Dear God. I've become one of those people who starts a bunch of interesting stories and cant seem to finish any of them.

HELP. I NEED A BETA TO KEEP ME IN LINE.

I Keep having all these ideas - I have all of my stories planned out to the very end - but my damn Muse keeps grabbing me and saying 'we do this idea now instead.'

Help, please.

Anyways.

Warnings - this story will include, but not be limited to -

Graphic Violence, Sexual Themes, Smut, Child Abuse, Naughty Language, Mental disorders, Gender Identity Issues, OOC characters and Weasley Bashing. Will also include lots of noncanon info, philosophical debates, Eventual Genderfluid!Harry/Dark!Hermione/Fleur. Dark Lord Harry, Metamorphmagus Harry, Manipulative/outright bad Dumbles, Boy-Who-Lived Neville, So on and So forth. You have been warned.

There will be many name changes applying to a single character. I will try to make the changes obvious, but they are designed to confuse you - my Harry is a confusing character.

For now, and forevermore, I do not own Harry Potter or any of J.K. Rowling's work. Nor do I want ownership of the shitshow that it became post GoF.

Enjoy and tell me how you liked it, please.

((()))

Albus Dumbledore was a practical man, by the very definition of the word.

He had a set goal - the Greater Good - and he was willing to give whatever needed to be given in order to ensure that his goal was reached. His time, his money, his plans, his followers, his loved ones, his life...

The purpose of mankind is to create the greatest possible contentment for the largest amount of people using the least amount of resources. A practical, rational way to explain why you would be able to easily and willingly throw away lives if you thought the result was good enough.

Albus had thrown away many lives over the course of his life.

He had remarkably good aim, after all the throwing he had done.

The goal would be accomplished, if not in an easy and painless way.

No, he thought, standing over the lifeless bodies of Lily and James Potter. Not painless in the least. He knelt in the ruins of his old home, brushing red hair out of the still face of young Lily. Her eyes stared away from him, hand outstretched, gazing towards the crib beyond him.

Protective of her loved ones, even in death.

He stood slowly, knees popping as he rose, needing to push himself up off the floor with one hand. Being as old as he was made even the most simple tasks difficult, magic or no.

His heavy heart may have made the task a little more strenuous as well.

Albus heard a soft whimper from ahead, and walked forward slowly, carefully stepping around poor Lily. He paused, then bent down and slid her eyes closed with his fingers.

The crib had tiny slivers of crescent moons that shone with a soft silver light, and tiny little fae that flitted on glimmering wings. As he watched, one of the fae turned to him, raising a finger in a shushing motion, then shook its head softly, sorrow etched in its wooden face. The crib was decorated in soft pink, and was calmly rocking itself even as a model of the universe twisted slowly in the air above it. A remarkable work of charms.

Lily's work, clearly.

He looked into the crib, and his eyes widened in shock. He shook his head and sighed deeply. "Oh, you poor, poor boy."

Eyes closed in fear, even asleep, the boy tremored in unconsciousness. Messy black hair framed his forehead, but was brushed aside so Albus could see the wicked, lightning-shaped scar upon his brow. He could feel the dark magic pouring from the wound, and he turned to the pile of black robes on the floor.

"What have you done now, Tom?" He muttered, picking the boy up in his arms and examining the scar carefully. It pulsed, malignantly, and the boy squirmed in pain. Albus pressed his finger to it, carefully, and

ragepainANGERpainneedkillRAgEhowwhyDIEdamnYOU -

He pulled his hand back with a shock, scowling at the pile of clothes that was once Tom Riddle. "A most foul magic indeed, Tom. Splitting one's soul is a horrible act." He turned back to the squirming child, who was beginning to wake. Unfocused eyes opened, and Albus reveled in the sharp, killing-curse green - much more vibrant and powerful than Lily's soothing emerald. The boy would be strong, magically.

But, if Albus was correct, he would need to die for Voldemort to finally move on.

For neither can live while the other survives...

He supposed that poor Harry's certain death filled his half of it. And truly, living in the dark like Tom did was no true life. Especially not if he had done what Albus suspected he had.

There was a shudder from the boy, a pulse of magic, and Albus's eyes widened in shock.

The boys hair turned from black to silver in a matter of seconds, and Albus's sorrow turned to anger just as fast.

The damn boy is a Metamorphmagus.

Dumbledore knew that Harry had to be the child of prophecy - had to be. He had been marked, chosen as his equal, and had already defeated Tom once. He was the Chosen One.

But he was a fucking Metamorphmagus. Who were incredibly resilient to mental prodding due to their already semi-empathetic nature, and incredibly willful due to their always changing blood. Mental Prodding being Dumbledore's way of saying 'dozens of compulsion charms and constant legilimency, coupled with potions in his food.'

He wouldn't grow up timid and shy like Dumbledore had planned, wouldn't grow up happy for the smallest attention and easy to push and prod into certain situations. He needed a champion that was malleable, who was weak-spirited and downtrodden. Not free-spirited and fiery, like those of Metamorph decent always tended to be.

He clenched his fist, even as the hair changed from silver to a dull midnight blue, as if taunting him. He set the boy down in the crib, ignoring the way the boy cried out at the loss of being held. Dumbledore discarded and turned plans in his head, his scowl fading back into Albus's sorrow.

Albus Dumbledore was a practical man. A rational one. He hoped to be called a Light wizard, someone who walked the path of good and purity.

But 'Light' and 'Good' were two very, very distinct things. Similar in many ways, but different in others.

Light could hurt so much more than Dark could ever dream of, simply because one does not expect the light to burn them as harshly as it does. Fire creates light, of course. The sun was proof of this. And fire needs fuel to burn, to ensure the light does not die out.

And as leader of the light, he was required to burn a few innocents on occasion.

From his robes, he pulled a small bottle of potion with a white, bony blue skull. The potion itself was clear as water, a sign of excellent craftsmanship - Slughorn had brewed it at his request.

The young babe looked up at him, now with vivid pink hair and bright orange eyes. He squirmed as he unstoppered the potion, before holding it over Harry's mouth. The boy, as if sensing his intentions, closed his mouth.

Dumbledore(for it was Dumbledore, Headmaster, Chief Warlock, Mugwump and Slayer of Grindelwald who did this. Not kindly Albus, who loved all equally and led the Order of the Phoenix. Albus was a kind man. Dumbledore was a good man.) pinched the babe's nose closed with a grimace, before counting out drops into his mouth once he opened it for breath.

One drop would do for an infant of this size. Two for a child, four for an adult. He dropped six into her mouth for good measure. And Metamorphmagus had one huge flaw - very little resistance to internal magics. The effects of the potion took hold with nearly three times the power as they normally would.

His hair flushed deep, vibrant green for a moment and his eyes scrunched up in disgust at the taste, before they fluttered open in confusion. The green slowly faded to its natural black, same as the dead man down the stairs. His green eyes faded, dimmed. His hands grasped up at the air once, twice...

And he stopped breathing.

Dumbledore stood over the still body, silent as a grave, then stoppered the potion in his hand and placed it back into his robes.

He would need to spread word of the prophecy now, much as he hated to do so. Harry Potter would live on as just another child who died at the hands of Voldemort, who had taken his own Killing Curse and been vanquished temporarily by Lily Potter's use of old magic.

Harry would be a victim, not a Hero - his mother would get the thanks she deserved now, and with the prophecy floating around the country, Neville - the only other contender for the spot of Chosen One - would be his champion instead.

Dumbledore gathered up Tom's empty robes and dropped wand, shrinking them and placing them in one of his expanded robe pouches. He would find use for them later, setting them up in some way to make Neville seem as if he was the real boy who lived.

And two months later, when a group of death eaters attacked the Longbottom Manor, as he thought they might have, he was prepared. A simple portkey designed to teleport him to the manor should a large flux of magic be used by people not registered under the wards. Dumbledore knocked Bellatrix and her Death Eater companions out without them seeing her, a wide-area Stupefy taking out all of them in an instant.

Stepping over yet another pair of bodies that belonged to friends of his - these ones alive, but dead in the mind all the same - he dropped the robes of Voldemort on the ground, then pulled out Tom's wand.

He cast a few crucios around the room for good measure, then a killing curse inches from the boys face. The boy sobbed deeply, and Albus sighed and removed the memories of his presence from his mind, before replacing them with a memory of a flash of green and then stunning the boy as well - with his own wand.

A simple green Lumos from his own wand, a dark cutting curse to the boy's head so it would scar, and a massive bang that shattered the windows and hid the sound of his Apparition to the front of the house, side by side with the rest of the Order -

Harry Potter was forgotten, dead at the hands of Voldemort in the Dark Lord's attempt to outrun death yet again. Neville Longbottom had done the impossible - lived through a killing curse and knocked out the most loyal of the Death Eaters. Anything they said about Voldemort not being present would be excused as insanity or ramblings - if anyone even bothered to ask.

Albus Dumbledore was a practical man.

And from anyone else's view but his own... He was also not a very good one.

-break-

"This way."

It was the first words the man had had spoken to him in three hours, ever since he had approached his contact. Not that he minded - the huge, hulking man was easily two feet and twelve stone bigger than him. All of it solid muscle, by the looks of things. Clearly a hired hand, only used for simple purposes.

His hand tightened on the briefcase he had chained to his arm. He had been blindfolded, walked what felt about a mile in random directions, then put into a car with windows he couldn't see out of. The drive had taken about two hours, and he wasn't ashamed to say he had absolutely no clue where he was.

They had blinded him again before letting him out of the car, and when the removed the cloth, he was standing in an empty building of some sort. The same hired muscle as before, clad in what looked like biker rags.

From what he could see, there were at least three firearms of some sort hidden on his body, and obviously more hidden somewhere.

They walked down the hall, never passing by a window or anything that would give him a location as to where he was at - not that it would matter. It was exactly 22:50 when he had met with the contact, and obviously later now. Even if there was a window, he would be unable to see where he was.

Snake clearly valued his secrecy.

Not that he didn't understand why. Informants and brokers tended to make enemies - having too much information on the wrong people or hands in too many pots tended to make enemies. Snake was easily one of the most profitable ones in the city, and no one had any clue where he was - despite many, many attempts to find out, both by agents of the law and people of more dubious nature.

He clutched the case to him with sweaty palms, ducking under a massive arm as a door was opened to him, leading to a concrete staircase. He walked down it slowly, then paused at a door. The dilapidated building suddenly gave way to light grey tiling and soft fluorescent lights beyond the door, letting him know that this was indeed the right place, and he wasn't just here to be executed. He allowed himself to be patted down once more, this time by another(much smaller) guard, then the huge thug punched in a lengthy key-code into the panel on the door.

The door hissed open, sliding into the wall, revealing nothing but darkness of the room beyond. The large guard walked through the door, but when the man with the briefcase tried to follow the smaller guard stopped him, an arm grasping his shoulder.

There was the low murmur of conversation behind the ajar steel door, and he waited with sweating palms. Had Snake changed his mind? Were they planning on killing him and taking the case? He had no doubts as to his expendability - he had come here knowing that one wrong glance or step or word could end in his death.

It wouldn't be the first time Snake had 'disappeared' a patsy who displeased him.

A arm - this one far more slender, and clad in a grey suit sleeve. The arm withdrew right after waving, and he steadied himself before walking forward, entering the room.

The room was small, but well-lit. It had simple wooden paneling for its walls, and couldn't have been much larger than fifteen or so feet at its width - about the size of a standard office if this were a normal occupation.

A single, if comfortable looking chair faced back towards him, with a plain wooden table in front of it. On the opposite side of the table was a man who looked to be in his mid twenties, clad in the suit he had seen part of a moment before. He had long black hair that ran down his back, and a fairly pale complexion, just short of unhealthy. His eyes were covered by a pair of black, rectangular sunglasses.

The large man who had escorted him thus far was nowhere to be found, which was worrying. There were no other entrances or exits to the room, so how could a man that big disappear? Noting his eyes darting about, the black haired man smiled thinly. Thats for me to know and you to worry about, the smile said.

He sat down in the chair, placing the case on the table and unhooking it from his wrist. He could feel the other mans eyes on him, without even looking up, and shivered.

He remembered why he went by Snake.

The black-haired man leaned forward, extending a hand to him. "Michael. Glad to see you could make it. I was starting to get worried that your employer was planning on reneging upon our deal."

His voice was soft, cultured, but had a rasping edge to it. Much like a snake. Michael noticed that the sliver-and-grey suit he was wearing was speckled with small circles that seemed to moved as the man did. Like scales.

It would have been a little overdramatic, if he wasn't so damn terrified. Snake really did enjoy living up to his name.

Michael smiled shakily. "Yes, well, I missed the contact time by a few minutes yesterday. Difficulty finding the location, you see."

A simple lie, one they both knew. My boss was getting cold feet went unsaid, but heard.

"I'm sure. Chamber can be so hard to find, can't he?" Snake said with a gesture, showing the room that was empty save them. "I'm sure Markov was happy when I sent him the reminder of where the next meet-up was."

Michael swallowed. The 'reminder' came in the form of the date, time and location he was met at today.

The fact that it was written on Markov's forehead(backwards) as he slept was probably the bigger reason this meeting was going on. The shouting from his bathroom when he looked in the mirror and saw the notice drew many guards, but saw no one fired or killed - Snake's employees tended to have a habit of sneaking in where they weren't supposed to.

Kind of the job of an information dealer.

Snake took the briefcase in his hands, pulling it towards him.

"The lock code is..." Michael trailed off as there was a soft click and the case opened, seven digits he had no possible way of knowing causing the tumblers to click and fall. He suddenly realized exactly why people were willing to deal with all the inane security measures Snake went to to keep his location secret.

The fucker was scary good at getting information he shouldn't have.

Snake smiled once more, then closed the case, sliding it back to Michael. If the combination had been entered wrong, the case would have exploded, destroying the seven valuable gems within and killing them both. The smirk dancing on his pale face was enough to let him know that Snake already knew that hidden security measure before Michael ever let go of the case.

Fuck, he was terrifying.

"I'm glad to see that our affairs are in order. Now -"

There was a loud shout from outside the door, and they both jumped at the sound. "Shit." The black haired man muttered, reaching down to his leg and pulling out a... stick?

No, a gun, of course a gun. Why would he think it was a stick?

He shook his head once, watching as Snake approached to the door and pointed the weapon at it. A series of syllabant hisses came from his mouth, and a slot on the door slid open.

Micheal found nothing weird about the fact that Snake apparently spoke snake. Absolutely nothing abnormal at all, of course. He wouldn't even bother mentioning it when he was asked for details after -if- he got home. Nothing abnormal.

Snake opened to door, and a grey owl(alsonothingabnormalnothingatall) flew through the door, screeching at him. It flew once around his head before dropping a letter in his hand, then flew out the door and away.

Snake read the letter once, then scowled. His hair fluttered, then curled around his head in ringlets before straightening again. It flickered from black to red to grey a few times, but then settled back into its absolutely normal long black hair.

"Normally, I'd play with my food, so to speak. Unfortunately, more important things have come up. The info you need is in your briefcase now. The diamonds are in my possession. In two days time, place the rest of the payment in the case, then close it. When you open it, the rest of the information I promised will be in there. Go."

Snake waved his gun once, and the door slammed open. Normal. Ab. So. Lute. Ly. Normal. "Stock! Grab the patsy and get him up the door. Tell Trigger that he need not bother with the long route - our guest will be... out of it."

Michael felt one hell of a headache coming on, and wiped away the blood from his nose. He got nose bleeds sometimes, it was fine, it was normal. Nothing strange.

He walked up to the guard who had frisked him before, not noticing the fearful look on the mans face as the guard looked towards the door, hearing Snake curse in that completely normal hissing language.

The information was in the briefcase, and they would get the rest in two days when they put the gold into it and closed it. That was normal.

The guard blindfolded him and took him upstairs, and he climbed into the car, stuffing a fist under his nose to stop the bleeding. He felt one hell of a headache coming on.

But, that was normal.

Right?

Back downstairs, the man known as Snake slammed the metal door shut, then flung his glasses across the room. They shattered on the wall, but quickly reformed with a wave of his hand and returned to him. He sighed, then ran his hands through his hair. It shuddered as his hand passed through it, then turned from black to a soft red. His eyes turned from steely grey to green, and his form shimmered a slight bit as he took a step forward -

Something slid off of him as he walked, and she turned to the wall, tapping her wand three times on the wall and humming to herself.

"Fucking hell. Fuck, fuck, fuck all kinds of fuck in every sort of duck." She muttered, her voice a smooth, husky, feminine purr, even in its anger. Much changed from the raspy, predatory hiss of Snake, or the deep, booming, gravelly baritone of Chamber.

She wasn't about to forget her voice lessons. Not after all the trouble she went to make these vocal chords so perfect, after all.

"Thank Merlin for enchanted tables." She muttered, stepping past the doorway as the wall pulled into itself for her, revealing the much expansive area of her private quarters. She was a little too busy for the delicate concentration that Obliviation required, even if several compulsion charms the table had forced onto him to believe that everything was 'normal and not worthy of sharing.'

There was also the binding charm that made sure no one who sat at the table could talk about what was said at it without her permission, and the truth-forcing charms that ensured that he would speak without too many lies.

Not that she couldn't accomplish all of those things on her own, but honestly, the table had been such a steal.

Quite literally, in fact.

May have gone a bit overboard, actually. She thought, her angry steps clacking on stiletto heels that had been black men's dress shoes before. Her simple silver-and-grey suit had slipped into a form-fitting cocktail dress that went down to her knees, with the same pattern, of course. She recalled the small trickle of blood from the man's nose, but sighed. She reached into her expandable purse - which had been a wallet until moments ago in his back pocket - and pulled out her lighter and custom ordered calming cigarettes.

God, chameleon cloaks were amazing. Made from natural Grecian Chimera Chameleons, and hideously expensive, but well worth the price she paid.

Which, same as the table, was nothing.

Briefly debating whether having the expendable die in the back of her car of aneurysm or blood loss would ruin her relationship with the Russian Mafia, she clicked her ever lighter in her hand, watching the green, enchanted flame flicker on the end of the silver device. The fire would ensure that the potion-laced cigarettes stayed lit for as long as she wanted. The wonders of magic.

Deciding that Markov - the low-ranking member of the syndicate who she had sold the information to - would understand if a patsy died, she lit the 'rette and took a deep breath, before letting out a lungful of bright blue smoke, feeling the potion substitute run through her lungs.

One more quick slip, this one not visible from anyone outside her lungs, and any minuscule damage the cigarette could have done was gone, lungs toughening themselves to expel any more toxins. She took one more breathful of blue smoke, feeling her pulse settle as she did, then tossed the 'rette on the ground as it went out, then exploded into pleasant smelling blue mist. Magic was wonderful.

God, she loved her heritage, whoever she owed it to.

She walked forward, heels clicking in a straight, even line that came naturally to her and was usually only seen on people with absolute control with their femininity. Her hips swayed from side to side with each step in a way that demanded people pay attention to her. Despite the fact no one was watching.

She didn't care. Walking this way came as easily to her as drinking those Essence of Elegance potions every month.

Hey, she cheated. But turning a liability of her Metamorph heritage into something she rocked was, well, pretty awesome in her opinion. No one else agreed, unfortunately.

Well, the one person who knew what she was didn't agree, that is. And he and she weren't really that agreeable anymore.

Speaking of diabolical, half-retarded, inbred ex-mentors...

She walked passed the door to her sleeping quarters and the small kitchenette, away from the wall that slowly closed behind her. She sighed - abandoning this base would be annoying.

She waved the letter in her hand with a sigh, still unopened. Not that she needed to open it to know what was on it - she had seen plenty in her excursions.

Dear Ms(Would it say Ms. or Mr.? Probably depended on what form she was in at the time of the letter being written). Slytherin, we are please to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry...

Fucking Hogwarts. Now she was on the grid, and she had made absolutely sure she wasn't on that. Burned the records herself.

Whole damn record building, come to think about it.

She scoffed, then opened it for curiosity as she walked towards the door at the end of the hall.

Ms., then. She read, then slid back into Snake for a moment. Huh, now it says Mr. They really go out of their way to tailor these to the student.

He was still in the form of Snake when he opened to door, eyes flickering over the pages behind it.

The door opened with a wave, and he sauntered confidently in, posture perfect. Shoulders back, free arm crossed, hair perfectly straight down his back, moving at a casual lope that bespoke coiled muscles and bunched tendons under his pale skin.

"Apparently, missing the first three years of formal education means that the system has placed me in fourth year, but requires me to take all the classes of the first three years." He muttered, unheeding of the hissing from the white-haired man strapped to the chair before him, sliding even as she sat into the chair across from him.

*Ssso you got the Hogwartss letter, then, little* freak?" He muttered, glaring at her with brown eyes under his stringy hair. His voice slipped out from the sibilant hisses of parseltongue at the last word. One thing they could agree on - some curses or insults spoken in parseltongue were less impressive than in english. *Egg-Breaking-Waste was always a favorite, and the closet that it came in english was 'child fucker' which honestly wasn't that insulting to her, seeing as she was - technically - a child. Freak translated roughly to 'Egg-that-went-bad' and made her sound like a disruptive school child, rather than the uppity mudblood whore he considered her to be.

She tapped her fingers on her chin, clad again in the form of her slender dress. Actually, that;s a pretty good description of what I'm probably going to end up being... she smirked to herself, leaning back, arms outstretched, knowing that the disgusting old mans eyes would travel to her breasts as she did so. She took pride in being an uppity tease - even gazes from an ugly, decrepit old monster such as himself. Looks are power, and when you can change your looks at will...

Well. She was rather proud of her power over... basically anyone with hormones.

It was a gift.

"Well, Morfin. This is where our acquaintance ends. This address is on the books, and I can't take anything with me, unfortunately."

Morfin Gaunt snarled at her under his heavily scarred and ugly visage, and she smirked. His arms tensed under the straightjacket she had put him in - magically restrictive, of course - and she reached back into her purse, pulling out a simple revolver. She pulled a bullet out of the purse as well, spinning the chamber once she put it in.

A familiar game, but no less terrifying to him. A round scar on either side of his left leg bespoke of where his second - and last - attempt to attack a muggle went wrong for him, shortly after his second release from Azkaban.

He watched the round chamber spin round in her hand, then as she raised it aimed at him with one hand, barely even aiming.

Her finger tightened on the trigger, tensing with the force needed to press it and activate the hammer, striking and igniting the powder in the small shell, sending metal death at him faster than he could ever hope to throw up a protego even if he wasn't magically bound and said shield charm wouldn't block a bullet anyway, he learned this this hard way -

Click.

He still tensed, as he knew he would, and she smirked, as she knew she would.

An old game, with a revolver enchanted to not fire until the last chamber. A familiar game. But no less terrifying.

*How did they find you, little whore? How did your little ward you always hid behind on the twenty fourth fail?* He hissed, and she responded as he knew she would, pulling the hammer back and aiming at him with practiced ease without even looking up from her letters and

Click.

He still flinched.

"No idea. I assume it might have something to do with the fancy little ring that popped onto my finger this June. Must have made me traceable."

He sighed. "As if that was what you needed - more gold and another seat on the Wizengamot. How house Black has fallen, if you're the only chance it has."

Click.

He flinched again, and she smirked. "It seems with Sirius Black's execution - after he was proven innocent, no less - it wants someone more... stable." He hissed, and she flipped him off, showcasing said ring as she did so. "But, what will be will be. I wasn't planning on going until next year, but I suppose I can say I wanted to be there for the tournament."

"Still can't believe they're brining that shitshow back." He muttered, looking up at the ceiling. A sudden click startled him, and he looked down at her smirk, desperately trying to calm his heart. She usually wanted to draw this out nice and slow, little sadistic whore she was. "Going a might fast today, aren't we, freak?" He asked.

She slid under his gaze, skin rippling and twisting in the way he knew disgusted him. He gripped the handle of the revolver in larger hands than before, a longer, more muscular finger in the guard. "Well." He said, raspy hiss in his voice. "I'm going for six this time, for once."

Morfin felt his heart slam into full gear, and knew he could smell it, the filthy freak he was. Always enjoyed giving himself animal senses when he had the chance. It wasn't the first time he had made this threat, but usually he fired right next to Morfin's ear or nicked his cheek.

Sadistic bastard.

He had taught her a little too well, to be honest.

"'Bout damn time." He muttered, trying to belay the tremor in his voice. Merlin, the feeling of fear and gut wrenching terror and helplessness a gun aimed at him gave him, and knew that Snake could hear his heart hammering in his chest, or see it with his snake eyes, or -

Click.

There was five.

"No, I didn't say I was going to do it, though. Silly little inbred monster." His eyes darted up at her in anger. Years of potions and illegal rituals had repaired him - mostly - of the mental damage his heritage brought him. His apelike appearence would haunt him forever, and he resented the fact.

He resented him for what he was - handsome when he wanted, beautiful when she desired.

He also knew, with a sinking sensation, why Snake was the one doing this.

Calypso was wonderful when she was feeling playful and sadistic, which was most of the time and why she used that form in public or in the magical world.

Chamber was for subtlety, as ironic as a seven foot tall mass of muscle could be subtle. People tended to relax around the 'hired muscle,' never expecting that the Snake himself was right next to them, subtly rifling through their thoughts and casting compulsion charms or slipping potions into their drinks.

Snake was for business - intimidation, information dealing, fund gathering. Frightening muggles and back-alley wizards. Robbing people blind while holding them hostage with blackmail, pressing guns into foreheads and making burning little threats.

And, when the time called for it, elimination of harmful assets.

Morfin was all bluster. "Tsk. All grown up. What happened to that pesky little whore I pulled out of that Brothel in Knockturne Alley?"

Snake simply cocked the trigger, aiming the pistol at him. "He grew up, got a few rings, made some money." His finger tensed on the pistol. Just enough to press it down, not enough to fire yet. But an errant twitch, a small movement, a shake of the table -

Morfin fought down the bile in his throat and stared down the barrel of the revolver. It stared at him, cold and silent and inferior, but still so much more powerful than he could ever hope to be.

He used to hate muggles because they were inferior to him, him and his magic.

Now he hated them because he knew they were absolutely, undoubtedly better. Not one-on-one or even in small groups, because magic was swift enough, confusing enough for him to tear through unprepared muggles in instants. A cutting curse here, a blasting one there, and no muggle could stand against him. Too variable for unarmed and unprepared muggles to deal with.

But a single muggle, prepared and with a pistol aimed at him...

No amount of magic could stop a speeding bullet of high caliber, at least no charm or shield he knew of.

Guns terrified him. Far too fast to apparate or dodge away, far too strong to block or deflect, and could fire from far, far away before he even knew he was dead. With spells, you heard the incantation or saw the light before they hit.

Bullets were felt before they were ever heard, and never seen until they had already landed.

Snake tensed, just a little further. "I truly am grateful that you pulled me out of that gutter and flushed the potions out of me, Morfin. Truly. But you're a disgusting, restraint-less piece of gutter trash, and I really don't need you for anything anymore. You tried to use me for your own gains, tried to teach me the ins and outs of pureblood politics and expected that I would fall in line when you were ready to get rid of me."

There was a massive bang of discharge as his finger tensed just the little bit more. Morfin heard his ears ring, but underneath it could hear screaming - his own. He flailed in his chair, but settled down once the ringing slowed. His breath came in gasping sobs, and tears of fear streamed down his face.

Softly, the straightjacket fell off of him and onto the floor. He was still trapped to the chair with sticking charms, and the chair was literally part of the floor. Magic was still beyond his grasp - but the bullet had hit the center lock of the jacket, not him.

He heard his heart pound in his chest, and looked up at her as she turned back into Calypso. "Like I said, Morfin dear." She pulled out another bullet, spinning it in the chamber once more, before dropping it on the table. "I don't intend to kill you myself."

She stood, stepping out of the chair, hips swaying as she turned to the door. "The room will decrease in size by half each day. Within a week, it will be about the size of your cell in Azkaban -" He flinched once more. Fear of guns, fear of enclosed spaces, fear of being restrained - what chords of his wasn't she going to pull this time? "- It will be barely large enough for you to sit on the table a day after than, and within three days after than it will crush you into paste."

He took a deep, shuddering breath, then fumbled as she tossed the revolver to him. "You do know how to use it, yes?" He glared at her, eyes bloodshot with fear. "I figure five clicks and one bang will be enough, hm?" She chuckled, deep and throatily, and turned to the door.

"You are a monster of the worst sort, Cal." He muttered. She paused, then turned to him at the name. He didn't use Cal much anymore, not since he tried to kill her and she had locked him in here.

"I am what you made me." She said, simply. He had no argument for that.

How do you dispute the truth?

She turned, and he quickly aimed the pistol at her back. Maybe he could pull the trigger six times before -

The chain he was sitting on suddenly stopped existing, freeing his magic but letting gravity embrace him. He fell on the floor with a pained thud, dropping the pistol as he did so.

She cackled, not even turning around to face him as he fell with a clatter. *Hissy, Hissy, Morfin, lying on the floor.* She laughed again, then waved her hand as she exited the room. The door slammed closed with a bang, and he winced at the sound. The door frame and door seemed to slowly meld together, fading into the walls of the room as he watched. The walls were already closing in on him, he could tell - it was a rather larger room, and they had a lot of distance to cover within twenty-four hours.

Or maybe that was just the paranoia. He held up the gun in shaking hands, staring at it. With barely a control over his actions, he cocked the hammer and tensed his finger on the trigger, slowly. Might as well get the first one out of the way.

Click.

Calypso walked down the hall, heels clicking as she walked. Ah, how her mood improved with a short smoke and a little psychological torture. She wondered if Morfin would ever realize she enchanted the pistol with a compulsion charm to point it at his own head that increased each time he pulled the trigger.

Probably not. But the idea of him struggling with his own arm, trying to force the gun away even as the walls closed in on him...

Well. It pleased her.

She skipped a few steps, humming under her breath, before sliding into his usual casual grace as Snake. He scratched a few runes on the door of his laboratory - no sense in losing something valuable - and watched with a smile as the door sank into the wall, letting the blank wood paneling cover it over.

He slid into Chamber as he approached the door, clothes forming into tattered jeans and a worn bikers jacket, height increasing by a solid foot. God, he loved being a Metamorphmagus. So much fun~

The steel door opened, and Chamber looked down at Stock, who was rubbing his hands nervously. The muggle guard and record keeper knew better than to ask what was going on - odd things happened daily around Snake, and he was almost certain the information dealer had sold his soul to the devil for power.

Or was the devil. But that was something he kept to himself.

Chamber's voice came out in a low growl. "Snake has gone to ground. The site is abandoned. Meet at site four one week before Christmas. Tell the contacts." Chamber dropped a heavy sack on the ground, and Stock's eyes widened. Gold coins and valuable jewels shone through the top of the small sack - clearly a fortune. Snake only dealt in pure metals, after all. "Roughly two hundred thousand American dollars worth of precious stones and coins." A second sack fell to the ground next to it. "The same amount for Barrel." Another thud. "Half for Trigger." He hefted a bag in his hand, obviously larger than the other three. "Twice for Bullet. Bullet has been instructed to make sure that each bag reaches its rightful owner. I will deliver it to him myself.

Any thoughts of taking the other two bags and fleeing left Stock(He never really got around to knowing his employees, truly. He simply tossed him a few gold coins, said 'you will file paperwork and run my buildings. You answer to the name Stock) at the mention of Bullet.

Bullet was the one who did the dirty work when Snake or Chamber couldn't be bothered. A sadistic little man, who looked absolutely normal and completely unremarkable.

And also enjoyed vegetable peelers as his main implement of choice. To put into perspective.

Chamber turned and walked away, not saying any more words to him. Nor were more needed.

Up in the stairs, Calypso Slytherin stepped out of Chambers body and apparated out of the neighborhood, returning to the apartment in Hogsmeade she rented after a quick detour to Knockturn to give her favorite psychopath his payment for these past few months. Under false names, of course.

She looked up the hill from the window of her expanded room, staring at the Castle of Hogwarts. Her castle, her ancestors home. She ran a finger across her palm, plotting and planning as the skin opened up at her will and a small drop of blood ran through, so she sealed the skin back up with an errant thought. She froze it into the shape of a marble with her magic - her body was out of control once it left her body - gazing at it as she rolled it across her fingers

Morfin had had her blood tested at Gringotts by goblin blood magics, to determine what her magical heritage had been. A female, abandoned magical child with noble heritage had been something he had been hunting for for years. The Goblins had been pleased to see someone using magic they shouldn't have, as blood magics were highly illegal.

Merlin, how shocked they and the Goblins were to see the list.

Heir Apparent of House Slytherin. Heir of House Gryffindor. Descendant of family Peverell. Lord/Lady of house Potter. Heir Apparent of House Black. Third-in-line of house Ravenclaw.

Hogwarts was her castle, oh yes. She could feel the magic singing in her veins, feel the tingle of Hogwarts slow, subtle sentience every time she gazed at it. She yearned

She sighed, letting her magic flow as she played with the blood idely, her body twisting and contorting with each pass of the red marble over her fingers.

"Hogwarts, my love, your family returns soon."

She smirked. Oh, how this inconvenience made all the difference. It could be fun, in the long run. Make some new contacts, maybe a few loyal followers, some nice money on the side. Stir up some trouble, start making a name for herself. It had been a long time since anyone had borne the name Slytherin, much less attended Hogwarts under the title. Calypso Slytherin, coming to reclaim her property and all the fools within. She smiled, and meant it for once.

"I'm coming home."

I Hope you liked it! Next chapter shows Hermione and some of her backstory.

I would try to pump it out now but I've slept maybe 8 hours in three days.

FFR!

-Xandersan