Harry had a gun.
It sounded vaguely like something off that song he had once heard dear Duddeykins listen to before deriding as American trash. The surplus thought was washed away by the blinding pain that hit his entire body in the next millisecond.
Harry had been captured by Death Eaters - Those Fuckers.
The war had only been going full-throttle for the past year, but Harry felt seventeen going on forty-seven. He was angry, he was bitter, and he wanted to slaughter Voldemort, Voldemort's minions, and said minions' children - just to be thorough.
As the pain of full-blown Cruciatus faded, he was left with spotty vision, aching and trembling limbs, and an even more vicious desire to massacre the bastards (and their brats - and their pets, just for fun) in a very bloody way.
Luckily for him, he had a gun.
As far as guns went, it wasn't fancy. It was a Smith and Wesson snub, small and in good shape.
Those Fuckers hadn't known what it was, so they had left it in its holster. Idiots.
Harry smiled grimly. Blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth. The Fucker currently torturing Harry wasn't quite sure what to make of the smile, but this particular minion was one of the ones being slowly taken over by its use of the Dark Arts. It happened, and this was in Harry's favor as the nameless minion wouldn't have good judgment in a fight, just a reckless desire to use moremoremore.
Harry laughed weakly and ended up curling into fetal position and coughing blood on a floor that had layers of dry blood already caked on it. He looked up at the Fucker through gummy lashes and smirked a smirk made horrific by blood-stained teeth.
"That the best you can do?" Harry taunted. Not the most original, but he deserved leeway. He had been tortured for five hours, but it wasn't quite enough yet.
The Fucker snarled and jerked its wand impatiently. "Crucio!" it hissed venomously. It continued talking as it held the curse, but Harry couldn't and wouldn't hear it. He gritted his teeth so as not to scream and rode out the spasms silently.
Just a little more, he thought obsessively. Just... There!
The spell that had been restricting Harry's movements had finally broken altogether under the strength of one particularly violent arch of his back.
Harry had a gun, and he knew how to use it. As the curse was lifted, he spat out blood and looked at the Fucker with hard jade eyes.
"Hey, Fucker," he said, still breathing heavily and twitching violently. "Your Lord has been standing right behind you this whole time. Tsk."
The Fucker, enraged though it was by the disrespect, whirled around to see...nothing and no one behind him.
And it never saw anything again. In that instant, Harry pulled out his gun, aimed carefully with blurry sight, cocked it, and forced both his twitchy index fingers to pull the trigger.
The Death Eater crumpled seconds after the loud bang, its heart destroyed.
Harry nodded in satisfaction. Training had paid off.
Now he might be able to escape. He pulled himself to his feet and immediately collapsed again, this time closer to the dead dark wizard. He managed to sit up and sneer at the carcass. Harry kicked it, almost wishing the son of a bitch was still alive so he could pay back a few Cruciatus curses. Dismissing the useless thought, he crawled through a puddle of fresh blood to wrench the wand out of the corpse's hand.
Waving it experimentally, he muttered a few healing spells and reapplied the vision correcting spells he usually used. He felt marginally better after that, and the trembling weakness in his limbs faded greatly even without the spells working as strongly as they would have with his own wand. His mentality wasn't so different from the average Fucker's, really. (Kill the scum.)
He stood and checked his gun to make sure that the magical modifications he had made were working properly. The chamber was full - he had spelled it to be self-reloading. After all, the Smith and Wesson only had six bullets, and he planned on shooting a lot more than six of Those Fuckers.
Harry grinned and cocked his gun. His left hand held the wand he had confiscated, but he didn't use it. Instead, he shot the locking mechanism in the door to pieces. Bang-bang-bang-bang.
He was fairly sure that the sound would have Those Fuckers running to see if there was a problem, which was fine by him. He wouldn't have to hunt them down. With the Silencing Barrier that was up around the Torture Room, he had had time to recover. Now he was ready for lots of loud destruction and pest-control.
Harry was still grinning madly when the first one arrived. He shot the Fucker in both hands before it even realized what was happening. Then he shot the unlucky Death Eater in the groin, guaranteeing the Death Eater a long and painful death. Fucker Number One screamed Very Loudly.
"You're a bloody pansy," Harry informed the dying Fucker as he waited for more to kill. "You lot tortured me for hours, and I never screamed. Three bullets are all it takes?" He chortled shortly. "And you Fuckers call Muggles inferior, too. How do you like their weapons?" Fucker Number One continued screaming, and then Harry had to stop talking because more were running down the adjoining hallway. He Disillusioned himself quickly and stalked to the entrance to the hallway. A masked face popped out, and the white skull was shattered by a bullet to the forehead. Fucker Number Two fell to the ground silently, and Fucker Number Three yelped.
"Oh, Merlin! Jansen, are you alright? Please tell me you just tripped."
Harry smiled and whispered in Fucker Number Three's ear, "He's dead, and now you die."
And then Fucker Number Three was dead, and Fucker Number Four was staring at two corpses and one soon-to-be corpse. Harry could tell F.N.F. was pissing itself as it waved its wand wildly, shooting green Killing Curses that came no where near hitting the Disillusioned Harry.
He considered killing F.N.F. quickly, and then considered having some bullet-ridden fun with it. He grudgingly settled on shooting Fucker Number Four in the temple.
There were more to kill, after all.
Harry walked down the hallway Those (Dead) Fuckers had come from, figuring they had been on guard duty and their station point may lead to a way out. He felt like humming but manfully restrained himself.
...Really, he did.
And then he heard more footsteps, and he had to try even harder not to break out into a deadly song and dance. He cocked the Smith and Wesson quietly.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bangbangbang.
Fuckers Six through Ten dropped dead, and Harry started walking again -only he had missed one. How had he missed that one? The Fucker thought it was being sneaky, did it? Well then.
The Fucker deserved to be tortured a bit.
As Fucker Eleven slid through the shadows, past the group of dead bodies, Harry smirked and shot it in the knee cap. A howl rang through the hall -and was abruptly cut off as he Silenced Fucker Eleven with his borrowed wand.
The sudden quiet was eerie and exactly what Harry was going for.
He destroyed Fucker Eleven's other knee before firing several shots into the Fucker's right shoulder, gripping the arm, and ripping it off.
The Fucker's scream broke the weak Silencing Charm Harry had erected, and screams gushed from its throat as loudly and vehemently as blood gushed from its shoulder.
"That'll teach you not to try to be sneaky when you're right terrible at it," Harry told the crippled, armless Death Eater. He looked at the writhing, bleeding Fucker introspectively. "You know, I'm half tempted to keep you for Hermione's experiments. But... too much fuss for me. Lucky you."
He blasted Fucker Eleven in the gut and started strolling down the hall again.
That had been fun. After Fucker Thirty-Eight, Harry was beginning to get bored. Voldemort obviously wasn't picky about the quality of his minions. When Harry thought about it, he was probably doing the Fuckers a favor in killing them all before Voldemort got back from wherever the hell he was and discovered that his Fuckers had caught the Boy Who Lived... and let him escape.
/'Well, fuck/,' he thought, rather irritated at the realization. 'That just takes all of the fun out of it.'
After Fucker Sixty-Something, he found the entrance hall. Ambling coolly out the front door, covered in blood that did not belong to him and not smelling very fresh at all, Harry glanced at the brightly shining sun.
"Hmph. I thought it'd be a dark and stormy night. Where's the sodding rescue team already?"
A/N: Yeah, one of my reviewers at Ficwad requested a HarryWithAGun!fic. This was the best I could do. Well, I could probably do better, but I've read acouple of really great HarryGetsAGun stories and didn't feel like trying to top them, if I even could. I definitely didn't want to write a novel.
Still doing the guessing game! The first reviewer to correctly guess the meaning and language of the title gets to request a one-shot - main character, particular situation, and/or a certain line. Leave contact info, people, or you won't get your fic.
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