Harry Potter sat on a throne. At age fourteen, he was pretty sure he was the littlest Dark Lord ever.

Literally.

He always was small for his age - Muggles kept on mistaking him for being eleven, which was really too young to be out and about London by yourself. So they'd offer to find his parents, and then he'd have to tell the good lady his parents were dead (curse his inability to lie!), and that always ruined her day.

He turned to his sinister man, Severus Snape, and asked, "Now what?" Snape gave him a why the hell are you asking me look, which might have stirred some emotion in Harry if it didn't look strikingly like Snape's generalized dour glare.

Because, despite being a Dark Lord, Harry had no idea what the hell he was doing. Things were Not Supposed to go this way.

In front of him, Bellatrix Black-Lestrange simpered - wriggled, really - ready to kiss the hem of his robe. His very well-made, very green robe. Malfoy said it flattered his eyes, and Harry, for lack of other options, was willing to go along with it. Bellatrix certainly seemed to like it.

Harry knew better than to ask Draco Malfoy, who stood at his right, for ideas. They'd involve killing Dumbledore or something else world-destabilizing.

Harry was now a Dark Lord. Didn't mean he had to like it.

How had things gone so wrong?

[a/n: This is a time travel story, in which Harry makes decisions, and things get steadily worse. Up next: an extended flashback.

But only if you review! This is just a stub, and I'm asking if you like it enough to want me to write more.]