The Last Gunfighter

The Last Gunfighter - I - More Than Meets the Eye

When Harry graduated from Hogwarts with the third-best marks in his year, and passed the subsequent Auror exams with the ease that only comes with defeating the reigning Dark Lord, Harry had braced himself. He knew the life of an Auror was mostly files, reports, and filing reports.

"Don't get your hopes up, Harry," Hermione had been warning for over two years, reminding him that with Voldemort dead, the 'action' he would see would be as pale as Nearly-Headless Nick in comparison.

Someone had obviously lied to Hermione.

He was still green, as far as Aurors measured things, with only three months of field experience under his belt, but measured against his time spent in the office, Harry was a veteran. He had never seen his desk, and wasn't sure if he even had one. He had been in the Ministry Building twice, in recent memory. Once, for his examinations, and again, for his formal reception as an Auror. The rest of his time had been spent as he was spending it now,

Leaning forward, Harry let his eyes drift out of focus as he stared at his drink. He took a long gulp, and set his mug back down with a clump and a sigh. He tried to run his fingers through dirty, tangled hair, and let it fall back in his eyes. If they could see him now, a wizard without a wand, or a spare knut, drinking his week's wages away.

They would laugh, and flip him a filthy coin, and waggle a finger as they told him not to spend it all in once place. They wouldn't recognize the great Harry Potter, cast down from his throne, and would tell him to move to a table in the back, as he was kindly occupying their favorite booth in the pub. They would roar with laughter as one of them pinched the waitress and offered her a galleon to give a little 'dance'. The laughter would be even louder when one offers that he didn't even have to pay for that Muggle girl's favors, he just had to 'ask nicely'. And there would be drinks all around, and words about how much better it was without being bossed around by Death Eaters anymore - they'd take what they wanted from who they wanted, thank you for asking.

And not a single one would notice when Harry knocked back the rest of his drink, stood up, and began his advance towards the small gang of wizards. They would laugh at a joke, and the boss would reach, grinning, to have a feel at what the waitress kept in the bosom of her dress. All in good humor, you see.

But they would always notice, the whole lot of them, when the hand didn't quite make it all the way to the prize. Harry would be standing there, stony-faced, with an iron grip on offender's wrist.

"I'll ask you to treat the lady with the respect she deserves, sir," Harry would say, staring into his eyes and tightening his grip ever-so-slightly.

And this is where the real magic happens, Harry thought, letting the grin he felt creep onto his face like a deathly mask, where every Dark wizard who thinks he's the next Voldemort (only less dead) does something a little different. This is what Harry lived for.

"And I'll ask you to back up before you've got one less hand, you fuckin' bum," Most Wanted Wizard Number Six menaced, with a look that tried to say "and I've done it for less" and fell kind of short. It's rather hard to manage that sort of look when you're staring down the business end of a wand, which Harry had drawn smoothly while their eyes had been locked in a rather comical parody of a lovers' gaze.

And, like a faithful lover, Harry didn't so much as bat an eyelash or look away when the five-wizard entourage drew in unison and directed their wands at Harry.

Harry took note of each of the men around him; their faces, their eye and hair color, anything distinguishing about them. Five men that wouldn't be leaving conscious, at the least, and he'd better have a good idea of what they used to look like, at the worst. Oh, and Number Six. If this were remotely fair, Number six would have brought another half-dozen wizards with him. Life's not fair.

"What we have here," said Harry, "is known as a Mexican stand off. If you try anything funny, this man gets a little taken off the top. If I so much as blink the wrong way, the same goes for me."

Number Six smiled back at Harry as if he were a cat in among the pigeons.

"So why don't you lower that little thing, they'll do the same, and we all go our separate ways? Hell, I'll buy you a drink on the way out, for getting the drop on me like that."

It was likely that the only drinks served would be over Harry's cold body. Harry guessed wryly that there wouldn't be any more drinks served tonight.

"Fair enough," Harry agreed, smiling a smile that might have belonged to another person, for all it refused to touch his face. He slowly lowered his wand and slid it back

into the case on his thigh, and raise both arms, palms outward, to show he had disarmed.

Just because you can't see his fangs doesn't mean a snake has none, Harry thought. Maybe the Slytherins were on to something with that.

"Now, if you'll allow me to refuse your offer, I'll be out of your way,' Harry said.

The men around him were now grinning like idiots, every wand still trained directly on his matted black locks. This man had to be touched in the head, interrupting them like this and then putting his wand away. Had to be.

"Now, boys," Six began, "This man knows a fair deal when he hears one, and he plays real honest-like. We'll let the lady alone, out of the sheer kindness of our hearts, won't we? And honor our half of the bargain. But we'll have to insist you stay. Jesse, demonstrate how persuasive our hospitality can be."

The man called Jesse kept his wand steady while the others slid theirs back into their sleeves, winked slyly at Harry, and spoke in a low, gravelly voice.

Imperio.