The house at number 12, Grimmauld Place looked just as haunted and desolate as ever. No matter what the timeline was, some things just did not change. To an outsider, the house was a dilapidated mess of sprawling vines and wild bushes, a rusted iron gate with an uneven garden, which hosted a heck of odd-looking vines and creepers. The doorknob was serpentine—the boys on the street who at times had tried to break into the house somehow forgot what happened to them during their expedition. All they remembered where bulging pale eyes and flattened ears. The rest was... blurry. It was no surprise that the people residing in the outskirts had declared the house as haunted.
Wearing a dark green hooded robe, Harry apparated in front of the street opposite to the ancestral townhouse of the Blacks. Sirius might now know yet that he was still the Lord of his family, but Harry knew it well. If he was right, the house would sense the Black blood in him and grant him access—after all, he had risen to the position of Lord Black after Sirius' death—not that it ever meant anything to him anyway. The townhouse, despite being one of the most warded buildings- next to Gringotts and Hogwarts of course, had been smashed to dust by the demon horde.
Now though...
He strode towards the house, the gates opening on their own, giving him access and confirming his theory—he placed his palm on the doorknob and twisted it open. With a reasonably loud creaking, the wooden door opened. He stepped inside. The room was just as dilapidated as the garden outside. He mused that the Weasley family had indeed worked quite hard in trying to make the house livable.
A sudden pop appeared right behind him and he felt something leap at him. His eyes glowed for a moment, and the attacker was suddenly caught in a body-bind. Bound and unable to move, the attacker profusely resorted to severe use of profanity.
"Mudbloods! Filth! Desecrating the house of my mistress! Kreacher will kill you! Kreacher will-" the attacker, who was no one else other than the demented house elf otherwise known as Kreacher, stopped suddenly, staring at the person who had him bound. After a couple of seconds, he croaked, "Who are you? Kreacher feels Black magic in you, but Kreacher not knowing you. Kreacher is confused."
Harry smirked. "If you can feel Black magic in me, that makes me your master, doesn't it elf?"
Kreacher seemed to hesitate but then he nodded subtly. Good.
"Very well elf. I am going to release you. However, you are ordered not to attack me. I assure you I am a Black by blood."
Kreacher nodded slowly, as he felt the bindings loosen. "Master is very powerful to do magic without his wand. Kreacher does not know who Master is."
A flash of amusement seemed to float on Harry's lips. "My name is Harry Potter, and I am Dorea Black's Grandson."
"Master be grandson to old mistress Dory?"
Harry nodded subtly. "Kreacher is happy to serve Master." The elf croaked happily.
That was easy.
"That is good and all, but Kreacher, there is something I want from you. Regulus Arcturus Black, -" the old elf's eyes widened as he recognized the name- "Regulus left something to you before he died. Something he wanted you to destroy. A locket. Did you destroy it?"
Kreacher looked balefully at him. "Why does master want the locket?"
"I don't want the locket. I want to finish what Regulus started. Did you destroy the locket, Kreacher?"
At this point, the elf seemed to lose all control, as he fell down to the floor, wailing and crying controllably. He took a poker stick on one hand and began beating his head with it. "Bad Kreacher! Bad Kreacher! Bad-"
"Kreacher! I forbid you from punishing yourself. Tell me, where is the locket?" Harry asked, a sternness creeping into his voice. Kreacher looked at him with wide eyes and then popped away, only to return in two seconds with the emerald locket in his hand-, "This is the locket, Master!"
Harry extended his arm and the locket levitated out of Kreacher's hand on its own; said elf clearly in awe at his Master's blatant display of magical power. "When will master destroy it?" he asked hopefully.
"Why now, of course!" Harry mused. "Move away Kreacher, things are going to get quite... messy."
He placed the locket down on the ground, the vial containing the basilisk venom in his hand. A realization hit him, and he stopped midway. "Kreacher, do you have any goblin-forged dagger in the house?"
Kreacher nodded and popped away. Five seconds later, he popped back, carrying an ornate dagger crafted with rubies and sapphires. There was a runic symbol etched on the tip of the dagger, but Harry could not see it, because it was covered with dirt. A cleaning charm later, the dagger looked as good as new. A shocked Harry Potter saw the runic symbol at the dagger's tip.
An Ouroboros. The serpentine symbol of immortality.
Such a dagger could only belong to...
He turned the dagger on the other side. Etched on the surface was a phrase in serpent tongue but Harry could read it as clearly.
'Fur non insueta subit in eo.'
The thief never steals in an unfamiliar place.
True...
Dipping the dagger into the vial, he witnessed how the dagger seemed to draw the viscous venom inside itself. Just as expected, goblin silver imbued anything stronger than itself. This dagger would be a good replacement for the sword of Gryffindor.
He placed the locket on the ground, careful to make sure that no magical artifact was near the horcrux.
"Open!" he hissed, and the locket sprang open, throwing out a veritable cloud of energy and mist. A very familiar lithe figure stood out in front of him. The same golden hair, the same blue eyes, the same... except that the smirk on her lips was so unlike her...
"Don't kill me Harry, you love me, right?"
Harry's hand shook in anger, his mind in a state of shock but his hands refusing to move forward. The woman in front of him looked all the more sensual and predatory at the same time, "I will kill her again! If you kill me now, I will-"
His hand moved suddenly.
The dagger struck the locket in its heart.
A blood-curling scream. A huge black smoke erupted out and in an instant, it was obliterated into dust.
It was over.
"Master? Is it gone?" Kreacher asked in a murmuring tone.
"Yes."
"Thank you, master!"
Harry sat up straight, his mind still in a flurry of memories, but the most prevalent being one single memory- the very memory of his destroying the very same locket earlier in his timeline.
FLASHBACK
"Anything there?" Ron asked.
"No," said Harry.
"So how did the sword get in that pool?"
"Whoever cast the Patronus must have put it there." They both looked at the ornate silver sword, its rubied hilt glinting a little in the light from Hermione's wand.
"You reckon this is the real one?" asked Ron.
"One way to find out, isn't there?" said Harry.
The Horcrux was still swinging from Ron's hand. The locket was twitching slightly. Harry knew that the thing inside it was agitated again. It had sensed the presence of the sword and had
tried to kill Harry rather than let him possess it. Now was not the time for long discussions; now was the moment to destroy the locket once and for all. Harry looked around, holding Hermione's
wand high, and saw the place: a flattish rock lying in the shadow of a sycamore tree.
"Come here," he said, and he led the way, brushed snow from the rock's surface, and held out his hand for the Horcrux. When Ron offered the sword, however, Harry shook his head. "No, you should do it."
"Me?" said Ron, looking shocked. "Why?"
"Because you got the sword out of the pool. I think it's supposed to be you."
He was not being kind or generous. As certainly as he had known that the doe was benign, he knew that Ron had to be the one to wield the sword. Dumbledore had at least taught Harry something about certain kinds of magic, of the incalculable power of certain acts.
"I'm going to open it," said Harry, "and you stab it. Straight away, okay? Because whatever is in there will put up a fight. The bit of Riddle in the diary tried to kill me."
"How are you going to open it?" asked Ron. He looked terrified.
"I'm going to ask it to open, using Parseltongue," said Harry. The answer came so readily to his lips that he thought that he had always known it deep down. Perhaps it had taken his recent encounter with Nagini to make him realize it. He looked at the serpentine S, inlaid with glittering green stones: It was easy to visualize it as a minuscule snake, curled upon the cold rock.
"No!" said Ron. "No, don't open it! I'm serious!"
"Why not?" asked Harry. "Let's get rid of the damn thing, it's been months —"
"I can't, Harry, I'm serious — you do it —"
"But why?"
"Because that thing's bad for me!" said Ron, backing away from the locket on the rock. "I can't handle it! I'm not making excuses, Harry, for what I was like, but it affects me worse than it affected you and Hermione, it made me think stuff — stuff I was thinking anyway, but it made everything worse, I can't explain it, and then I'd take it off and I'd get my head on straight again, and then I'd have to put the effing thing back on — I can't do it, Harry!"
He had backed away, the sword dragging at his side, shaking his head. "You can do it," said Harry, "you can! You just have the sword; I know it is supposed to be you who uses it. Please, just get rid of it, Ron."
The sound of his name seemed to act like a stimulant. Ron swallowed, then, still breathing hard through his long nose, moved back toward the rock. "Tell me when," he croaked.
"On three," said Harry, looking back down at the locket and narrowing his eyes, concentrating on the letter S, imagining a serpent, while the contents of the locket rattled like a trapped cockroach. It would have been easy to pity it, except that the cut around Harry's neck still burned. "One . . . two . . . three . . . open."
The last word came as a hiss and a snarl and the golden doors of the locket swung wide with a little click. Behind both of the glass windows within blinked a living eye, dark and handsome as Tom Riddle's eyes had been before he turned them scarlet and slit-pupiled.
"Stab," said Harry, holding the locket steady on the rock. Ron raised the sword in his shaking hands: The point dangled over the frantically swiveling eyes, and Harry gripped the locket tightly, bracing himself, already imagining blood pouring from the empty windows.
Then a voice hissed from out of the Horcrux.
"I have seen your heart, and it is mine."
"Don't listen to it!" Harry said harshly. "Stab it!"
"I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible..."
"Stab!" shouted Harry; his voice echoed off the surrounding trees, the sword point trembled, and Ron gazed down into Riddle's eyes. "Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter ... Least loved, now, by the girl who prefers your friend... Second best, always, eternally overshadowed..."
"Ron, stab it now!" Harry bellowed: He could feel the locket quivering in his grip and was scared of what was coming. Ron raised the sword still higher, and as he did so, Riddle's eyes gleamed
scarlet. Out of the locket's two windows, out of the eyes, there bloomed, like two grotesque bubbles, the heads of Harry and Hermione, weirdly distorted.
Ron yelled in shock and backed away as the figures blossomed out of the locket, first chests, then waists, then legs, until they stood in the locket, side by side like trees with a common root, swaying over Ron and the real Harry, who had snatched his fingers away from the locket as it burned, suddenly, white-hot.
"Ron!" he shouted, but the Riddle-Harry was now speaking with Voldemort's voice and Ron was gazing, mesmerized, into its face. "Why return? We were better without you, happier without you,
glad of your absence... We laughed at your stupidity, your cowardice, your presumption —"
"Presumption!" echoed the Riddle-Hermione, who was more beautiful and yet more terrible than the real Hermione: She swayed, cackling, before Ron, who looked horrified yet transfixed, the sword hanging pointlessly at his side. "Who could look at you, who would ever look at you, beside Harry Potter? What have you ever done, compared with the Chosen one? What are you, compared with the Boy Who Lived?"
"Ron, stab it, STAB IT!" Harry yelled, but Ron did not move. His eyes were wide, and the Riddle-Harry and the Riddle-Hermione were reflected in them, their hair swirling like flames, their eyes
shining red, their voices lifted in an evil duet.
"Your mother confessed," sneered Riddle-Harry, while Riddle-Hermione jeered, "that she would have preferred me as a son, would be glad to exchange..."
"Who wouldn't prefer him, what woman would take you, you are nothing, nothing, nothing to him," crooned Riddle-Hermione, and she stretched like a snake and entwined herself around Riddle-Harry, wrapping him in a close embrace: Their lips met.
"RON! STAB THE LOCKET!" Harry roared.
Then, something strange happened. Riddle-Harry and Riddle-Hermione looked back at Harry and transformed into a gorgeous golden haired woman, one whom Harry knew extremely well. There was one difference though. Her eyes, which were usually bright blue, were now crimson and pulsing with anger.
"If you kill me now, I will haunt you forever!" she stated firmly.
Perhaps the break was all that Ron needed, for he roared up in anger.
The sword flashed, plunged. Harry threw himself out of the way; there was a clang of metal and a long, drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in the snow, wand held ready to defend
himself, but there was nothing to fight. The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione were gone. It was completely empty.
There was only Ron, standing there with the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at the shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock. Slowly, Harry walked back to him, hardly knowing what to say or do. Ron was breathing heavily. Harry stooped, pretending he had not seen, and picked up the broken Horcrux. Ron had pierced the glass in both windows.
END OF FLASHBACK
Harry picked himself up, and strode out of the dilapidated Manor. Ordering Kreacher not to mention that he was ever there, and to clean the damned house, he apparated away.
"I have one question, Ronald. If you are whom you say you are, then how are you here? Temporal machinations cannot allow more than one copies of one soul in one timeline."
Ron Weasley smirked. Sometimes he wondered how easily the expression came to his lips—how ironic considering his irrational hatred for everything Slytherin. More ironic was the fact that his once best friend Harry Potter, once held the position of the Lord Slytherin and now he himself was a death eater, a servant to someone who was also an heir of Slytherin.
A servant in ways more than one.
"That would be because... there are certain... changes shall we say, in me that helps me stay in this timeline despite an actual Ron Weasley being out there with Harry Potter."
"Do you think that your doppelganger could be an ally?"
Ron nodded briskly. "No, my Lord. In my fourth year, I was very... Gryffindorish. It will not even be a good move. We can safely assume that it won't work."
Lord Voldemort mused. This time traveler had put a wrench in his plans but at least it was for his own good. Besides, it was nice having someone, who had the ability to think and make decisions. The fact that his future-self had trusted him so much as to travel back in time, still gave him creeps.
How did I actually begin to trust someone so much? What is so special about this person?
He looked at the man sitting on the chair beside him. The man's behavior, it was... slippery. In a weird kind of way, it reminded him eerily of himself. Perhaps that was why his future-self had trusted him enough to tell him everything? Moreover, time-travel? It was something he could not even fathom. A few hours to a few days was one thing- but decades... It boggled the mind.
Despite everything, something felt odd about this person.
Something... inexplicable.
"Tell me Weasley, do you know where my horcruxes are, at this moment?"
Ron hesitated for a moment. "No, my Lord. I just know what they are, not where they are. Though there is one particular information that I can aid you with. The locket."
"The locket? What about it?" Voldemort asked- the wildness in his voice completely at odds from his usually calm demeanor.
"The locket was stolen by Regulus Black, my lord. As per my knowledge, its current residence is in the Black townhouse at Number 12, Grimmauld Place."
Not for the first time the dark lord was frustrated over being limited in the form of a homunculus. "We need to get that locket out to safety." He admitted openly, his fear taking over his cunning.
"As unfortunate as it is, my Lord. That is not quite possible. The wards at Grimmauld Place are Hogwarts' level, perhaps a tad more offensive. I cannot even imagine what would happen if we were to force our way into the building." His sly smile returning to his face, "but my Lord, Harry Potter is still a fourth year. We can always undertake our expedition after your resurrection. After all, I am not that strong enough to do it all by myself."
For some reason, Lord Voldemort did not believe the man.
"Very well." Not for the first time, Lord Voldemort reminded himself that bad things happen to those who mess with time.
Three horcruxes down! No wait! Four horcruxes down... Me, Locket, Diary and Ring. Now the only ones that remain are the diadem, the cup and Nagini. After that, Voldemort is free game.
Diadem... I can get that at Hogwarts.
The cup... I will have to talk with Grimjaw about it. Perhaps an arrangement could be made or something.
Nagini... no idea. I will have to try to kill her and Voldemort both together.
Crap! It was supposed to be quick.
Harry Potter stood up from the ground, his dark pristine robes fluttering in the air as he stood barefooted in the lush green grounds of Potter Manor. He closed his eyes to feel the air kiss his cheeks. He felt a rush of energy flow towards him and brush against him, inundating him along the way. Somewhere deep in his memories, a lost voice resounded...
I love you...
Harry opened his eyes.
"I love you too. Now and forever..."
Going into Hogwarts during the summer holidays was an idea Harry did not take delight in. He knew that the old man must have known that he did not return to the Dursleys, and was perhaps conducting some kind of 'national Harry Potter search' using his blasted 'Order of the fried Chicken!' He had lived for so many years, fought multiple wars, time travelled and done so much, but even now, he never understood the real need of a group like the Order. For one, they never did anything constructive. Dumbledore and his theory of give second chances to everyone and their uncle' was a royal pain; and then again, the order members were puritanical people who would only stun in response to a Cruciatus. Was it any surprise that Voldemort had almost won the first war hands-down?
The Order of the Phoenix! Harry snorted. All that the Order did was stalk him and guard the gates of the Department of Mysteries. It was not surprising that they failed miraculously at both. They guarded him, but never did anything to stop the Dursleys from torturing him. They guarded the Department of Mysteries, but when the actual time came- six school-kids had to do their fucking job for them. As it was, the Order members arrived almost an hour after the battle had already begun.
Order of the Fried Chicken indeed!
No matter what, going to Hogwarts in the summer was totally a bad idea. Almost worthy of his former self- that is to say, practically Gryffindorish. He would have to settle for something productive.
An idea formed in his mind, one that brought an instant smirk floating on his lips.
The Quidditch World Cup!
His fingers twitched for some blood and gore. The death-eaters would not know what hit them. His thoughts shifted to Weasley and Granger- pathetic wastes of life and magic... no wait! He could not afford to kill them now, after all—they hadn't disagreed in public yet. But then again, if he did—nobody would ever point fingers at him. Perhaps he should-
I need to think about it. Voldemort is the priority, followed by Fudge and Dumbledore. After that, Weasley and Granger will get the taste of the forbidden fruit.
Better!
He looked at his hands. Ever since he had become the owner of the hallows, - he still refused to call himself Master of Death for some weird reason-an alternative was to call himself as Peverell, which he adopted. It was a good case of plausible denial. What if Peverell was the one behind all the assassinations...? Harry Potter would be out of the case, while the law enforcement would hunt for Peverell.
I will need an alibi, and importantly, one simple trinket.
His lips twisted to form a cruel smirk.
Time to invade Knockturn Alley again.
The small shack next to the shady pub in Knockturn Alley, also known as 'Enchanting incantations!' was one of the shadiest places in entire Knockturn Alley. One could technically; buy anything and everything over there, provided one had the money to pay the ridiculous price quoted. It was not a good option but it was the best he had. Of course killing the people and taking the trinket was an alternative but then... an interesting source and contact would be lost forever.
No death; no dismemberment; no permanent injuries.
How boring!
He entered into the shady shack, his hood covering his face as usual. It would not do for anyone to recognize him. He had even applied some glamour charms and carried a fake wand in his pocket. It wasn't truly a fake one, it was just a wand made of holly in which he had poured a few drops of his own blood to act as the magical core. While it looked exactly like his original holly wand, the core meant that it would work only and only for him.
Nothing like a simple deception.
"What do you want?" the owner seated behind the table grunted. He had a gravelly voice.
"My wife is complaining that I am too busy working. I think I need more... time. Can you suggest me something?"
The man behind the glass widened his eyes, as he understood the true motive of the answer, and nodded subtly. Then he replied. "Yes my brother, time is very, very costly. Those who lose it once, don't get it back even for thousands of galleons."
Harry smirked. "I won a lottery last week. Perhaps you could show me something that would solve my problem?"
A smirk flitted across the owner's face. "Wait here." He entered into the shack, and after a few minutes of anxious waiting, he took out a small golden locket.
"Gift this to your wife. Tell her it costs seventeen thousand. Costly no doubt, but perhaps you can try to come home five hours yearly? After all, happy wife, happy life my friend."
Harry smirked.
"True that."
### My second chapter for the day. two chapters in a couple of hours! I know my record is 5 chapters a day, but perhaps someday I will beat it. Anyway, enjoy this chapter. And of course, reviews please. I am trying to write a thriller and I need thrilling reviews my friends.
Thanks.
