This chapter took me way too long to research. The military is incredibly complex...! I had my last exam about six days ago, so I have so. much. time. on. my. hands.

Disclaimer on opinions/actions: Bond is a bit of a misogynist and perhaps a little sexist. He's suave, elegant, and sexy. So any actions, comments, and so forth are opinions that I believe Bond would have.

Hahaha I was messaged by a person asking why the story is named as such: Anyone who's read or seen the Godfather will know that it's a reference from the mafia meaning that you're dead, or about to be. I use that to represent the idea that HP is 'dead' and that Bond is constantly heading into life-threatening danger.

Harry stood in front of a nondescript building in Whitechapel. Like everything else here, it was made of red brick and looked rather well-kept. The shop-window revealed it to be a souvenir store. He rolled his eyes: how much more British was this all going to get?

Tucking the business card into his inner coat pocket, Harry approached the door and pushed it open. There was a twinkling sound as the door opened and an old woman poked her head out from behind a bead-curtain. She emerged out into the open and wandered over to her counter. She smiled.

"May I help you?"

"I think I'll just look around," Harry said, inclining his head. Indeed, he wandered away from the woman and hid behind a shelf as he examined the royal family paraphernalia. There were even some new dolls of Camilla Parker-Bowles, who was to marry Charles the next year. Evidently, opportunists lost no time to profit from… well, anything.

There were flags, fake crowns, Beefeaters; it went on and on. And then tucked in the corner, Harry noticed a little model of a bulldog with the Union Jack splashed all over the front. Grinning, he strolled over, and picked it up.

"Mr. Bond?" Harry turned and saw Dan's father standing behind the bead-curtain. He had pushed half of it aside, and was looking at him sternly. Harry glanced at the woman behind the counter; she was completely ignoring them, instead reading a book as she waited for customers.

Harry pocketed the model and followed the MI6 agent.

Behind the curtain, they turned left into a steel corridor and finally approached a steel door, they passed through it and emerged out into a sort of office space. A few people were milling around, shifting papers from one box to the next. Harry sighed, modern democracies were nothing but bureaucracies and seemed to function more due to practiced routine than anything else.

People barely glanced up as they passed through. It was a small office, and only about fifteen people seemed to work there, but they looked busy enough.

"Welcome to recruitment branch," Fettes said. "You don't have clearance for Vauxhall yet."

They walked through the open office space until they reached the last door. Moving through it, Harry and Mr. Fettes passed through into a private office.

This one was different. Previously, everything had been modernised. This office had wood panelling and used almost every vertical surface for books or oil paintings of ships. And sitting behind the desk, was a middle-aged man with quite short hair and an intense expression. He stood up and revealed himself to be quite short.

Mr. Fettes showed him to one armchair and he sat in the other.

Once proper greetings had been said, the man too sat down.

"Good morning Mr. Fettes, Mr. Bond." Harry wasn't even surprised that he knew his name, even if it was his fake one. Fettes had made it evident at his graduation that MI6 was interested in him.

"Mr. Fettes has told me a great many things about you, Mr. Bond, he thinks you have great potential." The man dropped a folder onto the centre of his desk and opened it. In the top right corner, Harry could see a photograph of himself — his Cambridge ID photograph; God knew how they had gotten hold of it. Then again, they were MI6, he wasn't sure God had anything to do with them.

"I don't agree," the man continued bluntly, flipping through the folder. It was quite thick, Harry noticed. "I think you're a daredevil. You're bored and have enough money to spend it on piloting licenses, race-car driving, glacier skiing, etcetera."

"Thank you," Harry replied with a polite smile. The man's brow furrowed and he stood up in an ominous sort of way. He wasn't happy.

"Cheek isn't tolerated here, either."

"I understand," Harry said with a nod, staring right back at the man who was drilling holes into his. Fettes gave a nervous gulp.

"But Mr. Fettes has a good track record of getting it right when it comes to new recruits for the Double Oh branch, so I'm willing to give you a chance, Mr. Bond."

"Double Oh branch?" Harry asked. Fettes coughed in a way that said that he should not have asked that question.

The man across the desk gave him one last frowning glare before he turned away to look at one of his many paintings of ships.

"Do you know who painted that, Bond?"

Harry glanced at a majestic marine artwork of a ship getting lost to sea. The only two marine painters he knew were Aivazovsky and Turner. He shrugged.

"Turner was born to a lower class family. He was enrolled at the Royal Academy of Arts at 14, worked then as a professor at the same academy and created hundreds of masterful works such as this one. By the time he died he had created 2,000 paintings and 19,000 drawings and sketches. What does that tell you, Bond?"

Harry folded his hands in his lap and quickly glanced at the painting. "That you like Turner…. sir?"

The man threw his hand up in the air and stalked back to his desk. Then, addressing Fettes, he said, "Where did you find this clown, Fettes?"

Fettes gave an exasperated sigh, having obviously been gathering information on Harry for long enough to know get to know his personality, at least to some level.

The man behind the desk seemed to decide to give him one last chance and mirrored Harry's action of folding his hands.

"Turner put more than a lot of hard work into his craft. All of this is expected from anyone seeking to join Her Majesty's Secret Service, more so from anyone in the Double Oh programme."

"Now, Mr. Fettes tells me you were invited to this meeting two weeks ago, at your graduation from Cambridge University. He also tells me chances are, your presence here shows you are interested in the programme. Are you prepared to join us, Mr. Bond?"

The man had sat back down and folded his hands together on the desk and waited for an answer. Harry narrowed his eyes: on the one hand, he kept telling himself he was done with his 'saviour complex' but simultaneously he spent his holidays spending his trust fund (which was quickly emptying out) on rash decisions like learning how to ski, learning how to do close combat, getting a drivers' license and using it primarily on the German Autobahn.

Fettes had said it right: he was extraordinarily bored with life. Law at Cambridge had been dull enough and theoretically he could now try and get a job in that field… but there wasn't much excitement in that. He imagined that his boggart today would be a desk job.

"Yes, sir," Harry replied before his mind could catch up with what he had just said. Well, no take-backs, he supposed.

"Very good. You have to be aware of what you're jumping into, Mr. Bond: there is much training involved and maybe, at best, in seven or eight years, you will be executing minor, ah, duties on behalf of the British Government. Now, only a select few are chosen for the Double Oh programme and only nine such agents with a license to kill exist at one time, so a guarantee of being selected by one of them is impossible. The decision is down to M. He choses who becomes a Double Oh.

"If your life happens to expire due to your employment with us, the government will disavow any claim to you. Is this clear?"

Harry liked his odds, but nodded, unwilling to make a cheeky remark and make the man more irate than he already was.

"Now, there is the matter of security and making sure you're not a foreign agent. You have been vetted, in person too-"

"In person? Sir?" Harry frowned. He would have remembered being interrogated.

The man smirked for the first time in the entire conversation and pressed a button under his desk.

"Daniel, come in please."

In through the door came a man, whom Harry recognised all too well. After all, they had become good friends in the past year at Cambridge. His hair had been cropped since their graduation, and he was dressed in a tightly pressed suit, which was never the case, but the mischievous look in the eye was ever-present: as was the light, kind smile.

He supposed Daniel and Mr. Fettes weren't related, after all. It made Harry wonder who the 'wife/mother' and the 'daughter/sister' that he had seen at their graduation were.

"Daniel Barlow, I understand he had been studying with you for a year."

More like lying, thought Harry.

"Yes sir."

"Mr. Barlow will be your companion in your training. Any questions, he shall help you. Thank you Mr. Barlow, you may leave."

'Mr. Barlow' gave a salute, a heel kick, and left the room in a military-esque way, stiff posture, precise steps. Merlin, Harry couldn't imagine a worse state of being than that of a soldier. He made himself a promise to be the exact opposite of that.

"As I was saying, Mr. Bond, there are other requirements that must be met: interviews that have to be done and basic training at the likes of Fort Monckton. You must achieve a minimum of Major or Lieutenant Commander rank to advance to training at MI6. Are you prepared for this?"

"Yes sir."

Merlin, what was he getting into?

.

Every single part of Harry's body ached. No ached, was the wrong word for it. He felt like a thousand knives were impaling his body at once: much like the cruciatus curse. Someone turned on the light — probably the Sub-lieutenant who was in charge of waking everyone — and now his eyes hurt too. He was, in an instant, plunged into total light from complete darkness.

Around him, the other Midshipmen were groaning.

"Come on, ladies, out you get!" The Sub-Lieutenant yelled loudly and began ripping the sheets off of some of the tighter sleepers. Harry slid off his top-bunk and fell straight onto Billy, who slept underneath him.

"Oi, watch it, Bond."

"Bond! Get over here!" The Sub-Lieutenant shouted. Harry grabbed the bottoms of his uniform and skidded over to his superior.

"Put on your No.3C dress uniform and get the hell up to command. Understood?"

"Yes sir!"

"Oi, oi, oi! Bond's been called up to the Skipper!" Yelled one of his fellow midshipmen. The others began drumming against any steel surfaces, shouting like Indians. He tried to ignore them.

Harry rushed through his things. Whilst everyone around him was dressing in the tropical white on white uniform, he attempted to find his blue pullover. Finally getting everything on properly, he rushed out of the sleeping quarters and ran up to his commanding officer's rooms.

Knocking, he was told to enter, and he composed himself briefly, before pushing through.

"Ah Bond, good morning."

"Good morning, sir!" He said on automatic. The officer's brow furrowed and Harry had to mentally beat himself. The rule was: do not speak unless specifically asked a question.

"You've been with us for six months and have not been promoted further. Usually a Midshipman will be promoted automatically after double that." The officer pursed his lips. "Someone in top brass wants you to succeed quickly, young man. Congratulations, you're a Sub-Lieutenant. God knows what you did to earn that. Dismissed."

He was handed a folder and told to leave. In shock, Harry briefly leaned against the wall of the corridor and flicked through the pages in the folder. It told him where to get to his new sleeping quarters, his new insignia, and what his new duties were. Well, at least that part was over. To make commander from now to lieutenant would take only another thirty months in this godforsaken place!

He passed his former midshipmen, who all jeered at him, he smiled politely.

.

Ten years with the navy, ten years of hell.

Harry stood at the side of his Captain, staring far into the horizon. They were wearing their tropical white uniforms, which Harry hated because they easily got dirty — and there was no way he could take his wand with him onto the ship. There were raids, check-ups, and screenings. Chances were, his wand would be discovered. And questions were never good with the Navy.

He was Commander by now, having risen one rank higher than the MI6 had asked him to achieve. But he hadn't heard anything from them in several years, not since he had turned thirty. He was thirty-two, a very young age for a Commander, but he was good at his job, even if he talked back a little too often. The Captain, in any case, enjoyed playing chess against him.

"Bond, when we dock at HMNB Portsmouth, someone will be waiting for you. I'm afraid your time at the Navy has come to an end," the Captain said, with a surprising lack of formality. Harry's hands were folded together behind his back. They were beginning to sweat. Was MI6 finally recruiting him?

"Understood, sir."

The Captain turned to face him. "You be careful, son. I know where you're heading — it's a dangerous place."

"I understand, sir."

"Do you really, Bond?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I was recruited at the end of my Cambridge career. I have been heading there for eleven years."

The Captain harrumphed. "I didn't know you went to Cambridge."

"Sir, I think you'll find there is not much about me that you do know," Harry said somewhat cheekily. The Captain actually smiled at that comment.

"You be careful."

.

Harry disembarked from the HM Albion, duffel bag under one arm, rucksack under the other. Sailors, Marines, Midshipmen, and other employees usually aboard the ship, were rushing out of her — the ship — almost flowing into the arms of loved ones. A huge crowd of parents had gathered to see their sons and daughters, some of whom were fresh Midshipmen and hence very new to the whole navy thing.

There were a lot of tears, hugs, kisses. A small smile crossed his lips as he searched the crowd.

"James!" The feminine, musical voice instantly contrasted with the rest of the quite gruff voices and Harry turned to see a woman. She was running towards him and he dropped his bags: she instantly jumped into his arms, claiming a long, passionate kiss.

"Hello Mary," he said kindly as they separated. Her wide, innocent eyes stared back up him as she looped her arms around his neck and stole another, short kiss. Sailors of all classes around him whooped loudly, knowing him to be… rather open with his… friendships with women.

"I missed you," she whispered to him. Harry said nothing, because to be truthful, he hadn't much. There was no time on a ship to miss someone. Only their body perhaps.

"You missed me, huh?" Harry said, smirking slightly and placing his hands around her hips.

"Mr. Bond?"

They both whipped their heads around to look at two men who had approached them. They were dressed in tailored black suits and similar ties. One wore glasses and an ear piece. Inconspicuous, Harry thought.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Bond," said the one who wasn't as obviously an MI6 agent.

Harry disentangled himself from his… ah, romantic interest. She picked up his backpack.

"We were under the impression that you were prepared to disembark with us?" Said the agent, as his eyes flickered to Mary. Harry briefly tapped his unshaven chin.

"I was told two hours ago," he replied. The agent 'ahh-ed'

"James, what's he saying? Disembark — are you leaving again?" Mary sounded almost hysterical. Harry almost groaned, he knew he should have left a note on the bed when he had left for duty that morning, telling her that it had been a one-time thing.

He turned to her. "Mary, I'm being called in to do a particular service, which I cannot decline. I'll be gone for a long time, so—"

"So you're breaking up with me," she said, placing her hands on her hips. "Typical," she whispered to herself. Then proceeded to slap him. Hard.

"That's for leading me on, bastard." She dropped his backpack on his foot, spun on her heel and ran off. Harry almost wanted to rush after her, but one look from the agent stopped him. The man was smirking.

"Shall we?"

Harry followed the agent into the car and as he slipped in, and the door was closed behind him, he noticed he was not alone.

Sitting there was a woman with silver, short hair. She had an air of understated elegance coupled with a no-nonsense attitude — Harry instantly liked her. Her stern, clear eyes stared at him seriously, countenance revealing no emotion at all.

And sitting next to her, was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline. He looked as unremarkable as could be. Under his arm, he held a leather bag filled with documents and folders.

"You're new," Harry said, dropping in the seat across her.

"I replaced M four years ago," she replied. "He retired." Her tone was cold and blunt. Harry took it as meaning that he had died.

The car began moving and Harry glanced out of the visibly tinted window: sailors barely gave them a glance as the car moved past them, too busy with their loved ones to react.

"You're James Bond," she said, opening a file that her aide had passed her. In the top corner was that same old picture of him from Cambridge. It shocked Harry to see how much he had aged and changed in the eleven years between then and now.

"Yes ma'am."

"Eton College (expelled at 15), Gordonstoun, Cambridge Law, Commander in the Navy. That's an impressive record," she commented. Harry inclined his head in a show of thanks, never mind if the first two institutions were completely untrue. This muggle identity needed a muggle education. Hogwarts would not have done.

"The trouble is, Mr. Bond, there is no record of you at Eton or Gordonstoun," she said. Her eyes wandered up from the paper to stare into his. She tilted her head to the side, expecting an answer. "Indeed, there is no record of you from before 1998. I wonder why that is… Mr. Potter."

"Ah," Harry said. He again rubbed his bearded chin. Well, at least the MI6 was competent enough to discover that. Although he wondered why they had just now.

"Make no mistake, we've known from the very beginning. My predecessor was… curious as to how you would proceed."

"I wish to leave that life behind, ma'am," he said, playing the respectful card for now.

"I see." She looked down at the file again, eyes skimming over texts that Harry was sure an analytical woman such as her had already read ten times over. She extended her hand to her aide, who passed her another file, this one she gave to him.

"You have been admitted to my branch, having passed all the requirements. Congratulations," there was absolutely nothing congratulatory in her tone. "However, you must, much like every other agent, earn the right to be a Double Oh. In that packet you will find information to your new address, alternative identities, and where to report on Monday morning. Good-day."

The car stopped and Harry was shown out. Seconds later, he was watching the sleek car leave him in the dust. Well, good riddance, he thought.

They had dropped him at a train station and upon opening the folder he'd been given, he found a one way ticket to London, and an address, keys and legal papers giving him a flat in Chelsea. Well, perks of the job.

Among other documents (three passports!), contracts and so forth, were two badges. One, a badge describing him as an employee of Universal Exports, likely a cover for the Secret Service. The second badge, was the one that excited him, for across the front, read the words: Bond, James. Level 1/5 clearance, junior operative, MI6.

I'm still very unsure about this story; there will be more magic at some point and probably some contact with the magical world, but for now I want to concentrate on transforming Harry into James Bond. You may have already noticed that he is somewhat more interested in a female 'companionship' than he was during Hogwarts hahaha

Guest reviewers: Mira-San: thanks!

Yes: Thank you!

To all other Guests and Anonymouses: Thank you all very much!