Author's Note:
This is both a HP reworking of "Back to the Future" themes, and a soft reboot/reworking of the time travel tale "Hair of the Grim" by Nightmare Sired Muse. It also contains many concepts, lines and situations from the grab-bag that is "Odd Ideas" by Rorschach's Blot. Used with the permission of their original authors (except for "Back to the Future" of course). The Harry Potter series belongs to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. I do not own Harry Potter or anything else. Full disclaimer in the Table of Contents.
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Rated M for some violence, language, drug use and sexual references. Nothing explicit.
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Canon-compliant. HP&DH compliant (except the Epilogue). HP&CC compliant (except the conclusion). FB&WTFT compliant. Pottermore compliant (mostly). Some crossover with: Naruto, Ranma ½, Neon Genesis Evangelion, Twilight, Lord of the Rings and Avatar: The Last Airbender. Primarily Harry Potter though.
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Recommended Fanfiction of the Week: "Hair of the Grim" by Nightmare Sired Muse.
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Part 1: Harry Potter vs Time
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Prologue – We Can't Stop Here, This is Rat Country
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We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.
― Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
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There are many things a wizard or witch shouldn't do while ridiculously drunk or high: flying, apparition, spellcrafting, Quidditch, Quodpot, microsurgery, wand repair, transfiguration and magical oaths, just to name a few. But as the Boy-Who-Lived learned, listening to one of your equally wasted friend's 'brilliant ideas' is another one of the things you just shouldn't do.
The evening began as part of Project GHTUFDOS (Getting-Harry-To-Unwind-From-Decades-Of-Stress). Ron figured that after being raised by scum like the Dursleys, the adventures in Hogwarts, having an immortal madman out for his blood (in both senses of the term), going on the lam to escape a corrupt government while searching the country for magical trinkets, the Battle of Hogwarts, and joining the Auror Academy immediately thereafter for two years of rigorous training (neither of them bothered with their seventh year or NEWTs), the least Harry was entitled to was a rager beyond all other ragers.
Ron's contacts had revealed an entire complex of wizarding and muggle bars tucked away in a corner of Barstow. Harry had never been to West Yorkshire before so readily agreed, and before you could say 'desinit in piscem mulier formosa superne', the two friends and their Auror cohort were out to celebrate Harry's 20th birthday, their completion of the junior level program, and getting their first pips. Hermione, being the poule mouillée that she was (whatever that meant; Fleur always refused to translate) had opted to stay at home and to work on a different project, one for her double Charms-Transfiguration Mastery. Ginny was at a training camp with the Hollyhead Harpies reserves, George and Lee were in the middle of a research kick and so fully in the 'wet blanket' zone, Neville and Luna were holidaying in Palmyra, and Susan and Hannah had vanished into the bowels of the Department of Mysteries, so who knew how long it would be before their Unspeakable mentors disgorged them. Consequently, no voice of reason was present to counter the twosome's natural recklessness. A recklessness only enhanced by the large amounts of alcohol they were consuming.
For example, the copious amounts of Firewhisky Harry and Ron had already downed made it seem an eminently reasonable and sane idea to experiment with the variety of magical substances their Auror friends, new barfly mates and hangers-on offered them over the course of the night to increase their cheer. They ended up taking a whole galaxy of multi-coloured Angel Tears, Demon Dust, Athelas, Lembas, Mertoran Leaf, Melancholia, and Morgana's Mushrooms. Even Faerie Bread and Pixie Sticks. They drew the line though at Deathsticks; the fact that they'd even been offered them in the first place forced Harry and Ron to re-evaluate their lives, and head home. After all, there is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a wizard in the depths of a Deathstick binge.
As they staggered away to find an apparition point (completely forgetting the Knight Bus was available), the chastened pair commiserated with each other drunkenly regarding the family and friends that Death had touched. Ron opined on the unfairness of it all, and waxed lyrical on the awesomeness of being able to reverse that unhappy state of affairs. Harry unwisely commented that he'd come across a ritual that purported to do such a thing in a dark book entitled 'Necronomicon' that was sequestered in the deepest, darkest, dankest corner of the hidden Library deep beneath Grimmauld Place. A library that only the Head of House Black and his personal elf could access. A quick summoning of Kreacher to fetch him the book, resulted in said book being firmly in the 'filthy halfblood master's tainted hand' by the time they had staggered out of town.
A side trip to the Forbidden Forest netted them the Resurrection Stone, which turned out to be surprisingly easy to retrieve. A simple Accio Resurrection Stone! spell cast near the path Harry had walked to his 'death' brought it immediately to hand. Ron's Firewhisky and Faerie Bread-fuelled state did not prevent him from chiding Harry severely for being so careless about securing one of the Deathly Hallows, a priceless and irreplaceable and immensely dangerous magical artefact.
Still reeling from the ferocious bollicking, a suitably pwned Harry side-apparated them home, amazingly managing to avoid splinching anyone. A notable achievement indeed to the man known in the Academy as Sir Splinchalot. At present, the Golden Trio were living in one of the many cottages owned by the Potter family that dotted the countryside. The one they'd selected was the most well-warded and remote they could find. Ron and Harry and a contingent of Gringotts warders had busily shored up its magical defences while Hermione had brought the interior up to liveable standards. It was perhaps not a surprise then that the finished product featured a soft pastel colour palette and wall-to-wall bookcases in every room but the kitchen and basement. Ron grumbled that she had finally achieved her lifelong dream to live in a library.
With the great confidence that only mind-altering substances can provide, the two thought it a fine idea to replicate the mysterious rite from the Necronomicon by themselves right then and there. They busily set to work, stopping only to periodically charge their glasses from the bottle of butterbeer Ron had filched from the final bar, and toast the objects mounted over the fireplace: enlarged and framed pictures of Harry's parents, Remus and Nymphadora Lupin, Dobby, Fred and Gideon and Fabian Prewett; the remains of Harry's Firebolt and Ron's first wand, which had been painstakingly pieced back together again; Harry's holly and phoenix feather wand, that he had put aside at the end of the war and swore never to use again except in direst emergency; the warped and twisted slag of gold that was once Slytherin's Locket; Wormtail's silver hand, a victory trophy; and a jar of faerie wings that Hermione had left on top of the fireplace for some reason. The jar of faerie wings was the recipient of a particularly high and enthusiastic number of toasts.
It mattered not to them that the pages of the Necronomicon were extremely weathered and hard to read even under the best of circumstances, nor that the description of the ritual was missing a number of key steps (they made those up as they went). Harry would likely have worried more about this lacuna had not Ron procured a small vial of glowing golden potion, with a flourish and unsteady smile.
"Whazz dat, mate?" Harry slurred.
"Felis fallacious-fellatio-whatchamacallit," his friend drooled proudly.
"Where'd ya geddit?"
"Hermione's secret cupboard she thinks we don know bout," he giggled. "Oops."
"No woz," Harry declared, mopping up the spilled Felix Felicis with his Invisibility Cloak and squeezing it out into the cauldron. The concoction turned purple and began to bubble ominously.
"Finished," Ron commented in satisfaction. "Wiz all zat luck, we're on our way! Lettuz begin the Rite of Ash Kent, whoever he is. Heigh ho, Slipper!" With that, the two began channelling their magic through the series of wobbly-looking runes scratched out on the floor in an uneven circle. The room began to glow with an eldritch light. The cauldron bubbled over, and pink and silver steam filled the room.
"Yeah! We did it," cheered Harry, "in your face, Abd'ul al-Hazred!" right before the Resurrection Stone exploded. The resulting magical backlash flattened the house, and the explosion could be seen and felt from Hogsmeade. The muggle news quickly informed the public that the strange lights and tremors were caused by the planned demolition of a natural gas pipe. Since it occurred far from any habitation, the occurrence was quickly put aside in favour of more pressing matters.
When the debris had settled, all the inhabitants were gone.
Little did they know that one specific part of their drunken, idiotic plan would work out far better than they had ever imagined.
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˂:3 )~~~~ . ˂:3 )~~~~ . ˂:3 )~~~~
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Harry James Potter woke up and immediately wished that he hadn't. His brain felt like it was desperately trying to escape from his skull and make for happier climes.
He was tangled in a heap in what looked like a tiny bathroom stall. "Ugh," Harry groaned, "never again!" Dragging himself up off the floor, he dropped onto the toilet seat and tried to get his bearings. "That's the last time I drink, eat or smoke anything those jerks suggest." He looked around. "Just what did Ron and I get up to last night?" he wondered to himself.
Eventually he was able to suppress the nausea enough to sit up straight. Soon after, he had summoned sufficient strength to grab the sink and pull himself upright to wash his face. Drying his eyes, he looked up into the mirror. His reflection looked back at him. Watery blue eyes. Chubby round face. Small twitchy nose. Thin mousy hair. The hated face of someone long dead, the face of an enemy Harry would never forget as long as he lived.
Harry stared into the rat-like teenaged face of Peter Pettigrew.
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