A/N: "Harry Potter" was created by Joanne Kathleen Rowling. "Hitman" was created by Garth Ennis and John McCrea. We owe them all so much.




"My name's Harry Black, and I kill people for money. Tomorrow's my eleventh birthday."


The door is blown off of it's hinges, splinters flying asunder. A cacophony of gunfire suddenly erupts like a fissure opening up in the stygian depths of the Atlantic Ocean. Six not-so-fine young men, and five grizzled bastards, now all dead. Now all freshly minted corpses.

"Are you guys a bunch of friggin' pansies or friggin' what? It's a kid! It's a-"







Fading Scream

"Kid? Kid Colt, maybe."


"I reside and work inside The Cauldron, basically the Wild West of Gotham City. Gotham is a Hell of a town, but if you lived here or watched the news, you'd already know that. We've got the highest crime rates in the entire country by far(tied with Hub City), a guy who thinks he's Rambo in a leather gimp suit going around beating people up in alleyways, plutocracy up the ass, and a goddamn friggin terrorist dressed up like a clown who for some odd reason hasn't been killed yet. Lots of people have tried, including yours truly, but the motherlover is slippery as hell. Not to mention all those other psycho losers who try to outdo him. The Rogues Gallery, as they are known, came to town after the clown crawled out from under his rock. Anyways, as bad as the rest of Gotham is, the Cauldron is that much worse...


"Harry, behind you! Oomph!"

A large, beefy man named Luke Cleary, half Jamaican and half Mick, who always keeps his back to the wall after he read about what happened to Wild Bill Hickock, sucker punches me in the jaw from the side of the door followed by a well timed crane kick, also to the face, to my good buddy Brit-Brit, knocking her out cold. With another swift kick, this time to my balls, Luke then beats me into near submission, and afterwords, cradles my now limp pre-teen body inside of his freakishly steroid enhanced arms. In silhouette, he could probably pass for that Bane guy.

"I'm gonna enjoy decapitating you, Lil' Harry. Then I'm gonna cannibalize your body and make your girlfriend watch."

I could see a vast array of cutlery inside the kitchen.


"...But The Cauldron is the only place I truly know. It's the only place I feel at home. In a way, I can understand why certain slaves are happy being slaves, or why certain battered wives are content enough remaining battered wives. I've been to other parts of Gotham City before, and have even been upstate once or twice, plus day trips to Canada and a vacation when I was eight to Hong Kong after Uncle Ringo whacked a particularly high level mobster accused of double dipping, but those places just felt wrong, unsuitable, for someone from my upbringing. The vast majority of my short existence has consisted of the same twelve blocks between Noonan's Sleazy Bar and the apartment Dad is hiding out in(School, for when I decide to attend, is in between those two points of interest). He's wanted by the law for a murder he didn't commit, like the A-Team.

My daddy's first name is Sirius, after the Dog Star. He stands about 5'11, and looks a little bit like Gary Oldman(not enough to be an impersonator, though). Dad says that everyone except for me in the family is named after a celstial body of some kind, and that none of them would ever want to meet me. They're all supposed to be aristocratic snobs, and would turn their collective noses up at me before I got the chance to introduce myself. Their loss.

So yeah, Dad is the black sheep of the family. The one they never talk about. The "independent" one who grew his hair long and engaged in numerous polyamorous relationships, sometimes as many as ten in one night. What? He takes good care of me.


Luke holds the hatchet to my throat and sighs deeply. Lovingly. I don't realize this at the time, but Luke has been fantasizing about cannibalizing someone, anyone, for a long ass time. He took both of my Desert Eagles from me too. Damn it, Pat loaned me those.

Brit-Brit says she doesn't believe in guns. Would much rather use melee weapons, she says. Honor, or something. I make fun of her on a regular basis for such naivete, since going outside without packing heat here in this neighborhood is such a wimpy, girly thing to do. I once asked Brit if she was practicing for her audition for the Teen Titans up in New York or was just trying to impress Nightwing with her escrima sticks. A red hand shaped mark that took two days to disappear was her response.

That crane kick must have knocked her out good, because she's still laying in the doorway, blocking the only exit.

On the radio, some Bob Dylan song I don't recognize starts playing.


Back to me and Dad. Did I mention we're both wizards?

We can do magic. Well, he can, anyway. I don't have my wand yet. The reason I've never been able to research anything about Dad's side of the family is because they have no records anyhow. Wizards and witches live in total secrecy from the rest of society, and on the rare occasions they are caught, they can just erase your memory wholesale. The government is supposed to be in contact with them, but wizards, thinking that they're better than regular folk, don't even feign diplomacy. So it's a strained relationship, you see?

Now you might be thinking: Superman. Martian Manhunter. Green Lantern. Aliens exist. Wonder Woman. Captain Marvel. Darkseid. Neron. Gods and demigods and other things beyond imagination exist. Batman and a million other high-tech superpricks who can imitate any of the aboves powers. Why would wizards even bother hiding? As I mentioned a sec ago, they're a haughty bunch of mofo's. They're all arrogant as hell, to a fault, even the supposedly nice ones. Whether it's an in-born trait or just a product of the culture, Dad's not really sure. That's why I'm not embarrassed about not meeting them. Dad says "They call you. You don't call them." He refuses to elaborate further.

All the other hitmen give Dad a hard time when he plays poker with them every week, but he's always quick to remind them how much more versatile a magic wand is than a gun.

Case in point: Using magic to give Hacken a pig's tail and ears(extra floppy). Funniest damn thing you'll ever see in your worthless life. I know that I'm going to grow old and die, and I'll never again witness anything funnier than him running around hyperventilating, trying to pull the tail out of his asscrack while Dad and Tommy and Pat mock him to Hell and back. Classic.


"I'm not gonna bullshit you, Harry. I'm no James Bond villain. There's not gonna be an opportunity for you to trick me while I'm in the middle of talking you to death about some plan for friggin' global domination. I ain't a supervillain. I'm just a regular Joe trying to make his way through this world. I don't know who the hell hired a ten year old, but I'm gonna get them too eventually, and eat them as well. Yum. Yum. Well, see ya, Harry. Life is shit, anyway. I'm doing you a favor."

The hatchet reaches it's crescendo, and edges down towards my awaiting flesh...


Christ, I'm getting ahead of myself. Hitmen, you say? I know hitmen, yeah. How else do you think I got this job?

The owner of Noonan's, my main hangout, is named Sean Noonan, and he was a contract killer back in the fifties. He also served in Korea. Nice man. He's filled with wise sage advice and witty anecdotes for any time you need one, like any good tribal elder should.

Pat is his nephew. He's not a killer, but he likes to pretend he is one. He sells guns to me and to Tommy, who I'll get to in a minute, though. He's somewhat of a middleman between the people ordering the hits and the ones carrying them out too. Pat likes to watch lots of bad exploitation films. Tonight we're seeing a double feature of "Boot Hill" starring Terrence Hill, and "Mistress Of The Apes", starring Jenny Neumann.

Hacken is the resident idiot savant. He's good at whacking people, sure, and he's no one you would want to get in a firefight with if you were on the other side, but he's such a...well, I don't wanna get into it. A class act.

Ringo Chen(the "Uncle" is an honorary title he self-appointed) is definitely the best of the group in terms of style and efficiency. He claims to average about one-hundred people a year, and I believe him. He's also incredibly sweet to me and a total gentleman all around.

But my best friend for sure is Tommy Monaghan. Even though he's an adult, Tommy treats me like I'm an equal. A comrade. Something about my eyes, he says. He says I have nice eyes. That might sound slightly creepy, but there's no one I would trust in the world other than my Dad, myself, Superman, and Tommy. Even Brit-Brit isn't that high on the list. Tommy looks "Don't F*** With Me" enough as well to prevent any Nelson Muntz's from picking on me at school. He just got back from the Gulf War.

Tommy also has a friend he met while in the War named Natt the Hat who he speaks very highly of, but I haven't met him.


The cold steel of the hatchet burned my throat as it was busy drawing blood. I could feel muscle being torn apart. I see Luke's toothy Cheshire grin staring inside my baby emerald's...

And then I was gone. I was back at the apartment. The first thing I saw was Dad having sex with some good looking broad on top of the futon. Oh crap, it was my English teacher.

Enthralled by Ms. Emmett, Dad didn't notice me on the floor with blood dripping down my neck.

I was in too much pain to speak at all, maybe Luke f***ed up my vocal cords, so I began banging loudly on the uncarpeted part of the floor.


"What the hell was that noise, Greta?"

Looking up from my instructor's tits, he then sees me.

Oh s***, Harry!"

Naked, Dad runs over to me as I nearly pass out. Grabbing his wand, sitting on a nearby lamp stand, he then traces his wand across my slashed throat, muttering a soothing sounding spell, and the wound then healed like it was never even there.

"The burning sensation you're feeling means that your muscles are refurbishing themselves."

"Thank you" I whisper.

"Who did this to you!?"

"L-Luke Cleary. At The Ashton Bar on 6th."

"That sonofa-"

Disappearing with a loud crack, same as I did, and still naked, Dad went to go kill him.

Ms. Emmett hides her "shame" with a couple of throw pillows.

"So how are you liking Ivanhoe, Harry?"

"F-fine. How long have you known?"

I pant while I talk.

"When you got your haircut that one Tuesday in March. The next day it grew all back."


"Avada Kedavra!" he screamed, not quite loud enough to shatter glass.

Luke hits the wall, dead. He never had a chance.


Ms. Emmett got dressed. I promised not to look at her while she did, but I took a peek anyway. Hope she didn't notice.

"Don't tell anybody about this, Harry. I would most likely get fired."

"I won't, Ms. Emmett."

"Pinkie swear?" she asked, offering her pinkie.


"Please. For my sake."

"OK" I said, rolling my eyes. Our pinkies connected, and the promise was then sealed.

"See you on Monday, Harry."

"Yeah, you too" I said, still rubbing my throat.

And then she closes the door behind her. I hear her use the rundown elevator, and then see her walking past my window below and into her Buick Reatta.

All alone, I sigh heavily. Theatrically, even. Then I turn on the TV. Doug is playing on Nickelodeon. I sit down on the futon to watch it.


About a half hour later, Dad returns home. An evil look was cast upon his face. He then sat down to tell me everything. That's what I like about my Dad. He's honest.

Brit-Brit was dead. Decapitated like I was supposed to be. Her body was completely drained of blood like the Black Dahlia. Dad found Luke sitting crosslegged in the kitchen licking the remnents of her blood from the base of her gory throat like a cat.


Prepubescent Scream Attempting To Sound Like An Adult Roar

Sorry, I can't finish this. It's making me well up-


That Evening At Noonan's Sleazy Bar-

"You don't hand out jobs like that to kids!"

"Well when the hell did you start?!"

"Not at age ten! I hadn't even layed hands on a piece by that age. You should know! You were there right with me!"

"I'm sorry! I f***ed up, OK? You know how much this hurts me? How much it tears me apart inside to see a young girl die? I told Harry not to take her!"

"You shoulda told Harry not to go either!"

"He woulda gone anyways!"

"Then you shoulda told Sirius! He's a friggin' meta, Pat! He would of put a friggin' hex on him or something to stop him from going!"

"I- I didn't think of that."

"Since when do you think?"

Pat sighed deeply, heavily. That one stung, I could tell.

The arguing stopped, and then I heard Tommy light up a cigarette.

"Can Sirius bring people back from the dead?" I heard Pat ask from behind the door.

"No", said Tommy. "That was the first thing I asked him when I saw what that wand of his could do. He can't bring people back from the dead. One of the Five Laws Of Magic, or something like that. Who makes this crap up is beyond me. Maybe Ernest's friend Vern."

"Well watta 'bout making her into a zombie or a lich? Y'know, with a necromancy spell? Or do those not really exist?"

"Hacken, what the hell do you know about magic?" asked Tommy.

"D&D" said Hacken.

They all had a good laugh about that one. That's the thing about contract killers. Gallows humor and non sequiters is how they deal with EVERYTHING.


The rest of the day I felt numb. Useless. I wasn't old enough to grasp why people comitted suicide, but if I were, I might have considered it.

Dinner was eaten mostly in silence, with the occasional stray comment popping up to remind ourselves of how sorry we were. Me for going in unprepared, for panicking, and for letting my friend die. Dad for allowing myself to think up something so stupid to begin with. He said he hasn't raised me right, and that things were gonna change soon.

A little TV time, a little game of Gin Rummy, and then off to bed. I had been planning to go to Pat's to watch movies with him, like I said earlier, but I just couldn't do it. Gave Pat a rain check over the phone.

Dad tucked me in, something I had been refusing lately, thinking myself too mature for such infantile coddling. It felt great. He also confiscated my Desert Eagles that he found at the restaurant, the ones Luke Cleary stole, but I always keep a few backups and a couple thousand of rounds of ammunition under the floorboards of my bed in case of emergencies. Boy Scout rules without ever being a Boy Scout. Got it all from Pat too, natch.

Around Midnight, there was suddenly a knocking, a wrapping at our apartment door. Sounded like a friggin' battering ram.

"Hagrid" I heard Dad say. "It's been ten years. How are you, good buddy?"

"Did you really do it, Sirius? Did you really kill those people?"



"I believe you. Now where's Harry?"

"He's in his room. He should be sleeping right now, but he probably isn't. He's listening to us as we speak, I expect. You know how James was. He takes right after him."

"Can I see him? I have his Hogwarts letter right here."

"Oh my. And cake as well. Did you bake it yourself?"

"That I did" said the other voice, joy suddenly cropping up in his voice. "But don't open it just yet. I want Harry to see it first."

"Take a seat, old man. I have some things in the pantry that I can make us for a little Midnight snack."

"Heh. What a little Suzy Homemaker you turned out to be."

"Hey, I'm still a manly man. You should of seen the chick I was shagging today."

Dad then goes on to describe Ms. Emmett in some perverse and occasionally sexist terms that I won't describe here. You can all use your imaginations. I have to admit that she IS smoking hot. Also, Greta Emmett was only twenty-five. Dad was thirty-one. She could be my Mom. I wouldn't mind.

I still don't understand who this stranger was, but he's got a Scottish brogue. Sean Connery?

What the hell was Hogwarts? Oh wait...the school for wizards. The school that Dad says he went to. Was I supposed to go there? I hope not. I like it here in The Cauldron.

But maybe Dad was right. Things have to change.

I faded off to sleep as I heard Dad and the stranger, Hagrid, talk about owls and letters Dad's been holding back from me for weeks and some You-Know-Who I'll eventually have to face. As intriguing as all that sounded, I was too depressed about Brit-Brit to care. I'll deal with all of it in the morning.