The Origin of the Idea

"Why don't you try writing in the style of someone else?" SpaceMary suggested.

"I suppose," the Squirrel shrugged. "I have been in kind of a crack rut lately."

"Pretty much everything's been crack fics lately," agreed SpaceMary.

"Who do you suggest?" asked the Squirrel.

"How about someone very different from you?"

"Like Hemingway or Longfellow? Jane Austin or Pick-a-Bronte?" the Squirrel continued, throwing out other authors with rather different forms of insanity than this author.

"How about Frank Miller?"

The Squirrel paused and looked at SpaceMary with trepidation and something akin to the consideration of locking Mary in Arkham for her own good.

"I don't like most of Frank Miller's work," stated the Squirrel. "He's a misogynist!"

"But you admit he's a talented writer with a style very different from your own," pointed out SpaceMary.

"Yes...but..."

"So, write Harry Potter as if written by Frank Miller," SpaceMary decided.

"...Okay...?"

Okay, for the record, I don't the greater portion of Frank Miller's work. I think he's a misogynist, a borderline psycho and he believes in his own work far too much. He has the annoying habit to turn any female character into a prostitute. Now, when I started this, I told myself and SpaceMary that I would try to do this. I wasn't going to go the same route and I think I did capture some of the feel of Frank Miller's early Batman work before he went flying off the deep-end.

I'm well aware that some people really love his work, and they're allowed their opinions.

Now, I'm going to say right now, that this is very different from anything else I've posted. Some people who expect my usual fare might not like this one. Others might like it a lot. There are more than a few things going on in this fic that I don't like and don't tolerate, but am putting in the fic because it works, not because it's a nice thing to do or have happen.

I'll also say, this fic is already written, I'm just posting it, so there won't be the same kind of wait on it than for my other works. I'm breaking it up because a 50+ page one shot just wasn't going to cut it.

But for those of you expecting me to pattern this after the Adam West Batman, well...I've added in a few omake joke scenes as well.

Oh, and thanks GreyWizard, Janessa Ravenwood and JediKnight for their help with this.

Walden Macnair was minding his own business as he strutted down the cobblestones of Knockturn Alley. He hadn't a care in the world and was actually quite gleeful. It was always nice when one was allowed to "take care" of a so-called light creature. The fact that the griffon was merely protecting its nest mattered little for the "former" Death Eater. All that mattered to him was his new bonus of gold in his purse and a few hours at the local brothel.

He began singing "Pappy let his Witch's Knickers Down" as a nasty jerk on his robes, just above his shoulder blades. Before he was even able to draw his wand, Walden found himself wrenched into the air, with the force of the jolt felt heavily on his neck. He landed in a lump on the rooftop of Borgin and Burkes. As he struggled to right himself, he heard the ominous sound of a thin piece of wood snapping under his knee. He glanced down and realized to his horror that, yes, he had just snapped his own wand. Then he woke again to realize that he wasn't alone.

Glancing up he saw the figure appear. It wasn't like apparation or the arrival of a portkey, but rather as if it seemed to melt from the darkness as the slight breeze blew the patchy London Fog from between them and the moon. Standing, or perhaps perched, before Walden was a figure: black as pitch and seeming to have no form save for a head and shoulders with two long jutting horns from its head that seemed to pierce the moon that silhouetted it from behind. Its eyes snapped open and glowed with an eerie white light.

"I want you to tell your friends about me,"the figure spoke. It was more of a half growl, scratchy and deep; in truth, it was not unlike the sound you heard from an angry Fenrir Greyback.

Walden wanted to protest against this treatment, that he was an upstanding member of the Ministry, but something caught his voice.

"Your old friends need to know something," the figure growled out. Two unearthly shaped hands reached out from the shadows of the cloak and hefted Walden up by the robes. "They need to know I'm not their enemy."

"Got a funny way of showing it," Walden managed to snark even as he focused on controlling his bowels. The hands holding him gave the wizard a snappish shake.

"I'm not their enemy,"the figure said, pulling Macnair up close so his pale glowing eyes were only inches from Walden's own. "I'm their nightmare."

"What are you?"

Though he couldn't see it, Walden seemed to think that the figure smiled. A dark, cold smile that was completely devoid of humor.

"I'm Batman."