Chapter 1 : In Which We Don't Start the Story at the Beginning (Or do we?)

Harry Potter woke up in a cupboard in the house he had grown up in. At least that's what Harry desperately hoped, seeing as it was dark, and he kept bumping into walls. The other possibility was that the ritual had failed, and either he was dead, or he was being kept prisoner by Voldemort before his eventual torture and execution. Seeing as he had actually been trying to end up in the cupboard, he was betting on that.

Ah, there was the door handle. Had his keepers locked the door this time? Harry opened the door carefully and adjusted to the light. Yes, unless the afterlife was very perverse, the ritual had worked- he had come back in time. Harry grinned, and barely withheld the urge to shout in triumph.

He shook his head in confusion. 'I need to be circumspect. Why do my thoughts feel like they are fighting through syrup?' Harry pondered. His thoughts were disjointed and thinking was fuzzy, and he was moving quite oddly. 'Shite, did the ritual go wrong? I'm here, but nothing feels right! Where's a ruddy calendar?'

The boy stumbled into the kitchen occasionally bumping into a wall. Thankfully, between his light weight, and the Dursley's tendency to both snore and sleep heavily, he managed it without disaster.

Finding the calendar where it was always pinned, Harry relaxed. He was nine years old, and it was July seventh, seven being such a magically significant number. It was only twenty-some days until his tenth birthday. He looked at the clock- 7:09 am. He nodded, it had probably taken two minutes to get out to the kitchen. Yes, they had missed the target by a year, but the whole thing was pretty miraculous considering the shoestring operation the ritual had been anyway. Still, his body felt wrong.

"Relax Harry, you can still remember everything that happens," he said to himself. His voice surprised him. Obviously it would be different than it had been, but actually hearing it brought it all home. He really was nine again. Harry's eyes widened and he stuck a hand down his pants. "Well of course it would… One more casualty of the war," The boy chuckled mirthlessly.

He wandered over to the sink and got a glass of water while he thought. There were plans to change things this time, by necessity. He wouldn't be here when the Dursleys woke up for their late Sunday brunch. In fact, the Dursley residence would not be here for a late Sunday brunch. Couldn't have the headmaster sticking him back here every summer. Things to do, people to see. A few knives to slip into a few backs, metaphorically and literally, assuming he could control this stupid, childish body.

Yes, he doubted it would take Petunia as long as the end of the week before she and Dudley were on a cruise for the rest of their lives, paid for by a combination of fire insurance, and the life insurance her husband didn't know she had on him. She wasn't quite as stupid as she appeared. Harry's dear uncle wouldn't be killed by a heart attack as Petunia supposed, but he wouldn't be waking up when the fire alarm went off shortly either.

That was ultimately unimportant in the great scheme of things, however. No plan survives contact with the enemy, but they had made contingencies for their contingencies. And Harry had spent months memorizing it all.

Harry looked at the digital clock over the oven. "This uneasiness I feel is probably just an effect of the time traveling, it'll be over soon, right?" he asked it. The clock didn't answer, which, all things considered, Harry was glad for. "I'll start the plans and everything will be fine for the next few years." Harry went over the first few plans again mentally. "I hope this mental fog lifts soon, I can remember the plans, but I can't understand why they work. Ugh, I need to get to sleep. But not here. Never here again."

Around 7:30 AM, a bland, nondescript man walked out of number 4 Privet Drive, and started walking towards the nearest bus stop, eating a large sandwich, and wearing a backpack.

Two hours later, the last of the blaze was finally put out by the fire department, and Arabella Figg was desperately trying to reach Dumbledore, who had chosen a most inconvenient time to be out.

••••••••••

Dumbledore woke with a start.

It took but a moment for his mind to sort itself out, and he realized with dismay that many of his assorted 'desk toys' were activated. Something of import had just happened.

He rushed out of his private quarters and into his office. It was worse than he had thought; nearly all of the various gizmos were alarmed, he quickly switched to trying to find ones that weren't tripped.

He gave up and started a mental catalog, disabling each device as he checked it off. Assuming whatever calamity had just occurred allowed for it, his next project would be making a device that monitored, listed, and recorded the state of the other ones. He had never expected so many to go off at once.

Fifteen minutes later, he was mostly through, and getting a better picture. Hogwarts seemed to be fine. None of the old Phoenix members had called in an alarm… The Ministry hadn't fallen. The wards around young Harry were still up. It seemed that most of the specially tuned alarms were fine, but all of the older, more general alarms that the headmasters had accumulated over the centuries were convinced that the world was near its end. Dumbledore shook his head, unsure what could have caused all of this…

Another gizmo shot a puff of green smoke into the room, and the old man spun round to his fireplace. A moment later Amelia Bones' face appeared. "Ah, I should have known you'd be aware Albus. You're needed. The IWC just ordered an emergency meeting to assemble in Brussels as soon as possible."

Dumbledore's face grew grave. "What on Earth has happened, Amelia? I knew something was afoot, but an IWC meeting called in under an hour?"

Amelia snorted. "If anyone knew what had happened, I doubt there would be a rush. I've heard that magic detectors have been triggered worldwide, and that many of the monitored prophets fainted simultaneously."

Dumbledore swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Oh very dear... Keep the floo open, I'll be over momentarily."

Amelia nodded, and her head disappeared.

Dumbledore closed his eyes and mumbled a Sumerian prayer he had once come across. He would gladly face the next great adventure when it came, but he had led a longer, more full life than most. He hoped this was not as bad as he feared.

Then he stepped into the fire.

It would be quite some time before he came back to find that Mrs. Figg had news, and that the wards around number 4 Privet were destroyed along with the house.