Ignore this story. This is only here so they can't claim ninja editing.
It was a good thing Hermione would never know about this, Harry thought as he set up the very last of the ritual. She'd throw fit—always had when it came to time magics (mind you, she had been the one to introduce it to Harry, back in fourth year). She would undoubtedly have a conniption if she knew what Harry was about to do.
Harry landed—hard—on the limestone stone circle he had been using eighty years in the future. Cornwall in June, 1981. He picked himself up and looked around. Gorgeous.
After healing the emerging bruises, he settled down on the yellowing rock dolmen and stared out over the verdant green valleys. It was late afternoon and the liquid amber light gilded the hyacinths and bushes. He absently stared at his surrounds, reviewing his plans. The sun had almost set before Harry realized it, flaming orange and yellow. He flopped back to stare at the stars winking on and smiled a little.
He'd never been able to pin-point exactly when Peter had traded sides. Snape hadn't known, and neither had Remus or Sirius. Dumbledore had guessed August of 1981 and Harry had picked a date well before then so as to get all of the horcruxes and catch Peter the first opportunity he had. Harry knew Wormtail had become the secret keeper on September 28, 1981. Sirius remembered the date with bitter clarity and had told him what he knew. Before, of course, the Department of Mysteries fiasco. Harry was almost tempted to destroy it, just out of spite but didn't think that was a good idea. Too much attention too soon.
Regardless, he was tired and needed to plot. Harry had enough magic left to apparate to Diagon Ally and more than enough money to stay at the Leaky Cauldron. He eventually intended to buy himself a home. He thought buying a home or some land to build on would attract less attention than staying day in and day out at the Leaky Cauldron—and the sooner the better. But tonight was not the night to go badger some poor real estate seller, so he pulled up the hood of his cloak like every fantasy villain ever, and disapparated in a swirl of robes.
He stayed the night at the inn as quite young Issac Merriweather—an old alias of Harry's from years of surreptitious traveling. The moment Gringotts opened, he made his way down to the bank. Disguised, of course—cliché or not, it was the sensible thing to do. After he made his deposit (he had brought a fairly significant amount of gold with him), Harry found his way down to a real estate company and before the week was out, had himself a cottage in Cornwall in Issac Merriweather's name. He registered it to the floo network as Ramshackle Cottage at the same time he registered the house at the Ministry.
As soon as all the legalities were sorted out, he put the plan into motion. Step one, find a job of some sort. It didn't matter much what it was as long as it wasn't high profile. Step two, destroy horcruxes after double checking they were all where he remembered them being. Voldemort hadn't noticed when Regulus stole the locket, so Harry assumed he would be too arrogant to think anyone else was aware of them. Hm. Must break into Grimmauld Place. And perhaps Honeydukes is hiring..?
The horcruxes were a little easier to destroy than last time—he knew where they all were and how to get to them. Having Ron or Hermione's help would have made it much easier, but they were both infants at the moment, much like himself. But at least he wasn't dodging Death Eaters every step of the way this time. And there were only five this time, as Nagini wasn't a horcrux yet and neither was his infant self.
He saved the locket for last, wondering how to deal with it. He spent several of his weekends off from Honeydukes sitting across the street from Grimmauld in a tree under his invisibility cloak, staring at the house. There wasn't a Fidelus charm on it at the moment, as he could clearly see the house, but the lovely Mrs. Black didn't leave. Ever. Her husband and younger son were dead and her various detestable relatives always came to visit her, never the other way around.
He wasn't sure what enchantments were on the door in this time, and while he could work them out if given time, that wasn't something he was going to have if she was still home.
Unless there was a way to aerosol sleeping potions? That could take both Mrs. Black and Kreacher out at once, if he played his cads right. But potions was still a weak point for Harry. He could brew the basic stuff easily and had gotten good at following the directions in the book, but experimental potions would never, ever been something he could do. Unless a willing potioneer appeared out of the blue, it looked like he would have to wait for the good Mrs. Black to die before he tried anything. Kreacher would be easier to dispatch then the woman and would raise less of a ruckus.
Harry contemplated forcing Sirius into helping him somehow, but felt a bit squeamish about such a thing. That would be a last resort, followed probably by Sirius' death in order to protect delicate information.
August approached, and Harry had taken to watching Order members he knew of. They were apparently using the sad little cottage Remus had inherited from his parents as a base in this time and it didn't end up being very hard to follow them. Hiding was relatively easy and as long as he avoided Dumbledore himself, Harry wasn't too worried about being caught. The woods around the cottage were enough to hide in under his cloak and he kept the broom he had recently bought on hand as both an escape and surveillance method.
Halloween crept closer and closer and it was October 16th that Harry cornered Peter Pettigrew.
“Who are you?” the fat little man squeaked. Peter was panicking as he found himself being trapped in a wet London alleyway.
“Your worst nightmare!” Harry rumbled. He smiled sinisterly, his teeth glinting orange in the light of the street lamp as he lunged forward.
Peter gave another squeak and started hyperventilating as he backed up, “What do you want?”
“Your soul!” Harry growled, stepping closer to Wormtail, who took another three steps back.
Peter didn't respond and kept hyperventilating.
Jeez, how did this guy get into Griffyndor? As if reading Harry's thoughts, Peter finally reached for his wand, taking another couple stumbling steps backward. “I won't give you my money!”
“Keep it. I just want to ask you a question,” Harry smirked.
Peter looked very uncertain but remained silent, so Harry went on.
“Which way to Surrey, mate?”
The fat little man nearly laughed in relief, clearly thinking Harry was just a muggle. Peter seemed to forget he still had his wand in hand. “You scared me! Go south, mate. Take the twenty to Fairfax.”
Harry grinned at him eerily, “Thanks. Oh, and confundus!” Harry nailed him with a spell and pulled out a scrap of paper and a plain muggle pen. “Imperio!” he added, before handing Peter the paper and pen and the little rat scribbled down the Potter's address before handing it over. Harry canceled the Imperius charm, fired another confundus, and then carefully Obliviated him. Harry lead the rat to the mouth of the alley, hit him with a third confundus and slipped on his invisibility cloak in the cover of darkness. After a moment, looking woozy, Peter shook his head, looked around with both worry and fear on his face, and walked away.
Peachy. Just as planned.
The day before Halloween, Harry managed to catch Peter again and forced him to give what information he knew about the planned raid on the Potter household.
Apparently, there was something semi-human about Pettigrew, as he was very conflicted about what he had done. On one hand, he was secure no matter who won and had saved his own skin. On the other, he had just handed his best friend, his best friend's wife, and their son over to the Dark Lord. Granted, he hadn't actually met the boy, but the pictures of him were adorable and then there was James and Lily...
Harry canceled the spell, confunded him, and obliviated him when Peter started in on how bad he felt about betraying Lily specifically (“She's so pretty and smart and nice and she makes such great biscuts!”). It was sort of nice to know that Pettigrew had felt bad about what he had done, but Harry didn't need to know that Lily was the Maker of All Good Things Biscuit-Like as far as Peter was concerned. He didn't particularly care, either. Harry had used those same recipes for the last fifty years—he knew full well how good they were.
It was dusk on Halloween 1981, and Harry was currently lurking on his broom high above Godric's Hollow. Muggle children could be heard squealing with joy and a dozen fairy princesses, six ghosts, two Frankenstines, and one Mothra could be seen scampering around the village (“Bill, your mum dressed you up like a butterfly!” “She did not! I am MOTHRA!”) as they trick-or-treated. Harry had been sitting up here for hours and was getting both bored and stiff from the cold (invisibility cloaks are thin). Deciding that he should probably get some blood moving, he dived for the roof and cork-screwed up out of the dive. He flew around for a bit and came to the conclusion that flying was not warm enough.
Landing carefully in the Potter's side garden, he tucked his broom away against the bottom of the white picket fence behind a leafless hedge and slipped around the bushes to start moving. He carefully made sure that his cloak covered every dance step and wiggle, almost as much out of embarrassment as necessity. Sure, he could have cast a heating charm, but this way he was limber, too. Definitely important!
Harry danced again to keep warm as he pulled out his wand to cast warming charms on his under cloak. As he cast warming charms on his shoes, cracks rippled through the air and Harry slipped around to the front of the house. Death Eaters.
Absently, Harry tapped the house, casting a lock-down charm on the building as he examined the group before him. There were eight figures—Voldemort, what Harry guessed was Peter, and six other black-robed people.
Harry had come to the conclusion in his many years of chasing, fighting, and killing Death Eaters that only displays of force impressed them (a highly un-Slytherin thing). So that was he was going to do. It was very simple, his plan. Kill Voldemort in the most violent way possible and win their fear. Easy.
He tilted his head, watching Voldemort move toward the front door of cottage like a hawk. Casting a quick petrificus at Peter, Harry flicked his wand and a ten-foot stone rod shot out of the ground under the Dark Lord. Damn, missed, he thought as Voldemort yelled in surprise. Another flick. Got 'em. He pulled off his cloak and stuffed it in his pocket as Voldemort oozed black ichor from his mouth, having been impaled vertically on the spine.
The mobile Death Eaters were shouting and looking around for the culprit, and Harry rained stunners on them. They fired back—usually more deadly spells—but he had them at the advantage. He had the high ground, the first shot, and a hell of a lot more power then they had. Eventually, feeling physically tired and having been grazed by a few spells, he had them all stunned and on the ground.
With a smirk, Harry righted them, petrified them, and ennvenerated them.
“This is hostile take over. I've killed Voldemort and I'll kill you if you don't follow me.” Harry grinned at them, “So, what do you say?” he asked as he rapped the cloaked heads one by one. The spell relaxed just enough for them to speak.
“No!” snarled one of them.
Harry peered at the man and made a guess at who it was. “Predictable, Mr. Rookwood.” He enjoyed the inevitable surprise and half-stifled gasps that followed. Damn lucky guess. In a manner most reminiscent of the late Lord Voldemort Harry held him under a crucio, lazily watching Rookwood's head thrash back and forth and listening to him scream.
Harry let up on the curse, “May I draw your attention to the lovely display on my left?” He gestured at the impaled Voldemort. The corpse looked shocked and agonized. It continued to ooze as Harry created a trail of glittering stars to frame the view. “He's very dead,” Harry pointed at the pole sticking out of Voldemort's skull. “Would you like to join your Lord in the Afterlife?” he asked as the corpse slid down the stake a little more.
Several heads shook vigorously. No, they most certainly would not!
“Glorious. Will you join me?”
There were several ambivalent expressions of assent.
“Let me ask again. Will you follow me into glory? Will you help me lead the wizarding world into a new golden age?” Harry asked, stalking gracefully around the immobile figures. “Will you be the first, my most trusted?”
Three heads nodded, “We will!” called one of them. The speaker sounded young. His glory-hound spiel had worked. Excellent.
“Very good.” Harry made his way over to them and released them one at a time. With each person, he would put the tip of his wand on the Dark Mark, ask them to do the same and incant the same spell. Each time, a rearing, pale gray, winged deer with long and graceful horns would appear in place of the Mark. The spell made them wince, but only briefly.
“You will know when I call you and how to get to me,” Harry said to his three new minions as he eyed his captives.
Rookwood opened his mouth, “Curse him you fools!” he hissed at the men and woman at Harry's back.
They looked at Rookwood and each one of them stepped forward. “What can we do to serve, my lord?” asked the woman.
“You can stand, for one. Levitate this lot while I address some things please, and then I'll lead you on. I imagine the Headmaster will be here soon.” Harry pulled out two pre-written notes. One, he pinned to Voldemort's cloak, and the other he hung on to for a moment. With one swish of his wand, Harry relieved Peter of his jugular and kicked the body over as blood spurted everywhere. He pinned the note to the least bloody part of Peter's cloak, and lead his people on.