Summary: At six years old Harry Potter becomes the heir to a Somali Warlord. This story follows his life from six to sixteen years of age as he grows up in a country ripped apart by war before being dragged into the one waged against Voldemort. AU – eventual slash HPDM – dark!Harry
Disclaimer: If I owned the HP universe, I would currently be vacationing in Fiji with Tom Felton. Sadly, I am sitting in an apartment in the middle of a construction zone… bows down to JK Rowling
WARNINGS: Extreme violence, adult language, rape, non-con, character death (non-main character), drugs, abuse, psychological manipulation, extreme OOC, slash
A/N: This idea came to me in the midst of studying for finals. I have a particular interest in Africa varying from politics to agriculture and infectious diseases. I wanted to write a 'realistic' story to show the seedy side of the politics there as well as the dirty things the people get up to. This is in part inspired by the movies 'Blood Diamond', 'Lord of War' and the other recent movies on this very subject.
About two-thirds this story will be about Harry growing up in Somalia and all of the bloody history happening around him. It will eventually be HPDM, but it's going to be a long time in coming. This is a history lesson for all, and a reality check for most. Take the warnings seriously.
1979 – Idris Nasri Abri becomes a Warlord in Mogadishu.
1985 – Idris' family is killed.
1986 – Revolution begins in Somalia; Harry leaves Little Whinging with Idris.
1989 – President Mohamed Siad Barre orders a civilian massacre in Mogadishu.
1991 – Barre overthrown; revolution ends; civil war begins.
1992 – Operation Restore Hope launched.
1993 – Voldemort regains his body via an enchanted journal; Ma-alinti Rangers (the Battle of Mogadishu)
1996 – Harry goes to Hogwarts.
It was a well known fact that Vernon Dursley ran Grunnings, an oil drilling company based out of Nigeria. The Dursleys made sure everyone knew about their success. What was not well known, however, was precisely how the company started. Most people assumed that the initial capital came from a bank or a family loan, the normal way people obtained money. The Dursleys did what they could to encourage those rumors because if people had known the truth, they would have looked upon the well manicured, normal house in horror. The quiet little neighborhood would have been rife with gossip about how the Dursleys had sold themselves to the Devil himself.
As it was, the cookie cutter, suburban neighborhood had little to gossip about until one evening when a shiny black limousine pulled up to Number 4 Privet Drive and several black men in expensive black suits stepped out. They were all very curious as to why their quiet neighbors had such august guests and telephones up and down the street were ringing with rumors as to who these men were. The fact that these guests were black in a predominantly white area only fueled the gossip.
Unlike his neighbors, Vernon Dursley was not in the least bit curious as to why these men had appeared. He was terrified. He had known who he had signed a deal with all those years ago in order to borrow the money for his company, but at the time he had thought nothing of it. He did not truly realize how dangerous these men were and the reality of what reneging on their deal would mean.
Idris Nasri Abri was well known in the underworld as a ruthless man; it was the only way he had survived and thrived all his years. He had grown from a child begging for food in the gutters of Mogadishu to the Warlord he was today. His trials were written all over his face. He had several scars on his dark, smooth skin, the most predominant of which looked rather new. It ran down from the bridge of his nose to bottom of his cheek bone on the left side of his face. He had gotten that scar from the attack that took his wife and son six months previously and wore it as a reminder of what he had to live for.
The Warlord ruled over the southern portion of Mogadishu, Somalia with an iron fist, both via war and economics. He had his fingers dipped into pots all over Africa and had funded his empire through these ventures. Part of the reason he was so successful, other than his high level of innate intelligence, was his reputation for showing no mercy. People simply did not renege on their contracts with him. This was precisely why he and his associates were in Little Whinging that evening. He had lent money to Vernon Dursley and had not received any payment in return. He knew the company was doing well and even if it hadn't been, there still would have been no excuse.
Petunia regained her composure more quickly than her husband, perhaps not recognizing the gravity of the situation and plastered a smile over her horse-like face.
"Gentlemen, would you care to join us for dinner?" Petunia gestured towards the dining room just off of the kitchen.
Idris gave a half bow and responded in his rich tones, "We would be honored."
Petunia turned to two boys previously unnoticed by the group. One boy was the epitome of the word corpulent, his chins dwarfing his excessively round face. Idris estimated that he was around six years of age and briefly wondered if the boy would surpass his father in size before his majority.
The other boy, however, could not have been any different even if he tried. He looked a couple years younger than the first boy, probably no older than four. His young age was made even more obvious by the clothes he appeared to be swimming in. While the first boy looked dangerously overfed, this one was simply emaciated looking more like he belonged to a refugee camp than the affluent neighborhood in which he lived. Looking at the boy's face, Idris was startled by bright green eyes ringed by ugly glasses that looked far older than they should. The child's dark mop of hair was wild and covered most of his forehead, but couldn't cover the entirety of the dark scar marring his right brow. Idris was curious as to what would mark the face of a child so young.
"Duddikins, weren't you supposed to be visiting Piers tonight?" Petunia asked, her voice sounding very strained.
The pig-like boy looked at her, obviously confused, "But…"
"Remember?" Petunia interrupted, "you were supposed to go 15 minutes ago. Give Piers a call! Don't worry about coming back late. In fact, why don't you stay the night?" Petunia pushed Dudley up the stairs. Idris was amused, having seen this reaction from many parents when visiting. They were worried that he was a danger to their children, something that never ceased to entertain his entourage.
Once Petunia and Dudley disappeared up the stairs Vernon seemed to snap back to reality. "Umm… would you like something to drink?"
Idris looked at the nervous man appraisingly, enjoying how the silence seemed to unnerve him, "Yes, please."
Vernon turned and barked at the waif-like child, "Boy, go fetch five glasses and a bottle of Martell."
Idris raised an eyebrow, curious as to how a child would know different liquor names. He had originally assumed that the Dursleys had two sons, but after seeing the dichotomy of treatment he wondered just who this owlish child was.
"Right this way, gentlemen." Vernon led the group into the living room and gestured to a gaudy sofa, sitting himself in a matching arm chair. The men stared at each other for a few minutes, Idris and his associates amused by Vernon's fidgeting, until the green eyed boy walked awkwardly into the room, his hands filled with glasses.
"Where have you been, boy?" Vernon snapped while the child placed the tumblers on the coffee table. He flinched but did not respond and proceeded to serve them each two fingers of cognac. The men thanked him, bringing a tiny smile to his face which lasted until Vernon snatched the remaining glass out of his small hands.
"Go tend dinner. I expect it to be finished in half an hour," Vernon snapped after downing half his drink.
Idris had to strain to hear the quiet "Yes, Uncle" that slipped past the boy's lips. He watched as the child left the room and turned back to Vernon.
"Who is that child?" Idris asked, his simmering anger unnoticed by the fat man sitting across for him. While he did use children in his militias he could not abide by familial abuse. It infuriated him even more that this child seemed to be targeted while the other was spoilt. It didn't escape his notice that while the walls seemed papered with photos of the obese blond child, there wasn't one photo of the green eyed boy.
Vernon glared at the door the young waif had left through before answering. "He is my good for nothing nephew," he spat. "We were saddled with him after his alcoholic father managed to kill himself and his whore of a wife while drink driving."
Idris leaned back with a speculative look on his face. His associates knew this look well and took over the conversation making small talk while he pondered the information Vernon had given him. People never realized truly how much their actions said about them. This man obviously had little respect for family, something Idris prized both due to his childhood and now his late wife and son. He had recently lost them in a bombing meant to target him from a rival Warlord and he took a personal affront to how Vernon treated his nephew.
While Idris was undeniably cruel, he felt a strange sort of empathy for this child. He had been orphaned really young and for the short amount of time that he was in an orphanage he had been no better than a slave. While Little Whinging was nothing like Mogadishu, the boy's life wasn't that dissimilar from his as a child. The scar on the child's forehead helped solidify the bond he felt with him. Few adults had had childhoods that could mar their face and they truly didn't understand what it meant to those that had. This boy's treatment was absolutely inexcusable.
Idris was broken out of his thoughts when the waif announced dinner and promptly ushered them to the small dining room. The affair was certainly simpler than the meals to which he was accustomed at his mansion in Mogadishu, but he couldn't believe that a four year old child was capable of cooking it. There was a basic roast, slathered in a variety of herbs and slices of lemon as well as sides of bangers and mash, Yorkshire pudding and black pudding. Idris noted that there was a dearth of vegetables, unsurprising given the size of the father and son. For dessert there was treacle tart and custard, making Idris wonder just how often the child cooked for the family. No child should be able to make all of these dishes and he knew Petunia did not help since she was in the sitting room with them the entire time.
The group ate in silence, occasionally broken by the child asking if they wanted more wine. Soon the meal was finished and they made their way back to the sitting room while the boy began to pick up the dishes. Idris asked where he could find the restroom and made his way into the kitchen.
"Hello child, what is your name?" Idris asked, visibly startling the boy. The waif's eyes widened and darted about before settling back on the strange man. He kneeled down to the boy's eye level, hoping to calm him before continuing, "I will not hurt you child. What is your name?"
"Umm... H-Harry Potter, sir."
"It is nice to meet you Harry Potter. My name is Idris Nasri Abri. May I ask you a few questions?"
Harry's bright green eyes darted around a little more, almost seeming afraid to be speaking to this man, "I-I guess."
The man nodded and smiled. "How old are you?"
"Almost six," the boy responded, relaxing a little.
Idris was surprised. He could have sworn the child was much younger. "When is your birthday?"
The boy furrowed his dark brows, obviously trying to remember something that should have been easy to recall, "Not sure, I think July 31st. I get more Dudley's clothes."
Idris carefully kept his face pleasant. 'Well that explains why his clothing is so large' he seethed.
"Do you like living here Harry?" The child visibly stiffened, his eyes widening to the point that they seemed to fill his taped up glasses. He was gaping and obviously didn't know how to respond to the man's request. "Don't worry child, I won't tell your Aunt and Uncle what you say."
Harry's eyes began darting about, obviously afraid that someone was going to jump out of the cupboards at him. Idris had to strain to hear the tiny reply. "N-n-no…"
Idris nodded and smiled again, trying to put the child at ease, "If you could, would you leave here to live elsewhere?"
The child appeared terrified but seemed to gather himself up before answering, "Y-yes."
Idris nodded, "I'll see what I can do about that." His smile widened at Harry's surprised and hopeful face before standing up and making his way back to the sitting room.
The room was tense with silence as he made his way in, bringing a malicious smirk to Idris' face. He disliked the Dursleys and was looking forward to dealing with them.
"Well," he began as he relaxed into an armchair, "where shall we start? I loaned you 300,000 pounds a little more than a decade ago with the understanding that you would be paying it off within ten years, with interest of course." He paused to let the man nod stupidly before continuing, "So why have you not fulfilled your end of the bargain, Mr. Dursley?"
Vernon gaped like a fish as he attempted to cobble together an excuse. "Well… we've been having a little problem with our finances. We haven't been making as much profit as expected and I was hoping for a little more time," he trailed off at the cruel smirk that made its way across Idris' face.
Idris took the folder one of his associates handed him and leafed through its contents, "It looks to me like you've been doing well enough, Mr. Dursley. Well enough, in fact, that you've taken a month's vacation every year to stay in various houses that you've bought in," Idris paused as he pulled out a particular page, "Barcelona, Martinique, New Zealand and the Philippines." He looked back up at Vernon, enjoying the way the blood drained out of the man's face as he began stuttering.
"T-t-those were all for b-business trips, I swear!"
Idris raised an eyebrow and made a noncommittal noise before pulling out a few pictures that one of his associates had taken. "I didn't know that you took your family on business trips or that you conducted said business over suntan lotion on the beaches of Australia."
He handed the photos over to Vernon and leaned back, watching the expressions of panic that came over the man's face. Vernon looked at him, eyes wide in terror before stuttering out, "What are you going to do to me?"
Idris appeared to think it over before responding, dragging out the moment to further unnerve the man. "Well, I could easily take your home but I have far more resplendent places than this. I have no interest in your cars or the yacht you have moored at Cardiff." He paused to enjoy the red flush creeping into Vernon Dursley's face and the look of abject horror on Petunia's.
"I think," Idris continued, "that we can make a deal." He smirked at the relief that the Dursleys exuded. "First, I will be taking all of your 'summer homes', as well as the yacht of course. I like a couple of the locations you have chosen and can sell the rest for a decent profit. I will put off the deadline for repayment by ten years, but only on one condition."
The Dursleys were obviously unhappy but nodded in assent, "Yes?"
"I want both your son and nephew. They would make good additions to my militia." Idris enjoyed the absolute shock and terror that suffused both parents' faces.
"No!" Petunia yelled. "Not my baby! Take the boy, do whatever you want with him, but please leave my precious Duddikins!" She turned and sobbed into Vernon's shoulder as he blustered.
"Not my son!" he shouted. "You can take the boy, but don't take my son!"
Idris allowed the begging to continue for another few minutes before he raised his hand to silence them. Scratching the stubble on his chin he continued, "I suppose I can leave your son, but only if you pay off the debt in two years." He paused while watching the Dursleys turn a variety of colors, "Well? What's it going to be? Your son or ten years to pay off the debt?"
Vernon shook himself out of his shock before answering hurriedly, "Take my nephew, but leave my son and I'll have your money in two years."
Idris smiled maliciously, "Deal. So I will be taking your properties, your nephew and you have two more years to pay off the debt." Vernon looked like he was sucking on a lemon but nodded his assent.
"Well, go fetch the child. I do not have all night," Idris demanded imperiously. He smiled as Vernon and Petunia practically ran out of the room and turned to his associates who were smirking at him.
"You never intended to take the son, did you Boss?"
"No, I didn't. What would I do with a tub of lard? That thing wouldn't survive two days with the militia."
One of his men looked at him, obviously confused, "And the waif? He looks like he would barely survive one day."
Idris' smile softened before he responded, "No, he won't be in the militia. I don't want another wife so I'm certainly not going to have another son. No, he's not going to be a soldier; he is going to be my heir."
Idris: Arabic and Welsh origins. In Arabic it means 'a good man', a name a parent likely would give a child, but in Welsh it means 'a fiery, impulsive lord', perfect for a Warlord.
Nasri: Arabic; victory.
Abri: Arabic; servant of god.
A/N: I realize that Grunnings is a drill-making company, not a drilling company but I adapted it so that Idris would have a reason to be interested in investing in the company. I also made Vernon the founder of the company instead of director so that he'd have a reason to be dealing with Idris personally.
Somalia is rife with warlords and anarchy, making it the perfect setting for Idris' fiefdom. Mogadishu is the capital of Somalia and from what I've read of most recently is ruled over by eight warlords. During the time setting of this story there was a government, of sorts. However, now there is none.