Reading Time: 71 Minutes

Title: Standing At The Edge Of Time
Series: The Infinite Loop Of Love And Good Intentions
Series Order: 1
Author: Indygodusk
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genre: Angst, Drama, Family, Future Fic / Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Time Travel
Relationship(s): Gen, Harry Potter/Hermione Granger (pre-relationship)
Content Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Major Character Death, Violence-Graphic, Violence-Domestic. Bullying, Addiction, Suicide, Child Abuse-implied, Murder, Adultery, Weasley Bashing
Word Count: 90,065
Summary: Harry is going to fix Hermione’s death no matter what it takes. It’s just going to take a little time and, to be open and honest with you, a few (or more than a few) detours and deaths. Being a fair individual, Harry is not excluding himself from the dying, though he does resent the detours, especially after Rose hijacks his plan.
Artist: Drake

Chapter 13:

∞⌛∞

∞1942, December 7—Hogwarts∞

~Rose Weasley (16)~

There was nothing.

There was life.

Rose slapped her palms against the wall, barely managing to keep from falling over. But she didn’t fall over. She was getting better at the landings. Now she just had to figure out when she was. The scenery was obviously still Hogwarts.

When the wall she was leaning against ended up being a door and someone opened it, Rose almost fell over again. “Oh, excuse me,” Rose said, flustered as she caught herself against the doorframe, her face blazing bright red to match her hair when she noticed the obvious plaque on the door that she’d somehow missed:

Professor Horace Slughorn—Potions Master.

The man who opened the door—Professor Slughorn?—had thick yellow hair and a broad gingery-blond moustache that curled up and over his round cheeks. He wore a luxurious velvet smoking jacket in purple that stretched over his enormous girth and closed at the front with elaborate emerald and gold buttons.

“Sorry to bother you,” Rose said, mind spinning as she tried to figure out how to get out of this.

Professor Slughorn smiled, rubbing his hands together as he looked her over. “Not at all. I am used to elite students knocking on my door in the evening, seeking out my wisdom. I freely invite such confidences as everyone knows, especially after my speech today and my generous gift to edify the corridors of this magnificent school, but oh, where are my manners? I am pained to admit, I do not…quite remember your name.” He winced. “Perhaps it has been too many years since you took one of my classes and my memory is failing as my age advances. I do sincerely apologize.”

Rose seized on the excuse he had offered, widening her eyes and trying to look sad and shy. “That’s alright, Professor. I usually have my head buried in a book. I know I’m nothing special despite my desire to—ah—become an elite.” She looked down and toed at the floor, hiding her face behind her hair.

“I’m sure that’s not true.” He looked awkward and contrite. “The fault lies with my memory. Come in, my dear, and tell me more about your ambitions.” He waved her into the room and, unsure what else she could do, Rose followed him. The expansive front room seemed meant for socializing with multiple couches and chairs arranged to face each other.

“This is a very pleasant room for socializing,” Rose said, pasting a smile on her face and trying to brazen it out until she could find an excuse to escape.

“Ah, you flatter me, my dear. I pride myself on the comfort and conversation of my salons for the intellectual elite. You’ll note the furniture is all covered in genuine dragonhide leather and accented with velvet, silk, and fur pillows in colors of green, blue, red, and yellow to help elite students from all houses feel comfortable here.”

“Wow,” Rose said, boggling at the chair she’d been about to sit down in. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much dragonhide in one place that wasn’t on a living dragon.”

Running a hand down the front of his jacket, Professor Slughorn preened. “Indeed. It was a gift from a grateful student who, thanks to my influence and connections, secured a managerial spot at the most prestigious dragon reserve in Sweden.”

“That’s nice,” Rose said, wondering if she’d stayed long enough that she could leave now without him asking too many questions.

“So what questions bring you to my door so late at night?” He asked.

Anxiously chewing on her lip, Rose cast her eyes around the room searching for inspiration. As long as they stayed away from questions about her identity, she should be able to lie her way through this. Glancing down, she realized that she’d forgotten to make the necklace invisible again. It was too late now. “This necklace! I was—er—wondering if you could tell me any more about it than I’ve already figured out.” Rose had skimmed a few books on Egyptian magical culture while trying to find something in the library on reading hieroglyphics before this all started. Maybe she could fake it until she got him talking. He seemed to like the sound of his own voice.

“That is quite the showpiece you have there,” he said, stepping closer and peering at the necklace. “It looks Egyptian and quite ancient, if I don’t miss my guess. What an interesting motif! You wouldn’t happen to be friends with our 6th year Slytherin Prefect, would you? Tom also has quite the interest in the fate of the soul as it relates to death and the avoidance of it, as it were.” He gave a boisterous laugh and Rose joined in politely, having no idea who the Tom in question might be.

Rose still needed more clues to figure out the year. She didn’t remember any professor named Slughorn. Except—hadn’t the plaque on the Dapper Hog statue said it was donated by a Horace Slughorn? In 1942? Had she really gone almost 80 years back in time? It seemed too far-fetched, but was there another explanation?

Before she could decide how she felt about that, a knock sounded on the door. “Capital, capital, more visitors!” Slughorn exclaimed, moving to the door and opening it.

Outside the door stood a tall boy about Rose’s age. He had jet black hair in a conservative cut, dark hooded eyes, and pale skin, and wore a Prefect badge and an old-fashioned Slytherin House uniform, which gave more evidence for this being 1942. He had his arms crossed, highlighting the big gold ring on his left pinky finger. The fancy ring had a large, black stone with a symbol carved into the top that she was too far away to see clearly, bracketed by silver snakes. Some natural charisma about the boy drew the eye and held it. Rose would call him handsome, except the cold and calculating look in his eyes was off-putting, as was the faintly condescending smile curving his lips as he looked down at the portly professor. “I’m here for that discussion you promised me, Professor Slughorn,” he said in a smooth, dark voice.

“Ah, one of my favorite students! What perfect timing, Tom. I was just about to talk about that very topic with Miss—oh, fiddlesticks.” Turning back to Rose with an awkward chuckle, he said, “I can’t believe I still haven’t remembered your name.”

“It’s Weasley,” Rose said before she could think to give him a pseudonym instead.

“Ah yes, of course! The delightful Weasley clan. I must’ve had a good dozen of your cousins moving in and out of my potions classes over the years. I should’ve known you by that distinctive red hair.”

Chuckling, he turned back to the door and pushed it wider. “Come in, Tom, come in and introduce yourself, if you haven’t met Miss Weasley already.”

“I hoped this to be a private discussion, Professor,” Tom said with a cold frown directed towards Rose as he moved into the room, though it was rather hypocritical of him considering he was followed by two haughty looking Slytherin boys who joined Tom in glaring at her. The expression in Tom’s eyes turned quizzical as he didn’t recognize her, but before he could say something, the Professor spoke again.

“A good discussion is enhanced by many voices,” Professor Slughorn said repressively. “Welcome Mr. Avery, welcome Mr. Lestrange. Please, come sit down and make yourselves comfortable with Miss Weasley.”

Looking mutinous, Tom nevertheless held his tongue. Once everyone was seated, Slughorn put his hands on his knees and leaned forward with a genial smile. “Now, where would you students like to start with tonight’s discussion?”

Rose would like to start by leaving before the Slytherins cornered her in the hallway later and roughed her up—they seemed the type—but she couldn’t think of a way to gracefully extricate herself.

Lips curling, Tom breathed in through his nose. “Very well, Professor. I wish to continue exploring the topic of how to protect and preserve the soul. For instance, is there a way to protect the soul should you be attacked and your body destroyed?”

“You mean a way to cheat death?” Rose asked, caught off guard and feeling uneasy with the topic.

Professor Slughorn nodded. “Immortality is a question that wizards in every culture have wrestled with throughout history, though some with more success than others.” He gave a crooked little smile and turned to the side table to pour himself a drink of cloudy lavender liquid. “Both theoretically and historically, yes, there are ways.” He paused leadingly and took a sip, smugly waiting for more questions as he swirled his drink.

Professor Slughorn made Rose feel like she was being tested in class to see if she was smart enough to keep up or if the teacher would have to spoon feed her the answers or order her into remedial sessions. Her competitive side roared to life. It made her want to show up smug little Tom and his posse. Rose was used to being at the top of her class and she was confident that she could match Tom in wits, especially since she had the advantage of 80 extra years of advancements in magical education.

“Such as?” Tom asked, clasping his hands and leaning forward intently.

Rose leaned forward too, preparing herself to interject an answer and steal Tom’s thunder at the first opportunity.

Slughorn swirled his drink and took another sip, settling back with a sigh into his chair. “One splits one’s soul and hides it in an object.”

“But I don’t understand how that works, sir,” Tom said, overacting the part of naive little student.

Was he trying to seem more ignorant now to make himself seem more intelligent later on when he started providing his own theories to the professor? As if Rose would allow him to get ahead of her with that little ploy. “I’d like to hazard a guess, if I may?” Rose said, tossing back her auburn hair and crossing her legs.

Professor Slughorn, who’d been about to answer Tom’s question, closed his mouth and inclined his head with a wave of his drink, inviting her to speak.

“At the time of death the soul could be split and preserved in the internal organs or a metaphorical magical equivalent,” she said crisply. “I’ve read that the magical Pharaohs of Egypt had a ritual to imbue their organs with soul magic during the mummification process. They supposedly could use that to come back to life and punish grave robbers, though the resurrection was short-term and temporary. Achieving actual immortality otherwise is impossible, isn’t it?”

“Why would you say that?” Professor Slughord challenged.

“Because if it had worked for the ancient Pharaohs, shouldn’t they still be around today?” Rose held out her hands and shrugged. “But they’re not.” She sat back smugly in her chair and petted the fur pillow next to her hip.

Professor Slughorn put a finger along the side of his nose and winked. “Who says they aren’t?”

“What do you mean?” Avery asked.

“Perhaps not a pharaoh, but I know of a High Priest of Osiris named Imhotep who died over 3000 years ago,” Slughorn paused and took a sip of his drink, building suspense, “and yet not more than 20 years past he came back to life in the deserts outside of Cairo and wrecked a lot of havoc.”

“Such as?” Tom asked keenly.

Slughorn put down his cup and leaned forward, rubbing his hands. “After reuniting his organs through Dark rituals, the resurrected Imhotep afflicted the Egyptian people with the ten Plagues of Egypt, including turning water to blood, summoning locusts, and causing boils. Imhotep’s control was such that massive crowds of muggles marched and murdered victims in unison at his command.”

“Fascinating,” Tom said, petting his ring with a dark and disturbing light in his eyes that made Rose regret opening her mouth about Egypt. “What sort of rituals did the cult of Osiris use to harness such powers?”

Forehead creasing, Slughorn sat back and picked up his cup again, taking a quick sip. “This is just theoretical, right?”

“Of course, Professor,” Tom said as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Rose wanted to Hex that look right off his face. Maybe she’d get a chance to ambush the Slytherins on the way out instead of the reverse.

“Well,” looking down, Slughorn swirled his drink. “Murder of course. It’s the only way to balance the math, stealing multiple lives to extend one life unnaturally.” His eyes jumped up and around the room. “Speaking theoretically, of course. It’s not like we could test the validity of it, after all.”

“There’s no reason to ever try,” Rose said stridently, feeling very uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “That story is so far-fetched that it’s likely fictional, something made up to sell tickets to tourists or stage a play.”

Drawing back, Professor Slughorn frowned and tugged on his bushy blond mustache. “I beg your pardon, but do not call my integrity into question, Miss Weasley,” he said repressively. “I personally got the story from an eyewitness to the events—a man with the first name of Jonathan, though I never quite caught his last name. The magical artifacts he showed me and the book I got from him were genuine and from the same ancient time period as Imhotep. Also, and more damning, reports out of Egypt at the time including personal correspondence, though suppressed by the government, reflected widespread panic at being afflicted with supernatural plagues, only for the problem to inexplicably disappear.”

“What happened to Imhotep?” Tom demanded.

“Is he still alive or did they find a way to kill him again for good?” Looking fascinated, Lestrange was squeezing a green silk pillow on his lap.

“I wasn’t able to find out before losing track of Jonathan,” Professor Slughorn said regretfully, topping up his drink. “As he sported a full beard and hadn’t bathed in some time at the time we met, I’m not confident I would recognize him clean and clean-shaven.”

“What do you suspect?” Tom pushed.

Professor Slughorn looked off into the distance. “I suspect that someone found a way to suppress Imhotep before he could complete the final ritual needed to stabilize his resurrection and that’s why we haven’t heard from him again,” he turned to them with an impish little smile, “yet. His soul very well could still be out there, waiting for the chance to come back again and reign over the sands of Egypt.”

The idea gave Rose the willies, reminding her too much of her parents’ fight with Voldemort, who kept finding ways to bring his spirit back after dying.

Distantly the clock tower began to toll the hour.

Wiping his hands on his pants, Slughorn stood up. “Curfew is starting soon, students. You should be off back to your dorms.”

Rose jumped to her feet, happy to have an excuse to leave and get away from this disturbing conversation. “Thank you, Professor,” she said politely, already moving for the door. She needed to get out and away.

“Professor Slughorn, I’d like to come back, if I may, to learn more about Imhotep and the Cult of Osiris,” Tom said, lingering in his chair.

“Of course, my boy. My door is always open to students of your caliber,” Slughorn said, finally standing up and opening the door so Rose could politely leave.

“Goodbye, Sir,” she said, stepping out and moving at a fast clip down the hall and ducking into an empty classroom, pressing herself flat against the wall until she heard the Slytherin trio walk past, voices a soft murmur.

If she was lucky, she’d never have to see Tom or his friends again, though she never did catch Tom’s last name, not that it mattered now.

Pulling out her necklace, Rose used the light of the moon to power the sundial, hoping it would be enough. Technically moonlight was reflected sunlight, after all. The pendants merged, and with relief she pressed the lever, speeding herself back home to the future.

The world flashed black and everything twisted, turned, screamed, burned.

It felt like she was dying, like she was dead.

Like she was dead.

Like she was dead.

∞⌛∞

∞2002, October 10—Diagon Alley∞

~Rose Weasley (16)~

There was nothing.

There was…something.

Instead of stumbling and almost falling, Rose found herself feeling strangely light and weightless, practically floating and keeping her feet easily. Obviously because she was killing this time travel thing! This time she even remembered to reach up and touch the triangle pendant to make the necklace invisible. Feeling proud of herself, she spun around, eager to see her family and an unburdened and happy Scorpius. She’d fixed everything. She was on fire! She was—

Blinking, Rose frowned and looked around. She stood outside on a street with English-looking Wizarding storefronts on either side, though she didn’t recognize most of the pretentious-sounding store names. Where was she? And when? The day was overcast and gloomy looking, with a faint rumble in the distance that sounded like a gathering crowd. Maybe a sporting event?

The few people she saw on the street walked by with their heads down, huddled in their cloaks, not making eye contact or greeting each other. Everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction except for a wizard who rushed past Rose—her eyes said he walked right through her arm but since she didn’t feel him bump her she must be mistaken—and into the entrance to the building next to her, which was propped open by another man. As soon as he got inside, the door slammed shut, the sign flipped from open to closed, and the blinds went down.

It wasn’t until Rose turned in the direction everyone was going and looked up that she realized this was Diagon Alley. But not the Diagon Alley she knew. Her Gringotts had been an imposing snow-white marble building towering over the surrounding businesses with a grand staircase leading up to a set of decorated metal doors, reminding wizards that the Goblins would always be powerful and influential despite lost rebellions and the treaties suppressing their rights and freedoms. (Mum had a lot of opinions on those treaties that did not align with Professor Binns if anyone made the mistake of asking.) This Gringotts had become a burned out shell stained with streaks of grey and brown ash. Parts of the roof were missing and one corner was still smoldering, with black smoke rising to join the low-hanging clouds. Rose was surprised she couldn’t smell it.

The grand metal doors of the Goblin bank had been defaced and welded shut with a metal blockade. On the visible section of the door was painted a strange symbol Rose had never seen before. It looked inspired by the Death Eater symbols she’d seen in her textbooks but more elaborate. In front of a crossed flail and crook was a skull wearing a conical crown with a snake coming out of its mouth. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in an Egyptian tomb.

Rose had just come from the past after having a creepy conversation about death rituals and Egypt. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

Feeling increasingly sick, Rose prayed it was a coincidence.

Drifting forward, she came to a crowd gathered at the base of the stairs in front of the former bank. She kept expecting new memories of this timeline to crowd forward in her mind, but they didn’t. Something was happening at the front of the crowd but Rose couldn’t see. A hooded man with an oversized axe climbed the steps and turned to face the crowd. Rose did not like this. She did not like this at all.

Maybe she was wrong and this wasn’t England or it was an England of the far distant past. Or maybe it was the present but not as bad as it looked. Maybe it was good that memories weren’t coming. Rose didn’t want memories of this grim place.

Crossing her arms, she decided to find out what was going on another way. Two witches stood huddled at the back of the crowd, not quite part of the group. Rose stepped close behind them to overhear what they were talking about, keeping her face down to avoid being noticed.

“Brr! How did it get so cold all of a sudden? It’s only the beginning of October.” The dark-skinned witch pulled her gray scarf tighter around her shoulders. “I should’ve worn a hat,” she griped, bringing attention to her close-cropped black hair and the gnarly curse scar winding across her scalp as she shivered.

“Per’aps eet iz the cold of the Malfoy family’s ‘arts,” her companion said in a strong French accent from inside a deep hood that concealed most of her features except for a wisp of shimmering blond hair that escaped the opening to trail down her chest.

The other woman snorted. “Aye, I like that, the cold-hearted bastards.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe it one bit, you know, about Draco Malfoy and his wife trying to get Potter’s kid out of the country to safety after Ginny stupidly ran away and got herself killed. It’s all just an excuse to kill off Lucius Malfoy and consolidate the power he’d been siphoning away back into the Dark Lord’s hands.” After saying that she looked over her shoulder and around warily, giving Rose a good look at her face as her eyes passed over Rose unseeingly.

Mouth falling open, Rose realized that she knew them. The two witches were her Aunts Fleur and Angelina, though neither, she saw, glancing at their hands, wore their wedding rings. Her stomach twisted. Were they talking about one of her Potter cousins? And was Aunt Ginny really dead?

“I believe zi bit about Ginny abandoning zi child and rooning as soon as poor ‘arry ‘ad iz back turned,” Aunt Fleur said scathingly, “but Draco Malfoy taking pity on zi child enough to try and save ‘im? Especially at risk to ‘imself? Non. Impossible. Zi child’s death must be Draco’s fault.”

Going numb, Rose shook her head. She didn’t want to believe it. No, it couldn’t be true. She was mishearing things.

“I agree. After all, the Malfoys are the main reason the Dark Lord overcame Dumbledore and the British Ministry so quickly and easily,” Aunt Angelina looked around anxiously and lowered her voice even more. They still hadn’t noticed Rose standing right behind them listening. “The year Dolores Umbridge taught at Hogwarts, I remember Draco bragging about his father coming into some secret knowledge of the future thanks to him. I don’t know if it’s true, but soon after that the Dark Lord won the war with Lucius Malfoy as his most trusted and powerful associate.”

Rose was going to throw up. This was her fault, but not for the conversation with Professor Slughorn about Egypt. Oh no. It was because she’d given Mr. Malfoy the bag with a history textbook inside. She hadn’t even worried about that, so excited to give him the cure for Astoria.

What had she done?

Aunt Angelina’s voice became tortured. “I still remember hearing about the Death Eaters storming the school the year after I graduated, killing Dumbledore and all of the muggleborns and taking hostage the children of Light families. Ginny wouldn’t have even escaped with Harry and Ron if Hermione hadn’t sacrificed herself by playing decoy for her. By the time I heard about it, Fred and George had already been killed when Death Eaters stormed their shop looking for the Boy Who Lived.”

Horrified, Rose whimpered, but no one seemed to notice. Rose didn’t want to hear more. She didn’t, but they just kept talking.

“Eet waz an awful time,” Aunt Fleur said, laying a hand on Aunt Angelina’s arm.

“Draco Malfoy even got a special award for his role in turning traitor and helping them get inside the school,” Aunt Angelina said bitterly. “He disappeared from public view right after instead of leading from the front like his father, supposedly to focus on his new wife and family, but a leopard doesn’t change his stripes.”

“Iz eet not spots?” Aunt Fleur said, sounding confused.

“Yeah, spots, whatever.” Aunt Angelina sighed, losing all her fire. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just here to see that family disappear like my friends all disappeared.” She crossed her arm. “I blame the Malfoys. It’s their fault that the Weasleys were hunted down and exterminated. At this point I think only your Bill is left, and only because he smuggled out you-know-who and those old people from the Magical Museum to go and find that lost book from you-know-where to defeat you-know-who.” She paused and swallowed. “Himself’s not gonna take the news well.”

Aunt Fleur looked around before leaning against Aunt Angelina to whisper shakily, “When ee finds out about ‘is son’s loss, I do not know if ee will still come back and save us.” She closed her eyes and breathed, “If possible, per’aps ee should not be told…for ze greater good.”

Eyes going wide, Aunt Angelina stared at Aunt Fleur. After a second, she pressed her lips tight and slowly nodded, eyes falling. “Yeah, you’re right.” She turned her face away. “You’re right. Ginny’s accidental pregnancy was the only reason he didn’t lay down and die after losing Hermione. He’s never been as loyal to the wizarding world as he should be.” Face cold, she turned to watch the steps, rubbing her arms for warmth. “I’ll pass the advice on to the others. Such news isn’t likely to leave Britain and reach where he is without our help anyway.”

The crowd suddenly began whooping and screaming. Up above on the stairs the bound Malfoy family, male and female alike, were brought out and shoved to their knees in front of the executioner with the axe. Rose recognized Draco and Astoria Malfoy. Astoria looked pregnant.

Rose couldn’t watch this. She couldn’t. She didn’t want to hear or see any more. This world was heartless and miserable. Voldemort had won and it was all her fault. Burying her hands in her hair, heartbroken, Rose turned and stumbled away, sobbing inconsolably. What had she done? What had she done? She was crying so hard that she didn’t notice right away that the people in the crowd were walking right through her body instead of bumping into her, which didn’t make any sense, unless…unless…

Unless Rose was dead and a ghost.

Rose was dead!

No, she wasn’t dead, she realized with sudden clarity. She wasn’t dead because she’d never been born. Her mother had died too soon so she couldn’t be dead because she’d never been alive. She was less than a ghost. She didn’t exist at all.

Rose sank to her heels and hid her face in her hands, trembling. She was so cold. Colder than ice. Colder than death. Everything was going fuzzy and fading away. She was ceasing to exist and there was no one to care or remember the good intentions and grand failures of the girl named Rose Weasley.

“ROSE!”

Head rising, Rose blinked and looked around, knuckling at her eyes. Had she heard her name? The world around her looked desaturated and out of focus, like she was underwater and drowning, like everything living and real was passing further and further out of reach.

“Rose!” Hands grabbed her and pulled her up into a warm hard hug.

They were touching her—touching her even though she was a ghost, was less than a ghost. “How?”

Pulling back and looking up, Rose saw the veiled woman from the library, but the hair poking out of her hat was curly brown instead of gray and her dress a deep burgundy red instead of dusty blue. She was the most vivid thing Rose had seen since she got here. “Who?” Rose breathed, brow crinkling.

The woman reached up and jerked open the edges of the concealing veil on her hat, tossing the veil back over her shoulders to reveal the familiar and beloved features of Rose’s mother.

“Mum?” she asked, voice small. When her mother opened her arms, Rose threw herself forward. “Mum!” Rose cried, overcome by a torrent of emotions. “Oh, Mum, I miss you so much!” Gulping in a breath, Rose choked out, “I-I really screwed up this time. I screwed up so b-badly,” she cried, burying her head in her mum’s shoulder with a gut-wrenching sob.

Giving her a single crushing hug, Mum pushed her back and shook her hard by the shoulders. “Listen to me, you foolish child. Stop crying and listen!”

Rose pressed her trembling lips together and nodded, trying her best to hold back the sobs. In front of Rose, her mother’s dress was slowly draining of color to match the dull surroundings, turning from deep burgundy to a pale grayish pink. Her body was becoming harder to feel too. Soon the dress would be a ghostly, dusty blue again and Rose wouldn’t be able to touch her mother at all. “I’m scared,” Rose whimpered, feeling like a child wanting to hide under her pillow again.

“We don’t have time for that. I’m here and we’re going to fix this,” her mum said, voice kind but intense. “Your necklace, Rose, do you still have it?”

“Yes! Yes-I-here!” Rose frantically pulled out the necklace and canceled the invisibility, showing it to her mother. It looked dull and muted under the low-hanging clouds.

Gaze passing over her mum’s shoulder, Rose saw the menacing hooded man from the Room of Requirement pop into being on the other side of the grim crowd. His silvery grey cloak shimmered and gleamed as if he stood under a noonday sun instead of on a dark and cloudy day, shining brighter than anything else in the world. Turning in a circle as if looking for something, he zeroed in on her and stopped.

Rose felt her heartbeat make like a rabbit trying to hop out of her chest.

“Rose Weasley, do you know what you have done?!” His voice thundered across the street. People screamed and scurried out of his way, leaving an open space between them.

Mum’s back went ramrod straight. Not turning to look, she grabbed Rose’s hand and guided it onto the necklace. “Go now! Fix this!”

“How? When?!” Rose cried, feeling the lever piece tugging fitfully left and right in her fingers without catching.

The hooded man stalked through the now empty street towards her.

“Rose, look at me, not him,” Mum ordered. Rose dragged her terrified gaze to her mother’s face, trying not to pass out. “I believe in you. Stop the Malfoys. Understand? You have to exist. Do it again. Do it better! I love you, now go!”

Sobbing, the tears dripping off her chin onto her hands looking like streaks of grey fog, Rose followed her mother’s advice and wished herself back into the past moments after she’d last seen Draco Malfoy with the bag holding the history textbook. She felt the lever piece jerk sideways, snap into place on a pendant, and sink down. Rose pressed it flat, ignoring the jolt of energy that rattled her teeth, and pushed desperately with her magic.

The hooded man got closer and it felt like death was about to open its salivating jaws wide to swallow her down.

“He’s almost here!” Rose said hysterically.

In response, her mother surged to her feet, spreading her arms wide to protect and hide Rose from the hooded man like a hen gathering her chicks under her wings, her trailing sleeves and the veil on her hat flaring.

“Go!” Mum cried.

Rose saw the hooded man’s hand in the air over Mum’s shoulder, about to shove Mum out of the way and—

The world flashed black and everything tw…ist…ed…

—and paused. He was coming. He was there to stop her.

No.

Rose refused to fail. She was her mother’s daughter. She would not fail.

Not again.

No.

Rose clawed her way in.

Burning, screaming, turning, twisting.

She saw death.

Rose kicked her way out.

Everything twisted, turned, screamed, burned.

She escaped death.

She was dead.

∞⌛∞

Chapter 14:

∞⌛∞

∞1996, March 16—Hogwarts∞

~Rose Weasley (16)~

There was nothing.

There was life.

Falling face-first onto a prickly floor, Rose turned her face to the side and breathed in the musty scent of birds and barn, spitting out the piece of straw sticking to her lips. Her body ached from the roots of her hair down to the bones on her feet. At least pain meant she was alive, right? It was hard to feel grateful for that. Feeling a thousand years old, she slowly pushed herself up onto her knees, head hanging low. Gathering her courage, she forced herself to stand and look around. She had work to do.

The Owlery was mostly in shadow except for the glowing lantern someone had left on the table against the wall under the window. It felt chilly and was probably worse outside. Frost gathered in the corners of the window like a cameo frame. Overhead she could hear the rustling of wings from shadowy perches and a few soft hoots, though most of the owls were probably out hunting at this time of night. Outside she could see the full moon rising above the jagged treetops and reflecting off the rippling Black Lake. The lantern on the table illuminated the packages stacked there along with the calendar on the wall, which was turned to March. Randomly she remembered that March’s full moon was called the “Worm Moon,” originating from the fact that March was when earthworms began to appear on the thawing ground.

Footsteps sounded on the shadowed staircase and seconds later a boy appeared with a letter in his fist. He wasn’t looking where he was going and barrelled right into her, sending them both sprawling. Groaning, Rose pushed herself to her feet and looked over, doing a double-take on seeing the young freckled face of her father in the flickering lantern light. He blinked back at her, looking equally surprised as he stood.

Rose’s body hurt even worse now. Everything felt so unfair and overwhelming that she wanted to burst into tears. Even more than that though, she really wanted her dad to reach out and pull her into a hug and tell her that everything was going to be alright, like when she was a small child and had fallen off her broom when first learning how to fly.

Instead of hugging her, he opened his mouth and said, “Geez, watch where you’re going, dungbrains!”

Drawing back, Rose hugged her arms around herself and tried to breathe through the crushing hurt and disappointment. She should’ve known better than to entertain such a foolish hope.

Brushing the straw off his robes, he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you? You look familiar, but not. Are you even a student here? Who are you?” Each question was louder and more accusing.

Rose, feeling stressed out and sensitive, found herself dropping her hands to fist at her sides, choosing her temper over more tears. “Of course you don’t know me. You always forget the important things unless your wife reminds you twenty times. You don’t care about anything but yourself! Plus, you were the one who ran into me when I was standing still! And then you had the balls to blame me for it and call me names? As if it wasn’t your fault in the first place? Who do you think you are?!” Chin jutting out, Rose tried not to cringe when she realized she’d just used the word “balls” and called out her father.

Young Ron reared back, mouth hanging open. “Excuse me? What in Merlin’s name are you even on? I don’t know you! What’s your problem? Is it that time of the month?” Snatching up his dropped letter, he stuffed it into his pocket and turned on his heel, stomping away. “Totally mental, that one,” he growled, continuing to mutter imprecations as he rapidly disappeared down the stairs.

Breathing fast, Rose moved jerkily over to the table and started going through the packages, roughly tossing everything that wasn’t what she was looking for onto the floor. Ripping open the flaps of the box sitting next to the shining lantern, she saw Scorpius’s bag inside. Exhaling with a whoosh, Rose felt the strength leaving her knees as she sagged in relief. Bracing herself on the table with her hands, she gave silent thanks that she’d found it and arrived before Mr. Malfoy had sent it to his father. She was going to be able to fix this. It was going to be okay.

“Stop moving and hold still!” A boy’s voice floated up the stairs. It sounded like Mr. Malfoy. “I’ll give you back your back when I finish writing this letter to my father to include with the package. I forgot I needed to add some details about how I’m being treated here.”

Adrenalin surging, Rose grabbed the bag out of the box, rifling through it to make sure everything important was still inside. Not seeing anything missing, she looped the bag over her shoulder, put out the lantern, and yanked out her necklace. She had to hurry before Malfoy finished writing or she could get caught and fail all over again.

“Take me home,” she commanded, nudging the pendant back and forth in the moonlight. “We don’t have to fix anything anymore, just keep me alive and don’t make things worse. C’mon, home, home, home,” she chanted with quiet desperation as the sound of footfalls started coming up the stairs. Turning her back, she went up on tip-toe to get closer to the moonlight streaming through the window. The small pendant finally tugged straight up and latched into place, sinking in and forming the V. Rose pressed it down just as she heard a shocked and angry gasp sound behind her.

“Malfoy, come quick! I think a Weasley’s trying to steal your bag!” a boy shouted as his feet pounded forward into the shadowy Owlery.

Bracing herself, Rose almost sobbed in relief when she felt the magic yank her away. The world flashed black and everything twisted, turned, screamed, burned.

It felt like she was dying, like she was dead.

∞⌛∞

∞2006, September 03—Home of Hermione and Ron Weasley∞

~Hermione Weasley (26 almost 27)~

Hermione hadn’t planned on staying home with her kids and doing correspondence work, but life had just worked out that way. After Rose was born, Hermione had planned to start Rose in daycare at the end of her maternity leave and jump back into the thick of things. However, the Sunday before Hermione went back to work, Molly cornered her at family dinner and scolded her for being so thoughtless to Molly’s poor grandchild. She’d insisted on a change of plans, demanding that Rose be brought to her each morning instead of Hermione ‘abandoning’ the baby at the award-winning daycare near her office that had an over a year long waiting list. This despite Molly complaining for months about how watching Ginny’s James and Albus was already too much at her age. Ron had agreed with his mother, overruling Hermione and saying his mum knew best, and so to the Burrow Rose had gone.

Six months later, Ron started complaining that Hermione was selfishly taking advantage of his elderly mother and neglecting baby Rose and their home, and that she should just quit her useless job. When Hermione had refused and told him to step up more if he didn’t like it, they’d had a big argument where Ron twisted things to accuse her of resenting Molly and trying to punish her for being a better mother than Hermione. It was ludicrous, but Ron had always been a bit delusional about his mum and that wasn’t helped by his persecution complex. Something about Malfoy and his friends targeting him at the end of fifth year had really cemented his victim mentality, which was ironic considering that one) Malfoy and the Inquisitorial squad had targeted all of them that year and two) he was friends with Harry who had experienced ten times more persecution than Ron ever had.

After that argument things had gone back to normal, or so she’d thought. What she hadn’t known was that Ron had kept complaining to his mum, so Molly had decided to ‘do them the favor’ of talking to Hermione’s boss behind her back about Ron needing Hermione at home to focus more on the house and family, though Hermione had only found out about that months later after being pushed out from her prestigious project and let go. It still made her want to scream and hex everyone, but in retrospect the big argument she’d had with Ron and Molly about it had just made her life and their treatment of her even worse.

When Harry had found out he’d gotten mad with her. Then he’d hugged her and told her he was sorry while she cried into his shoulder. The next day he’d taken her to his buddy’s back office. There, in a warded workroom, he’d handed her a magical sledge hammer and together they’d broken down illegal artifacts seized during ministry raids that had aged out of the system and needed to be disposed of, smashing and cracking things until their arms felt like wet noodles. It had helped her temper, even if not her heartbreak.

Trying to make lemonade out of lemons, Hermione had grieved her life for a few months and then tried to start focusing on the positives. There was always something to be grateful for, no matter how bad things got. The War had taught her that. She was able to spend more time with her beloved baby girl, which reduced her mommy guilt, and had started volunteering her writing and research skills for a non-profit focused on helping marginalized groups, something she’d always wanted to do but never had time for. Her relationship with Ron had also been strained for a long time and they hadn’t gone out on a date in ages, so she thought that being home more would help them find a way to repair their marriage and fix the cracks. She made time to see Harry and his kids more too.

After a few more months, Hermione lifted her head, looked around, and realized that she was doing alright. She enjoyed helping out non-profits way more than her old Ministry job shuffling papers and kissing up to bigoted officials. Rose was also blossoming under her mother’s care into an intelligent and cheerful little lady who loved storytime and was reaching her developmental milestones early. Harry had been vocal about how much he appreciated seeing her more too, especially with Ginny being gone so often for work or out socializing with friends and former Quidditch teammates who didn’t like children. It was sweet seeing James, Albus, and Rose crawling around and bonding with each other as cousins.

However, her relationship with Ron was a different story. Despite being the one who’d insisted and conspired to have her home more, Ron wasn’t happier about it. Instead of improving her marriage, being around each other more felt like it was making things worse, the increased contact making Ron more irritable, impatient, and critical. They’d spent more time in the bedroom, which she hoped would help their relationship improve even if she had to sometimes fake her enthusiasm when he refused to focus on anything but himself, but as soon as she got pregnant again and started showing a baby bump his interest disappeared. When she tried to be mature and talk about it, Ron excused it by saying that her pregnant body was weird and grossed him out, making him think he was shagging someone like his mother. When she got offended he just sighed, patted her on the head, and gave her a half hug, promising to buy her some lingerie and rail her good after the new baby came and she’d lost all that weight and stopped breastfeeding, since the milk weirded him out too. She’d thrown off his arm, called him an insensitive git, and locked herself in the bathroom for a good cry, but it hadn’t changed anything. After that Ron became even more distant, spending more time on overnight work trips, pub crawls with people she’d never met, and unplanned stays overnight at his work flat after supposedly staying up late drinking and schmoozing clients and vendors. When she asked about it, he’d get irritated and say he was doing it to support their growing family and that a good wife should be grateful and supportive.

The thing was, Hermione was grateful—grateful to see less of him. That was the problem. You shouldn’t feel that way about your husband. When she was six months pregnant, she started to seriously think about leaving him, and then she felt horribly guilty and made herself put the thought away.

However, after Hugo’s birth, the desire to leave him got worse, with Ron wanting nothing to do with caring for his recovering wife, almost two-year-old daughter, and needy new baby, declaring it all women’s work. Molly noticed his growing unhappiness and started haranguing Hermione non-stop about how she was failing as a woman and needed to work harder to be a better wife and mother, suggesting getting pregnant again as soon as possible to make Ron feel more manly and settled. Hermione hadn’t bothered with open rebellion, just made it a goal to breastfeed as long as possible, brewed her own contraceptive potions in secret, and limited what she ate and drank at the Burrow to avoid unwanted potioning. However, she wasn’t happy and thoughts of divorce kept getting louder and stronger.

Yet Hermione had put too much time and effort into this relationship only for it to fail. Ron had been her only romantic relationship and when they’d married she’d promised to stay with him in sickness and in health. She made herself keep trying, drawing up and destroying list after list, refusing to give up just because it was hard. Hermione Granger Weasley wasn’t a quitter.

Today Hugo had turned two months old. She’d finally gotten him to sleep after he’d shrieked for over three hours straight. Hermione rushed Rose into bed with a single storybook instead of her usual four and hurried to the kitchen to make Ron dinner before he got home from work.

Ron had rarely been home before dinner in the last few months and it had only gotten worse once the baby was born, but he’d sent a note home at lunch specifically saying he was coming home on time and expected dinner tonight. The food hadn’t been her best work, certainly not the freshly ground pesto on pasta with cherry tomatoes and feta that she’d planned to make four hours ago when she’d gotten the note, but considering her lack of sleep and general stress level, she’d still tried her best. The fact there was food on the table at all and not just peanut butter sandwiches was a point of personal pride. She’d even run upstairs to change out of her stained and rumpled jumper into a casual and cute dress robe and put a white tablecloth down on the table, though there wasn’t a centerpiece. She was trying.

Hermione finished just in time to see Ron weave his way through the front door, tossing his wallet onto the entryway table and walking across the carpet without wiping or removing his muddy shoes. He always forgot that, no matter how many times she nagged. As he walked into the kitchen, he brought the smell of stale beer and greasy chips with him and she noticed a yellow stain down the front of his shirt. He must’ve gotten off even earlier and ducked into the pub for a pint and snack before coming home. “Oh good, dinner,” he said, barely sparing her cute dress a glance. “I’m starved.”

Taking a crooked path to his seat, obviously not quite sober, he looked down at his plate only to pause in the act of sitting down. Eyes going up his forehead, he picked up his dinner plate with its spherical and piping hot mound of rice and the steaming but unfortunately watery teriyaki chicken and vegetables with lumps of undissolved cornstarch. It still tasted good, even if it didn’t look pretty. She’d made sure of that, at least.

Sniffing the food theatrically, Ron pulled it away from his face with pursed lips. “Is this a joke? I’ve been working bloody hard all day only to come home to this? If this was a class you’d be failing it. Snape would roll over in his grave and rise from the dead just to mock you right now and the whole class would laugh because you’d deserve it.” Hermione couldn’t help but flinch. She’d always hated disappointing professors, even Snape.

Her sign of weakness just made him more bold. “What kind of a wife and mother are you? Did you serve our kids this slop? There’s not even any pudding.” Ron poked at it with his fork disdainfully and then tossed the fork onto the table, spattering brown teriyaki sauce across the white tablecloth she’d placed there special for tonight. “Useless, that’s what you are. What do you even do all day besides bury your nose in dumb books, write whiny letters to people who couldn’t care less, and change dirty nappies? Do you think that makes you special? A smart witch would at least know how to make her man a decent meal, but you can’t even do that right.”

Chest aching and throat tight, Hermione took a quick breath. “Look, you don’t have to be mean about it. I know it doesn’t look the greatest, but if you’d just—”

“But nothing! I can’t eat this, it looks like troll diarrhea!” Before she could react, Ron lifted his hand and threw the dinner plate at her. She barely ducked as the plate soared over her head and shattered against the wall, sending shards of ceramic, chicken, vegetables, teriyaki sauce, and rice splattering across the walls, floor, and Hermione.

Breathing heavily, Ron shouted, “I don’t even know why I put up with you! I wouldn’t act like this if you were a half-way decent wife.” He loomed over her, face red with temper.

Rising to her feet, hating to cower despite how his drunken temper scared her, Hermione looked at the man she had married and felt something inside her break. The back of her leg stung painfully and seconds later hot blood trickled down her skin from calf to ankle from where a plate shard had sliced her. Rice clumped in her hair, and uncomfortably hot and sticky sauce soaked through the back of her dress. She might have a burn. Her fingers itched for her wand to counterattack, but she’d left it over by the stove when she’d been cooking and forgotten to grab it when she’d run upstairs to change.

Distantly she thought that it was time to change something more important than just clothes. “Then maybe we should stop putting up with each other and get a divorce,” she heard herself say as if a bold stranger had taken over her mouth. “It’s not like you enjoy coming home to me. Neither of us is happy. Let’s divorce.”

Eyes going wide, Ron stared at her for a moment before shaking himself, huffing and rolling his eyes as he looked away dismissively. “We don’t need a divorce. If you hadn’t had kids and stopped working, you wouldn’t have been home so much to annoy me and that worked fine for us in the past. I don’t know where these complaints are coming from. You’ve never minded before.”

Hermione felt unexpectedly winded by his response. “Actually, I did mind. Considering your constant complaints about my work and how you conspired with your mom to get me fired, I thought you minded too. We always fought about our work-life balance. Since I’m home more now, I’ve been trying to improve our marriage,” she said in a brittle voice. “Haven’t you noticed that I’ve been trying to make you happier.”

Ron gave her a skeptical look and snorted. “Sure, whatever, but unless you get a personality change, I don’t see things improving.”

Hermione fisted her hands in her skirt but didn’t reply.

Looking around, he sighed. “This place is a mess. I’m going to my mum’s for dinner. I’ll probably sleep there too or head back to my work flat.”

Turning to go, he paused by her side and patted her hard on the head condescendingly. “Stop thinking so hard and try not to be this stupid again.” He lifted his arm to the side and flicked his hand to get rid of the rice that had transferred from her hair, wafting the rank smell of sweat and stale beer into the air, where it mixed revoltingly with the sweet smell of teriyaki. “Clean up in here and remember, being married to you is convenient, but you should never forget that you need me more than I need you. We aren’t getting divorced.”

A muscle at the corner of Hermione’s jaw twitched as she spat, “I don’t need you. You’re a useless prick and a liar, Ron Weasley, and I’ll leave you if I want to.”

Ron’s face flipped from condescendingly amused to angry ugly in an instant. “Shut your mouth,” he barked, punching the wall over her shoulder with a loud BANG that shook the wall and left a dent. Hermione cowered back, trapped between her drunk and angry husband and the cabinets with no way out.

A cruel light came into Ron’s eyes as he looked down on her fear-filled face. “You’re being stupid again, Hermione,” he drawled, his sour breath making her want to gag. “If you tried to divorce me, and I actually let you, no one would blame me for it. They’d blame you for screwing up. Everyone knows that nobody wants you but me, not even your parents.” Hermione flinched and took a shaky step back, her eyes welling with tears.

“It would be your fault that our marriage failed,” Ron said conversationally and all the crueller for it. “They’d all find out what a frigid, useless wife and horribly stupid mother you actually are, that the brightest witch of our age only shines when in a classroom with little kids and is duller than dirty old dishwater the rest of the time. You’d be a failure without me. Divorcing me would ruin your reputation, which would destroy your little letter writing campaign. The press would call you a cheating slut and say your muggle blood and background is showing. Our friends would all side with me and stop speaking to you, as would my family. You’d lose the kids and have to give your entire paycheck to me for child support. I’d get the judge to deny you visitation too and the kids would quickly forget your name. You’d be completely unwanted, broke, and alone. Without me you have nothing and no one.” With each cruel sentence he took a step forward and she stumbled back, until she ran into the corner between the cabinet and wall, the edge of the counter digging uncomfortably into her side as she tried not to cry and failed, feeling fat tears drip down her cheeks to spatter onto her chest.

“Shut up!” she screamed. Her wand was too far away so she reared back and tried to slap him. Ron easily caught her arm. He was at least eighty pounds heavier and a head and a half taller. At that moment, he used every inch of his height and weight to his advantage as he jerked her sideways and slammed her up against the wall with another loud BANG that rattled the picture frames on the wall and knocked several down. Ron jerked her forward and then slammed her back again, making her head bounce against the wall so hard she bit her tongue, flooding her mouth with the sharp copper taste of blood. It mixed nauseatingly with the smell of teriyaki and beer lingering in the air. Through the ringing in her ears she heard the glass in the falling picture frames shatter as he wrenched her arm up high above her head and slammed it against the wall a third time. Hermione cried out in pain. She could feel her shoulder joint protesting his hold, threatening to pop out of the joint. She went up onto her toes to try and relieve the agonizing pressure. Ron didn’t let up, trapping her there with his body as he glared down at her, making her feel small and helpless and scared, like Bellatrix all over again. She hated it.

In the other room, Rose started to wail, joined within seconds by Hugo’s terrified screams. The loud sounds must have startled them awake and scared them.

“You need to learn your place and stop driving me to drink so much,” Ron said, red faced and breathing hard. He lowered her arm and eased back enough for her to drop her heels flat to the floor. Sobbing Hermione noticed that her arm didn’t feel broken or dislocated, just painfully bruised and wrenched.

“Luckily for you,” Ron ground out through his teeth, “I’m a better husband than you are a wife. Weasleys don’t get divorced, everyone knows that. Since I have a family duty to protect the mother of my children, I won’t let you ruin yourself by even trying.”

Finding a spark of defiance, Hermione glared through her tears and tried to jerk free of him again. Ron wouldn’t release her. Instead, he tightened the fingers still circling her wrist, making her bones grind together and his nails bite like Bellatrix’s teeth until she couldn’t take it anymore and released a loud cry of pain. She worried that he was going to snap her arm, but he abruptly let go and stepped back, flinging her onto the dirty floor. The sound of the children’s crying got even louder.

Staring down at her, his now empty fist clenching and unclenching, he snarled, “Don’t mention divorce to me again. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut about everything.” Then he turned and stalked away towards the door, leaving teriyaki-colored footprints on the carpet as he snatched up his wallet. Pivoting towards the hearth with the Floo connection, he stomped forward and grabbed a handful of Floo powder, glancing over his shoulder to say, “Clean up. The kids better not be crying when I get back.”

At that moment, as he looked at her sobbing and trembling on the floor of the kitchen covered in food and holding her arm to her chest, the shape of his fingers on her skin blooming into bright red stripes tipped with bloody crescents, Ron blinked and something like remorse and shame swam up into his eyes. Looking down, he scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed long and low. “Hermione…you know where the dittany is. Use it.” With that almost apology, he turned, threw the Floo powder into the fire, and said, “The Burrow.” He stepped into the Floo and was whisked away, leaving Hermione alone.

Well, not quite alone.

Rose’s screams from the other room were getting louder and closer, interspersed with sobs of, “Mu-mmy, Mu-mummy, Mu-mmy!” Rose must’ve left her room to search for her mom despite the scary sounds.

That girl was a born Gryffindor and no mistake, Hermione thought distantly. She was probably going into shock. Rose was getting closer and the floor was dangerously covered in splintered wood, broken glass and ceramic, and the remnants of Ron’s dinner. Dragging herself up to her feet, injured arm hanging limply by her side, Hermione tried to avoid stepping on anything sharp as she scrubbed the tears off her face and staggered towards the hall to intercept her daughter, swiping her wand off the counter on the way with her good hand.

Fresh tears kept falling to replace the ones she’d wiped away. Hopefully Rose wouldn’t notice or, if she did, would be too young to care or remember it for long. Turning, Hermione cast a few quick spells with her uninjured arm to take care of the worst of the mess, finishing just as Rose rounded the corner and barrelled into her leg, luckily not the one that was bleeding.

Hermione never mentioned divorce to Ron again. She’d always been called a smart witch, even if she’d stopped feeling very smart ever since she’d married Ron Weasley. She wasn’t sure which parts of what he’d said were lies and which were truths and she was afraid to find out. It was hard to think straight through the fear, but she couldn’t risk losing her babies. Better the devil you know, as they said. She was strong. She’d be fine, and she’d keep telling herself that until it came true.

She’d be fine.

∞⌛∞

Chapter 15:

∞⌛∞

∞2021, July 10—Memorial Yew Park∞

~Rose Weasley (16)~

There was nothing.

There was life.

The bright sunlight shone through the overarching Yew trees, lighting half of Rose’s body gold while casting the rest into shadow. She stumbled forward several steps but kept her feet just as a strong gust of wind blew her auburn hair over her face, tangling it in her eyelashes and mouth and filling her ears with the susurration of leaves and the high-pitched scuttling sound of paper over pavement.

Brushing her hair back behind her ears, she found herself standing on a wide paved path surrounded by trees, bushes, and small statues. It looked like a park. Trying to focus instead of collapsing to the ground for a much-needed mental break, she examined her surroundings. Wide yew trees with deep green branches and gnarly, mossy trunks speckled the landscape and covered the grounds in brownish-red needles. Evenly-sized flat rectangular stones were interspersed with standing statues of angels and crosses.

Hesitating, Rose blinked. Angels and crosses? How strange. Almost like this was a—but no, it couldn’t be. There was no good reason for the necklace to return her to a cemetery of all places. She’d fixed things. Everything should be fine now. She’d fixed things!

Hadn’t she? Or was she dead and colorless again? A ghost or someone who’d never existed at all? Jerking up her hands, she flexed and rotated them in the sunlight, feverishly examining her pinkish nail beds, peachy skin, and the bluish veins on the insides of her wrists. The sunlight felt warm and the hair blowing against her cheeks felt ticklish. The strap of the bag digging into her shoulder felt uncomfortable, so she pulled it over her head and dropped it to sit by her feet. As far as she could tell, she looked and felt alive. Maybe she was over-reacting. Maybe everything was fine.

A newspaper blown by the wind caught on Rose’s left ankle and wrapped around it like a shackle. Leaning down, Rose peeled it off and stood, seeing from the crumpled corner that it was dated July 10, 2021—a week after what would be Hugo’s 15th birthday. She’d lost time again. Unfolding the paper, she read the headline of what turned out to be the Daily Prophet.

“JUDGES REFUSE TO REVISIT POTTER’S AZKABAN LIFE SENTENCE, WEASLEY DENIED APPEAL TO ATTEND SON’S FUNERAL.”

Blinking rapidly, Rose rubbed her eyes and shook her head hard. She must’ve read that wrong. Rose reread the headline, but the words didn’t change. That can’t be right. It makes no sense. None of that is right!

Brand new memories invaded her head in dribbles and spurts as her stubborn and fearful mind fought to stem the tide. She didn’t want those memories, not if they were bad. However, no one could resist the press of time for long and Rose was exhausted. The dam broke and her old past became saturated by her new reality.

Clenching her jaw in resistance, Rose blanked her mind of thoughts, focusing only on the pressure of grinding teeth and the straining muscles in her cheeks and chin. A muscle at the corner of her jaw throbbed. It felt like her teeth were going to crack. They weren’t pleasant feelings, but she feared her new memories would feel even worse. She didn’t want to know.

Yet…she had to face this. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe the paper was lying. She had to know, but she was afraid to know.

After an interminable interlude of struggle, Rose’s curiosity overcame her fear. Relaxing her jaw, she let images flood her mind and remembered her new reality.…and instantly fell to her knees, not even noticing as the skin split open and spilled bright red blood onto the pavement. The newspaper with its damning headline fell from her hands and blew away. Eyes staring blankly ahead as she processed the memories, scalding tears dripped down her cheeks.

Numbly Rose catalogued the facts as she now knew them:

Voldemort—dead and defeated.

That was the only good thing on the list, but her mind was kind and let her start with that.

Astoria Malfoy—dead. Mum—dead.

That was the same as her now-foggy first timeline, both painful but familiar wounds.

No, wait, not familiar. Her mother’s death was so much worse this time around and Rose had gotten an up close and personal view of every gut-wrenching second of it this time. Feeling lightheaded and queasy, Rose started to hyperventilate.

However, the injuries didn’t stop there. This new life she’d created in her hubris didn’t stop there. She wished to God it would, but there was worse, so much worse to come in the memories confirming that devastating newspaper headline.

Hugo—dead.

Her sweet and sensitive little brother, gone a year to the day after she’d lost her mother. Dear God, why did she have to lose Hugo too? He was so young, too young. It was brutally unfair.

Dad and Uncle Harry—alive.

Alive, but both sentenced to life in prison for the events of the morning her mother had died, which was almost as bad as dead.

Her family—in shambles. Her life—destroyed.

What had she done? Rose had only wanted to help. She’d gained it all only to get greedy and lose everything, even her brother and Uncle Harry, even her dad.

The verdict—guilty.

“What have I done? What have I done?” Rocking back and forth on her knees, sobbing and screaming as she embraced the pain as her due, Rose’s head snapped up when she had a sudden realization. “It’s all this blasted thing’s fault!” Chest heaving, she reached up and scrabbled at the necklace’s latch like she was a woman possessed, scratching bloody furrows across her neck and shoulders until the damned thing finally came unfastened. Ripping the necklace off, she screamed in rage and threw it away as hard as she could, not bothering to watch the path of its flight. Energy gone as quickly as it had arrived, Rose collapsed like a wilting flower, bowing forward over her knees and pressing her head against the ground as she bawled like her world was ending.

Because it had.

Hair pulled over her shoulders and tangled between her clenched fingers, the bare broken skin on the vulnerable nape of Rose’s neck slowly scabbed over. Sweat rose and evaporated in the fitful breeze. The sun beat down, turning her skin a tight, painful bright red as it blistered and burned beneath the unforgiving rays. The wind picked up, blowing away the few wispy white clouds daring to linger in the summer sky and breaking sprays of bright green needles from the branches of the trees to spin in slow spirals down to the golden brown earth and onto Rose’s back, prickly through her robes. Rose huddled in her misery and mourned.

Time passed.

At last, too exhausted even for more grief and sick of herself, Rose lifted her head. “Enough,” she told herself in a voice hoarse from crying, eyes bloodshot and puffy. “What’s done is done—until it’s not.” Pushing herself up on legs painfully numb and tingling from loss of circulation, she took a single limping step forward. Rose breathed and set her chin stubbornly, taking another step. “I’ll just do it again. No need to give up so soon. It all went bad. So what? I’ll just try again. I’ll fix this. I will.”

Moving in ever widening circles, Rose searched for the necklace she’d thrown in a temper. She looked on top of the dark gray paved path and dug through the golden brown yew needles covering the earth. She searched below the wild green bushes and behind the tree trunks mottled and swollen with age. The necklace was nowhere to be found. Rose became more and more frantic. She couldn’t find it. Where was it? Where did it go?

“What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for my—” Cutting herself off, she glanced up and realized that the hooded man had found her again. She was too exhausted to be terrified.

It took her a moment to realize that his voice had been soft and not scary at all. It was also familiar. She’d thought that before, but dismissed it. That familiarity no longer seemed like a coincidence, but Rose didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to know his identity and she especially didn’t want to find out that he was someone kind and helpful who she might’ve misjudged or, even worse, someone who might’ve stopped her from making so many mistakes if only she hadn’t ignored his warnings and kept running from him.

Her failures just kept compounding. The weight felt suffocating. Pushing her way into a prickly bush twice as tall as she was, chest so tight she could barely breathe, Rose kept her face turned away from the hooded man. “I have to find my necklace,” she said, sounding and feeling tortured. “I have to fix my mistakes and I need the necklace to do it. I have to keep trying. I have to!” Branches caught in her hair and tangled in her robes, poking painfully and scratching red lines across her skin.

“Stop, you’re hurting yourself!” Grabbing her arm, he tried to pull her back but she stubbornly resisted, leaving them in a stalemate with one of her arms stretching out of the bush in his hands and the other locked around a thick branch. “Rose!” Sounding frustrated, he stopped and gentled his voice again. “Look, what happened wasn’t your fault. You were never meant to time travel in the first place. You need to stop and let it go.”

“Never,” Rose said stubbornly, red hair falling in a tangled mat around her face as she tried to jerk her arm free from his hold and keep looking for that tell-tale gleam of gold. “I have to save my mom and fix my mistakes. If you can’t understand that, then get lost.”

“Okay,” he grunted, looking away to mutter, “I suppose telling you to stop and let it go was a little hypocritical of me.” Taking a deep breath, he gently tugged on her arm and said, “Let’s try this again. Let me help. You’re hurting yourself, Rose. This is tearing you apart and I hate to see that. Please. You’re hurting,” he said, sounding heartbroken and upset.

Even though she’d thought herself drained of tears, she found her eyes flooding once more. “Good,” she said defiantly, wiping the wetness away on her shoulder as she started wiggling back out of the bush. “I deserve to hurt for what I’ve done.”

“No,” he said firmly as he helped untangle her from the branches without further scratches, “that’s the last thing you deserve. You were coming from a place of love and trying to help people. It just didn’t work out. That isn’t your fault, that’s life.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” she asked helplessly, feeling vulnerable and lost as she stepped out into the open and looked up into the shadows of his hood where his eyes should be.

“Let death take over. Tag me in and let me help. It’s my responsibility in the first place and if anyone’s going to get hurt here, it’s going to be me. I’ll fix it.”

“No, I—”

“You’ve done enough, Rose,” he interrupted her gently but firmly. “Let yourself rest.” He smoothed back her hair and tucked a strand tenderly behind her ear. “I’ve got this. You can trust me.”

And just like that, Rose suddenly knew. Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Uncle Harry?”

“Brightest witch of your age,” he said admiringly, answering without answering as he tapped her forehead and stepped back, letting his hands drop away. “We’re here now so we have to make the best of it. Find a way to heal and be happy, even if it’s hard. You deserve that, sweetheart. I’ll take care of your mother and the rest. You were never meant to time travel in the first place. I’ll fix this, just give me time.”

Lip trembling, Rose shook her head. “What you’re saying sounds nice, but I don’t think I can. I have to fix this myself. I can’t live with myself otherwise.” Her hands fisted. “Hugo’s death is my fault, my responsibility. Even mom being dead again, I can’t forget that either. I can’t!” She closed her eyes against the pain, tears drenching her cheeks, feeling overwhelmed.

“Oh, Rose…” he gave an aching sigh. “Then I’ll help you forget.” His hand tenderly stroked down her hair again.

“How—” opening her eyes, Rose found the space in front of her empty of everything but shadows.

“What are you doing?” asked a man at her back. His voice sounded familiar, as if they’d spoken recently.

“I’m looking for my—” Blinking and pausing mid-turn, Rose forgot what she was about to say. What had she been looking for? “Looking for…something…I think?” Rubbing her face, she winced. Her eyes were puffy and her head was killing her. Was she having an allergic reaction to something in the cemetery? Or had she started crying over everything again and just not noticed?

She must’ve lost track of time. She wasn’t quite sure how she had gotten here, only vaguely remembering leaving Hugo’s funeral while everyone had been distracted by Grandma shouting and having a hysterical fit that sent all the birds fleeing from the trees. James was bound to be frantic by now and searching for her everywhere, having decided last year that she was his responsibility whether she liked it or not. He was going to flip his lid even worse when he saw the wounds now covering her skin. Mr. Malfoy wouldn’t like it either. It was hard to care now that Hugo and Mum were both gone, but she had to keep trying.

“You seem distraught,” the man said cautiously. Turning the rest of the way to face him, Rose saw a stranger whose voice wasn’t familiar after all. She must’ve been mistaken.

The man was short and enormously round, with a shiny bald head dominated by a ginormous fluffy white gold mustache like a walrus that failed to hide his sagging jowls and many wrinkles. He wore lavish, old-fashioned clothes, including a velvet green smoking jacket over a silver striped waistcoat with gold buttons that strained at the seams. “Maybe you should go home and take a nap, young lady. You don’t look well.” Mouth pursed, he looked her up and down judgmentally, though it did seem tinged with kindness.

Rose felt dizzy and like she could sleep for a week. “You’re probably right.” Wrapping her arms around herself, she walked away towards the gate leading out onto the street. She just had to figure out where home was.

∞⌛∞

~Horace Slughorn (130)~

Shaking his head at the poor girl who seemed to be having a nervous breakdown, Horace tucked a thumb into his vest pocket and continued on his way, admiring the massive yew trees that he remembered being mere saplings in his youth. He wasn’t visiting any particular grave or old friend today, just strolling the grounds to enjoy the peaceful scenery. He’d only gone ten more steps when something shiny caught his eye in the branches arching overhead. Pulling his wand, he cast a Summoning Charm. A gold necklace shot into his hand, surprisingly lightweight considering its size, making him think it was enchanted.

“Was this what the girl was looking for?” He frowned and squinted at the necklace, murmuring to himself as he let his legs wander back to the path. “Curious. This is old. No, not just old. I’m old. This is ancient. Ancient and powerful. Egyptian in providence and associated with a god of death, it seems, but which one? And what does it do? I might know a few people who’d appreciate the mystery and thank me accordingly, and others willing to buy such a pretty piece for a good price. Curiosity, favors, or money, which payout to choose?”

Smile fading, he guiltily looked over his shoulder at where the girl had disappeared to. Chewing on the end of his mustache, he abruptly turned away. “This is much too powerful for a silly schoolgirl. In fact, it might not have been hers at all. She never said she’d lost a necklace, after all, and there did seem to be some mental deficiencies there. Finders keepers.”

When someone slapped him on the back seconds later, Horace almost died of fright. “Oh good gracious!” he exclaimed, pressing a hand to his chest and almost dropping his new necklace.

Standing at Horace’s shoulder was a spry and dapper looking gentleman about his age, though clean shaven and deeply tanned with wrinkled, sparkling blue eyes and a full head of curly gray hair. He wore worn but high quality mustard yellow robes and a hunter green houndstooth waistcoat with multiple pockets. Flashing a friendly, toothy smile, he said, “Now that is a lovely piece of Egyptian history you have there.” He looked down at the necklace with a gleam in his eye. “Is that a reproduction or an original? I could look it over for you, if you like?”

Stuffing the necklace into his pocket, Horace gave him a nervous smile and deflected. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Horace Slughorn, at your service.” He stepped back and bowed. “Retired Potions Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and social engineer, which is a fancy way of saying I like throwing parties and introducing interesting people. I like to collect influential people, as it were.”

Reaching out with a cheery smile, the man took Horace’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Why it’s splendid to meet a Professor like you, old chap, especially out and about at our age. Growing up I always thought Professors were like immortal gods who lived at school and slept in sarcophaguses behind their desks, never venturing out for fear of a student seeing them dressed down and telling all their friends they were only mortal.”

They laughed together and the man released his hand. “The name’s Jonathan Carnahan. I haven’t been in the country for years, so it’s my good fortune to run into someone as important and influential as you on my first day back.”

Something about Jonathan Carnahan seemed familiar, but Horace couldn’t place him. Usually he was excellent at remembering faces and names. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. “Carnahan, where have I heard that name?” he scratched at his belly.

“Perhaps you’ve met my sister? The old mum has headed the Department of Egyptology at the British Museum off and on for going on ninety years—” at that piece of news Horace felt a flash of excitement “Evelyn Carnahan—though to be frank she’s been going by her married name of O’Connell the entire time she’s worked there…” he trailed off and then shrugged with a crooked grin. “But the Carnahan blood is the important part!” Jonathan looked over his shoulder and shuddered theatrically. “Just don’t tell her husband Rick I said that. He’s got a bit of a temper and is still rather taken with his wife, the sop.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Carnahan.” Winking, Horace gave him a wide smile and put a hand on his back, guiding Jonathan into following him. “Meeting each other today was providence. You simply must come to the soiree I’m hosting tonight. It’s a small gathering of a few dozen close friends who are important and influential in their spheres of influence. We’ll play a few rounds of cards, enjoy some scintillating conversation, and share a few drinks. I’ll introduce you around, but make sure to bring your sister! I simply must meet her, someone so influential and learned as to be head of the British Museum’s Department of Egyptology.”

“Why thank you, Horace, that sounds positively delightful! I’ll be there, though I can’t promise anything about Evie, old chap, but I’ll make sure she knows she’s invited. If I can pry her away from Rick, she’s more likely to come, but if he’s feeling sticky, she’ll probably stay home to indulge him, more’s the pity.”

Sighing and shaking his head, Jonathan lowered his voice and confessed, “Her husband’s the timid sort, poor Evie, no sense of adventure. Wouldn’t say boo to a beetle, faints at the sight of blood or guns, and wouldn’t go looking for a good time if it smacked him right in the kisser. You know the sort.” Although his mouth looked serious, his eyes were twinkling madly.

“Ah yes, I understand. Perhaps it is best to leave such a man at home.” Horace pretended to understand, but actually he felt a bit confused, especially considering that Jonathan had said earlier that Rick was a man with a temper. Maybe it wouldn’t matter since it was the wife he was more interested in—Evelyn O’Connell, Head of her Department for over 90 years. Now that must be a woman who knows a lot of influential people, he thought greedily.

“Capital, capital,” Horace rubbed his hands, already rearranging the seating chart in his head. “I look forward to seeing you and your sister tonight.”

“You won’t regret it,” Jonathan said with a bright white grin that emphasized his wrinkles and the deep laugh lines in the corners of his blue eyes.

∞⌛∞

~Narrator~

Newsflash, dear reader, Horace Slughorn came to regret that invitation quite a lot.

It turned out that the amiable Jonathan Carnahan was a conman, thief, and liar. The only thing he was honest about in that conversation were the names he dropped and his sister’s profession. Jonathan very much loved his sister and was extremely proud of her. He also loved to tease his brother-in-law. Evie did not appreciate this deviation from the script and would have preferred he kept her out of it and lie about her too instead of making her the one truth and implicating her in his devilry.

Unfortunately for Jonathan, Slughorn wasn’t lying or exaggerating when he claimed to collect influential people. This included several high-ranking Aurors and a judge willing to throw a man suspected of theft—though without definitive proof, thank you very much, Jonathan wasn’t an amateur—into an out of the way prison to make their old Head of House happy. This was very bad for Jonathan…at least until Evie and Rick showed up to rescue him.

While bad for Jonathan, it turned out to be very good for fellow inmate Harry Potter. Eventually. Though that’s a story for later and we’ll let Harry tell it in his own words. After all, we wouldn’t want to spoil his fun.

Or yours.

∞⌛∞

Chapter 16:

∞⌛∞

∞2020, November 25—Azkaban∞

~Harry Potter (40)~

“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE SAVIOR OF THE WIZARDING WORLD! WHAT A JOKE!” Molly Weasley screamed, spittle flying from her mouth and grayish-red hair flapping as she gesticulated wildly. On the other side of the prison bars stood Harry Potter, stone-faced and arms crossed. Azkaban was cold, making her breath steam like an enraged dragon. After visiting Ron in the other prison wing, she’d decided to come down and grace Harry with a personal visit instead of a Howler this month. Harry was not grateful for her condescension.

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO SUPPORT RON AND KEEP HIM HAPPY! NOT STAB HIM IN THE BACK WHEN HE STUMBLED! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO MAKE GINNY FEEL SAFE AND LOVED! IT’S YOUR FAULT SHE’S ALWAYS RUNNING AWAY! YOU DIDN’T DESERVE A WIFE LIKE GINNY AND A FRIEND LIKE RON!”

Molly was right about that, Harry hadn’t deserved the hell they’d put him through, but saying such out loud would just extend her tirade for another ten minutes and his headache wouldn’t thank him for it.

“YOU FAILED EVERYONE WHO MATTERS! YOU FAILED MY CHILDREN! YOU FAILED ME AND BROKE MY HEART! WE WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER OFF IF WE’D NEVER MET YOU!” Molly paused, breathing heavily and staring at him with bitter expectancy as she waited for his response.

Harry stubbornly stayed silent, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him react to her words. Molly had always been narrow-minded and prone to flying off the handle, but since she was the first mother-like figure to ever be kind to him growing up, he’d made himself overlook it, even when she’d scolded and been unfairly harsh and judgemental to others he cared about, like Hermione and Sirius. He was ashamed of that now.

After getting arrested, he’d quickly learned that his mother-in-law’s love and support were not unconditional. She’d turned completely against Harry and dragged the rest of the family with her, despite Ron being the real sinner. Ron was blood and Harry wasn’t. At the end of the day, that was more important to the Weasleys. She ignored all of Harry’s pleas for news of his children or the outside world. She also had no interest in listening to anything he had to say to defend himself, whether justifications or counterarguments.

The only point of view she was interested in hearing was her own, parroted back to her. Harry was a man, not a bird. If he had wings he’d be flying away from here instead of listening to her abuse.

Stomping her foot at his refusal to take the blame for everything and grovel at her feet, Molly started screeching again. “UNGRATEFUL LITTLE ORPHAN! WE GAVE YOU EVERYTHING AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY US? YOU SHOULD’VE DIED WITH THE DARK LORD INSTEAD OF MY FRED! AT LEAST THEN YOU WOULDN’T BE SUCH A DISAPPOINTMENT!”

Huffing and puffing, face red and eyes glistening with tears, Molly finally had to stop and catch her breath. After a moment she wiped her eyes and said in a voice shaking with vitriol, “I hope you live a long time, Harry Potter. You’re going to spend the rest of your life locked up in here, lonely and unloved, and it’s no less than what you deserve for being cruel instead of kind to my boy.”

On seeing that she’d still failed to elicit a reaction, Harry’s mother-n-law jerked her head away from him and stormed off, rapidly disappearing into the shadows of the long stone hallway lit only intermittently by lanterns. Only once he was sure that she was gone did Harry allow himself to react. Baring his teeth, chest heaving with the effort of suppressing his temper for so long, Harry raised his fist and turned to punch the back wall.

Before his knuckles could hit and split open on the unforgiving rock, Harry found his arm easily batted to the side by a menacing cloaked figure standing in the shadows at the back of his cell. A canine head full of sharp teeth extended from the deep hood of the figure’s cloak, then flickered into the head of a bird. “What the hell?!” Harry scrambled back.

“Not quite hell, but close enough,” said an unnervingly familiar voice filled with amusement. The mysterious figure pushed back his hood and stepped out of the shadows. “Though most people call me Death,” he said as the animal head dissipated into smoke, replaced by Harry’s own features.

Harry kept backing up until his shoulder blades slammed into the cell bars. Mouth gaping, he fought through his shock to figure out what the hell—er—heaven—er—whatever was going on. It looked like Harry’s face and yet not—the ageless features full of wisdom and confidence, though there were also echoes of sad loneliness. Death had Harry’s thick black hair and vivid green eyes, but he wasn’t wearing glasses and his eyes were thickly lined with black kohl and painted with green eyeshadow. His lips also looked very red. As if the makeup wasn’t startling enough, when the man pushed his cloak back behind his shoulders he revealed a sleekly muscled and darkly tanned body that was half-naked, clad only in a half-pleated linen skirt that draped around his body from waist to mid-thigh and tied with a belt. An elaborately beaded broad collar draped across his bare shoulders, earrings dangled from his ears, and decorative gold bands hugged his upper arms and wrists. He looked handsome and powerful, like something you’d see painted on the walls of an Egyptian monument.

“You…you’re me,” Harry said, blinking, “but Egyptian instead of British for some reason?”

Death snorted and held out his hands, looking down at himself. “It’s hard not to go native when you’ve been working there for 3000 years dealing with their dead.”

“What? Why?”

“Doing research, cultivating cults, and paying off a future debt ahead of time, or rather before the time comes. Another version of us will figure that part out.” Looking at Harry’s confused expression, Death waved his hand. “Nevermind. You’ll understand later when you get to before.”

Lips pressing tight, Harry found his already limited patience fraying. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Or you’re just too simple-minded to understand yet. Speaking of which, you’re late. Why are you still here?” He glanced past Harry, “And who was that old woman?”

“If you’re me, shouldn’t you remember that? I’m here because they took away my wand and threw away the key after I cast an Unforgivable on Ron. And that,” he gestured sarcastically down the hallway, “was our beloved mother-in-law, Molly Weasley.”

“Oh, her.” Death frowned in thought and then shrugged. “To be honest, I’ve forgotten most of the insignificant details of our early life. It’s been a while and I’ve had more important things to do.”

“You forgot—” shaking his head, Harry huffed in disbelief, but then his eyes narrowed and his back went ramrod straight. “Wait, you let yourself forget everyone? Even Hermione?” His heart revolted at the idea. “That’s impossible.” Harry bared his teeth and stepped forward, feeling angry and betrayed. “I’d never forget her. Never!” He shoved hard at Death, but the other man didn’t even shift, Harry’s strength nothing compared to Death’s power. “You can’t be me. I’d never betray her like that! I’m not you!”

“Enough!” Death’s green eyes blazed as he grabbed Harry’s shirt in his fists and lifted him up into the air, moving across the cell to slam him back against the wall. It rattled his teeth and knocked the breath from his lungs. “How dare you,” Death breathed, shaking with rage. One hand closed around Harry’s throat and began to squeeze while the other remained fisted in his shirt, keeping him dangling in the air as he choked. Toes scrambling across the floor and hands desperately trying and failing to loosen Death’s grip, Harry felt powerless, wondering if he was about to be killed by a future version of himself. It was terrifying.

“You have no idea of the lengths I’ve gone to or the sacrifices I’ve made for her,” Death said through gritted teeth, his voice shaking with intensity. “I said insignificant details. The sun will go cold and the universe implode before I forget Hermione. I’d recognize her even if she were to turn to ashes. I love her. I will always love her. My children and her children too.”

Breathing heavily, Death leaned back and relaxed his grip, letting Harry slide down onto his feet and suck in a breath, coughing and hacking. “Everyone else? Your visitor? This place? You?” Death’s stare made Harry feel like a tiny mouse trapped beneath the paw of a vicious Cerberus. “They mean nothing to me.”

Tossing Harry onto the floor and releasing him from his thrall, Death twirled and paced across the cell, cloak snapping at his heels. “You should know better than to hurl such grave insults,” he growled.

Hunching over to regain his breath as spots filled his vision, Harry fought the urge to pass out. He swallowed to wet his throat, grateful that he’d had early practice with extreme terror to keep from wetting himself now. That would be one indignity too many. Pushing himself up using the wall as a support, he wiped his mouth shakily. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he said, voice raspy as his throat bruised and swelled. Rubbing his chest, Harry wet his lips and asked, “Let me start again. Why are you here?”

“I’m tired of waiting for you to become the new version of me. Why haven’t you used the necklace yet?” Death gestured at Harry’s chest.

Harry looked down and pulled out the necklace. “I haven’t had it long and don’t know what it can do. Since I don’t know how to read ancient Egyptian symbols, I’m still working on figuring it out.” Sliding his fingers down the pendants, Harry paused on the one that most intrigued him. “The lone symbol on this small rectangular tab on the bottom made me think of the initials Hermione would write on her bookmarks, with an HJ reflected back-to-back with another HJ, though I thought that was probably just me seeing what I wanted to see.” He paused and waited for the other man to say something.

When Death didn’t do anything but look away, Harry continued. “I think the symbols of the triangle, circle, and line are the key to unlocking its power, even though they’re on the smaller pendants beneath the bigger scale, feather, and heart. I just haven’t figured out why they’re important or how they work yet.”

Looking back at him, Death frowned. “Wait, you’re saying don’t recognize the triangle, circle, and line, even when they’re combined?”

Harry stared at Death blankly. “No? Were they something we learned in school?”

Brow wrinkling, Death looked incredulous. “Seriously?” he asked. “Are you joking with me right now?”

Harry shook his head in negation.

“The Deathly Hallows? Is this not ringing a bell?”

“Not really—oh, wait, I think I remember hearing that in a storybook Molly used to read to the kids. Is that what you’re talking about?”

Now looking concerned, Death stepped closer, carefully watching his face. “Harry, have you seen a Horcrux?”

Harry didn’t know where these questions were headed. “No, I-I don’t know what that is. Is it important?”

“Is it imp—?” Cutting himself off, Death licked his lips and blew out a hard breath. “Do you still have your father’s invisibility cloak?”

“Yes, well, it’s still in the family. James has it now at school, or perhaps Albus or one of the other children.”

“And the Elder Wand?” Harry shook his head. “The Resurrection Stone?” He shook his head again. Looking away, Death grabbed the back of his neck and squeezed. “This is not what I planned.” His eyes shot back to Harry, looking alarmed. “Wait, is Voldemort gone in this timeline? Don’t tell me he’s still around and you never took care of him or resolved the prophecy?” Expression darkening, Death looked on the verge of losing his temper.

Harry held up his hands. “Oh no, I definitely killed him.” The memory still filled Harry with vicious satisfaction.

“Are you sure? Did you get all of the pieces of his spirit after he split it?”

Harry scoffed. “What are you talking about? Voldemort never split his spirit. He stole a ritual from the cult of Osiris to resurrect himself after death. The organs are separated and imbued with power, then the intact soul waits for the summons. Each step of the ritual grafts a certain percentage of a physical body back onto the soul until he’s fully reformed. In our final battle I destroyed all of him—body and soul. Isn’t that how you did it too?”

“No.” Death paced the cell, casting Harry a harried look. “Are you sure that’s how it works?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Harry snapped. “I got multiple lectures on it from Dumbledore and I had the trauma of learning the intricate details of how to mummify a body from Snape. Voldemort is gone and won’t be coming back. Hermione helped me make sure.”

“Explain it to me,” Death demanded, stopping his pacing to face him. “From the beginning.”

Exhaling through his nose, Harry organized his thoughts. “Voldemort’s body was destroyed in 1981 after he cast a Killing Curse at me as a baby and I was protected by my mom’s magic. His spirit survived because of dark rituals and his followers retrieved his body and harvested his organs, sealing them in Coptic jars which they then hid. His spirit possessed a teacher my first year and, after being expelled from that body when I touched him with my mother’s protective magic, he resurrected himself into a new body using the Osiris ritual and some other stuff in my fourth year, including my blood and the protection my mother had given me when she died. At the final battle we made sure his body and spirit were completely destroyed and he couldn’t ever come back.”

“How did you manage that?” Death now looked fascinated.

“Hermione and I found my mom’s journal hidden at my old house in Godric’s Hollow. The outline of the spell she used to save me from Voldemort was in there and Hermione found a way to repurpose it. At the Battle of Hogwarts, she cast a spell to renew the original motherly protections stolen from me and take them back from my mortal enemy. This negated Voldemort’s resurrection and expelled his spirit from his body again, destroying and burning it to ash like with Quirrell. During the battle Voldemort had also enslaved or bribed Dementors into fighting with him, so when his body died and his spirit broke free, the closest Dementor snatched up his spirit before it could escape and ate it. I used my Patronus to destroy every speck of that Dementor and Voldemort’s soul. He’s gone and can’t come back. Multiple experts have confirmed that.”

“That…is not how it happened for me. Without dying three times…or reuniting the Hallows…can you even become the Master of Death?” Sagging, Death put a hand over his eyes and started mumbling to himself. “How did this happen? Who changed things when I wasn’t paying attention? Was it those first cultists in the desert? The Pharaoh’s guard? One of my troublemaking kids? Rose? There was that pitiful Harry who never met Hermione because she was schooled in France, but that timeline got deleted ages ago before they reached adulthood, and even then, he still died multiple times and united the Deathly Hallows.”

“What is going on?” Harry asked, frustrated at not understanding anything. “Tell me!”

Dragging his hand down his face, Death looked at Harry. “This isn’t the right time after all. You’re not late, I’m too early, much, much too early.” He heaved a sigh. “I’ve got to go and track down whoever’s been changing things and fix this.”

“Wait, you—!”

Death disappeared, leaving Harry alone once more in his cell.

Turning in a circle to make sure he wasn’t missing Death hiding in the shadows, Harry lost his temper. He was so done with getting kicked in the teeth all of the time and being left ignorant of why. Shaking his fists in the air, he threw back his head and gave a guttural cry.

As quickly as it came, his temper petered out. He didn’t have the energy to sustain it, not after months locked up in a small icy prison cell. Sagging to the floor, Harry dropped his head against the prison bars and fought not to cry. Everything hurt, both inside and out. He was so damned tired of having hope dangled in front of his face only to be snatched away at the last moment.

A soft, feminine gasp sounded.

Raising his head, Harry stopped breathing. He was looking at a mirage, though this was no oasis in the desert. That or he’d finally gone crazy and started hallucinating. That was most likely, considering he’d just had a conversation with an Egyptian version of himself who called himself Death.

Haloed beneath a lantern several cells down the dark hallway stood a young Hermione Granger. She wore her old Gryffindor school uniform and the same golden Egyptian necklace Harry currently wore hidden beneath his shirt. If he had to guess, he’d say she looked fourteen or fifteen. He wondered why his mind had chosen that age for the hallucination. Harry rubbed his eyes but the vision didn’t change. It felt grossly unfair that his mind decided to make her blurry since he wasn’t wearing glasses, but the shape of her was unmistakable. If he squinted, she was almost in focus. Harry made sure to squint as hard as he could.

Hands pressed over her mouth, tears glistening in her warm brown eyes, young Hermione turned and fled in the opposite direction.

Giving a mournful cry, Harry rammed his body against the bars and shoved his face into the cold rough metal, yearning to follow after the illusion. The pressure caused the necklace to grind painfully between the metal bars and the skin of his chest, leaving bruises on his skin. Unable to catch another glimpse of his sweet insanity, Harry finally sat back onto his heels with a long sigh.

Dragging himself to the dark back corner of his cell where it was hard for the guards to see him, Harry hunched over to pull out the necklace. For a moment he felt dizzy, like his mind was being tumbled in a muggle dryer.

Shaking his head, Harry let his fingers drift over the pendants, moving from triangle to circle to line. “Cloak, ring, and wand,” Harry murmured to himself. Had he not known that a moment before? No, his mind was playing tricks on him. Harry could never forget the Deathly Hallows, anymore than he could forget Voldemort and his horcruxes. He just had to figure out how the magic of this necklace worked and then he could get out of here and start fixing things. He could find Hermione again. He would.

Feeling wistful, he slowly traced a dirty fingernail over the small, central pendant and the lone symbol there that reminded him of their initials placed back to back, HJ to HJ, merged into one—a promise to return.

∞⌛∞

~Narrator~

Dear Reader, in case you harbor doubts at the grim turn in our tale, let me reassure you—Harry Potter, and the author, will keep their promises, fix things, and find a way to reach happily ever after. It’s just going to take a little more time and, to be open and honest with you, a few (or more than a few) detours and deaths. Being a fair individual, Harry is not excluding himself from the dying, though he does resent the detours.

If things had gone the way Master of Death Harry had originally planned, the path to creating Hermione’s happiness would’ve been a lot less dramatic and much more efficient, though his way of fixing things also would’ve been much more limited in scope. As long as they were still together as friends, he was otherwise willing to sacrifice his happiness to give Hermione a much better (in his estimation) life. However, a few thousand years in the past as a god had made him forget how opinionated and contrary modern women could be, especially when they saw a problem to fix and had the power to do so. During all his grand planning, Harry had either put on rose-colored glasses or let himself gloss over the fact that Hermione was no one’s damsel in distress, waiting helplessly for a brave wise-cracking hero to rip apart the toilet paper chaining her to the wall and save her from a demon. Of course it was nice to be saved, but it was even better to save yourself, even with assistance, and have all your loved ones together at the celebration party. If Hermione had anything to say about it, she was not going to be happy alone.

Despite thinking he knew best, Harry was not going to be able—or allowed—to do this on his own. He hadn’t been fighting alone in the war against Voldemort and this time wasn’t going to be an exception either. Most people hate group work and Harry was no exception. He’d rather die than be forced to work on a group project. Perhaps you can sympathize. Nevertheless, his happily ever after is going to be a team project. Death will happen, as will collaboration, and all will be in the service of people getting to experience love while living happily ever after—together.

END OF PART 1

in The Infinite Loop Of Love And Good Intentions Series

Our story continues in

Part 2—Holding My Breath Between Heartbeats