Kidpool the II and the Philosopher's Stone Chapter Seven

Deadpool belongs to Marvel Comics and Harry Potter to JK Rowling.
Insert Witty Snark Here.

Walking into the Headmaster's office, Harry had to take a second to marvel at all of the shiny. From trinkets to whatsits and whosits galore. There seemed to be an unending mass of useless junk. Although, considering this man's standing, he doubted much of it was all that useless.

In fact, it kind of reminded him a little of Weasel's bolt hole. Only more... organized.

"Good evening Mr Potter, I hope you are in good health?" The wizened old man asked, snapping Harry's attention back to him. The old man peered over half moon glasses, a small smile on his face, his eyes dull and sad. "Mr Malfoy cannot say much the same."

Harry flinched, he hadn't meant to shoot the guy. "Yeah.." he mumbled. Why, why was he mumbling? He never mumbled. Although, he always shied into himself around Xavier, but not quite to this extent. "He'll get better..." God that was lame.

"Yes, I suppose it was only a mild sedative you shot into him. Not all that nasty." The old man shook his head slowly, eyes closed in what seemed to be sadness. "Unfortunately, you have injured a fellow student, with a weapon designed for nothing else but causing harm." Harry's eyes darted up. "Oh indeed. Do not think me to be as ignorant of the non-magical world as the rest of my, no our, society." He quickly corrected himself.

"Now, I have heard accounts from all sides except your own, do not think I will not hear you out Mr Potter, I am not so unilaterally minded." Harry let out a sigh, expulsion didn't scare him. Not with his apparent fame, there had to be a school out there that would take him, hell, maybe one back in the States. However...

"No matter what, I'm not going to able to hold on to my guns am I?" Harry asked with a hint of bitterness.

"I do not condone weapons in my school Mr Potter, I find it disturbing that you have access to such weapons, in fact, in all honesty, it somewhat scares me that a child of your age seems to have such familiarity with it."

Sighing, Harry drew both Solid and Liquid out of their holsters, shifting into stance, the hammers were pulled and several echoing booms erupted, 9 points of impact slamming against the office window, spiderwebbing cracks across it.

"Mr Potter, what are you doing?" The old man asked, smile gone and voice like steel.

"Sorry, I just figured I'd use what was left in the clips." He smiled wryly. "Wouldn't want you shooting yourself in the face accidentally."

"I assure you Mr Potter, that when I said I understood what your weapons could do, I was not overstating my understanding." And Harry could see that there was no lie in the eye.
No, there was no ignorance in the old man's eyes. "Right, so... just how hard am I expelled?" Harry chuckled, flopping into a chair in front of the desk, Solid held out by the barrel for the old man to grasp, Liquid resting on the desk.

"Expulsion Mr Potter? I have not even heard your side of the story. This is a very finely crafted weapon though." The headmaster observed, eyes darting across every inch of the steel. "Military grade 9mm. Am I correct?"

"M9, American handguns. One customized for tranq rounds instead of normal bullets." Harry muttered distractedly, watching the old man examine the weapons. "You know, if you do want to expel me, I wouldn't mind. I'm sure I could find somewhere else to train me, somewhere closer to home."

"Ah yes." The old man said with a smile. "I am sure that you would have no trouble at all, no matter a previous expulsion on your records, the Americans would just love to be able that they stole the Boy-Who-Lived from us." He sighed. "Although, I suppose in a way, they already have."

"How do you figure?" Harry asked with a quirk of an eyebrow, only to stop at the Headmaster's own raised brow. "Okay, but I wasn't stolen. So far as I know I've always been American."

"That is true." The old man admitted with a bow of his head. "But I can assure you, you were born here and lived here, even if only for a year."

"But we aren't here to talk about my heritage, are we?" Harry smiled wanly

"No I suppose we aren't, let me hear your side Mr Potter."

"Well..." He hesitated, nervousness still flitting about his chest. "It all started with a girl who didn't want to kiss a toad..."

In most other situations, Harry would find the feathery softness of the pillow a welcome experience. The plush, overblown touch of goose down (Or maybe the down of some sort of Magical Bird, he didn't know) wrapping around his face was a luxury he almost never had, the only other place being Xavier's School...

'Ugh, Dad was right. They are both cults. Enrapturing today's youth with promises of power and comfy beds.'

No, he would have loved to enjoy the softness, but the distinct lack of Solid and Liquid kept gnawing at him. His very sense of security being thrown into chaos by the lack of even a single firearm on his body.

Groaning, he spun around onto his back, pulling the pillow around with him, smothering it over his face.

If today was indicative of the next seven years, the whole magic thing was going to blow.

Albus Dumbledore was the first person who would tell you that he was old.

There were very few Witches and Wizards who lived to see 150 and even fewer who retained and commanded as much strength and power as he had.
Yes he was old and, Magic be Good he would get even older, but there were times where he truly felt all 150 something years at its fullest.

Taking not one, but two firearms off of an 11 year old with a frightening familiarity for the weapons was one of them.

What had happened, where had his plan to see Harry to safety gone so wrong as to lead him to such a point? What had happened to the boy growing up with his aunt and uncle in Surrey?

And most importantly, how had the boy ended up with such a character as this Deadpool that Hagrid had encountered?

Heaving a sigh, he smiled as Fawkes let off a calming chirp. "I know Fawkes... it could be infinitely worse. He could be just as rambunctious as our old friend Tom... Or maybe I am doing as Amarldo did and letting the boy charm his way into my heart?"

A derisive trill.

"Hmm, of course not. You would have told me otherwise." Standing from his plush, highbacked chair, the old Headmaster strolled over to his Pensieve, wand stirring the silvery mixture of his memories, pulling forth the forms of two old friends. "I have always believed that, when it came to that fateful Hallow's Eve, I took the right course, made the correct choices." Staring into eyes that would never again recognise him, he sighed. "Lily... James... Was I right or have I failed him?"

The ghostly images gave no reply.

And the day is over. Finally.

Not much to say on this one other than excuses upon excuses, which, lets face it, are just pointless lip service so we aren't even going to bother.

As always, read, review and favourite! Unless you don't like it, then, I guess, go read something else.

Jordan gone.