Okay, so I don't know why this came to me, but it seems that Harry goes back in time to fix all the problems from the war (more like a friendly game of tag football) with Moldywart

So this is my crack… fic at it. Be prepared. I can't promise it will be good, but if I don't get this down on paper it will haunt me the rest of my days.

--

Harry flung the last shovelful of earth out of the pit and threw the shovel up after. Unfortunately, he missed the lip of the grave, on account of him being six feet deep, and the offending implement bounced back, spinning wildly as it descended.

Harry's Quiddich reflexes kicked in, and he grabbed the handle of the shovel before it could land on him. Unfortunately, he forgot to account for momentum and the flat blade of the shovel slammed into his nose, breaking his glasses, not to mention the fragile cartilage and bone that formed his now flattened proboscis.

Okay, so maybe it didn't hurt as bad as one of Voldemort's cruciatus curses. He kept trying to tell himself that as he rolled around at the bottom of the grave, trying to stem the blood flowing from his abused nasal, concha, ethmoid, and maxilla bones.

"FUD DAT HURBS!" Groping around blindly, he managed to find his wand. After repeated failed attempts, he finally managed to focus enough to cast a healing charm on his face, repairing the damage.

He took a deep breath as the pain eased. What was that whistling noise? Damn it! What was causing that sound? It sounded like a broken organ grinder, and it was coming from… well shit.

He forgot to set his bones in place before repairing the damage. He looked balefully at the shovel. With a sigh, he picked it up and tossed it back up to the edge of the pit. It missed, of course, but he planned it this time. It was with a great deal of trepidation that he grabbed the handle of the falling shovel and braced for impact.

Smash.

"GOB DAMB BIT!! DAT HURBS!!" Okay, yeah, it hurt worse than the cruciatus curse. And it wasn't even dark, so the Ministry would never know.

With trembling finger, Harry set to work setting the bones properly this time before repairing the damage. He vomited after setting the first bone. Oh Jesus, that hurt. He was a little better when he set the second bone, and down right cheerful with the final bone.

Who was he kidding? He was blubbering like a little baby.

Note to self. Next time he had to fight somebody, Harry was using a shovel.

He groped around for the remains of his glasses and finally found them. A quick "reparo!" knitted them back together, and he started the process of getting out of the grave. He (very carefully) tossed the shovel high to clear the lip of the grave, and then jumped up to grab the edge. Grunting and straining, he managed to pull himself up and rolled over the edge, swinging first one leg up, then the other.

He stood and brushed the dirt off his clothing and bent over to reach for the shovel handle. The moment he touched it, the edge of the grave he was standing on collapsed. He tried to maintain his balance, but flinging his arms back only managed to tilt him backwards until he fell, bouncing off one wall of earth to crash with a sickening thud at the bottom of the grave.

"Ow." He looked up just in time to see the shovel descending once again.

"Oh Fu...!!"

His one thought through the blinding pain was: Yeap. Definitely using a shovel next time.

--

He managed to finally repair his once again shattered face, shrink the shovel (he put that in his pocket just to be safe, thank you very much) and finally climb out of the grave after only a couple more tries. He rolled to his knees and looked around, dreading what he had to do next.

Lots of bodies, wrapped in sheets, were laid in a neat row next to the grave. He ran down the mental list, chastising himself for each name. Okay, there was Dumbledore, then McGonagall, Flitwick, Grubb… Snape, too, but there wasn't really enough left of him to bury. He'd fed the remains to Hagrid's hound Fang before the dog had died in some senseless act of violence perpetrated by Voldemort.

The list continued. Actually, Harry lost count, because there were too many bit characters for him to keep track of. But at the very least, he had one grave dug, and only 368 bodies left to bury from the attack on Hogwarts.

He would have asked for a little help from the Ministry except that most of the members were caught in the fire that burned that institution to the ground. With a heavy heart and limbs he dragged the first body to the grave and dumped it in (bodies were heavy, and he was tired from digging the grave and breaking his face. Three times.) He felt bad. Perhaps this called for some sort of solemn ceremony. The sheet covering the face had peeled back a bit, revealing the face of the corpse in a mangled heap at the bottom of the grave. Oh. It was just Draco. Huh. He must have started with the Death Eater pile. Whistling, he brushed his hands off and went to fetch the next stiff.

--

In retrospect, maybe he should have dug more than one grave. It could more accurately be described as a grave mound, or perhaps a barrow. At any rate, he barely had enough soil to cover the hill the bodies created.

He stepped back to evaluate his handy work. Pulling out the shovel, he walked over to the mound and took a big swing at the arm that was sticking out of the mound. With a dull "crack," the offending limb was smashed into the earthen wall. Harry scoped up a shovelful of dirt and filled in the divot.

Yeap. All done.

He looked at the shovel. Damn useful, these things.

--

Later, while sitting in the remains of the Headmaster's Office and chatting with Dumbledore's portrait, the two were trying to figure where it all went wrong.

"Look on the bright side, Harry," the portrait said. "Now that Voldemort is finally vanquished, and you can get on with your life."

"With who? There's nobody left alive in the whole of England!" Harry scrubbed his hands through his hair, taking care to avoid his still tender nasal area. "I'd have to immigrate to find anybody, and that's impossible now that there's no government willing to take me!"

Dumbledore's portrait frowned. "It can't be that bad, Harry."

The boy-who-lived vehemently disagreed. "It is! Christ. You know what makes it worse? I'm still a virgin."

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up. "Truly?"

Harry nodded his head morosely. "Ginny didn't do the…" The portrait made some rather rude hand gestures that were filtered out incase any young readers might happen upon this story.

"Nope." Harry sighed in disgust. "We tried, but she took a killing curse for me right as I was shimmying out of my pants."

"Hermione?" Asked Dumbledore.

"With Ron."

"Well," asked the painting, "What about Luna?"

"We were going to, but she tied me up and got distracted. A Death Eater got her soon afterwards." He shuddered. "I was lucky that time. I was tied down for three days because Luna forgot to tell anyone where we were. If Molly hadn't found me with that clock of hers, I'd have been done for."

"What about Molly, then?"

"Look! I'm a virgin, okay?"

The portrait looked perturbed. Silence fell as Harry pouted and the head master pondered. Finally, the portrait broke the silence.

"Harry, there may be something we can do to right this terrible injustice. I can not let this stand."

"What?"

"The cost of defeating Voldemort has been too great."

"You mean the death of every character in the Potterverse?"

"No, your virginity. I never would have asked you to do what you did if I had known this would be the outcome. It is too high a cost for any soul to bear."

Harry sat up a little straighter at the prospect of being able to correct these wrongs. Hope blossomed. "What do we need to do?"

"What" asked Dumbledore, "do you remember about time-turners?"

--

"Now remember, Harry. This is a very inexact science. But you have to be absolutely perfect in your calculations, or this could go horribly, horribly wrong."

Harry grumbled under his breath about bossy old portraits, but rechecked his calculations once again. "So, where will this send me back to?"

The portrait shrugged. "I'm unsure. I've tried to anchor it to a significant moment in your young life, so that you'll have lots of time to correct what when drastically wrong here."

"The attack on Hogwarts, right?"

"No, your virginity. I'm sure the rest of it will work out fine. After all, you are the prophesied vanquisher of the Dark Lord. But the prophesy never stated you had to be a virgin to accomplish it."

Harry sat back on his haunches. "Well, what if the 'power that he knows not' is virginity?"

The portrait paled. "Harry, don't say such things!"

"Well, what if it is?"

"Then," the portrait said, "May God have mercy on us all. Such a future is too horrible to contemplate."

Harry nodded and checked the calculations one final time, then showed them to Dumbledore for approval. He reviewed them with a critical eye, and once satisfied, permitted Harry to begin the process of drawing the circles necessary for the magic.

It took a long time. By the time Harry finished, his hands were cramping from holding the brush. Not to mention, with his poor eyesight, he was forced to draw the whole circle from a kneeling position to ensure complete accuracy. So, in addition to a cramped hand, his knees were killing him and his back rather stiff as well.

He rehearsed the incantation many times and practiced the wand movements he needed. He felt ready. With Dumbledore's blessing, he marched into the circle, taking great care not to step on any lines, and began the incantation.

Unfortunately, it started to rain. Neither of them had foreseen the weather, and so they'd used a combination of water soluble liquids and chalk to complete the circle. Dumbledore watch with increasing nervousness as the lines of the circle, once so distinct, began to blur as the rain fell.

So absorbed in the spell he didn't hear Dumbledore's shouts to stop until after he completed the spell. He didn't have any time to react; it felt like his spine was ripped out of his back as he was pulled backwards.

Blackness quickly followed.

--

Harry came to right as his wand snapped forward. He heard, "Avada Kadavera!" and a green light shot forward to strike the infant at his feet.

Wait a second!

When the light was reflected back, Harry had just enough time to reflect that the spell had gone, horribly, horribly wrong before his soul was ripped from the body it had just inhabited.

Voldemort's wraith looked at Harry's wraith, and both looked down at the crumpled body that was sprawled at their… well, not feet, but mist trail.

Voldemort pointed down at his body and the crying infant. "Was that supposed to happen?"

Harry nodded.

Voldemort pointed at the older, less substantial Harry floating next to him. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I think there must have been a mistake made somewhere."

"Oh." The two spirits, for lack of anything else to do, just sort of hung there, calmly regarding each other. Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Harry wasn't sure what happened, but when he looked down next, he noticed that his… mist trail was slowly entwining Voldemort's. Nervously, he giggled.

"What's so funny?" Demanded the dark lord.

"Don't look now, but I think we're going to be experiencing some… interesting sensations soon."

"What do you…?" Voldemort's spirit looked down. Eyes wide, he looked up at Harry's spirit just in time to voice the sentiment that Harry was feeling. "This is not good."

Harry didn't have time for much more than a nod before a giant sucking sound pulled both spirits together, merging the two. This was probably what Dumbledore was referring to when he mentioned things could go horribly, horribly wrong.

There was absolutely no way in hell Harry was ever gonna get laid now.

--

Harry Potter/Voldemort drifted along, for lack of a better word, engaged in the bitterest of struggles.

"Look. We can't use Voldemort as a name, because I'm Harry Potter!"

"Well we can't bloody well go by Harry Potter, now can we? This is mortifying! How am I ever going to look a Death Eater in the face again?" Voldemort's half let out a rather terrifying, if a bit girly, laugh. "Hahaha! I am Harry Potter, Dark Lord! Bow to me."

"You're right. It does sound a bit daft. Well, how about we come up with a new name? You know, like you did with I am Tom Riddle?"

"I've got a better idea. How about we separate?"

Harry shook his head, and by extension Voldemort's head. This was going to get confusing. "I don't think it will work like that. I'm pretty sure I'm stuck with you."

Voldemort grumbled.

"Oh, how about Voldarry Pottmort?"

"NO!"

"What about Harvold Morter?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Rom Jermarry?"

"Hmm… Promisin... GAHH. NO! No, no no no no!"

"V-diddy? J-lo? Lindsey Lohan? Hannah Montana?"

Voldemort shuddered. "Truly terrifying names, all, but unfortunately claimbed by other dark souls. But we are making progress."

And so it continued. So fixed on hashing out this essential plot point, they neglected to pay attention to where they were drifting.

--

Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, but I was grinning like an idiot the entire time I wrote this. That means something is going right. Anyway, this is off to a good start. :)

Help me name the Fusion between Harry James Potter and Tom Marvolo Riddle. You can use any of the letters that appear in the statement, "I am Harry James Potter and Tom Marvolo Riddle." It should capture the essence of the two opposing natures, with an eye on the prize - getting Harry some holy tail.

Questions, comments, criticism welcome. Oh, and Sap bored(dot)com (nice fictional email, by the way) - that was a very cute review. Thanks.

Jerk.