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At his core, Harry blames the Dursleys. When it comes down to it, they could have raised him better. It isn't as though Harry walked out of his cupboard one day and decided to be a mob boss. This kind of thing takes time. Time that could have been spent setting a good example and showing kindness to a young orphan. Instead, Harry grows up as a lonely, abused boy, starved for both food and attention, without any money of his own. His first theft is food from the fridge; his second is a few bills to buy his own.
Eventually, Harry realizes that there is truth in Vernon's rants about magic and Petunia's ban of fantasy games and shows for Dudley. It's not only a strange intolerance. It's a denial of the truth, of the truth in Harry's bones and blood. He finds that he doesn't have to live this way, ducking down into his cupboard under the stairs and staring enviously at Dudley's portions. He can be more, can have more, if he simply lets go.
And, alright, maybe there had already been something inside him that just needed a little push.
By the time Harry gets a letter from Hogwarts, it's addressed to the master bedroom.
The Dursleys are Harry's first—let's call them employees, shall we?—but they're not the last. Harry is quick to discard them as quickly as he can for people who can be properly loyal to him. Hogwarts is the perfect place for collecting a talented, hardworking, creative bunch of people who wouldn't mind earning some money.
Voldemort is bad for business. He also tries to kill Harry, which Harry takes less personally. He'd meant to stay out of the war altogether. Harry may be dark, but joining Voldemort doesn't appeal. He doesn't give a care for the dark and light divide. Neither does he care about the pureblood culture that paints Harry as lesser just because of his blood. If someone insults him, he'll always be ready with a spell, but generally he doesn't give a damn. (It's his right hand woman who disallows prejudice of any sort, whether it's against muggleborns or house-elves.) He doesn't even care that Voldemort killed his parents; had Voldemort left him alone, Harry would've probably given him a free pass. Harry cares his people and for power and for money, though he does have some love for the two people who gave him life.
But Voldemort doesn't leave him alone.
When Voldemort's horcruxes are all gone, Harry lobs off his head with the sword of Gryffindor. He keeps the sword on him for the rest of his career. It comes in handy. Instead of getting a proper job after Hogwarts, Harry settles into the dark underground of the wizarding world like he was born for it.
There should've been a prophecy about this instead, Harry thinks, not the Voldemort bullshit.
His Gringotts account was already moved to a lower level while Harry was at Hogwarts, but over the next few years, it expands even further. He manages to stay on good terms with the goblins despite the sword that hangs from his waist. If there's one thing they love, it's money, and Harry speaks that language. Voldemort may have been content to be a technically homeless megalomaniac who lived in one of the Malfoys' spare rooms, but Harry is not.
Harry's business naturally begins to expand to the United States. Harry himself goes with it, allowing his British headquarters to prosper in the steady hands of the twins and Draco. Hermione and Ron he takes with him. He needs his very most loyal when he wages a war for territory against more established American syndicates.
But Harry isn't the Boy Who Lived for nothing, even if the name isn't as shiny as it was a decade ago. He holds the elder wand like it had been crafted for him personally, his holly wand warm and steady in an inner pocket for when he needs it. It rests there while he sets up shop in America, while he carves his territory from the map, while MACUSA finally catches on. He only needs in in battle against one particular auror. The first three times they meet, Harry wins their battle and escapes with his theoretically legally obtained merchandise.
The first time he loses a duel to Auror Graves, Harry can't help but say, rather appreciatively, "You really are my favorite auror." Harry's not supposed to have favorites, but he can't even help it. Percival is the head of the organized crime unit, brilliant, dedicated, and with an ass Harry could write poetry about. "Am I your favorite criminal?"
"You're a pain in the ass, that's what you are," Percival tells him, pulling Harry in to double-check his handcuffing spell.
Harry grins. "I'd love to be a pain in your ass." He wiggles as Percival pats him down for a portkey, wishing the auror's touch were much less professional. "What do you think?"
"I think I'd rather arrest you."
Percival doesn't even get to read Harry his rights before Harry's backup arrives. Harry's rather disappointed.
He spends most of his time expanding his empire and fending off attacks, but during his downtime, he starts amusing himself by sending Percival gifts. Within weeks he steps it up by depositing criminals who won't work with him on Percival's doorstep with a handy list of their crimes attached to their front. The parchment is charmed to go two ways and Percival's first words are, Stop. Or at least send them to the office. They're not his last.
"He's just trying to arrest you," Ron says, watching Harry light up as he gets another message.
Harry looks up for long enough to sigh in Ron's direction. "You have so little faith in your leader."
"In my leader? Sure. In my best friend? Eh."
"I have this completely under control," Harry assures him. It's not a lie, not really.
Harry wonders how long his denial is going to last.
It takes months, but the next time they have the time to properly chat, Percival is bound to a chair, though at least Harry provided him the comfort of it being an armchair. Harry wastes no time in getting in his lap and running his hands over his shoulders before kissing him for the first time. First in reality, thousandth in Harry's daydreams. Percival spares him the pretense of denial, kissing him back like a man starved. Oh, Harry's sure his auror will be furious about this later, but for now he's lovely under Harry's hands, all hard muscle and bruising lips.
"Can I?" Harry murmurs, rocking against Percival. Percival is hard, Harry can tell, and it would be a moment's work to spell them both naked. Harry can't fucking wait to see him fully, to watch him strain against his bonds, to touch.
Yes, Percival's dark eyes say, but his lips twist. "I don't know."
Harry waits for a moment, resting his forehead against Percival's and catching his breath. When Percival says no more, Harry takes a breath and pats his auror's cheek. "Figure it out soon, alright?"
And he gets up from Percival's lap. Within hours, Percival is gone, having been rescued by his squad. Harry pouts for the entire week. This is what he gets for allowing himself to get attached like this. He's plenty attached to his people, Ron and Hermione especially, but they don't make him sigh like a fair maiden giving her favor to her favorite knight. With Percival, it's different. He wants all of the man's attention; he'd been terribly pleased when Percival had been assigned to Harry's organization full-time. He wants that brilliant brain that keeps getting in the way of his operations, wants that body that he'd only gotten a short touch of, wants everything, really.
Harry isn't used to not getting his way. It's a damned shame that Percival cares so much for the law. He wonders how much MACUSA goes for; if he buys a government, could he be considered legit enough for Percival to relax?
"I'd make a good dictator," he says to himself.
His minions chime in with agreement.
A month after their kiss, Percival walks into the base of Harry's operations. He's been searched and his wand has been secured, but Harry's people still give him wary looks as Percival approaches. Harry sends them out of the room; if he has some time with Percival, he doesn't want any distractions. He spins his chair toward Percival as the man approaches. Harry doesn't have a throne because that's tacky as shit, he's a proper businessman alright, but his office chair is giant.
"I've volunteered to go undercover and infiltrate your organization," Percival tells him, stopping beside Harry's chair. It's the most astounding thing Harry's heard all year, and yet he doesn't doubt Percival is telling the truth. Too much so, because truth can a manipulation on its own, but Harry wouldn't have accepted anything else. "If you'll have me."
Harry tilts his head up to meet Percival's eyes. "How long?"
"Six months."
It's both perfect and not enough. "I'll let you get close. Very close."
It's Percival who closes the distance between them and finally kisses him as deeply as they’ve both wanted. And Harry knows he's playing with fire, but it's worth it to finally light the flame.