him by. He had become rather known in the underworld, but no one knew who he was – thankfully the Family that had tracked him down valued his service far too much to risk angering him by divulging his identity, aside from that they were quite happy to be the major beneficiaries of his work – so, people had started to name him. The first had been Ghost, because no one ever saw him. Then it had evolved to Letifer when his body count had reached double digits. Finally, they settled on Mors, the Roman personification of Death, when he had been able to kill a target who had been locked in an impregnable panic room, protected by no less than one hundred armed individuals. What none of them knew was that magic had helped him with that one. A nifty little potion that simulated the Confundus charm that was turned airborne took care of the guards, then he simply apparated inside the panic room and took care of the target. It had been rather simple once he had extracted from one of the guards the information about how the panic room looked on the inside. That had been the instance that brought his work to the limelight and was when the name Mors was given to him.

From that moment on he was counted as one of the best.

Actually there was only one other that was as good as him, though Harry knew nothing about that individual aside from their name. He liked his privacy, so he didn't pry into others' business unless they came after him.

"Yeah, well he is. I just saw him taking care of a target. He was making it look like a mugging gone wrong. Find out everything you can about Tom Riddle, you hear me, Damon?"

"Yeah, I hear you, Mors. I'll contact you as soon as possible."

Harry ended the call, throwing the phone on the bed and flopping face first on the bed beside it a moment later.

He should have stuck with his one hit a week policy, he just knew that this job would be a pain in the ass.

Harry was feeling skittish. He had gone out grocery shopping – yes, professional killers did that sort of thing too – and he had felt eyes on him the moment he had stepped foot outside his building. For a split second he had thought about turning back around, but he had shaken it off. He had thought that it was probably nothing. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time he had over-reacted in his paranoia.

But now it was half an hour later and the feeling of being watched hadn't abated in the slightest.

He had to stop his hands from twitching towards his wand and gun. If he was being watched that would be the biggest clue that he knew about it, something he certainly didn't want to do. He paid for his groceries and made his way out of the store. He turned left instead of right, mostly because he knew that it would lead to a small, out of the way alley to the back of his building. It might not be the smartest thing to do considering that he thought that there was someone watching him, but he wanted to get it over with. He hoped that they would act before he arrived at his home.

The second he stepped foot into the alley, they acted. Harry had barely time to dodge before a dagger was embedded into the fence on his side and a strong body was pushing him against it, a large hand holding his right arm immobile while his left arm was restrained behind his back and pinned by the larger male body behind him.

The first thing that popped into his mind was to lament the loss of his groceries. The second one was to curse his diminutive height.

"You're good," a voice breathed in his ear. "Then again, I already knew that, otherwise I would have felt you yesterday when you saw me finishing that hit. It is the first time I had to rely on the surveillance equipment that I installed to know that someone had been there."

Harry remained perfectly still, but his heart was almost jumping out of his chest. It was exactly to avoid situations like this one that he didn't take hits on fellow hitmen. It wasn't a matter of professional courtesy, it was simply because it would be a bother to deal with the consequences.

He was turned around and came face to face with Tom Riddle, his target. Deep blue, almost black eyes flashed with emotion, before they turned blank. Harry had to give it to the man, he was good.

"Now, little one." Harry mentally scowled at the name. He knew he was short, no need to rub it in. "Who are you?"

For a fraction of a second he thought about not answering, but that would be stupid. He had a reputation, why not use it? Then again, Riddle might be one of those adrenaline idiots who liked challenges and would be after him so that he could brag that he had taken out the Mors. Still, he didn't want to reveal magic to Riddle, so his name would have to do. "Mors."

Riddle's eyes widened an infinitesimal amount, though it was enough to let Harry know that Riddle had heard about him.

"You don't say." Harry wasn't sure he liked the smug little smirk that spread on those full lips. Then a mouth was on his, an insistent tongue sweeping at his lips. He gasped when sharp teeth bit his bottom lip, and that skillful tongue invaded his mouth. If he hadn't been as surprised as he was he would have done more to fight Riddle off, but the suddenness of it, as well as the skillful way Riddle completely dominated the kiss, left him feeling as if he could do nothing but enjoy the ride.

Just as suddenly Riddle pulled away, and Harry had to stop himself from whimpering at the loss. Damn, the man was skilled.

Riddle leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over his ear. "I am Voldemort." Riddle chuckled darkly, pulling away completely and walking away.

Harry could do nothing but stare at his retreating back until he disappeared into the shadows.

Well… he had just met the individual who shared his title of being the best hitman in the business.

Harry was sitting in the Wizengamot chambers but his mind was miles away. The hit on Tom Riddle, more like Voldemort, still stood, but the client had retracted the deadline. Harry hadn't refused it yet, but he truly wasn't all that eager to go after his target.

He couldn't believe he had just frozen like that and had let the man kiss him. If one could even call that a kiss – the man had practically ravished him, quite skillfully so truth be told, even if Harry would never admit it.

Still, that had lead to him spending the whole weekend scouring every little bit of information he had on Voldemort. He refused to be caught unprepared once more. The bastard must have been laughing at how easy it had been to subdue him. Harry grit his teeth, glaring at the dais where the new Minister of Magic was going to appear in a matter of moments. He had ended up not doing any research about the Ministry election at all. He had voted randomly, determined to be rid of the new Minister if he wasn't to his liking, but at the moment he had bigger concerns than the election – like Voldemort. He would show him, he wouldn't let Voldemort get away with it.

So deep in thought was he that he didn't see the new Minister walk in, only being brought out of his thoughts when the cheering started. He looked up. His eyes locked with deep blue, almost black eyes.

Harry knew he was displaying the same amount of shock as those eyes. He barely heard the Chief Warlock's announcement of, "Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, I present to you our new Minister, Lord Marvolo Gaunt!"; instead, his mind was filled with smug smirks, dark hooded eyes, and a whispered confession of 'I am Voldemort'.

A.N.: I finally have a Tumblr account. If you wanna follow me on there and ask questions about the stories or submit prompts, or even just say hi, feel free to do so. It's the same as my username here, though without the dots.

Happy Holidays, everyone! I wish you and your loved ones all the best.