Chapter 1
Harry was in a featureless room. On a stone table was a woman, lying unmoving as if dead, yet somehow, he knew she wasn’t. He couldn’t explain it, but he was sure she would soon open her eyes and approach him.
“Harry Potter!”
He jumped. The voice came not from the table, but from a furious Hermione to his right.
“If we’re not dead I swear I’m going to murder you!” she spat at him. “What were you thinking messing with the Veil? You know that’s how Sirius died.”
“Are we dead?” came a voice from his left where Ron sat on the floor looking rather ill.
“No,” said Harry, “I’ve been here before.”
“Woah, who’s the bint?” Ron asked, staring at the naked woman before them.
Hermione shot daggers at him, “Get your eyes back in your head.”
“I know you. We’ve met before,” said Harry.
“Yes, you’ve come back to me. Why have you come?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you, Hermione Weasley, once called Granger?”
“I was trying to save Harry,” she answered, staring transfixed at the woman, anger forgotten.
“I was trying to save you,” said Ron.
“There is nothing to fear Ronald Weasley. You may leave when it’s time, to one world or another,” the woman said, now locking eyes on Ron.
“Her face is changing,” Hermione whispered to Harry, “and I think she can hypnotize us or something, but only one at a time.”
“Don’t let her kiss you,” said Harry.
“Why?”
“I… I don’t…” Harry trailed off as she caught his eyes.
“Harry Potter, come to me. Let me help prepare you to cross back over,” the woman cooed to him.
He took a step forward. She wanted to help him. Her eyes were calling him. those soft blue eyes.
And arm wrapped around his neck, pulling him backward. Hermione was dragging them towards the fluttering Veil.
“Wait,” the woman said, reaching for the three, “please.”
But it was too late, the Veil swallowed them.
-Privet Drive-
In little Whinging, on Privet drive, house #4, In a cupboard under the stairs, a young Harry Potter woke up as always, stiff and sore from sleeping in too cramped a space. Petunia’s voice was bellowing for the child, demanding some chore or another. There was nothing to do but face up to it as it would only get worse if ignored.
“Get out here and get Dudley’s bag packed or he’s going to be late!” Petunia called.
No sooner had Harry opened the door than Uncle Vernon began shouting.
“Get to the bathroom and comb your hair! We can’t have you embarrassing Dudley with such a slovenly appearance.”
Harry ducked into the bathroom, grabbed a comb stared into the mirror and went to work. Something seemed odd about the reflection though, like the wrong face was staring back.
“Harriet Evans Potter, Get out here now!” Petunia shouted to her.
Harry pulled her hair back into a ponytail and hurried to find out what she was in trouble for this time.
“What is the meaning of this?” Petunia asked, brandishing a chocolate biscuit.
“It’s a biscuit. I put two in Dudley’s lunch already,” Harry answered, still not clear what she had done wrong.
“But this was in your lunch. If you start putting on weight we’ll never be able to marry you off,” her aunt said, adding the biscuit to Dudley’s already bulging lunch sack, “No sweets for you.”
“And button up that blouse,” said Vernon, “We can’t have you going out looking like some sort of… trollop.”
Harry buttoned her blouse up to her neck. At 10 years old she was quite skeptical anyone would find a single open button at the collar inappropriate, but it was better not to argue these points.
There was something else too. Something niggling at the back of her mind, distracting her from the Dursley’s daily abuse. Harry felt anticipation, like the air before a gathering storm. It was threatening, but exciting and wonderful, like the promise of change.
Nothing ever did change though. Harry was quite used to disappointment.
“Post is here,” came Dudley’s voice from the hall.
Dudley shuffled through the envelopes, likely looking for some mail order or other, and dropping various bills and letters in front of Uncle Vernon until he was holding a single envelope. Harry could see the bright red wax seal on the back. A sense of Déjà vu washed over her. It was as if the contents of the letter were some almost remembered verse, hovering on the tip of her tongue.
The letter was hers. The thought came to her with inexplicable certainty.
“What’s that you’ve got Dudders?” Uncle Vernon asked.
“Harry’s got a letter,” Dudley answered.
Dudley years ago had taken to calling her “Harry” after saying she looked so much like a boy she should have a boy’s name. She didn’t much mind though. One name was as good as another if she could manage to be left alone.
“Impossible, no one would be writing to her,” said Vernon, snatching the envelope out of Dudley’s hands.
Harry got up, making to reach for the envelope, curious to check if it really was her name in green ink on the other side. She paused, half reaching, at the thought. She had only seen the back of the envelope with the red seal. Why was she so certain it was addressed in green ink?
But now Uncle Vernon had torn open the letter and was reading its contents, face growing redder and redder as he went. Harry took the opportunity to look down at the discarded envelope.
Miss Harriet Potter
The cupboard under the stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
She looked up just just in time to see Uncle Vernon setting the letter alight.
“What are you doing! That’s mine!” Harry shouted
“Of course it isn’t, no one would be writing to you. It’s just…” Vernon paused, searching for an excuse, “a misdirected advertisement.”
“It’s got my name on it!”
“Not so uncommon of a name.”
“They even know where I sleep!”
Vernon paused at that. Seeing the situation written out in green ink, plain for the postman to see, made him suddenly quite aware of the optics of keeping a young girl locked in a cupboard.
“Yes, about that,” her uncle said, twisting his still purple face into a grimace intended to approximate kindness, “I think it’s time you got your own room. Perhaps Dudley’s second room.”
A fight ensued as Dudley objected to giving up anything to Harry, but despite his tears, crying, attempts to punch Vernon, and an embarrassingly long attempt at holding his breath that left him quite as purple as his father, the decision was made, and Harry carted her meager possessions up the stairs.
She looked around her new room, bitter and resentful that it had come at the cost of her first genuine correspondence. She kicked idly at her trunk, trying to imagine who might have been writing her and why. Perhaps some distant relative, calling to whisk her away to a life of love and kindness. Perhaps some lottery, providing her with the funds to set off on her own away from the Dursleys. Maybe it was some charming prince, wanting to find his one true love.
The sun drifted lower, and eventually, sleep took the girl.
She woke with a start, wondering for a moment where she was. The room was too large. She felt open and exposed in the expanse. But slowly, the memories of the previous day trickled back. She checked the alarm clock and saw it was half-past 8. She puzzled at why her aunt and uncle, who would normally yell and call her a good for nothing layabout if she didn’t at least have the toast and coffee made before they awoke, were not pounding at her door at the offense. She snuck carefully into the hall, wondering if the whole family had overslept.
As she crept down the stairs, she heard her aunt’s voice carry from the kitchen.
“Oh Vernon, what are we going to do? I can’t have another one in the family. I’d die of shame!”
“Calm down petunia, I’ve burnt it. She never needs to know and we can keep snuffing out any sign of it. No one will ever know.”
“You don’t understand these people. They won’t give up. Not ever. They’re fanatics!”
Just then, the mail slot lifted up, as the morning post was stuffed through. There, clear as day on the floor, were two yellowed parchment envelopes with bright red seals on them. Harry began to creep towards the pile, intent on snagging the letters before her uncle caught wind of them.
“Hey! There’s more!” a voice cried out behind her. Dudley pushed her roughly out of the way and dove for the mail. As he ripped open one of the envelopes and began struggling to sound out the words inside, harry snagged the other letter and looked down at the address:
Miss Harriet Potter
The smallest bedroom
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
Uncle Vernon appeared, roused from his breakfast by the noise and snatched the letter out of Dudley’s hands.
“No fair! She has one too!”
Harry tried to hide it, but it was too late. Uncle Vernon wrestled it from her and stormed off no doubt to once again burn the evidence.
The next morning she set an alarm early and snuck down the stairs, ready to snatch the letter as soon as it came though the slot. She could hear the post man rummaging just outside the door and crept closer in the dark hallway.
Her foot caught on some something large and soft, sending her tumbling forward. As she lay spwarled in front of the door, the mail slot opened and dumped four parchment envelopes on her head. Uncle Vernon, being roused from his vigil, seized all 4 letters before she could snag one.
The morning after that, she woke to find the mail slot nailed shut and her uncle prying 8 letters from the cracks around the doorframe.
By Saturday, the postman had resorted to ringing the bell and handing off a stack of over 30 envelopes to uncle Vernon, who by now was quite as red as the seal on the back of the envelopes.
Sunday found Uncle Vernon in a far better mood though. Harry came down to find her uncle cheerfully sipping at his coffee, apparently quite content.
“Sundays are the best. No work, nice and quiet. But do you know what the best part is, girl?”
Harry shook her head.
Uncle Vernon leaned in close, a mad twinkle in his eye, and whispered, “No post!”
Harry went about her morning routine, planning her next attempt at intercepting her mail when it resumed Monday. She was half way through the dishes when a low rumbling caught her attention.
“What’s that?” Vernon asked, creeping nearing the fireplace, where the noise seemed to originate.
He peering into the sooty depths, just in time to catch a face full of envelopes fluttering into the room. By the time the torrent had stopped, at least 60 letters littered the living room floor. Harry made to grab for one of them, but Uncle Vernon had already grabbed ahold of both her and Dudley and was hauling them out of the house.
“That’s it!” he cried, “Petunia, pack clothes and meet us in the car!”
And with that, Vernon dragged the two youths out of the house. Several minutes later, Aunt Petunia at last shuffled down the walk with four overladen suitcase in tow, and the family was on it’s way.
Harry couldn’t say how far they had gone, as Uncle Vernon kept making U-turns and taking exits only to meander back to the freeway, all the while muttering something about “throwing them off the trail” to no one in particular. They didn’t stop until well past dark, when they pulled up to a rundown motel deep in the woolies. When they were finally settled in their room, Petunia and harry in one, Vernon and Dudley in another.
Harry was awoken by a loud rapping on the door, which yielded a man with a thick, barely intelligible accent Harry could quite place.
“Na’ was de menin’a ha’in hunna piece’a post brought ‘roun hea’?”
Aunt Petunia stared at the man, baffled at the rush of sounds, “I’m sorry?”
“Ne’er seen sucha pil ‘un night in, le’ th’miss ge’a note and b’dun wi’it.” Harry could have sworn the man gave her a slight wink at this, but she couldn’t figure out what on earth he had just said.
Vernon appeared, snatched the sack of letters, and their flight began anew. After another long drive, and cold wet boat ride, they arrived in a somehow familiar hut set out on a rock in the channel.
Harry watched the minutes tick closer to midnight, counting down as the storm raged outside. In just another minute she’d be 11. She drew a small cake in the dust on the floor, with 11 small lines for candles. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Harry blew her dust candles, erasing it, and the dust cake beneath.
BOOM.
The shack shuttered as something large and heavy hit the door.
“Who’s making that racket!” Vernon bellowed.
BOOM.
Uncle Vernon appeared, rifle in hand.
“Get back, Petunia,” Vernon whispered, then shouting at the door, “Who’s there? I’m warning you, I’m armed!”
SMASH.
The hinges gave out with the last strike and the door toppled into the room. There in the doorway stood some monstrous creature, easily half again as tall as Vernon, and twice as wide. It bent down, shuffling it’s bulk sideways through the ruined entryway. A great mop of unkempt, wet hair fell into an equally wet and unkempt beard. Jet black shining eyes peered out of what little face showed through the great bush of tangled hair, surveying the room.
“Nasty bit o’ weather out there, don’t suppose ya could put on a kettle for tea,” the giant said, turning to lift the door and fit it roughly back into its frame.
He turned back and fixed his eyes on Harry.
“Harriet! I haven’t seen you since you were a baby. You wouldn’t remember o’ course, you being so little an’ all, but I’m-“
“Hagrid?” Harry interrupted. She wasn’t sure how, but she was certain that was his name.
Hagrid looked down at her, puzzled for a moment, then a great merry smile split his face.
“Must’a made quite an impression if you remember after all this time! Look at ya, spittin image o’ Lily.” He paused, smiling down at her. “Well, back to business. Here’s your letter, Harriet.”
He handed Harry a familiar, yellowed parchment envelope sealed with wax.
Miss Harriet Potter
The Floor
Hut-on-the-Rock
The Sea
“Sir, I demand you leave at once!” Vernon stepped closer, brandishing the rifle.
Hagrid plucked the rifle out of his hands inspected it for a moment, then bent it in two and tossed it into the corner before returning his attention to Harry.
“Oh, got ya this. Might a sat on it a bit, but it should still taste alright.” He handed Harry a battered box which, when opened, revealed a chocolate cake, frosted in pink, with “Happy Birthday Harriet” written in red icing.
“Now get some rest, we’re getting your school supplies tomorrow.”
-Diagon Alley-
Harry stared, amazed, at the bustle of witches and wizards shuffling from shop to shop. In the various windows and stalls were an endless parade of wonders. After fetching some gold from Gringotts, (not to mention a curious package that fascinated young Harry) they began their shopping. Books, quills, rolls of parchment, a cauldron, and what seemed like a thousand other things were purchased and set to be delivered to her room.
Next were robes. As she waited for Madam Malkin to work her way through a long line of perspective students, she found herself next to a thin, pale boy with platinum blond hair.
“Are you going to Hogwarts too?” he asked.
“Yeah, I just found out.”
“You’re not, you know, Muggle born, are you?”
“No, both of my parents were wizards.”
“Oh good. I don’t particularly care of course, but my dad is a bit old fashioned, doesn’t like me associating with the wrong kind. He thinks first generation can’t ever really understand our culture. I’m sorry, I’m being rude. My name’s Draco Malfoy.”
“Harry Potter.”
He glanced up at her scar.
“As in Harriet Potter?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly Draco seemed much more attentive, having found out her celebrity.
“Terrible what happened to your parents. I hear you had to live with Muggles. That must have been awful.”
Harry smiled in spite of herself. He was kind of full of himself and had a marked lack of tact, but he was the first kid her age who would have a friendly conversation with her. She wondered if this is what her whole life could have been had Dudley not been in the habit of beating up anyone he caught socializing with her.
They chatted for a while until Draco was called up. He stuck out his hand. When Harry took it, instead of a simple shake, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. He no doubt intended it to be dashing, but Harry had to suppress a giggle at the ridiculous over formality of it.
After the robe fitting was what Harry most looked forward to, buying a wand. The shop was dark, deathly silent as a library. All around were tall shelves stacked high with narrow wooden boxes. Harry was sure the outside of the storefront had been a single story, yet the shelves extended far above their heads. Harry looked around the deserted shop.
“Hello?” she called, voice echoing back to her from the gloom.
“Ah yes, Harriet Potter you’ll be going to Hogwarts I assume?” A small old man appeared from the between the shelves and shuffled towards her. “You’ve taken after your mother I see, fine girl. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”
“You know my mother?”
“I knew her wand, and the wand knows the witch. Right-handed then? Excellent, excellent.”
He began examining her close, a silver marked tape measure flitting around taking various measurements. Harry could see each one appearing by magic on a small scroll in the old man’s hands, but the figures were confusing, irregular. Her arm length appeared in inches, yet height in meters, inseam in cubits.
“Interesting, interesting,” Ollivander muttered as the scroll filled with figures.
He set the scroll down, still filling with figures (Favorite color: green) and wandered the shelves pulling boxes down.
“Let’s see, perhaps willow, like you mother, 10 inches, unicorn hair.” He handed her the wand looked at her expectantly. “Well, go on, give it a try.”
Not knowing any spells, she resorted to feebly waving it. Ollivander snatched it from her hand, snapped the case shut and tossed it behind him, where it landed firmly on the counter.
“Something a bit firmer, perhaps you take after you father. Mahogany, 11 inches, Unicorn hair. No, no.”
As he handed the wands to her, Harry began to grow nervous, what if there wasn’t’ a wand for her? What if she wasn’t a real witch? But Ollivander seemed unbothered, even cheerful as he went back for a second load of wands. At last, a few faint sparks fell from the tip of a birch wand (9 ½ inches, dragon heartstring).
They went on for what seemed like hours, a massive mound of wand boxes filling the counter as load after load of wands were pulled from the shelves.
“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find you match here somewhere. I wonder, no, surely not. But maybe. Unusual combination, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.” He peered at her intently as she reached for it.
As soon as she took the wand, red sparks sprang from it illuminating the room, but Harry was scarcely aware of them. She doubled over as the memories that had been trickling out over the past week broke free. For perhaps the first time, Harry knew who he was. He had been a wizard. He had stood in this same shop and taken this same wand. She felt ill, as if she were over full of two foods that did not pair well. Harry James Potter’s identity flowed through the wand into Harriet Evans Potter’s body, mixing confused childhoods and memories into the diminutive witch.
“Curious,” came the calm slow voice of Ollivander, “The wand remembers its master. Now how can that be? It would be that wand though, wouldn’t it? Very curious.”
Harry threw up.
When she, at last, emerged into the sunshine again, she found Hagrid standing with a large cage containing a snowy owl.
“Harriet, ya feelin’ a’right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just a lot to take in. What’s that you have?” Harry asked, eager to change the subject.
“It’s a birthday present for ya. Right useful owls are.”
“Oh Hagrid! It’s Hedwig!” Harry threw herself against him in a hug, causing the owl’s cage to rattle and drawing an accusatory hoot from Hedwig.
Back in the Leaky Cauldron after lunch, Harry finally had a chance to sit and think about her situation. He, the Harry before, had lived a life before. The same life, it felt, as she was living now. The events of that life were opaque. She could feel the outline of things, but couldn’t recall any details. Her reactions to people though were getting stronger. She could remember names, if someone was a friend or foe, but that was about all. She could almost feel her old body though. It had been strong, molded by years of training at… something. So different than this small, soft body she had now.
There were wisps of disconnected memories arising. Sensations that must have once been important to her, to him. There was the feeling of wind on his face as he reached for some glint of gold, soft lips pressed against his, cold emptiness as some hooded figure approached. Fear and pain, love and laughter, but the when, where, and what were lost to her. It was well past midnight before she finally drifted off to sleep.
For the next few days, Harry had to resume her life in Privet Drive. The Dursleys seemed mercifully intent on pretending the events surrounding the acceptance letter hadn't happened and this seemed to expand to the existence of Harry herself. The only indications she still existed were the little things done to make it easier to ignore her, such as the fourth chair at the kitchen table having been removed to the cupboard under the stairs, where a TV tray had been set up for her to take her meals. The only things she had to press was transportation to King's Cross, which Uncle Vernon had agreed to only after seeing the platform number.
Vernon drove her to the station. He even picked her up a trolley. He walked her down the the station past platform nine, and turned to her.
"There you are, platform nine, platform ten. Don't come back 'till the summer!" Vernon laughed and strode back to the car.
As Uncle Vernon drove off, Harry felt twinges of panic. There, clear as day, were platforms nine and ten, with nothing but a blank bit of wall between them. She sat on the corner of her trolley, watching the blank wall waiting for some sign of what to do. People shuffled by on their way to this train or that without giving her a second glance.
The minutes ticked by drawing closer to the departure time.
She brushed her hand against the cold brick, hard, unyielding, impenetrable. A faint memory stirred, He had been here before. She had been here before. She could do this.
Just stop thinking, she told herself. She relaxed. Took a deep breath, cleared her mind.
She closed her eyes and stepped forward into the wall.
When she noticed the distinct lack of bricks smashing into her face, she opened her eyes on the wonder of Platform 9 ¾. There were witches and wizards of every description shuffling children on to a shining red steam train. Some had on long robes like those in Diagon Alley, but most had some approximation of what Harry would call normal clothing. Most Disconcerting though was the flood of recognition she had at so many of the children clambering onto the train. Names and emotions clicked off with each young witch and wizard.
Dean Thomas: friend, likes football.
Vincent Crabbe: foe, stupid but dangerous.
Neville Longbottom: friend, Likes plants.
Cho Chang: friend. Harry’s heart flipped a little. More than just a friend. It was strange to remember having feelings for a girl. At barely 11 she hadn’t had any feelings for anyone, in this life anyway.
Harry was shaken from her pondering when something hit her hard from the back, sending her sprawling to the ground.
“Oy! What are you doing standing in the middle of the entryway? Are you trying to kill yourself?”
Harry looked back to see Oliver Wood (friend) looking down at her.
“First-year are you? Well, don’t hang around the entryway when you come through, no one can see the path isn’t clear from the other side.”
He offered a hand, helped her up, and shuffled her out of the way just as another trolley came barreling through.
“Hey,” he said, looking at her forehead, “I know you, you’re Harriet Potter!”
“Umm… yeah. Anyway, I should get on the train,” said Harry, trying to get away from both the staring at her scar and the embarrassment of getting run over by a luggage trolley.
“I’ll give you a hand with your things,” Oliver insisted. He grabbed both trunks and hauled them up the steps onto the train.
Harry settled down at last into an empty room, anxious to at last be alone to process suddenly being thrown into the world where she somehow knew everyone and no one. The worst was trying o figure out who she was. The identity of the male Harry was so much stronger, more definite, yet all her memories were from this life. What did it mean, who was she?
Harry was interrupted when a young witch popped into the carriage and stared nervously at Harry’s scar. Harry stared back in confusion, thoughts and the ever-present unremembered memories swirling in her mind at the sight of the flaming red hair that could only mean a Weasley.
Ginny? What on earth is she doing here? She shouldn’t get accepted until next year, Harry thought. Then more shocking, we were married.
They sat in awkward silence for what seemed like ages, the young Weasley just as shy and infatuated as Harry remembered, and Harry was likewise unsure how to talk to a stranger she remembered as her wife.
Eventually, the snack cart came around and Harry took the opportunity to buy a hoard of cakes and sweets, feeling, at last, she could place some piece of the trip on what felt the proper course.
“Would you like some?” Harry offered a chocolate frog, which she took eagerly.
“You are Harry Potter, aren’t you?”
“The one and only.”
Silence resumed, but far more comfortable now that they at least had the excuse of eating to explain away their mutual reticence.
The door opened again and a familiar brown bushy head of hair made its way in.
“Hermione!” Harry shouted, jumping up with a huge smile on her face. She immediately began trying to think of an excuse for how she could have remembered a classmate’s name she had never met.
“I mean, I overheard…” Harry began, only to get cut off by Hermione.
“Thank the gods you remember! Oh, I’ve missed you two!” Hermione cried, pulling the two witches into a hug. “I suspected you might of course, given how much more… feminine you and Ron seem to be.”
“Ron?” Harry asked, “You’ve seen him?” then, with a dawning realization, she turned to the ginger witch again, “wait, RON?!”
“Ronda Weasley,” she muttered bitterly, “But don’t you two dare call me that. Wait, who did you think I was?”
“No time for that,” Hermione mercifully cut in, “How much do you remember? I’ve got people, but no events.”
“Same here, and that only started when I got my wand,” said Harry, remembering the feeling of 40 years of experiences trying to force their way into her 11 years of life.
“Really?” Asked Ron, “I’ve known something was off for years.”
“Probably being around all the magic in your family. I didn’t notice anything at all until the letter arrived,” said Hermione.
“Well, why would you?” Ron asked motioning at the blouse and skirt Hermione was wearing, “You look exactly the same. Me and Harry seem to be the only ones who got… flipped.”
Hermione leaned in, beginning to blush, "'Harry and I,' you mean," Her voice dropped to a whisper, “and it’s not just you two.”
“You mean you…”
“Yeah, I’m not exactly, technically a witch anymore.”
“Sorry,” said Ron, “I saw the skirt and long hair and everything and just kind of assumed.”
Hermione shrugged, “Well, my parents warned me that if I insisted on dressing like this it was bound to happen, so no offense taken.” She noticed the incredulous stares the other two were giving her and shrugged, “What? They’ve always been very open-minded; you two know that. They named me Hermes when I was born, but they let me change it when I was 7.”
“Well, I wouldn’t keep dressing like that,” said Ron, “unless you get a kilt and claim Scottish heritage.”
“We’ve got more important things to worry about than wardrobe choices,” Harry cut in, “I need to tell you about Gringotts.”
Harry filled them in on the mysterious package Hagrid had picked up and was relieved that both of them were as certain as he was that, whatever was in it, it was in danger and they would need to help protect it, though from who wasn’t clear.
“Well, we did it once before, we should be able to figure it out again. We’ve got loads of experience this time, even if we can’t remember it all just yet,” Hermione reasoned, “We just need to research when we get there. Hogwarts has a great library you know.”