Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters are the creation of JK Rowling. Except for the few that I created, but never mind those nobodies.

Chapter 1

Harry Potter quietly opened the creaky door to the house he shared with his wife and two sons. It was late, very late and the only thing he could think about after being away from his family for entire week was sleep. A rare occurrence for the Auror who usually made a priority to shag his wife senseless after a mission. But not tonight, and for that matter- not for awhile. His youngest son, Albus, was only three months old and never managed to make it through the night without waking up. Two year-old James was no better, he continually found excuses to sleep in his parents bed, much to Harry's annoyance.

He slipped off his boots and flung his jacket onto a chair in the dining room before pulling out a bottle of firewhiskey from the cabinet. He poured a little more than usual into a glass and sipped slowly. The past week had been hell- apparating from one rainy location to another in an effort to round up the last of Voldemort's deatheaters. He had defeated Voldemort at age 17, and at 26 he was still trying bring his minions to justice- a frustrating fact of life. The mission had lasted a total of five days and he brought three deatheaters to Azkaban to await their sentence. The past two days however, had been spent on a personal mission. In nearly all of his missions assigned by the ministry, he managed to fit in some time for himself- time that he never mentioned to anyone. If anyone did ever find out about his activities in such situations- the end result would not be pretty.

There was no denying the fact that Harry was a hero, he had been considered one since he was an infant and he still couldn't shake the title. Always modest, he couldn't help but cringe on the inside whenever the Daily Prophet referred to him as a hero in an article, or even when Ginny whispered it into his ear at their most intimate moments. Hero, he hated the word and all the hype it generated. He didn't have superhuman powers, just bad luck. The bad luck to be cursed with a deadly path before he was even born. The bad luck to lose his parents so early in life and be sent to live with the Dursleys.

Harry shuddered at the thought of Vernon's booming voice and fat, red face. He quickly downed the last of the glass before refilling it. If anything it was the Dursleys that did this to him- that instilled the dark rage that he could never shake off, that was always brewing beneath his skin and could never ever boil over in front of others. He had come close a few times in his fifth year at Hogwarts- he shouted and sulked like most teenagers. But then again he also almost bit his headmaster and destroyed the old man's office at the end of the year. But in a way, fifth year was a blessing- he learned his fate, his life's purpose. Kill or be Killed. Why not spend the summer practicing?

He was still too young to do magic outside of school at the time, but you didn't need a wand to take another life. And finding suitable victims would be easy, maybe not on Privet Drive but definitely in the scummy parts of London. It wouldn't be about learning how to kill, but to get used to killing. He had heard about the mental problems that soldiers would come back with from war. Killing could not only hurt the victim and his family, but also the killer. He couldn't have any of that, he couldn't kill a death eater and then cry about it. Letting his guard down was not an option. So that summer, Harry Potter armed himself with his aunt's best carving knife and snuck out several times during the hot summer nights to find a target. Nightfall ensured good cover and a pair of Dudley's leather driving gloves would limit his vulnerability of being caught…as if anyone really cared about a few dead bums.

It wouldn't be the first time he ever killed anything. There was the Basilisk in his second year, and Professor Quirell in his first. But even before that, the golden boy of the Wizarding world had been killing whatever unfortunate creature crossed his path when he was in the wrong mood…

Seven year old Harry was running down the street at top speed. Dudley and his gang were big and slow, but Harry was tired from not eating a thing all day. His aunt refused to let him eat breakfast after he burnt the toast and further punished him by refusing give any lunch money. He would have to hide or else he would be caught. He quickly turned the corner and darted in between houses and backyards. He wasn't sure where he would end up, but for now he just needed to get those buffoons off his tail.

His breath grew shorter, and Dudley's gang was nowhere in sight. But he could hear their shouts coming closer. He hastily dove under in between some nearby bushes, only to cry out in pain. They were rose bushes, thorny rose bushes. He muffled his crying with the back of his hand while examining the bleeding pricks on his arms and knees. The voices became louder, then softer, then silent. After a few more minutes of hiding, Harry rolled out from underneath the bushes and absently sat on the lawn, not caring if the owner stuck out their head to yell at him.

Everything seemed wrong to him, the unfairness of the world was not lost on Harry Potter, despite his young age. He was a good boy, or so he thought. He finished all his chores and did well in school. He was polite to other children even if they were mean or just completely ignored him. But then there was his cousin, Dudley. Dudley never did anything around the house, opting to instead sit in front of the television and stuff his face with candy and ice cream. His grades at school were never good, not that his parents were too concerned. He was mean to anyone who wasn't in his gang of equally mean boys, especially Harry. And yet, Dudley had everything.

Dudley had parents.

What did Harry have? Nothing. He angrily tore a fist of grass out of the earth and chucked it in frustration. He did it again a few times before he realized it didn't make him feel any better. With a sniffle, he hopped back onto his feet and looked around at his surroundings for something to hit. The rosebush perhaps? But the thorns…

He spotted a stick lying on the ground and grabbed it without a second thought. He started whacking the rosebush, watching the soft petals come undone and float to the ground. But then a noise from the bushes stopped his attack. He was breathing heavily, but he was no longer crying and his cuts didn't even hurt anymore. He used the stick to push aside the branches of the bush to see where the noise was coming from. He didn't have to look that hard.

A Calico cat and two kittens walked out from the bush and mewed softly at Harry. He snorted in annoyance. He never liked cats, mostly because of the time he spent in Mrs. Figg's house when the Dursley's went out. They smelled funny and their litter boxes smelt worse. He could remember on one occasion when he was a bit younger; he was trying to play with a grey tomcat, tempting him with a piece of yarn. But instead of swatting at the string, he had aimed for Harry's hand. By the time he had pulled his hand away from the retched animal, it was already covered in gushing red scratches. Mrs. Figg yelled at him for "teasing" her cat and then proceeded to clean his cuts with a very painful clear liquid.

Harry had been so enrapt in the memory that he didn't even pay attention to the stick in his hand until it came down hard on the head of the mother cat. He brought in down several more times to make sure she wouldn't be getting back up. He was surprised to see the two kittens still standing there instead of fleeing. They looked scared and wide eyed, but they continued to switch between looking up at Harry and then down at their unmoving mother. A thought came up in his head amongst the shock and slight confusion he had been feeling. Harry raised the stick high and brought it down hard on one of the kittens. Unlike his mother, there was no need to repeatedly hit him.

The remaining kitten jumped in fright before running back into the bushes. Harry didn't bother making a move for him. They were on the same level now. Both alone and sad. Both without parents. At least someone would know what it was like to be him, even if it was just a stupid cat. He dropped the stick and started walking home. He felt different. Not necessarily good, but better than he had been. He didn't quite know what he was feeling or how to describe it- but he liked it.

Harry snapped back to reality and polished off the last of his drink. He grunted in annoyance, still feeling a bit wired from his thoughts of the past, not mention his latest kill. Morton Ulrich- a muggle, and a very bad one at that. Harry had first read about him in a muggle newspaper he came across on his mission and knew he would have this man dead by the end of the week. A convicted child molester who had just avoided twenty years in prison for the rape of a ten year old thanks to his slick lawyer. Harry spent a day following him, learning his routine. And then he made his move.

He could still hear Morton struggle against the rope that tied his limbs down to flimsy folding chair. A quick slice of the throat and it was all over, well the fun part anyway. It took him a few hours to cut Morton's body into portions that would fit into plastic garbage bags, and cleaning up the scene of blood and anything else was always tedious. Technically, there was no need to dispose of the body or clean up the crime scene. Even if muggle authorities found his DNA, there was nothing in their computer systems to trace it back to him. The only thing he didn't do was use magic, although it would make things so much easier, he couldn't risk the Ministry doing a test on his wand to see what spells he had been using.

With a sigh, he poured a half glass and gulped it down. Feeling well enough for bed, he started walking up the stairs as softly as he could. Walking down the hallway, he made it past James's room, and then Albus's room until he finally reached his own door. All he had to do was get in bed without awaking Ginny and he was golden. She slept like a rock anyway, except of course when…

And then he heard it. It started off as a soft mewling, but quickly escalated into wailing screams. It was time for Albus to eat. Harry groaned and turned around to fetch a bottle from the kitchen, no use in waking up Ginny. He was halfway down the hallway before he heard his own bedroom door creak open.

"Harry?" Ginny's soft, sleepy voice called out. Harry spun on his heel and swiftly, though quietly made his way to her. Her long crimson hair was a bit tousled and her eyes were half closed, but Harry thought she looked amazing in the soft light of the hallway, not mention the obvious lack of bra underneath her night gown. He gathered her in his arms and molded his mouth to hers. Ginny complied with a soft moan and lazily raked her fingers through his already disheveled hair. "When did you get back?" she asked after they broke apart.

"A few minutes ago. I was about to come to bed, but it seems Albus has other plans for me." He smiled.

"You must be exhausted, I can take care of him for now. Why don't you get to bed?"

"No, you've had to take care of both the boys on your own for a week. I don't mind." He reassured her with a kiss on the forehead. "Go back to bed love, I'll be in a bit." Ginny smiled sleepily and walked back into their bedroom. Albus's wails of hunger continued.

Harry quickly made his way downstairs and grabbed a bottle of Ginny's breast milk from the fridge. He performed a heating charm on the bottle while walking back upstairs, one of the advantages of being a wizard parent. He set the bottle down next Albus's crib and lifted the boy into arms, rocking him softly to quiet the screams. Albus took hold of the bottle with his mouth and suckled happily.

His soft black hair wasn't very long, but it had the same messy appearance as Harry's. And although it was hard to see in the darkness of the room, Harry knew that Albus's eyes shined a bright green just like his own. It was with an unspoken of pride that he first examined his second son. James looked more like one of his Weasley uncles than he did his own father- red hair and freckles with a bottomless pit of a stomach even at his young age. Albus on the other hand looked just like him. Maybe he would one day even be a Gryfindor seeker like his Dad. But this one was a long way from getting his Hogwarts letter, much to Harry's delight.

Albus released the now empty bottle from his mouth and Harry brought him up to his shoulder and patted him lightly on the back until he was rewarded with a small belch. He brought him back down looked into his son's half-closed eyes.

"You're really the only I can tell this to, because I know you can't tell anyone." Harry whispered. "And even if you could talk, you wouldn't rat out your old man would you?" he smiled. Albus yawned, which he took as a 'yes'.

"Your Daddy kills people." Harry said softly. Albus closed his eyes and drifted to sleep. "Let's try and keep that between you and me, alright?" He placed Albus back into his crib and walked out to finally get some sleep…

Fifteen year old Albus Potter jerked awake from the confusing dream that had been haunting him for two months. The young wizard ran a hand through his shaggy black hair, making a mental note to ask his mum for a trim today. He turned onto his side to get a look at the bedside alarm clock. Seven in the morning; much too early to be awake during the summer holidays. He closed his eyes to force himself asleep. He had been having the same dream for most of the summer. In his dream he was just a baby, lying in his crib, feeling alone and hungry. A much younger version of his father walked in and put a bottle to his lips. His father would hold him protectively in his arms and muttered something about a secret. As he held his infant form, his dad would always say the same line-

"Your Daddy kills people. Let's try and keep that between you and me, alright?"

And then he would wake up. The first time, he shrugged and fell back asleep. Several nights later he had the dream again. He dismissed this, confusing the dream as something only happened once. Much like his father, he was terrible at Divinition. But when he had the dream for a third time- he started to ponder the significance. The past week, the dream had occurred every night. It was driving him over the edge. Boys his age were supposed to fall asleep and have dreams about seducing their classmates and sometimes older birds into a tangled haze that turned into sticky sheets and a sweaty brow upon awakening. Instead he was looking down at his infant self as his father confessed that he was a killer. And to not talk about it. Was it real? A repressed memory of sorts? Or was it just a distorted fantasy trying to fool his mind into becoming some sort of Oedipus complex case? He shuddered at the thought of trying to shag his own mum. Something was wrong, he hoped it wasn't himself.

This is my first attempt at a Harry Potter fic. I've always liked to think of Harry as a person with an inner darkness that could never be revealed in order to protect his loved ones, much like the character of Dexter Morgan from the Showtime series. Let me know what you all think- good, bad and indifferent.