HP fic: Greater Than, Lesser Be / Part One, A

[kneazle]

Greater Than, Lesser Be

Kneazle

Summary: Harry and several others he knew ingested love potions; great-he could deal with that. But knowing that he found this out before and the people he trusted erased his memory and sent him back in time to relive his worst nightmare, again and again? Not this time if Harry Potter had anything to say about it!

[Greater Than, Lesser Be - Part One, A]
**
Andy Bellefleur: In my book, if no one thinks we're heroes, it don't count.

Jason Stackhouse: Of course it counts! It's like if a tree falls in the woods; it's still a tree, ain't it? The whole point in being a hero is to do something greater than yourself. It'd be easy to do it for the glory or the girls, but we're bigger men than that, right?

- "Beyond Here Lies Nothing", True Blood, 2009
**
PART ONE

"Bollocks," muttered Harry, shaking loose mud off his dragonhide boot. He had just stepped into a pool of mud, the earth turned after the torrential rainstorm the previous night. And in Wales, where the sun rarely ever shone, mud puddles in the Brecon Beacons was fairly normal.

Harry Potter was twenty-seven years old. He had survived several murderous attempts on his life; surviving those, and later Voldemort's final attack on him a decade past, had led to his current predicament. Upon Voldemort's demise, Harry followed the path set out before him (rather, manipulated him into), and joined the Auror forces. He rose steadily in rank until he was second in department at the DMLE, but then something miraculous happened.

He was poached.

A private Saudi firm that undertook high-profile cases poached Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived (twice), the Defeater of Voldemort. In translation: Harry was a hired contractor. In layman's terms, beyond the euphemism, Harry Potter was a paid assassin to do other people's dirty jobs.

And strangely Harry kind of… liked it. He didn't take orders from Kingsley Shacklebolt; he didn't report to the Minister of Magic in Britain who would give him a dressing down about damaging his reputation and that of Britain. In fact, the only dressing-down he ever received was from his mother-in-law, Molly Weasley.

Molly Weasley, just thinking the woman's name had Harry clenching his jaws in anger.

Harry had been a good little boy. He followed his orders and let Dumbledore's manipulations continue once he had died. He courted Ginny; he married Ginny; they had children. Ron and Hermione dated, on and off, before finally marrying; all was well.

Fucking bullshit.

His employer-a man that Harry only had contact with about once or twice a year, depending on his target and hit-had left him a rather large file after he completed his most recent job in Malta. The file contained information about Dumbledore's manipulations, dating back from before Harry's initial death when he was seventeen. Most of it was things he had already guessed: knowing about the prophecy but doing nothing, the Horcruxes and waiting for Harry to 'deliver' them and be killed by Voldemort… nothing new on that front. He may not like it, but he understood it was war and he was a part of it. He sure as hell didn't forgive the dead Headmaster for it, though.

But the new information… that was a real eye-opener. Hermione once told him that Molly Weasley had shared information at Hogwarts with her and Ginny about how she used a love potion-Harry didn't think anything of it at the time; everyone did stupid things as kids, didn't they? -But then there was the file. And all the incriminating evidence in it.

Love potions, confundus charms, power binding, amulets-on him, on Hermione, on other unsuspecting people within the Order, the Defence Association. Harry felt his blood boil as his rage reached epic heights. But what was he going to do with the information, he wondered?

He didn't go to Hermione-despite her rather unfortunate and unhappy marriage, it would devastate her even more than her parents' refusal after they regained their memories in Australia. Luna-her mind was warped and he wasn't sure how she would handle the news of the attempts. Thank Merlin she was weird enough that nothing stuck to her. But Neville, and Dean, and Seamus, and Parvati and Lavender, and Cho and Dennis and Justin and Hannah and Susan…

Nearly every single one of the DA's names were listed. So were Tonks's, Remus's, and Hestia Jones's names.

Then his employer contacted him again, about a new job. Harry was in half a mind to turn him down-he couldn't deal with the painstaking application of months of research and reconnaissance required for his hit when he had this shit to deal with… but his employer insisted. So Harry went, and listened, and gleefully accepted.

His new target was not a kill, but rather an interrogation: find and detain one Missus Molly Weasley. If possible, Ginevra Weasley-Potter as well.

Easy-peasey, lemon-squeezy, thought Harry. His mother-in-law wouldn't hesitate to come over and prod and poke into his and Ginny's business about giving her grandbabies, and Ginny wouldn't see anything strange in inviting just her mother over for a meal.

Or, so Harry thought. Because it did go well, until the interrogation. Molly, well, she answered affirmative to everything, under Dumbledore's orders. But Ginny-she was always a snake in the grass. She slipped past Harry's defences and his magic, and ran out the back door, leaving Harry to chase after her.

So there he was, chasing his soon-to-be-ex-wife across the Brecon Beacons, muddy and more than a little annoyed as she tried to reach the end of their anti-Apparition wards before he caught up with her.

Thank Merlin he was wearing his hitgear, having just come back from a meeting with his employer. He caught up with the b-witch just in time, hitting her across the middle in a rugby tackle and bringing her down painfully to the unforgiving Welsh landscape.

"Nice try, my lovely," chuckled Harry darkly. "But not tonight, love. We're going to have a little chat, you and me."

"Fat fucking chance, Potter!" spat the redhead, writhing and twisting in her husband's grasp as the man tried to keep a hold of the squirming woman, getting soaked and caked in slippery mud in the process.

He swore and cursed as one of Ginny's hands and then legs came free; they scrambled around a bit, but then she had her wand in her hand, pointed at him, inches from his face and he was glaring murderously at his wife.

"Don't make me do it," she warned, hand steady. "Because I will."

"So why did you do it, why did you go along with it, Gin?" asked Harry, desperately seeking the answer to her treachery.

The young redhead laughed. "Why wouldn't I, Harry? The chance to marry the Boy-Who-Lived, to see all my dreams come into existence? The prestige, the money, the honour? Pick one. They're all right, and they're all wrong reasons."

"I don't understand," murmured Harry, dazed and confused.

"It doesn't matter, Harry," sighed Ginny, barely glancing away for a moment-she knew her husband's talents and skills well enough to never waver or take her eyes off him. "In the end, what matters was that you did what you were supposed to do: kill the villain, marry your best friends' little sister, save the world, live your life. It was what everyone wanted for you."

"It wasn't the life I wanted!" Harry was suddenly angry. He began shouting at his wife, in her face as he let his feelings go on the matter. "I never wanted to be the Boy-Who-Lived, I never wanted to save the world or have people look up to me, or lead them into battle! I never asked for it in the first place!"

"Too bad," snorted Ginny, a scowl on her pretty face, "Because you got it. And you'll deal with it just like you've dealt with everything else. You knew what Dumbledore did to you, and yet you're still here, aren't you? You'll go along with this like you went along with everything else-never questioning, never asking why."

Blinded by fury, Harry replied. "Not anymore," he growled out.

"Yes, you will. Again, and again, and again," she whispered.

"What?"

"Did you think this was the first time you learnt of this?" here, Ginny mockingly laughed in his face. "Dumbledore had other plans in mind Harry-and you've done this before and you've never changed."

"Oh, God," breathed Harry, as the implications flooded to him suddenly, causing him to revert to his Muggle upbringing. It was unlikely that the manipulations that shaped so many lives would go unnoticed, and eventually some kind soul, or one with their own ulterior motive, would contact Harry and let him know what they've discovered. Harry, being quick to anger, would go after those responsible-every time.

And again, and again, and again, said Ginny.

She knew he had done this before. When, who knew? But he'd gone after her, or Molly, or Dumbledore with his suspicions and they stopped him. By removing his memory of the event-no-his contact would get back in touch with him and do it again, repeating the cycle. They did something else.

Then, he remembered Dumbledore's rather blasé disregard of time travel in his third year.

"You didn't!" Harry gapped, letting his wife go as he scrambled to his feet.

"I never did, no," she confirmed, "but Dumbledore did, twice. Once it was Snape, I think, when you sorted into Slytherin. Last time it was mum. But I knew what to do, if it ever came to this."

Harry's wand pointed at his wife in an instant; he wouldn't let her send him back in time again, letting fate follow the same pre-set pattern that they developed for him.

"I'd rather die," swore Harry, his green eyes glittering in the dark.

"That can be arranged instead, sweetie," agreed Ginny, a deadly glint in her own eyes. "We're happy; we won. You don't need to exist anymore, Harry. You've done your purpose."

Harry took a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled loudly.

Ginny continued, "But no one stopped you before by death, even though rumours are that the last time you confronted Dumbledore you were in your sixties and we were at peace for ages… so I suppose I'm obliged by the same force that compelled them."

Her eyes were not sorrowful as she levelled her wand. A brisk, November wind caught her loose, red hair, and her mouth settled into a firm line.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I'll see you on the other side, my love," she finished with a slight smirk.

Dispirited, Harry watched in horror as she began to wave her wand, a strange accent and words emerging from her mouth as her wandtip lit up and began to sketch eerie-looking symbols in the air between them.

Harry was still within his wards-he couldn't escape via Apparation or Port-Key. Instead, he put his limited runes knowledge to the test and began his earnest to combat whatever Ginny was doing. He began to sweat as the air around him began to heat up, the air thrumming and the images of his wife and the barren Welsh landscape beginning to waver.

And just as the last syllable of Ginny's spell fell from her lips, Harry frantically sketched one last symbol, swallowed heavily and vanished in a brilliant flash of light. The light startled three nearby cows, and the wave of energy that the flash emitted knocked Ginny off her feet.

When she opened her eyes, and sat up, she looked at where Harry last stood. If all went to plan, and she did the spell correctly, then there would be a dead twenty-seven year old Harry Potter where she last left him.

"Oh, bugger," she muttered, instead.

All that remained of Harry was his pair of mud-cased dragonhide boots. She mucked up the spell royally, and who knew what was going to happen because of it? She sighed. At least she could file a missing person's report with the Ministry in the morning. Her world might-just might-be safe from Harry's vindictive nature, but she wasn't so sure of the place where she sent him.

Oh well, she thought, it wasn't her problem anymore.

And with that, she Apparated back to her home that she shared with Harry to tell her mother the news that she would be inheriting the Potter-Black estate. Some good came out of the nasty little situation, at least.
**Brecon Beacons. November, 1983: 11:45pm.
Harry had a serious headache and spots were flashing before his eyes, disorienting him. He muttered and cursed Ginny Weasley under his breath, calling her all manners of names as he blinked the spots away and rubbed a callous hand against his left temple.

And then blinked in surprise as the spots disappeared.

He was in the same bloody place as he had been while arguing with Ginny and fighting for his life and memories.

He nervously patted himself down, doing a mental check: head, still there, nothing bleeding; chest, the same, and still wearing his hitgear black vest of dragonhide and Kevlar underneath; trousers, same material and not torn; belt, still on tight with his Holly and Phoenix-feather wand, plus the Elder wand, and several interesting Weasley Wheezes that he normally took on hits. A quick feel to his back located his Beretta, and the extra ammunition he carried in a pouch off to the belt's side.

Yet… his feet were decidedly cold.

Harry looked down and nearly burst out laughing. He was standing in a mud puddle! He lifted one foot, noticing idly that he had somewhere lost his boots along the way. His big toe was sticking out of his right foot's black Primark sock.

Well then, he thought, isn't this interesting? Whatever he had done had counteracted something Ginny had done, but whether it moved him forward or backwards in time was another question altogether-and the knowledge of when he was would be immediately required.

With a sigh, Harry grimaced and rolled his shoulders. One way to find out when he was, was to Apparate to Diagon Alley. If he could, then he was in a time before his twenty-first birthday, when he purchased the plot of land and moved into his Welsh home.

Harry appeared in Diagon without incidents, settling on a grim smile as he stepped out of the shadows near the Three Broomsticks, bootless. No wizard would think that strange, the eccentric lot of sheep that they are. He began to make his way to Gringott's.

Ah, the goblins. Another one of life's necessary evils. Fucking bastards, thought Harry, recalling Griphook's betrayal. He couldn't have that happen again. How to handle this, how to handle it?

Well, he always had an emergency stash of Galleons on him somewhere, and perhaps after some negotiations he could persuade the beasts to look the other way?

Upon entering Gringott's, the first thing he noticed was the lack of hostility against him. Ever since he, Ron and Hermione had broken into the famed bank, the goblins were always one spear away from Harry shish kabob.

"How may we service you tonight, wizard?" the goblin greeted Harry jovially as he approached the lone teller, eyeing it strangely.

"I wish to withdraw money from my account," answered Harry, almost hesitantly.

"Does the wizard have his Gringott's key?" continued the goblin, now eyeing Harry strangely.

Goodness, didn't he recognise the saviour of the wizarding world? Harry never considered himself egotistical, but surely even the goblin knew who he was, after Voldemort's defeat and his own bank heist?

"Um," began Harry, fishing around his pockets for his key. "It's here somewhere… somewhere… aha!"

Presenting the little golden key to the teller, the goblin examined it, glanced at the number, and then glanced again, startled. He raised his black beedy eyes at the man in front of him, and inquired, "Mr. Potter, sir?" in the politest tones he'd ever used.

"Yes?" answered Harry, just as confused.

"Could you please explain to Gringott's as to why you are a young man and not the three-year-old you should be?" the teller finished, an imperial brow arched.

Stumped, Harry felt the world around him shatter. Three-year-old? Good God, had Ginny mucked up so badly with him and his rather inadequate runes that she had sent a fully-grown Harry Potter into the past where his three-year-old self still resided at the abused Dursley's?

That certainly changed things. That changed things a lot. Harry was a fully grown wizard-he also possessed all three Deathly Hallows and used them quite often in his line of duty. He had a good amount of money on him, and had the resources and skills available to remove mini-Harry-him from the Dursley's… but… Hermione's voice of never letting yourself see you in time travel could mean bad things for Harry if the two were to meet-as in, world go boom.

Not good. What was his second option?

Take the money and do something about the information he learnt. Somehow, he managed to keep his memories. He knew every name on the list who were abused and manipulated by Dumbledore over the years; he knew where the Horcruxes were, what the prophecy was. He knew what stocks would rise and which would fall-hell, he knew that the Chudley Cannons would finally win their first game against Puddlemere United in the spring of 2001.

But how could he manage to find the Horcruxes, aid mini-Harry-him in the quest against Voldemort, sneak him out from under Dumbledore's nose, and not have the world go boom at their first meeting?

The twenty-seven year old was still pondering this, blithely ignoring the goblin and his growing suspicious look. Finally, the young wizard snapped his fingers and made his decision.

"Goblin, I require access to my vault. As you can see, something rather strange happened to me and I am now… much older than I ought to be. I will need the monetary resources of my vault to learn to reverse its effects."

If there was ever a human phrase that the goblin acquired over the years, it was bullshit. He smelled a rat and a con in a second, and wasn't quite sure how to proceed. In the end, he revealed his own suspicion on the wizard.

Harry didn't think the plan would work, so haggling began. Yes, he was Harry Potter, but a different one (he certainly wasn't going to trust the goblins with all his knowledge, but a minimal amount, thank you very much!); no, he wasn't trying to swindle the young Harry Potter out of his inheritance.

Finally, the lone goblin agreed to let Harry see his vault, but was only allowed to remove a small amount-something barely noticeable and explained away by poor management of a lowly goblin who would be executed once the details were noticed (but not him, oh no sir).

Harry left Gringott's with the date (November 6, 1983), all his body parts, but a dispiriting lack of Galleons that he had transferred into British notes. For all efforts, Harry pooled the majority of his Galleons from his secret stash to the miniscule amount that the goblin had kindly allowed him to take from his own vault, to have the combined amount of £66,000.

While quite a lot for a country in a recession and stuck stretching their piggy banks, Harry wasn't quite sure what sixty-six thousand could buy him. Not for what he had planned. No, he was going to need someone with brains that he could trust to manipulate the accounts that he'd be opening at Lloyd's in the morning, and even more so, he was going to need someone who could play the stocks using Arithmacy like a cheater could count cards at Blackjack.

In fact, Harry had many things on his plate, unfortunately, and he needed a good, quiet place to get them sorted. So he went to the Leaky, got a room, and pulled out the file that his employer had given him. There were several loose-leaf pieces of A4 at the back, so he used those as his start.

He quickly got used to using a quill, found in one of the room's drawers, and dipped it in the inkpot he also found. Then, he began his list:

1. Start his company to jump-start his plan. (Harry would go back and add details to this later)

2. Hire a competent accountant of some sort that knows about the magical world.

3. Break Sirius out of Azkaban? (Harry then scratched this out)

4. Find the Horcruxes

5. Train Harry, little-me

6. Invest my money

He would have added more, but he began to realise his plans were half-assed and half-formed. Unsure of how to proceed, Harry realised something.

He needed someone on the inside who would trust him. But who? It would be a big risk, either way… and then answer came to him: with a wizard's oath, Harry would approach Remus Lupin. He only prayed that Remus wasn't still as fanatically loyal to Dumbledore now with his friends' deaths and incarceration only a few years old than he was a decade later when he began to work at Hogwarts.

Fate would decide. Otherwise, thought Harry grimly, he was going to back to his old job and he might have to acquire a new target.
**
It took him near a week, but he finally found Remus Lupin in a small, run-down cottage in rural Cornwall. The full moon had been several nights ago, so Harry was going in under the impression that Remus would be too exhausted to fully fight back.

In between following leads about the elusive werewolf, Harry also multitasked and found an abandoned warehouse in London's seedier neighbourhoods that would ultimately suit his purposes-or at least, one of the numerous purposes his company was going to have.

Also hoping to court favours in the non-magical government, Harry registered his company. In the end, there would be no reason to use the Fidelius or hide his company from either non-magical, or Voldemort or Dumbledore's eyes. Not if what he was planning would work.

With the bulk of his sixty-grand gone, Harry was in a bind and needed Remus on his side. He needed his brains and creativity-and if Harry was honest too, his contacts. Remus knew a lot of people, despite never really holding a job down, and since Harry knew of his condition he wasn't going to care if the man took a few days off around the full moon each month.

Deciding against a glamour or disguise, Harry approached the cottage door in his usual hitgear (and new boots), as himself: twenty-seven year old Harry Potter, black hair cut close to his head in spikes now, and with the vibrant emerald eyes of his mother. Unforgettable.

Remus answered on the second knock-looked at Harry, and then promptly slammed the door in his face.

Harry frowned. He was more used to this behaviour from Petunia. "Remus? Remus, open the damn door!"

A stupefy flew out from the side window in response, nearly hitting Harry on the main porch.

"Really?" he rhetorically asked. "Seriously, Remus, open the door!"

"And let you Death Eater scum take me? I don't think so!" came the growled response from the other side of the door. Harry wisely dove out of the way as several kitchen knives penetrated and burst through the thin wood, disappearing into the nearby foliage.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Remus, I am not a Death Eater!" retorted Harry angrily, bringing the Elder wand up and slashing briskly at the front door, which exploded inwards.

With the ease and experience of a child soldier, Harry burst into Remus's cottage and immediately engaged the man in battle. He didn't use force; he didn't want to permanently hurt the werewolf, but the man wasn't exactly playing nice either.

After several cuts on his face and the back of his hands, Harry had enough and used the Elder wand's powers to yank Remus's wand from him, and the bind the man to the nearby sofa seat.

Remus glared at Harry, snarling under his breath as the man inched closer to one of his father's old friends-who, as Harry realised and then stopped suddenly, was younger than him.

"Oh fuck," muttered Harry, as he raised his right hand with his wand in it, to scratch to his head. The wand rubbed against his black hair as Harry pondered how to handle the new development. He hadn't expected that he would be older than his parents' friends, but… Lily and James Potter had Harry at 20, in 1980. In 1983, Remus, Sirius and Peter would only be twenty-three or twenty-four years old… nearly four years younger than Harry currently was!

At the sight of the supposed Death Eater confused and frustrated, Remus took an experimental sniff and was floored-the scent of wood, ash and a unique Potter scent overwhelmed the still hypersensitive werewolf quirks, causing Remus's inner wolf to howl.

"James?" whispered Remus, pale now.

Harry's eyes darted back to the werewolf, and visibly deflated. "Sorry, no."

"But… how?" now Remus was looking at the man up and down, noting every nuisance that Harry had, and comparing him to James Potter. "You look like…"

Harry found the strength to muster up a grin. "As everyone says," he offered. "If I release you from the bind, will you promise not to attack me?"

Reluctantly, Remus nodded. The incantation from Harry's wand released the werewolf from his bind, and as he slowly stretched and rotated his hands, Remus noticed the little changes that separated the man from James Potter.

Shorter. Thinner. Held himself differently. Smelt a bit differently, too, now that Remus was paying attention-and the real kicker that sucked the air from his lungs: the man's green eyes.

It clicked, far quicker than Harry had expected.

"Harry?" gapped Remus.

"Hiya, Moony," replied Harry, a small smile stretching his lips. "I think we should sit down and have a little chat. What do you think?"

"This had better be good," growled Remus, considering the implications that his supposed three-year-old practically adopted packmate and son had inadvertently created.

Harry nodded. "Oh, trust me-it is."

**


Go to Part One, B