Harry Potter: A Tale of Revenge

Harry stood, disillusioned on the Turkish mountainside overlooking the poppy fields. Most of the fields he'd passed in the last few weeks were bare, the winter harvest having already been brought in months ago, sold to the muggle government as part of a UN agreed effort to crack down on the drugs trade. Those harvests were being processed into medical grade morphine to help prop up the world's very real shortage.

But not these fields, oh no. These fields—in a remote mountain province, hidden away from prying eyes—were halfway through an additional, illegal, summer harvest.

Harry uncorked the vial of a carefully measured out ageing potion, which he'd bought in Istanbul's Grand Bazaar, and swigged it in one gulp. Ugh. he shook his head. Foul tasting as always. A second later he felt himself getting taller, and anyone who could see him would tell him he now looked to be in his mid-twenties. He'd stay looking that way for a good six hours, or until he drank an antidote.

Cancelling his disillusionment, Harry walked down the mountain path towards the lone building near the fields. He stepped inside. Concrete floors, concrete walls, and a sheet metal roof. Around the wall edges, Various machines lay in questionable states of repair, Metal barrels were stacked in a corner, and in the middle, crouched three men, hunkered down over a metal barrel on an open fire, sieving what looked like chalky sludge over the top.

"Hello," he called out, in the little Turkish he'd picked up over the last few weeks. Voldemort had learnt many languages in his quest for obscure magical knowledge, but Turkish wasn't one of them.

"Hello friend," answered one of the men, presumably the boss — he had that older, done-everything look. He sounded uncertain. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking to buy"

"Buy?"

"Yes"

"The goods?"

"Yes"

"Oh, I cannot. I must sell to my buyer."

"Would you be willing for a higher price?"

"No," he shook his head and held his hands out, palms open in front of him. "I'm sorry, my friend."

"Like, double your usual price."

The man paused at that and looked deep into his eyes. Harry's legilimency could feel desire, greed, and longing for what such a deal could do for his family, but also reluctance to damage the business relationship he had with the men who bought his summer crop.

"I can buy your goods every year for the next three years."

"…"

"…"

"How much do you want to buy?"

YES! Harry did a little mental jig while keeping his face impassive. "How many acres do you grow?"

"Five."

"So, you yield, what? Three to five kilos?"

"I have four kilos now. By tomorrow, I will have another one kilo."

"And your price?"

"Well, normally we would sell for 1,750 Lira per kilo, so your rate would be 3,500 Lira."

Harry could see the mental math flying through the man's head, the margins, expected bluffs, and mild hope to get an even better deal. "Ahhh, I know what this sells for, sir. I can pay you 2,500 Lira for each kilo." That put the price below the man's true price by the exact amount the man had priced above it.

The man smiled knowingly, seeming to slip into full-on haggling mode, and placed a big arm around Harry's shoulder. "Oh. My friend. You know I am taking a big risk selling to you. I cannot take less than 3,250."

"Well, I understand about risks… See here, I have the money, right here, for our deal." Harry brought out a wad of bills from his pocket. "2,750 and we can do the deal right now for the first four and I'll come back tomorrow for the last one."

"Ahh, You drive a hard bargain. Tell you what," the man said while patting Harry firmly on the shoulder, "You go up, I go down, that is the way of things, Yes? We meet in the middle. Three thousand a kilo and we both have a fair deal. Okay?"

"Okay," he said smiling, turning around and holding out his hand.

They shook.

...

Harry was soaked. The rain poured down from the sky in torrents, giving not one wit to the precious cargo he had stored in his backpack, wrapped up in a dozen layers of plastic bags and wrapping.

The cloudy night sky made it pitch black and he could barely see in front of his nose. The only good thing, he reflected, was that if he couldn't see anything that meant no muggle on the British coast, looking out to sea, could see him either.

He was nearing the border wards now, he knew. He could feel the slight hum of their magic against his skin as he floated forwards. The buffeting of the wind was making it very difficult… Ah. There. Yes. He could just sense the first ward in the line — the wizard detection ward. He concentrated on the space, some five metres in front of him, and with a definite, crack, felt the weight of the ward shift from his front to his back, only to be replaced with a new magical pressure in front of him, the anti-apparition ward line.

Harry continued his forward push, feeling the magic of the ward build up as he passed through and dim down as he came out the other side. The final ward, a key-in portkey ward, presumably for sanctioned international portkey travel, was similarly flown through, and Harry found himself back in good old English airspace, still soaked to the bone of course, but it was definitely English rain now.

He hoped it was a bit dryer up in Scotland before disappearing with yet another loud crack.

...

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