This is not the beginning of Marigold Potter’s story, nor is it the end. Marigold knows that her dad, James, is her alternate self, or the self she had been before he traveled back in time, or the self she could have become. She scoffs at the names he and her mum chose – James and Jane, as if it couldn’t have been any more obvious in a world that literally knows about time travel. Still, she loves them, although she’s desperately glad she won’t become the man that James is, that none of her friends will have to survive what her parents endured. Both can barely remember their birth parents: James remembers their last moments, their deaths; Marigold remembers singing and enchanting, their lives.
Marigold is seventeen years old, of age, and she has just become a Gryffindor prefect to replace her girlfriend, Hermione, who will be this year’s Head Girl. Because James and Jane prevented a war together with an author, Justin Finch-Fletchley never missed months of his education and isn’t currently running for his life from snatchers; thus, he is eligible to be Head Boy and has earned the role.
Peacetime was hard-won. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger arrived in a flash of light, poisoned by Nagini, in Bathilda Bagshot’s Godric’s Hollow home in 1982. One moment, Bathilda’s corpse had become a snake Harry would recognize anywhere, and the next, the walls had begun to crumble and artifacts and portraits alike smashed into the floor as Hermione desperately climbed the stairs to the bedroom, just in time… or ahead of time, as they were transported back nearly two decades into the same home.
Bathilda Bagshot snorted. People didn’t apparate into her home, or at least, people not named Albus Dumbledore didn’t. She didn’t recognize the young witch and wizard who materialized in her living room, cried out “please don’t let them find us,” and then passed out, but she could see clearly that they were unwell, both covered in bites of some kind. The young man looked almost like he could be her neighbor James, but her neighbors had been murdered. Bathilda made up her mind. She would look after them, but she wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. Casting the few diagnostics she knew, Bathilda realized she was underwater without gillyweed, and cast twin stasis spells, disarmed her two guests, and went to make a floo call.
“St. Mungo’s, Andromeda Tonks.”
Bathilda’s head appeared in the fireplace in her friend’s office. “Andromeda, could you come by and make a house call? I’ve had a spot of trouble with some venom.”
Andromeda’s eyebrows rose minutely, her mouth sitting open with no response.
“I’ve got some biscuits left over from Saturday.”
Andromeda finally nodded. “Can I come through immediately?”
“Yes.”
Andromeda came through almost as soon as the Floo call ended, and she stood, her mouth agape, as she saw Bathilda’s guests. “James Potter is dead.”
“As if I need a reminder of that, Drama…”
“My apologies, darling, I was simply caught by surprise. Do you have any idea what bit them?” Already, she was casting her own diagnostics, furrowed brows tightening in frustration. “I’ve never seen venom like this before.”
“No clue,” Bathilda’s lips shook a little as she spoke. “They arrived like this.”
“They need to see a specialist, Bat,” Andromeda began.
“It’s not possible for them. I don’t think they can afford questions, Drama.”
“I suppose they can’t, showing up like this. Alright, we’ll have to do this the hard way. At least I have blood replenishers. Nihilvena Evanesco!”
The two bodies began to shrink like prunes, their bloodstreams now full of nothing. Immediately, Andromeda cast the follow-up spells that would save their lives: “Endovena. Inventre.” The first spell brought artificial blood that would keep them alive while the blood replenishers completed their work; the second one spelled the blood replenishers into them. Andromeda and Bathilda did not speak for hours, except that every seventeen minutes, Andromeda repeated these two spells, only leaving Bathilda’s home once for more blood replenishers. They had spent many days like this during wartime, running a little clinic out of Bathilda’s home for Andromeda’s patients and anyone who might come by word of mouth. Bathilda was a scholar, not a fighter, and Andromeda was more valuable as a healer than a soldier. Sometimes, they talked, especially when patching up someone who was awake, to put them at ease and include them. Other times, tired and worn, or treating serious injuries, Andromeda worked in silence and Bathilda stayed close but out of the way. A little more than five hours of healing brought some color into the faces of the mystery guests. “Salvio Totalum,” Andromeda cast the diagnostic. Finally, her patients were safe. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Call me if they wake before then.” Bathilda’s guests slept for five days.