Prologue
Violet Potter-Black tumbled sideways through a rip in the very fabric of time-space and out onto a backroad in Surrey, without grace and with a sudden certainty that she’d just broken her left ankle.
“Fuckshi-GOD!”
Her pained swears rolled clearly out in the disinterested suburb street, the neighborhood dull and lazy in the last sweltering hours before dusk, not yet cooled down for the evening. The sun sitting like a fat-burnt-tangerine in the sky, tinting the streets with golden-orange light.
“Fucking christ!”
Once again, she’d like to thank all the Stars and Higher Powers for one Blaise Alketas Alesso Zambini and his motherly instinct to nag her until death. It had served her well in the past and would do so now. She was pretty sure there was a small flask of Skele-gro somewhere in that tricky-little-bag he’d forced on her. It was bigger on the inside and her favorite color, clever boy that one.
She was right. A quick wandless accio then she was gulping down around the right dose for a hairline fracture (approximately ‘three medium swallows’according to The Healers Magical Compendium for Potent Potions and Other Titillating Tinctures, but that was a bullshite way to measure doses and everybody knew it) and she grimaced at the strong foul flavor. It wouldn’t fully mend for another hour or so, but she could make do hobbling till then.
She’d have to thank him after she’d brought him back to life, but then again, it might be best not too. He tended to be particularly insufferable when proven to be right, especially if she’d previously griped that he was just needlessly overreacting and that she didn't have to listen to him (which in this case she had) so, yeah. Better to not.
She’d just get him a cadbury egg or something. He liked those, right?
The locket around her neck thrummed, bright happy pulses from its place on her chest like it was nuzzling in against her magic with its own. She scowled and mentally swatted it away when it bumped up against her occlumency shields. Not now.
She had things to do. Boxes to tick. They were on a schedule. By they, of course she meant the vast majority of the world's population, both magic and muggle, including a disturbing amount of earth's natural resources, but she was actually trying rather hard not to think about that right now, thanks.
If she got this right, there’d be plenty of time to fix all that later, and it’d be like it never even happened at all! She was fine, everything was great!
Boxes. Mission. Important life-changing errands. On it.
She blinked and actually looked around. She was in a familiar area of Surrey, specifically; the bland-wheat-field-park on the outskirts of Little Whinging. So, the general right area then. Tick.
If she had to guess she was near the right time as well, the air smelled sweet and floral. Clean outside of some very mild pollution from the nearby motorway, but that was to be expected. No smell of ash lingering in the air nor the singed tingle from the radiation burning in the atmosphere. No soft mist, heavy unnatural dread drying the sweat cold on her arms and sucking the hope from her soul with each frigid breath, either. The streets were quiet, just the distant murmur of people going about their evenings, no anguished screaming at all! Everything was perfectly ordinary.
Nice, normal, muggle.
Definitely early enough in the timeline, then. She must have not missed the mark too badly, if she had at all.
She suspected she did, at least a little bit, things went wrong for Violet with enough frequency that at this point it was just a reasonable to assume that any and all plans made in or around her vicinity would invariably go pear-shaped, and need to be re-worked partway through.
At least a little bit.
But so far, so good. Fucking Tick.
If she were being truthful, it was these particular boxes in her mission plan that had given her the most grief over the past few weeks. Landing too far outside a certain range in this timestream could either have catastrophic consequences
(the-wrong-not-her-plan-kind) or else just be entirely useless. And it was quite a reasonable fear, given the amount of complex arithmancy involved that she had just barely understood enough of to muddle through even with Blaises’ copious help and the Peverell Family Grimoires at her disposal.
The idea that she could have done this much, gone this far, only to end up stranded somewhere in history too far away from any relevant circle of influence to be of any use, bored and probably forced to toil away on a farmor somewhere equally monotonous was a very real risk she had knowingly undertaken. Oh god, she probably would have had to tend to a flock of sheep or some other uninteresting herd animal. Absolutely revolting.
And so, again, thank the Powers for Blaise. He was definitely getting a case of chocolate-something-or-other once she had a minute.
But first.
///
The house was not hard to find. The area was largely the same and she’d been meandering around it since she was old enough to slip out the back garden without alerting her aunt. Sneaking back in was just as easy, the layout entirely the same, down to the perfectly pruned cherry laurels, neat rows of the vegetable garden, the sweet smelling honeysuckle and morning glory that clung to the trellis round the backside of the house.
It was all together almost too easy to hop the garden gate (it creaked, she was convinced it was Aunt Petunia’s own version of a homemade alarm system) and cross the trimmed greef-turf to shimmy up it the side of the house to her old (this version of her? Violet prime’s?) bedroom window. The windowsill was a short ways away from where the kitchen jutted out farther into the back garden, making it easy, if somewhat awkward, to perch on the slanted roof and dig out her tools.
They’d started barring and locking her window sometime after first year and never let up. Technically, she could use magic to get in, and if it were any other house she’d have already done so, but even if her magic was likely to fly under the Trace Office’s radar in this universe, she was willing to bet Albus had put monitoring charms that registered magic-use of mages other than his current charge anywhere on the property. She wasn’t risking it. Plus, picking locks the muggle way would always be kinda fun.
She absentmindedly hummed the chorus of highway-to-hell while she studied the padlock in question. It was new, no scuffs from her younger selves clumsy first attempts at escape-artistry. It was a 150D brass master lock, nothing to sniff at but easy enough for someone like her. She squinted down the keyhole, consideringly and therefore was completely caught off guard by a polite cough from below her.
“Erm, s’cuse me, but- sorry, what’re you doing?”
Violet blinked owlishly down at him. He was an ordinary teen, if a bit on the thinner side, staring up at her mid-break in with a look of sheepish befuddlement, like he felt bad for interrupting but couldn’t help but feel he must.
“Oh, well. I’m trying to get inside.” She gestured, needlessly. “It’s locked, you see.”
“Okay…” He replied cautiously, drawing out the vowel.
“And I’d really rather it not be.”
“Right, I do get that-just... Well, why?”
“Why?”
“Why this window? What are you doing?”
“Oh, well it’s-” She stopped, it wasn’t really hers. Not here anyway. And if this boy knew that, which it seemed he did, there was no reason trying to impersonate her other self, was there? This was the right house, if the bars on the window hadn’t given it away, the shivery scarlet protection wards around it certainly did. Anyhow, she should come up with a reasonable lie before cops were called.
“I-... just need to get inside, to help a- friend. Of mine. Who lives here.” Yes, there. That would do it. Not her best but she was fucking exhausted. She inserted the first pick and began to wiggle it, gently.
“A friend.” He deadpanned, crossing his arms, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you sure about that?”
“Completely, yeah.”
“Uh-huh.”
She hummed in agreement. She almost had it, just a little to the-
“You should probably come down now.”
“Nah, just one second I’ve almost got-”
“No, seriously. I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m not just gonna let you break into my room.”
“Your room?” She paused and looked down her vision swimming with little black dots (she was definitely too tired for this) and reassessed.
He was smirking, arms crossed, brow pinched in an annoying ‘I'm-mocking-your-incomprehensible-stupidity-and-judging-you-harshly-for-it’ kind of way. A mop of unruly dark hair. Familiar shade of green taunting her from behind a pair of crooked glasses. Oh. Well, this I was not expecting.
She buried her bafflement and the many questions beginning to swirl violently behind her too-bright-too-green eyes, and returned his smirk with only a touch more derision.
“Well, well well. Evening, brother. Seems we do have a lot to talk about.”
///
That got her a wand to the throat, and a tedious back and forth that Violet participated in only in a technical sense (“-eater trick! Who are you?!” “Calm down, you twit. I’m you-” “What?!” “-but we can say sister, it’s just easier.”) instead she was thinking about how he had been out in the garden headed for the backdoor. No apparent need to sneak in through the window. Like he just had a curfew and would be locked in after that.
Then she thought about the unscuffed lock, wondered if maybe he’d just never had to regularly break out and if that's why the locks were so clean.
What could this alternate version of her have possibly done to get on Aunt Petunia's good side?
So yeah, she was half-distracted by this very important question, chest weirdly tight. Merlin, what was that about?
///
Her not-Brother’s name was Harry, and he took the news somewhat poorly. Not that she could entirely blame him, having an alternate-girl-version of your-near-futures-self pop up in your back garden for a chat was, even for them, was decidedly unusual and would probably take a second to process.
She could get that. She could totally be patient and wait until he finished his stuttering protests and got with the program. There was plenty here to hold her attention.
Boy-Violet seemed, in a word, dull. At least his bedroom did. Sparse and plain walled other than a calendar clearly counting down the return date to Hogwarts. There was no smattering of pictures above his untidy bed or unmoving posters of his favorite bands and the books on his bedside were waterlogged and decidedly uninspired, all muggle and none of them were even Poe. It’s not like Petunia ever really let her decorate or anything either, but still.
She wrinkled her nose and opened the closet. It was nearly empty, the few articles of clothes inside left nothing to be desired, Dudley hand-me-downs, definetly. Has this version of her never gone shopping? What did he think their inheritance was for?
She made a soft noise of disgust, brushing past her young-male-self who was trailing after her blatant snooping with a confused panicky flutter to his hands.Still needed a moment to calm down then.
She ignored him for now and fumbled blindly under the bed, huffing as she located the loosened board and pried it up to have a look (“-what do you mean-wait hey. Stop that’s private!”) and- wait, what was this?
Just the standard-grade spell book, a few bits of spare parchment detailing what looked like his summer transfiguration essay, a squashed package of biscuits from the corner mart and one measly booklet of garden-variety pornography. This was it? This was the super secret spot, where were her (his) important things? The books pilfered from the Black Family Library, or that cursed tarot deck she got that one christmas or the bloody buggering ring-
She shot up in horror, gaze caught unflinchingly on the red and gold scarf hung innocently on the desk chair across the room. Ignoring his curse and the way he snatched the porno out of her hands to stuff behind his dresser, red-faced and scowling.
No. Fuck no, please.
There was no way she (he/they/whatever) was a fucking Gryffindor.
Oh Merlin, Morgana and Christ, this-this was bad. This changed everything. Critical events of her life flashed quick and sharp, like a shuttering camera. Blurring, reshaping to her imagination. How different things must have played out, what had or had not happened, this-this was a horror show.
She couldn’t even-
How much work would she have to do?!
Or un-do, re-do? And with a Gryffindor?! Ugh! Her entire strategy would have to be rethought and- No, no calm down. She could still do this. Gryffindor; honor, bravery, dangerous amounts of loyalty to those they trust. Trust, not logic, would win the day here.
Trust and Loyalty. She could do-
Oh god, why?!
Lady Violet Euphemia Potter-Black swore with violent creativity while her Not-Brother watched on, wide-eyed and silent.
This would beso. much. more. annoying than she thought.
///
Harry was relatively sure that the strange girl currently eating the last of his chocolate biscuits and paying no mind to the crumbs she got all over his sheets, was not, in fact, a Death Eater.
Temporary curse-filled rant about Gryffindor notwithstanding.
She just seemed too odd. And not in the offputting, dark-magic induced creepy way; like Professor Snape or anyone Voldemort had ever possessed. Though…He squinted at the air around her.
He guessed her magic was a little dark.
More deep blue than anything, ribbons of gray and silver if you squinted, spotted with dark purple patches of crackling energy that flickered at him playfully. But he didn’t think that was too concerning.
Lots of people's magic was relatively dark-ish. Pure white was exceedingly rare, he’d only ever seen it get close with that odd little ravenclaw girl, or on occasion, Dumbledore. But that was more of an eggshell shade of cream, if the eggshells in question had been sitting next to a smokey fire for quite some time, and had also been cracked through with void black and gold.
The girl crunched a biscuit, still watching him pacing the length of his room with a sharp, all-too-similar gaze. Right, back to the point then.
“Sorry-I just… who the hell are you again?”
He glared at her as she continued to chew, unbothered by his continuously climbing anxiety. Her disinterested affect was not dissimilar to how one patiently waited out a toddlers emotional outburst.
He flexed his palms, wishing he could point his wand at her again, but recognising himself the emptiness of the gesture, she’d already mockingly pointed out to him that if he cast a spell they’d absolutely expel him this time without question. Which of course prompted the question of how she knew about Dobby and the summer before second year, but bigger fish for now.
He may not be in any danger (he thought) but he would still like the free ability to hex her.
She rolled her eyes and became even more infuriating.
“I’m Violet. Violet Potter.”
“Yes. You said that, I meant the other thing. It’s really not possible for you to be-” She cut him off.
“Yeah, no. I’m not like your sister in any literal sense. It’d be more accurate to just say I’m you, but you know also not. Other-you. Different-you.” She took another bite, thoughtful, “Possibly Better-you, though that remains to be seen.”
He spluttered, offended, but she continued on as if she hadn’t heard.
“Either way, I'm as You as You could be while also remaining Myself. Which is still a fair bit closer to you than anyone else here ever could be, mind. And it is for that reason that you’ve decided to welcome me here today.”
“I don’- you were breaking in-” She waved a hand, cutting him off again.
“And then you invited me up. But regardless of how I got through that window, I’m here now. You’ve got a big problem coming your way, Harry Potter and I’m going to help you fix it.” She grinned, opening her arms like she’d just finished an act on stage and was now ready for applause. “You’re welcome.”
He just continued to stare at her, blank faced despite his mounting irritation.
“What.”
“You, or I guess more accurately we, have the same problem and a common goal. As the old adage goes, the enemy of your enemy can often become your-”
“Will you just get to it!?” He burst out, temper flaring as the uneasy bubble building in his gut suddenly popped. He’d been very patient so far but this was getting ridiculous.
“Alright then. We’ve got to kill Voldemort.”
If there were any crickets in the vicinity they would have been chirping in the silence that followed.
“I-” Harry started, shaking his head like a confused dog, “I mean, sure. I’m all for that but it doesn’t really explain what-”
“Ah, good to see you’re already on track. Brilliant. But that's the crux of the whole issue really. Heh. Anyway, you’ve got a Voldemort to kill. I had a Voldemort to kill. At least until he hopscotched his way the hell out of dodge and ended up here in your world.” He’d gone pale at the first mention of her Voldemort but lost all remaining color by the time she’d finished.
“What.” He whispered.
“Yeah, its a real fucking problem I know. Plus mine’s got like, another three years experience fighting me then yours does right now, and also knowledge of likely future events. That combined is not gonna be fun. At all.”
“Combined?” He asked weakly.
“Oh, for sure.” She bobbed her head and took another bite, speaking as she chewed. “His soul and magic were too shredded for him to travel here and also keep his physical body, so once they’ve met up our respective Dark Lords will have to merge, somehow. And it’s very unlikely for either of their magical cores to diminish much at all, so he’ll be packing double the firepower.”
She shook the empty bag out in case she missed one and flinging crumbs across his carpet. “Double the magic, double the trouble.” She shoved the last into her mouth and swallowed it too quickly, choking a little as she gasped out, “A Double-Scoop-Morty.” He gaped at her as she hit her chest with one fist trying to dislodge the hunk stuck in her windpipe.
“I think I have to sit down.” She patted the open space invitingly (it was his bed), still blinking away the sudden onslaught of tears from her coughing fit and he collapsed in a pile of lanky limbs beside her. “Fuck.”
She nodded, rubbing her sternum and wincing, “You’re telling me.”
“Are you sure-”
“Oh, yeah. He had to kill, like, over a hundred muggles to power the insane ritual he made to rip apart the universe and send all the bits of his soul here in one go. It was hard to miss, trust me.”
He studied her, leant back on his elbows. She had dark curly hair pulled up in a messy bun, bangs arranged sloppily to cover the scar he knew existed just under them. Their noses were a bit similar, he guessed though he thought his was a bit wider, her face was softer too, the curve of her cheek similar to his mums as he’d seen in photographs, his chin was sharper but both their ears stuck out just a little, yeah she could be his sister (or the female version or him, he guessed. Fuck), but really was there any way to be sure? He didn’t know.
“But I don’t trust you.” It took him a moment to realize that he’d spoken that thought aloud, but once he did he wasn't about to take it back. It was true after all.
“Oh?”
“No.” He shrugged, swinging one leg idly off the bed, shoulders to his ears, “I mean, that all sounds pretty--okay, I won’t say reasonable because, you know…”
“It seems batshit?”
“Right, totally. I just don’t think I can take all you say at face value and run with it. Sorry.” He shrugged, uncomfortable but resolute in his very smart decision to second guess what he’d just been told. See, Hermione? He wasn’t that gullible. Violet didn’t seem too offended either, just humming again and leaning back against the wall, head tilted in thought.
“Sensible. In your position can’t say I’d be much different. In fact there's a high probability that you would have just been blasted through the wall before you could even try to argue your case to me.”
“Wait, really?”
She ignored him. She did that rather a lot he was finding, it was very annoying.
“Either way, I’m here to help you. It’s like my sole purpose for the foreseeable future, actually, and it would be quite a bit more difficult to do so without your cooperation, so.” She turned to him suddenly, piercing him with the intensity of her gaze, “What would help?”
“Help?”
“You. To believe me and hopefully work with me, and maybe help me lie to a bunch of government officials if it's not too much trouble.”
He blinked, taken a bit a back at her brazenness but she just kept going before he had a second to respond, “And I’m really not sure what could prove my intentions here, I used the last of my Veritaserum over a month ago, unless you’re trained in Occlumency?”
“What’s that?”
“That’s a no.” She sighed, sounding very put out and Harry scowled at her. “Seriously though, what would help?”
They sat side by side in silence while he thought it over. Oddly, in his heart he did want to trust her, even if he knew he shouldn’t. Something in her magic just sang to him, rolling off her with curious child-like wonder. It flared rainbow and sparkling around the edges that met with his, the shades just barely conflicting, slight shifts in tone or vibrancy. Winding together curiously, almost confused when hers didn’t simply merge into its own. Their magic recognised each other as something similar, as someone safe. As family.
But he wasn’t gonna just take that on blind faith. At least, not without some fact-checking first, and there was really only one reliable place to go when he needed to do that.
“I think I know someone who can help.”
///
Oh, Violet thought to herself, dread gathering like a heavy cloak of trolls-hide on her shoulders, not fighting the grimace now that Harry’s back was turned collecting his cloak, wand and change of clothes in a backpack just in case they ended up gone overnight (he reassured her the Dursleys would neither notice nor care which what the fuck but that was for another day) this is gonna be... this is gonna be rather unfun.
She probably should have seen this coming (Gryffindor, idiot! He’s a bloody Gryffindor of course he would know her-) but still her stomach sank and fluttered with barely suppressed panic, sending shards of ice up and down her spine which straightened as if by pavlovian response.
Still, she unclenched her jaw as Harry turned back to her with bright eyes and rolled her shoulders, grinning back as if nothing were amiss.
They set off together down a darkening Private Drive in search of a place to discreetly summon the Knight Bus that would, regrettably, transport them to North Hampstead in a little under thirty minutes.
Why of all people did it have to be Granger?
///
Hermione Jean Granger thought she might just manage to have an aneurysm this time. And she was bloody well sure of it now, if she had not been already; Harry Potter would be the death of her.
If nothing else she would die from dementor exposure in Azkaban prison after she strangled him to death for daring to show up on her doorstep at nearly midnight with an absolute stranger he’d just found breaking into his house! And then to ask for her to help vett her supposed integrity?!
“-so if you could help me decide to trust her story or not, that’d be great,” Her best friend finished lamely, not nearly sheepish enough in her opinion, smiling weakly at her like he did whenever he knew he’d just done something foolish and now wanted her to fix it for him.
This is not the same as forgetting your charms essay, Harry! She thought furiously at her oblivious best friend.
She’d kill him this time. She would. She punched Draco Malfoy last year and she could do this too, just watch.
“Harry,” She fumed, voice low enough not to alert her very awake parents watching Prime Suspect in the next room, so mad she could barely see straight, “by going to a secondary location with her you have already demonstrated a dangerous amount of trust and given her plenty of opportunities to misuse it!”
The girl's eyes sparkled with barely concealed mirth, the tug of her lips just the slightest bit smug and yeah, that definitely had not escaped her notice either then. Hermione bit back a ferocious growl.
Harry blinked, struck a little dumb looking at the very idea and turned to his companion with only slightly more wariness. The girl's responding eye roll was so dramatic Hermione idly wondered if she’d sprained something.
Not that it mattered, since she’d snap both their necks anyway once she figured out what the hell this was.
Whispering furious instructions she directed them to the back yard where a tree stood not too far from her bedroom, one could theoretically shimmy up the trunk and across a certain branch right to her window, if they so desired, and the two idiots slunk off across the grass.
Harry was more solemn in the wake of her anger but the girl seemed to buzz, almost energized. As they rounded the house, her steps bounced and she said something like doing a fair bit of climbing today, and with a break no less, that ‘he’ would be so very pissed at her later when she told him, that it’d be grand.
Hermione already had a headache.
She shut the door with considerable control and far less force than she’d like, and smiled placatingly past her parents, spinning some yarn about the person at the door needing directions and then booked it to her room before they could ask any more reasonable questions she could not answer.
Since Hermione Jean Granger was no fool, nor did she often miss things, she did notice the look her parents shared as she hurried past them and up the stairs. It was a problem, one that was becoming more prevalent and daunting with each passing day and that Hermione had no idea how to even begin to resolve.
Her parents were no longer sure they trusted her.
And more and more often Hermione suspected they were right not to.
Soon her carefully crafted web of misdirection, omissions of truth and flat out lies would come crumbling down around her like a thousand meters of crystal thread suddenly slashed into confetti.
But she would like to avoid that confrontation for as long as she possibly could.
Another reason the two idiots upstairs had stoked her ire, because this little show would not help with any of that. The ticking of the clock sped up, the countdown towards the destruction of her parents' faith in her word shortened with each minute she hadn’t solved whatever was happening inside her bedroom.
Her steps hurried at the thought.
///
Granger was doing a much better job of handling the news than her brother had and having what Violet considered to be a much more reasonable reaction. Which was to say she was furious, skeptical, and had immediately drawn her wand to send an incarcerous her way, claiming that Harry was an imbecile.
Violet could have dodged it, hadn’t, allowing the binds for the sake of compromise and cooperation despite how it itched at her pride. She was getting so goddamned good at being diplomatic.
That action had, however, sparked a furious and near silent argument between the other two about the possible ramifications for trusting or not trusting her story, how likely it even was to begin with and how necessary the ropes really were, only to be interrupted by frantic attempts to placate the irate Ministry owl that appeared moments later with a warning for Hermione about the restricted use of underage magic. It proceeded to screech piercingly when it was not immediately tipped.
It squawked and skidded across Granger's desk while the chipper voice of Mafalda Hopkirk rang clear enough to fill all four corners of the room, scattering pens and parchment as it went and the two Gryffindors scrambled after it, shushing it and each other with increased volume and, in Grangers case, poorly concealed desperation.
Violet was content to remain tied up and therefore uninvolved in that charade.
Harry had just got one hand round the bird's legs, it screeched and violently beat the air with its wings, battering the wincing boy round the head as it did. Hermione approaching cautiously, a tin of owl treats in hand, other palm raised in supplication.
So, obviously, that’s when Granger's parents opened the door to see what all the fuss was about.
The other two both froze, mirroring Mr. and Mrs. Granger's expressions of shock. Violet just grinned, her entire torso still bound in thick rope, propped where Harry had left her against the youngest Grangers bed. The final farewell of the Office for Restriction of Underage Sorcery played over the scene and left a ringing awkward silence in its sudden fiery wake.
“Evening,” Violet greeted cheerfully a few stunned moments later, ignoring the poisonous glare immediately sent her way by Granger.
The owl took this opportunity to lunge forward and snap up an owl treat. It squawked again, this time clearly in victory. Harry abruptly let go and they all watched it soar back through the open window and into the night.
Mr. Granger cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses while his wife blinked dazedly at the scene before her.
“Okay, why don’t you all come downstairs. We’ll have something to drink and then you can explain what all… this is.”
“I’ll put on some coffee,” Mrs Granger agreed tiredly.
“Great, got any scissors? Wouldn’t want your daughter getting expelled for casting a second spell tonight.”
Tied up as she was, Violet was not able to dodge the tin of owl treats thrown at her by Granger.
She could say a lot of things, but this universe sure wasn’t boring.