Fatal Attraction

Prologue

This chapter isn't edited in any way, shape, or form.

Disclaimer: I do not own KHR, HP, or it's characters.

Warnings: Mentions of death, . MOD!Harry.

A/N: I remember reading this story last summer, and was all like, "WOOOOOOAAAAH!?". It was so cool, I remember being so inspired and stuff to write again. And I did, at the end of that summer, because I picked up Shadowblayze's story idea-

"But why aren't you updating that one-" Shh.

All good things come with time. And how much time do people think I have? Do you guys think I'm a properly maintained adult? No, not really, haha. I'm a 19 year college freshman with a soda complex...

ANYWAYS- I PM'd williamsangel88 and was like, 'Yo. Sup. Can I adopt this story?' And they were like, 'Sure!'. And here we are- Don't worry, I'm working on other updates too, but I'm just so~ tired~!

I hope you enjoy!

"Grazie, bella donna~!" Ambrogio thanked the waitress with a conspiratorial wink.

"Signore Inglese, please," a light voice laughed, and a hand pushed at Ambrogio's arm playfully. Ambrogio grinned back, as the waitress rolled her eyes and tutted at him. "Just enjoy your meal, and tell me if you need anything, si?" With a wink of her own, she left to cater to other customers. This had been the usual routine between the waitress and Ambrogio for awhile now, ever since he found out about this little gem of a restaurant.

It had quickly became his usual 'hang-out', so to speak; you could almost always find him here, after his practice had closed for the day.

Piccolo Giglio was a nice family-owned restaurant, where the owner and staff welcomed Ambrogio like he was family. It was tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the main Italian streets, but still garnered customers lavishly. It was a cozy and homey place, and Ambrogio abused this relentlessly as he finally dug into his steamed pasta and wine, surveying the usual crowd of evening customers with a sharp eye.

Pasta was his favorite dish, ever since he experienced the joys of true Italian pasta- all butter and cheese, wholly unhealthy for you but it tasted good nonetheless. Italians were great at enjoying the luxuries in life, though Ambrogio was entirely content with just enjoying just the food rather than the expensive clothing and fast cars. This evening was going by particularly well, until a daughter of a local lord came bursting in, spilling in the warm summer's air into the restaurant.

"Signore Inglese! Signore Inglese, have you seen him?" She was obviously distraught, and wide watery blue eyes scanned the place until they landed on him. "Signore Inglese!"

"What is is, signorina?" Ambrogio had already risen from his seat, gathering his stuff up and leaving enough to pay for both the bill, the tip, and possibly a little more, on his table. "Is something the matter?" Her tan face was pale, and her lip trembled, she was obviously very shaken.

"It's Shamal," she breathed, and Ambrogio felt a tense moment of oh, before the elderly doctor was rushing out of the restaurant. The girl scrambled to follow, still winded from her frantic search for the doctor in the first place.

Luckily, Ambrogio knew exactly where to go, having experienced this many times before. As he finally reached the mansion, he managed to slip past the bodyguards and was focused on the slight flickering of presence that was entirely Shamal. It was dwindling, and Ambrogio made a face, quickening his pace.

"Medico!" The head servant had waved frantically at him, as he had finally reached the hallway where he could feel young Shamal's dwindling presence.

"Status," Ambrogio asked, as he hurried (or maybe ushered, the servants of the young Lord seemed rather impatient for him to just get into the room) into his patient's room. Slowing to a stop, donning a pair of reading glasses, Ambrogio listened as he was given a status report on Shamal. This poor kid was just a disaster on two legs: he was very prone to disease and illness, thanks to his practically non-existent immune system.

If his medical history could be translated into something readable, Shamal's would be a novel. Already, Ambrogio was forced to visit him at least 11 times this year alone- luckily, this time didn't seem to be all that bad. A minor case of the flu, paired with pneumonia. Well, that's what it looked like at first glance.

Something's flickering in and out of him, Ambrogio mused, as he checked his blood pressure and temperature; he kept a sharp eye out for any irregularities. After he was done with that, he rifled through his doctor coat's pockets for his favorite home remedy, and injected it into Shamal. Watching it take effect, Ambrogio felt a type of grim satisfaction.

Placing his hands on his young patient, Ambrogio pushed it in the warmth he could feel burning away inside his hands.

Of course, this was when the kid coughed. Opening a bleary eye, the kid squinted at him, weakly, before squeezing his eyes shut. "Oh, it's you, old man," Shamal managed, weakly. Ambrogio raised an eyebrow as the kid's hands, clammy and cold compared to his, pushed against his own hands, in an attempt to get him away. "Told you last time," he rasped, "Don't care for male hands."

Is that all he really cared about right now? Ambrogio snorted, and rolled his eyes.

"Then don't get sick, or at least, learn to beat your own failing system," Ambrogio told him, matter of factly. Now shut up, and, "Go back to sleep," Ambrogio said, pleasantly. Shamal opened his eyes to glare suspiciously at him, as if sensing his sarcastic thoughts, and with a lot of huffing, did as he told.

As he worked, Shamal slept in relative peace. Ambrogio's eye twitched when he realized how actually prone Shamal was, in the last month alone- he had to bite back a groan at how troublesome this boy was without even realizing it. Or maybe he didn't just care.

"Really, Shamal," Ambrogio muttered, exasperated. He gave Shamal another dose of his family remedy, and watched it take affect as he pushed it along with the heat carried inside of him. "You should take better care of yourself; I'm drawing enough attention as it is." But nooo, Shamal didn't care about a poor old man's heart or reputation, just girls, girls, girls- Ambrogio huffed, deciding to just focus on what he does best.

It hadn't taken long to develop this particular ability.

Especially when he showed such instinct with it during his medical studies. It was an ability to work in harmony with his family remedies, able to help spread medication and make it work faster than ever recorded before. Not even the Magical World, who he had served for 8 years, seen such magical means of spreading healing based potions throughout the body.

It was probably because they were so stuck in their belief that an outside source tampering with high potent potions to help speed up the process would end in disaster. Then again, they would have imprisoned him long ago if they knew Ambrogio had been using such potions on muggles. Because, oh sweet Merlin forbid him for helping those considered beneath the magical society.

Sure, there were some potions that didn't sit well with muggles, simply because they didn't have the magical means to help carry it through. Great game, wrong console, right? The Pepperup potion, for example, would create steam inside the body, and with magic, could be guided through the body and out the ears.

Those without the magical means had the steam build up inside their lungs, and well-

Pop!

During his examination period in Spain, Ambrogio could admit that he angered a few Families there, all of them seemingly related to Galician Mafia. It had reached it's peak when it came to light that his experiments were favored by a Boss of one of the more prominent Families. His exam took about a year, fleeing across the Mediterranean to Morocco.

Being spit out of several countries, Ambrogio had gained a reputation of being a very reliable doctor, with Death themself looming behind his shoulder. It was because of the experiments and medication that he had used to get to the point of being called that, Ambrogio supposed.

And it was one of the reasons why Shamal's Family called him here to Italy.

They didn't care about his past experiments or techniques, as long as he was able to stop young Shamal from being on the verge of death. A very hard thing to do, mind you, without how weak his immune system was, and the likes. But they trusted- it would be too much of a stretch to say that they trusted him, but they trusted his ability to save their boy.

Because surely one who could spread death could stop it as well, right?

Rubbing at his face, Ambrogio allowed himself to slump into a chair that was beside Shamal's bedside. Really, this kid was too troublesome and tiring to deal with. Brief thoughts of just cutting his losses and running passed through Ambrogio's mind, as he peered tiredly at the boy's resting face. He really considered it, but could he do that? To a boy with so much potential and to face illness after illness?

He really wasn't lying when he had told Shamal to find his own cures; it would save everyone the headache, especially both Shamal and Ambrogio. It would be easier that way.

Then again, if he kept giving advice like that out to the young boy, Ambrogio might just lose his source of current income. Ambrogio stole one last lingering glance at Shamal, before propping his own feet up on Shamal's bed, leaning back in his seat- he closed his eyes.

Might as well get some rest, it will be a couple hours at most before the brat awakes.

-0-0-0-

This. Fucking. Brat.

Ambrogio was dark as he followed Shamal down to the dining hall. Shamal was complaining to him, all while shooting flirtatious comments and winks at passing servant girls. Calm, Ambrogio thought wildly to himself, as Shamal almost looked close to sexual harassment. With a clenched smile, the elderly doctor none too gently slapped Shamal upside the head.

I will fucking end you. "You should really focus more on not getting sick than your rather poor flirting," Shamal protested here, but Ambrogio continued as if he didn't hear him. "If you keep this up, there will only be trouble." Ambrogio nodded, wisely.

Shamal looked like he wasn't buying it, though. "I don't see the point of it," he whined, crossing his arms and frowning at Ambrogio. With a flippant wave of his hand, he continued, "If I get sick, or injured, I'd just have you or some other doctor just come patch me up. Girls, on the other hand-"

The hallway darkened considerably, and a eery breeze went through.

The doctor was dark and threatening, as he growled, "You better start loving your body as much you love girls," he warned, "Or you'll die by the end of this year." There was an aura of threat around him, his blue eyes dull and brown hair seemingly standing on edge due to the odd chilling breeze that came into the hallway.

It lasted for a few more seconds, before the doctor made a face, and straightened up.

The aura and the lingering shadows in the hallway loosened, and went back to normal.

Ambrogio was calm, as he said, "It seems as if I'm not longer needed here." With a bitter smile passed to Shamal, Ambrogio turned to make his leave, "Good luck, kid; I'll be unavailable the next time you need me." With that, Ambrogio decided to make his dramatic exit and head out of the mansion.

"W-wait!" Shamal protested, trying to run after him. A considerable feat considering he was bed-prone and near death just mere hours before. "But you're a doctor-"

Sharp blue eyes made Shamal falter in his tracks, as he stared helplessly at the unrelenting doctor. Ambrogio wore a pitiless smile, as he said, "I don't treat those who disrespect themselves." With those words, Ambrogio left.

And never looked back.

-0-0-0-

Wow. He was harsh. Maybe he shouldn't been so harsh, Shamal was only a boy who didn't know any better, after all. It was against Ambrogio's nature to leave such a fragile child behind... Still, though, Ambrogio knew that the day had to come sooner or later- he was going to have to cut off all contact with the boy, and leave his rather cosy life in Italy. Because surely, breaking their 'relationship' would cause some ire within the Family-

And Ambrogio would be forced to flee for awhile.

He already had a destination in mind, and while it was turning on a complete dime, the harsh environment of the Arabian deserts seemed more comforting than being forced to actually deal with another pissy Family.

It was the life Ambrogio had to go through. Even if he had long since left the magical world, he jumped from the frying pan and right into the fire when it came to the mundane crime syndicate, the underworld. His reputation as a doctor was growing, and he needed to do damage control if he wanted to stay under the radar.

With that in mind, Ambrogio locked his door, and windows. He carefully packed up his stuff, and went to the bathroom to remove his disguise. Carefully removing the wig, Ambrogio winced and rubbed a hand through his dark unruly locks; his scalp ached from the built up pressure from the brown haired wig. Tossing that to the side, Ambrogio carefully continued as he undid the charms that were used to make the prosthetics stick to his face, grimace in place at the uncomfortable feeling of his skin being freed from them. Rubbing at his face, patting at his jaw, Ambrogio surveyed himself in the mirror.

Yep. Still 18. Wait-

Ambrogio leaned forward and carefully took out his colored contacts, blue eyes turning green; he hissed as they stung a bit at being pulled out so roughly, and he blinked to get his eyes used to the feeling of not wearing them.

Making an experimental face at himself in the mirror, Ambrogio let out a sigh at how his skin stretched uncomfortable at the action. Treating his face with facial cream to cure any irritations the prosthetics might have caused, Ambrogio was surveying himself with a dull expression.

It was getting kind of frustrating, to see the same youthful face every time. Ambrogio still looked 18, despite almost being 23. He wondered if he, once upon a time, could have chalked it up to just youthful looks; even if he knew that wasn't the case...

Leaving everything that was his disguise behind, Ambrogio gathered up his stuff, changing his outfits, and getting the hell out of dodge. His mind was still on his own youthful appearance, and as he ran out into the night, into the dense streets of Italy, he absently scratched the Deathly Hallow's mark on his neck.

Brief thoughts of ridding himself of the apparent curse raged in his head, though Ambrogio wasn't really sure there was a cure. Until he could find one, though, he would travel the world as a doctor, and try to curb his sense for trouble.

It wasn't as if he went actively looking for trouble.

Because Harry Potter never looked for trouble; it just seemed to find him, in the end.

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I'm thinking that I'm starting to hate writing now-orz

-mms