AN: Thanks to all that reviewed the previous chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Pet the Cat

Of all the things to bring back! Harry lay in his bed, in the bedroom of unwanted things, at number 4 Privet Drive, in the body of his thirteen year old self. Nothing had come with him, back into this scrawny undersized body in massive oversized pajamas. Not the Gaunt ring which let him speak to the dead, not the copy of the Tales of Beedle the Bard, nothing of any use at all. Nothing physical could come back from the realm of the dead, and that was where he'd been, nothing except the sensation of his shorts being cold, wet, and slowly encrusting themselves to his thighs, and the sense of being a failure.

"Pet the cat? Pet the cat? What the hell does that even mean? If I was a girl I'd think she was telling me to…" Harry shook his head and sighed. "I thought I couldn't bring anything back from there, but here we are." The thought of the previous events lead to the cause of his embarrassment reasserting itself. "Not now dammit. I'm trying to think." The horcruxes, the deathly hallows, and mastering death. Somehow he had to get this damn thing out of his skull. Not to mention its analogues in various other far-flung places. Oh god, he had to rob Gringotts again! They had to rob Gringotts again! Can Gringotts spot thieves if they've died and come back in time? No, that wouldn't make any sense. What about getting a seat on the Wizengamot. Wasn't that supposed to be hereditary? Mum… Lily… she would have mentioned that, right? Something that made his life easier, allowed him to fix things? No, she was nineteen, she probably wouldn't have. She was too busy torturing him. He needed a cold shower, and couldn't take one for fear of waking the Dursleys.

Maybe the trace would register him as being of age? That ought to make life easier, right? He had lived that long after all. Maybe he could just silence the door. No, it wasn't worth testing. No need to attract attention. What did he do last time when he was in this situation?

Harry looked around for a solution to his problem. In the closet remained his cousin's cast off rags, and on the table, a few paper napkins. Next to the napkins were his letters, among them the first birthday cards he'd ever received, and then there was Hermione's quite-thoughtful, though at the present moment useless, Broomstick Servicing Kit. And she was so close to the perfect gift too… Damn his thirteen year old brain!

Other than being flung back four years into his thirteen year old body, his birthday was fairly uneventful. His head still spinning, and his mind, raging at being thrown into his much younger, less temperate body, took a moment to reboot before calming enough to think in complete sentences. What was one supposed to do in such a situation? Time travel. Remember time travel. This was the year he'd time traveled. What do you do when you time travel? You don't cock up the timeline. That was how bad things happen. But that was a wash wasn't it? Bad things had already happened. No sense in trying to keep things how they were. Maybe keeping the timeline the same would give him some sort of advantage? A way to one-up Voldemort? No, that was as mad as trying to keep things the same. He'd just have to wing it.

His planning completed, with his plan being not to worry about it, Harry decided to do the sensible thing and go to sleep.

Really, that was the plan.

It turns out broomstick oil cannot be used on all broomsticks.

And Harry was quite certain that he had found the most painful way to learn this lesson. And perhaps the worst fantasy to learn this lesson with.

Sore, barely unable to walk, with the dubious benefit of having a broom handle polished to a thoroughly gleaming bright red, Harry came down the stairs the next morning. Limping, gradually, so as not to cause any further irritation, and with no small amount of hesitation at meeting the Dursleys once again, Harry entered the living room. On the television screen was the face of his no-longer-dead, but very haunted godfather.

"You didn't tell us where that maniac's escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!" Vernon bellowed, as the announcer began the next news segment. Petunia began looking out the front window as though Sirius would be padding up the street that instant, creeping like a cartoon burglar before pouncing on some unsuspecting victim. She tittered slightly, possibly at the thought of calling the police on him, and possibly at being the victim. Since when did Petunia have Mum'ss… her legs? Bloody fuck. His mind was playing tricks on him again. It's one thing when you're a ghost, but he had an actual body now. This wasn't going to work.

"Azkaban." Vernon whirled around to him. Petunia stiffened. Dudley continued to munch on his crisps, and the munching of crisps and the tinny sound of the telly played an accent note on the sort of silence that drove men to madness. "He came from Azkaban, the wizarding prison. He's my dogfather."

Vernon sputtered, and Petunia slipped away from the inevitable explosion site, being the only sensible person in the house at the moment.

"That layabout… Is one of yours! Your dogfather?! What, tell me boy, what on God's green earth, is a dogfather?"

"He's my godfather, but he can turn into a dog." Despite having faced innumerable monsters and dangerous men, Harry was still terrified of Vernon. That had been taught to him young. What was happening now was a curious sort of madness. He decided to roll with it.

"And I presume he's coming here, then. To collect you?" That… actually that would work out rather well.

"Arrangements are still being made. But yes, I'll be leaving with him in two days time." Two days? Why had he said two days? He could literally leave right then! Just say, 'yes he's coming in a few minutes, and I just need to get my things and go.' They'd have no complaints. They'd be quite happy, all told.

"Well, Marge is coming today, so you'll need to be on your best behavior if you intend to leave with him. Always knew you'd come to no good."

That… hadn't been nearly as painful or explosive as he had expected.

Meanwhile, deep inside Harry's scarred forehead…

A very determined and very out-of-bounds reaper walked the warped mindscape of our temporally wayward hero, the click-clack of her footsteps being entirely of her own creation, a projection of herself into the mind of a man she'd sent back in time. As she walked, the distortion in the air grew deeper, even as the floor grew more crooked, and the space more non-euclidean. The walls, began to ooze blood as the light, fading from being a sourceless ever-present ambiance, became a deathly-green haze. The reaper continued to walk, undaunted by the manifestations of undeath. And gradually, after uncountable hours, for time is a unity in eternity, she reached her destination.

A baby, a sickly, nigh-mummified, caterwauling, unloved baby. That was what she had come to find. It explained so much. But nevertheless, there must be some of the Dark Lord in this… thing. And she meant to speak to it. Pink threads, threads of protection and love wound around the baby, binding it and chastening it, and leading into the deepest parts of it, that was her true destination.

Her journey into the mind of a soul within a soul, her mindwalking inception, was a treacherous one. Not forbidden per se, but very much out of bounds, and widely considered an overreach for a reaper. It was, technically in her powers, but at the very limit of it. One would have to be dealing with an Ebeneezer Scrooge, set to die in ignominy, before one could use their powers as a reaper to play Ghost of Christmas Past. Or a Harry Potter, a consistently dead-before-his-time Harry Potter would do.

And finally, through the caterwauling babe, into dark stony corridors with maroon accents the color of crusted blood, did Lily find her mark.

"Tom Riddle?"

"Lily Potter?" A tall man—handsome, in his early forties—at the height of his power, Tom Riddle cut an imposing figure. None of the distortion and mutilation that had been carried out to his physical body seemed to effect him in his own mind. Tom Riddle was a man to be reckoned with, to be feared, and, above all, to be respected. And he was well aware of his situation, even if only a small part of him was capable of awareness at all.

"The very same. I expected green."

"Perhaps you can help redecorate. You would have made a valuable dark consort."

"You would have made a beautiful corpse. Particularly pretty after cremation."

"Come now, there's no need for that. After all, you sought me out… Though I thought I killed you."

"You did. I'm here from beyond."

Tom's eyes gleamed with intrigue, hearing his deepest dearest hopes, seeing them bodily before his (mind's) eyes.

"My, and how did you achieve that?"

"I died. It's not important. I'm quite dead I assure you."

"And yet here you are."

"I have a request, and I think you'll like what I'm requesting."

"… Go on."

"My Harry. You're in his forehead, as I'm sure you're aware." Riddle nodded. "You're bound, because I bound you with the sacrifice of my death." She paused. "I am willing to loosen those bonds, slightly."

"… Why?"

"In life you were a sick, sadistic man. But you got your way, particularly with those of the fairer sex. Half of your power base came to you by your charming the ladies of the house into badgering their lords to your cause. It's fit for a Greek comedy."

"I suppose I may have learned a thing or two from Aristophanes."

"My Harry is a good, kind boy. He however, rarely gets his way."

"… with witches?"

"… with witches."

"And you wish me to influence him." At this Tom Riddle began to chuckle. His chuckle rose and fell, like the tide from a gentle swell to a cold, mocking bellow, crashing and threatening to flood the town, and tear away all the sand from the shores, and the piers from the earth. Lily bore it, with the equanimity of raw iron pillars, driven into the earth, seeking to protect their passes from the coldest of La Mer's caprices.

"All this because you fear he may not live to create children of his own accord? Are you certain you have not merely come to mock me? Or do you truly believe that I am so enfeebled as to be unable to influence the boy beyond such a limited sphere?"

"Harry is naive. He'll never become a madman like you. Nor will he become possessed by you. I have enough confirmation of that. But, he could do with a bit less naivety. Any attempts to corrupt him will likely be to his benefit, in the end. You'd never succeed in turning him, but your attempts will likely temper him, and if you succeed in doing more than that, then it's my fault for loosening your bonds." At this Voldemort began to think. A wineglass of pinot noir, sadly but a mindscape imitation, materialized in his hand. Another one appeared by Lily.

"I'll do without your pomegranate seeds, thank you very much."

"A fitting metaphor, for one already consigned to Hades demesne. What could partaking of my wine do to you, oh Hellbound Queen of Spring? Surely I am not Hades, and you not Persephone bound to the underworld. You wouldn't be here if you were."

"Surely, I am not, but you most certainly are."

"You wound me."

"And yet you continue to receive my presence." The girl had humility. That was something at least.

"Yes, and I will do more than receive your presence. I will corrupt your child. I will not warn you that this is a mistake. I think you already know it to be so, and are pursuing interests other than my defeat."

Lily gave no reply, but turned on her heel and marched herself out of the place. If she had a spine, it would be shivering. Her mental projection of a spine was rock-steady though, even if she was quite certain Voldemort saw right through the facade. One did not lie to him. Not really.

She snapped a single thread of pink on her way out the door, and killing curse green began to seep through the halls of Harry's mind.

Of course it wouldn't be that easy! Nothing would ever be that easy! Not in Harry's life at least. Harry stormed through his room packing his possessions. St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys! And with a convict godfather to go with it. What had he expected in his life. He was, of course, as always, fate's bitch. And naturally she would worsen things, enflame them just to mess with him, make the blow-up even worse than last time. What on earth had possessed him to announce that Sirius Black was his dogfather (his dogfather!) and that he'd be leaving with him in two days time? Why didn't he just leave immediately? And why did Vernon go along with it? Had he been hoping to call the police on Sirius and Harry both? What madness had taken hold here?

Earlier that day:

After Vernon had left from the living room, getting in his company car, the latest mid-tier model of course, to go fetch his portitudinous "aunt," Harry decided to sit in front of the telly a moment. It was but a moment, but a moment was a moment enough. Dudley had, of course, been munching on his crisps for the duration of the encounter, but now the munching stopped, and Dudley had naturally asked the first thing that came to anyone's mind when encountering a criminal.

"So what did he do?"

"He was framed." Dudley rolled his entirely-too-small eyes for his entirely-too-big head.

"But what did he ahem not do?"

"He didn't murder twelve people, plus a rat that betrayed my parents. And he didn't betray my parents to a mass murdering psychopath."

"So he really is a mass murderer!"

"What! No! I just told you he wasn't."

"You'd be better off if he was." And wasn't that a momentous occasion! Dudley's first side-eyed moment of subtlety. His portly cousin was growing some sensibility, if still lacking in a more mundane sort of sense.

"What's it to you?"

Dudley munched on his crisps.

Marge. Marge. Damn that Marge! Damn her, damn her, damn her!

Harry had been forced to endure another dinner of pretending to be a meek criminal who spent his days being caned at St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, instead of a criminally meek wizard who spent his days being nearly killed at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Come to think of it, there really wasn't that big a difference there after all. In both cases he was still getting his rear handed to him through little fault of his own. And Marge would insult him either way.

It was of course, the same insults. His parents were no good drunken layabouts. His father not working. His mother being of bad breeding (never mind her sister-in-law), him being a mean, runty looking thing who was plainly underbred (whatever that meant). Along with those, were the new insults about his escaped convict godfather, and how he was almost certainly headed the same direction. Sooner or later, it all had to go sideways. The only difference was that it did so a day or two earlier than expected.

"Marge!" Yelled Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia together, as Aunt Marge's whole body began to rise off her chair towards the ceiling. Why was this happening again? He wasn't really thirteen anymore. He shouldn't be having accidental magic episodes. He shouldn't even be this out of his own control. He just had a thirteen year old's brain and self-control… Fuck. Wait, she wasn't… Marge was floating, and she was definitely blowing-up, but if anything, she was becoming less rotund. Her red, brandy-stained lips were inflating, even as her portly fleshy waste was contracting. Her skin, flushed red with drink began to develop a sheen all it's own, and her facial expression, at first an "o" of shock, became ever more "o" shaped. And her breasts… were growing?

"She's a blow up doll!" Vernon goggled. Dudley ogled. And Petunia… Petunia did the worst thing of all: she giggled. Aunt Marge had indeed been blown up by Harry's accidental magic, and Petunia found it funny.

In her shock, Petunia attempted to recompose herself, but not before Vernon, whose anger would normally have been directed at Harry, found his wrath directed at her.

"You think this is funny!"

"I… I… I'm sorry I didn't mean to… It was just… Dudley, avert your eyes." Dudley did not avert his eyes. "I didn't mean to laugh, it's just, such a shock of course. What the freak did I mean."

"You think it's funny! And YOU! You think it's funny too don't you? Funny to turn my sister into… into a—"

"Of course he does!" Petunia immediately decided to move the target of wrath firmly onto Harry's back. "He probably planned this from the start. He probably intended to use Marge for his wicked ways." Petunia was oddly flushed.

"Boy, you change her back this instant!"

"I would never use Marge for my wicked ways!"

"Of course you would. I bet under the table you're tenting right now!" Harry's brain was short-circuiting again. He wasn't sure how to handle this situation. It was so much worse than the last time. Maybe this was some alternate, parallel universe, in which he was meant to… He could almost hear his mother's "Nope" with the incredibly long-sounding, popped "p" sound. She wasn't even there and she was torturing him! And so was Petunia. "You enjoy thinking about your Aunt Marge in such a way? Maybe treat her like the bitches she loves to brag about so much?" Was it an Evans thing? Did he inherit it? If so, why was he on the receiving end?

"No, of course not!" Harry, was rooted to the spot. He knew right then, knew with every fiber of his being, that the best thing, the sensible thing, the sane thing to do right then, would have been to run. There was nothing to be gained by staying, and yet somehow, he just couldn't. "I didn't mean to turn her into a blow-up doll!" Vernon was getting redder by the second. "She's revolting! It's an improvement!" Oh shite, that was not what he meant to say. "I mean… I mean—"

"BOY! CHANGE HER—"

A giggle sounded out. And Petunia, Petunia was blushing and giggling, as though she was watching the best gossip she had ever thought of playing right before her eyes. Before Vernon could round on her, she continued.

"You did want her to be a blow up doll."

"NO I DIDN'T."

"If you didn't want it, it wouldn't have happened." Oh gosh, it was an Evans thing. All Evans women were secretly sadists. All the punishments, the poor treatment, it couldn't have been…

"I did not! You're full of it! You know what you are! You're just a BITCH IN HEAT!" His wand was in his hand. When did his wand get in his hand? Oh no…

In the place of Petunia, there was a very skinny, very well trimmed poodle, and she was… was she humping the table? She was. She was humping the table. Vernon, in his shock, just stood there, staring at his wife turned into a bitch and his sister turned into a blow-up doll. Dudley, who had been using the opportunity to sneak some alcohol, spat out his brandy, and cried "Mummy!" Harry, well, Harry endeavored to look away from the sight, unsure how to feel about or react to this turn of events.

That was rather impressive. Transfiguration and compulsion at once? Not many wizards can manage that.

Harry, naturally, ignored the voice that had just interjected into his thoughts, too caught up in the ongoing series of events.

Things couldn't get any worse could they? Obviously, things had gotten as bad as they could get. Harry looked around the dining room, searching for anywhere to leave his gaze that wasn't on one of his transfigured aunts. His eyes settled on the window. Things could get worse.

There, outside the window, were two very large black paws, against the window, and there, barely visible against the dusk, a great, grim, drooling maw, behind which were a pair of grey eyes. Sirius' eyes. And it looked like he liked what he saw.

Oh no, please no more, Harry prayed. Sirius howled. It was a great long howl, one full of longing and lust, and needs unfulfilled. And hearing Sirius' howl, the transformed Petunia, having found the table leg thoroughly unsatisfying, bounded out of the dining room, through the living room and out the door.

"Petunia!" Vernon exclaimed and followed after, Harry and Dudley behind him. What followed was like watching a trainwreck, experienced in slow motion, a self-prolonging agony, the slobber like smoke and flame and the debris of machine parts sailing over the landscape, wreathed by a sunset which signaled the end of life, and Harry knew it was his life that was ending. Ending, ending before it even began. He had made it two days into his new life, and he could make it no further, as surely, surely his end was nigh.

"So that's why they call it doggy style." Dudley exclaimed. Ever one for stating the obvious, all previous pretensions at subtlety having been thoroughly displaced, as though by magic. Vernon, was speechless, unsure whether to be dismayed, horrified, or jealous. Obviously things could not get worse.

At the commotion, Ripper, Marge's thoroughly vicious bulldog came bounding from upstairs, down through the living room, and out to the front of the house, as though aware that his time to shine had come. He was, thoroughly, utterly and completely ready for action, and quite visibly so. The dogs negotiated. The bulldog growled, and slobbered and pined for a turn, trying everything he could to get in on the action, but the great, black not-really-a-dog would not yield. This went on for a time, before Petunia the not-literally-but-otherwise-very-much-a-bitch, seemed to have an epiphany and directed Ripper in another direction.

"I didn't know dogs could give blowjobs." Dudley said.

"Son, your mum was a bit of a wild one, before we settled down and had you." Vernon replied, a hint of reminiscing fondness in his voice.

The spectacle continued for some time. Nobody able to stop watching, and all silently agreeing to comment no further.

"Boy, when you set Petunia to rights, you leave the 'in heat' part, you understand?" Vernon's voice interrupted the soundtrack of panting, slapping, and slobber. Harry gulped and nodded. No words needed to be said.

Well this is interesting.

Harry stilled. A chill, a tremor of purest fear ran down his back.

Evidently, I can only talk to you in this state. You're quite enjoying this aren't you?

That voice…

Yes, yes, you know quite well who I am.

Voldemort! How are you inside my head! Harry mustered every bit of his malformed occlumency and set to expel the intruder.

Please, call me Tom. I'm surprised you're able to maintain this, given your initial reaction to hearing my voice.

What state? Why are you here? How are you talking to me? What is this?

For your first question, look down. Harry looked. Gives 'getting your attention' a whole new meaning. Harry was panicking, utterly panicking at this point. He desperately tried to think, tried to shore up his occlumency shields, anything to fix this situation. As for why I'm here, well, you've your mum to thank for that. Evidently you need some tutoring in the ways of the fairer sex.

Mad. Mad. Utterly Mad. His life had gone mad. His mum was mad. His da was likely mad too. His aunt and uncle were mad. His godfather was mad. Hell, he was probably mad. It was all mad. His mum had signed him up for lessons in picking up witches from Lord bloody Voldemort!

Please, call me Tom. The title Lord Voldemort is for followers, not pupils.

Mad.

Eventually the agony ended, and the dogs of lust were sated and leashed, returned to their cages and set to slumber. And Harry, maintaining himself for a moment longer, was able to learn the spell to reverse the transfiguration, if not the compulsion. Damning the prohibition on underage magic, Harry set his aunt to rights, and the result was a slightly-less-bony, significantly more randy, but nevertheless recognizably Aunt Petunia. Harry, also decided to transform his godfather, now resting on the living room rug, back into his human form.

"You!" Uncle Vernon bellowed at the very satisfied, slightly loopy, very human Sirius Black. And as the Evans madness prompted him, Harry could follow up with only one thing.

"Uncle Vernon, meet my dogfather, Sirius Black."

"Pup, I can explain."

"You… my wife!"

"No need, Uncle Padfoot, I remember you. Let me go get my things and we'll get out of here."

Uncle Vernon, looked about ready for a fight, balling his fists, and puffing out his red face, before Petunia, in her dawning awareness of the situation, quite helpfully diffused it.

"Oh Vernon." Vernon knew that tone. He knew it from the days of his youth. He knew what it meant, and knew how to respond. Now was his time to prove himself, to feel like a man again. He grabbed her by the roots of her hair, not gently, but nevertheless with a distinct lack of cruelty that Harry had not known him capable of.

"I think it's time I reminded you who your husband is, wife." Vernon, drew her up and marching her up the stairs, guiding her by her hair.

Harry goggled after them, before preparing himself for the conversation with Sirius that surely, most certainly had to happen now. Wait, where was Sirius? He was right here, a moment ago. Oh, is… is he going with them?

Harry and Dudley were alone in the living room.

"I'm going to go watch." Dudley said.

Harry was alone in the living room.

The present moment:

And that was why Harry was now packing his trunk, all by himself. It had all started with Aunt Marge insulting him. St. Brutus' was it? Well, he might not even be going back to Hogwarts now! He might very well be going to St. Brutus'. When had things ever gone right in his life? Of course it all went tits up! Well, blown up. They might have been facing down. And Aunt Petunia! And Sirius! Sirius didn't even stick around to say hello!

Harry, very frustrated, humiliated, and somewhat lonely, dragged his trunk down step-by-step, the thumps barely audible beneath the noise coming from his Aunt and Uncle's room. No one in that room would notice his departure. Dudley, peeping through the gap in the door, scarcely took notice either.

Arriving on the steps of Number 4 Privet Drive, hopefully for the last time… well except maybe to visit Aunt Pet—... that was a thought that was best left unfinished—Harry sat down for a moment to rest. Resisting the temptation to sink into melancholy at the utterly frustrated expectations of his life since his death, he stared out at the bushes.

And slinking in the bushes, was a cat. It looked like he felt, its formerly glossy black coat having lost most of it's sheen and missing a few patches, skinny beyond what was reasonable for a cat to be, and wary, absolutely wary. It's eyes, utterly striking in their electric violet color, were doubly striking in their wariness. Nevertheless, his mum's final instruction came to mind: "Pet the cat."

Harry pet the cat.

AN: Next up: Diagon Alley!

AN2: Loving the polarization in the reviews! Couple of replies to guest reviewers:

To all who reviewed: Thank you!

To all who found this funny and told me so, I am glad you enjoyed it.

To the folks calling this cringe: You're reading a YA harem fanfiction, titled in a light novel style.

To "You're a Monster": Sorry you got screwed over bro. Hit the weights, eat clean and get back on the horse! You can do it! You don't have to be below average forever.

To the person who called this "senseless trash" and said that the second chapter needs to be rewritten, as it changes the heart of the story every few sentences. If you knew what either of the challenges I was replying to were, you'd know it would almost have to be cracked. It's a humor fic, and will remain so for a while. As for the second part, if you're reading this, I'd love to see a more detailed response of what you mean. Could you be a bit more detailed? Is it the frequent scene changes you're referring to? I'm always open to constructive criticism. It's a cracky fic (for now, given the ridiculousness of the scenario), but I'd rather it not be a badly written one.

To the person commenting on evil!Lilly: There's an element of that. This story is a bit cracked, so don't take it serious until it tries to be serious.

To the person wondering what Lilly was actually going to do: I left it ambiguous for a reason.

To the folks calling me trash: If you're going to call me trash, do so under an account name. Any guest reviews insulting the author will be removed.