AN/ Crack. That's it.

—

There's four of them. Probably more, really, but there's four of them right now, standing in front of the Dursley's house. It's the middle of the night, and they catch themselves in the shadows almost by accident.

That all four of them arrived at the same time, at the same place, is nothing short of miraculous. The fact that they recognise who they are even more so, and a good thing too, since there's no doubt blood would have been shed otherwise.

The tallest of them looks halfway dead, all long limbs and pale skin. His hair is long and pulled back in a messy tail at the base of his neck, creating a stark contrast against his bright, too bright, green eyes.

A shimmery cloak is slung over one black clad shoulder, looking like it's made of stardust.

He stares at his companions with an even, dead eye, emotionless. There's no movement to him, and it makes it almost hard to look at him. He looks like a statue, or a corpse. He doesn't have a shadow.

"Well I know you ain't from my timeline," the second one says, eyes narrowed up at the tall man.

This one looks a little less unusual, short and skinny and with messy hair flying everywhere. He has brown eyes you wouldn't know are contacts and black fingerless gloves with decorative symbols on them. Tattoos wind up his arms, disappearing into what looks like a band shirt.

The first man hums.

"I do not think any of us are from the same timeline, no," he agrees, before turning to the others.

The third man is older than all of them, with a scarred face and a twisted scowl on his face. He wears combat gear of some sort, not quite muggle and not quite wizardly. His hair is peppered with silver at the temples of his short hair, and it is practically the only bright bit about him.

"Tch, this is ridiculous," he growls, crossing his arms.

"I'm actually more surprised that there's not more of us, really," the last man says. He's the second tallest, and seems to be standing in a perpetual slouch. He's wearing clothing that's normal enough, if you look at it sideways. Something about the cut of the cloth screams fantasy novel. Green scales creep up his neck and hands.

"Raise your hand if you travelled on purpose," the first man says, after an awkward silence descends on them. A snort from the fourth one is his answer, as the two others look at him incredulously.

"I was sentenced to the veil for my, ah, illustrious fate after the war," the fourth man says, when it becomes obvious the other two won't speak up.

"The veil? It's not even connected to the timestream," the third one says in derision.

"Bastards, they just threw you in, right? Mine were such shits after I kicked Voldi's ass, I ended up having to run to Japan to find any peace," the second one says.

All of them look at him.

"Japan, truly? Do you even know Japanese?" The fourth one asks curiously. The second one huffs.

"Translation charms, of course."

The third one scoffs, and uncrosses his arms. He glares at all of them for a second before a minute smile kicks up the corners of his mouth.

"Let me guess, everyone else tried to come back and change things," he says wryly. The group shuffles guiltily, except the first man.

"Well, we might as well do what we came here to do," he says instead, in thought, turning back to the house.

"Really? And how do any of us know what 'we' were going to do? I could be here to kill 'em" the second one says. The first man ignores him and stalks towards the front door.

"Oh come on, as if any of us were here for any other reason than to save me—him—us, ugh, that's confusing," the fourth says, as he walks pass him.

As the first one waves a hand to the door, opening it silently, the two remain men stare at each other for a few seconds.

"What'cha name?" the second one says finally, and the third raises a brow, "No, I know, we all have the same birth name, but don't tell me you never got a pseudonym in all that time. It took me less than three months on the streets to get mine."

The man hesitates a second before signing.

"They called me Boss, mostly," he says reluctantly, ignoring the giggles that erupts at his answer.

"Well, nice ta meet'cha. I go by Viper," the other man says through his laughter. He moves to join the two others already in the house, flicking a hand so that a dark stick slips into it.

The third one, Boss, stays outside. One eye on the house and one eye on the street, on guard for the various meddlesome people that might exist in this world. He doesn't know if there's any wards or alarms attached to the house, or that they would trip one of those anyways considering who they are. Still, vigilance is key.

After a few minutes of silence from the house, the first man appears again, holding a sleeping child in his thin arms.

"Viper and Zephirus are taking care of the family," he says, joining Boss in the shadows of the house.

"Zephirus?" Boss asks, not looking away from his vigile.

"It means west wind, I gather our scaled friend is a fan of flying," the man says, shifting his burden a little. The small child makes a sleepy noise and burrows closer to his chest.

"And you? What sort of odd ass name did you pick?" Boss crosses his arms and tenses a little, as he feels the swell of magic from the house that indicates a memory wipe.

"I went by Evans for quite a few years when I was younger, but I mostly lived my life after the war nameless. Much easier to escape the people after you," Evans says in thought.

Finally the magic in the house fades, and soft footsteps are heard as the other two join them outside. The youngest of them, Viper, looks a little disappointed. He's being dragged down the steps by Zephirus.

"This guy here has no sense of subtlety, wanted to kill them in their sleep," he complains as they get closer, dragging the other.

"A little death never hurt anyone," Viper complains, finally wrenching his arm out of the other man's hands, "besides, the world doesn't need anymore Dursleys now does it?"

"Someone would come to investigate, and that's the last thing we need," Zephirus snaps, eyes flashing. The two glare at each other before a noise from the still sleeping child startles all of them.

"Perhaps we should leave now, before anyone looks out their window and sees us. I had prepared an apartment in London, unless anyone else has a plan?" Evans asks the group.

The three others shake their heads.

"You will have to grab hold of me as I apparate, then," he says, jiggling his burden emphatically.

In the morning, the only evidence that Harry Potter ever lived at Number 4, Privet Drive, was a crumpled-up letter in the trash. It wouldn't be found, and without any memories of the child, the Dursleys would go on to live their lives completely blissfully unaware of their nephew until the time came for his eleventh birthday, and a large man appeared with a birthday cake.

In the meantime, a group of temporally-displaced identical individuals try and raise themselves to be the best possible version of themselves.

Considering one of them is a half-dead Master of Death, one a cynical and paranoid veteran, one a half-snake hybrid, and the other a streetwise teenager, well.

Let's just say that they all had different ideas on what constitutes a happy and secure lifestyle.

Harry Potter, the baby that is, at least seems happy with his four new fathers. Or brothers. Or uncles. No one in the neighbourhood is all that sure. They seem like they might be related, but they all deny it when asked.

"Your family is weird," Danny Smitherson tells Harry, watching the four argue over proper picnic materials. The two boys are sitting on the swings in the local park, waiting for the parent-teacher picnic to start. Already Harry's guardians are getting odd looks from the gathering parents.

"I know," he says sadly, idly kicking his feet. He's become immune throughout the years to his guardians' weirdness, but that doesn't mean he likes it. Sometimes he feels like the only sensible person in the house, and he's only nine.

Of all his guardians, the only one who tends towards sensibility is Evans, who instead of brewing chaos wherever he walks likes to watch others do it for him. So really he's only somewhat sensible. Harry sighs.

"So like. Who's your real dad out of them?" Danny continues thoughtfully, digging his toes into the sand to spin the swing around.

"Eh, none of them really. Or all of them? Zephirus says they're like my cousins who got custody after my parents died but you know—" He stops to look consideringly at his friend. Danny obligingly moves closer and looks at him seriously.

"I think they might be clones. Alien clones. Or like spies from M16. Sometimes I get home and Boss will be complaining to the others about security and stuff. And about how they need to stay under the radar from the 'authorities'."

"Wow." Danny blinks. f"Does that make you, like, an alien experiment?"

Harry nods seriously. He can't mention the magic, or else he'll get in trouble and they might need to move again, but no one said anything about talking about his suspicions. He's been thinking about this a lot, after a few too many nights staying up past his bedtime with pulp novels and science fiction books. The library doesn't really have a whole lot of reading material for his age, so he's had to learn quickly to be able to enjoy the bounty of knowledge resting on the large shelves. Which means sometimes he's not sure if he's reading a textbook on the actual relativity of black holes, or whether it's a hypothetical treatise disguised with big breasted blue woman and space battles.

Considering the tastes of his guardians, sometimes it's both at the same time.

"Cool," Danny whispers, eyes wide but expression neutral. Both boys gravitated towards each other because of their horrible social skills and inability to stay blended in a crowd. For Danny this was because he was both 'too mature for his age' and 'had a darker humour than the night sky'.

For Harry it was mostly because of his guardians, and the rumours that abound the neighbourhood because of them. Harry himself is like a blend of them, combined in a child still filled with wonder and imagination. So really a horrible combination.

Both boys really are lucky they found each other.

"Kids! Come on over now, we're starting!" The voice of their languages teacher cuts through the park, his crooked glasses sliding down his nose and making him appear like a caricature out of a cartoon. Harry and Danny jump off the swings and join the rest of the class in shuffling in the vague direction of the teachers. A few of them get waylaid by parents and family members, and as the two boys pass Harry's family they make sure not to make eye contact.

Who knows if the aliens have mind reading powers after all, and just last night they had planned a super special adventure. The last thing they want is for the adults to catch wind of it and stop it before it starts.

The rest of the afternoon is spent in a haze of activities and food and one of Harry's guardians trying to punch out a fellow parent in some sort of boredom-induced rage, but all in all, not a bad day at all.

It's a lot better than last year, at least, where Boss thought the mini sparklers where bombs.

—

It's the brat's ninth birthday, and Viper blinks at his computer screen in apparent shock that it's been eight years since they all went back in time to save their baby selves. Self. Whatever.

Eight years. Eight years in first a posh apartment with marble counters, and then a small house (also with marble counters). Eight years of children's toys and story times and freaking out because the brat used accidental magic to disappear into the attic again. He has to pause to really think about it.

He hasn't done a real heist in those eight years, has only been somewhat able to corrupt his younger self with lessons in lockpicking, and somehow he's neither killed nor been killed by his compatriots. They are all iterations of the same person after all, and fuck knows all of them are a handful to deal with.

He narrows his eyes in thought and continues the monotonous grind of out-bidding the jackass trying to buy the retrofitted arcade cabinet he's been keeping on eye on. He's not sure if he's actually going to end up buying it, despite the high prices, or if he wants to hike the price up even higher and then back down so the jerk on the other end has to cough up the cash.

Choices, choices.

He watches the timer wind down as he ponders on the kid. It's been...tolerable with the others, and at least with help he can shove responsibility onto someone else's shoulders when the pressure becomes too much. And it's nice being able to come back everyday to an actual house, with a stocked pantry and no rats in the walls. Even better, there's no running from wizards trying to drag him into something he doesn't want to do, or other people jockeying for his territory.

So he's pretty ok with his lot in life right now, even if it does come with a nine year old brat who really is just a mix of their worst selves. The whimsicality of Zephirus combined with the disregard for authority of himself, the suspicion of Boss and the plain oddity of Evans.

He sighs. He supposes the brat isn't that bad. He has some of their good points too, and as much as it is difficult to escape the comparisons between all of them, he's different too. Soft where most of them are hard, curious where they are not, practical where magic has worn that away from them. This Harry, he thinks with no small bit of pride, would not go back in time on a whim to raise a younger version of himself. Which is probably a good thing, one child was enough for them, he doesn't even want to think about grandchildren.

Which brings him back to his worries: the kid will be starting Hogwarts in a few years. Will be exposed to the weirdness and wonder and dangers of the magical world. A part of him wants to bundle him up and take him far away, already too bitter to consider that anything but a bad thing. The kid wants to go, though, has already been charmed by the stories of hidden passages and animated suits of armour.

And the unending potential for chaos.

There's the sound of shifting fabric and he sighs.

"I can hear you, you know. "

A woman with amber hair and eyes smirks at him from over his shoulder. Hyacinth Potter is beautiful in a disheveled way, hair shorn short and lips painted a cracked red. She's also, he thinks with no amount of annoyance, not supposed to be in their neck of the woods at all.

"What, I can't come to see my favourite little brother on his birthday?" She drawls, snagging a chair and rolling it up to the desk.

Viper doesn't know why this one universe attracts so many Potter iterations, but he's sure there has to be at least twenty of them at this point. This is only one of them. So far only the original four stick around with the little mini-me, but the others pop up randomly to crash on couches and be bad influences.

"The only time you show up if when you get in trouble with the Knockturn Alley creeps and want a place to lay low for a bit," he complains, but turns from his computer anyways to face her head-on. She's dangerous, after all. They all are.

"I can do both at the same time," she says, waving him off before pausing, "how old is he now anyways? Seven? Eight?"

"Nine." Viper tries to keep his expression neutral, but the truth is he doesn't really like any of the other Potter iterations. Oh, he doesn't mind some of them, and he will fight for them and help them out when it's convenient. But looking into a warped mirror only highlights the things he hates about himself, and they are all just mirrors reflecting each other.

"Hmm, what do you think, is nine old enough to learn black magic?" Hyacinth's expression in teasing, but he knows if he lets her alone with the brat she'll do it anyways.

"No."

"Pity. Oh well, I suppose a pet isn't too far off anyways. You're not allergic to birds are you?" She doesn't wait for an answer before snagging her cloak and dramatical spinning around, throwing it over her shoulder.

"Be seeing you, Viper!" she calls as she disappears out of sight.

He sighs, and then groans when he sees the bidding timer has counted down and he's lost the auction. Someday he's going to have to see about making a lock on his door that can withstand even the strongest unlocking charm. This is the third time this month he's lost a bid because of interruptions.

—

Evans is not quite human. Hasn't been for a real long time, to be honest. He wasn't quick enough in getting rid of the Deathly Hallows, and it shows. After a few years with the ghostly whispers of everything even slightly supernatural whispering in his ears, losing his humanity wasn't so much of a choice as it was fate.

He's mostly made his peace with the whole affair, even if it does make certain things difficult.

He watches his younger self vibrate in place at the table, excitement practically visible in the air, and smiles. It took twelve reminders to remember today was the child's birthday, and although he no longer has any use for them himself he enjoys living vicariously through the others.

Right now, however, the joy of the situation is diffused by the strings of fate he can see tangling in and out of Harry's soul. The taint of Voldemort, recently strengthened, the hands of prophecy, the expectations of a thousand people close and far. It turns the bright soul into a murky soup of outside influences, and it has only become worse as the years have passed by.

He figures it's about time he's done something about it.

"Child," he starts, pondering, and mostly ignoring the expectant eyes swinging his way. The others are already used to him changing the flow of their lives with a few simple words, and he in return has become used to the way they let him.

"Child, I have a gift for you," he continues.

Harry beams at him, and futilely tries to stop his squirming. He in turn has learnt how his gifts are usually out of the ordinary, and more importantly that they are never really as they appear. Evans can't help but think sometimes that he has become more and more like a thing of legends as the years have passed, taking up language and rules more suited towards folklore. The workings of magic, no doubt.

"You already know of the parasite in your soul, the broken off piece of Voldemort that has taken refuge. We've refrained from banishing it since the consequences would be great when you were younger. But you are older now, and more importantly, soon to be out of our reach."

From his side he can feel Boss' suspicion, a feeling that rises almost physical from the compact form and lingers in the back of the others' throats.

"You planning something?" The gruff voice does nothing to hide the rising violence. No doubt the man is remembering his own removal of the soul shard; the agony of death, the peace, and then the renewal of pain from reawakening. Evan hides his smile.

"There are perks to my powers, that I think would be prudent to use now," he simply agrees.

"Will I still be able to talk to snakes?" Harry asks, reluctantly. The child has grown attached to a few garden snakes out back, as well as Zephirus' multiple friends. The loss of such a skill would no doubt be a disappointment.

"All things must be equal. You will be losing something rather substantial, as even the smallest soul shard has great cosmic weight. It would not be out of bounds to simply...add something in it's place. Hence a gift."

"You mean the removal isn't the gift," Zephirus jumps in, thoughtfully. Evans inclines his head.

"A boon. It will not be quite as you are used to, not quite parseltongue as you know it. But it will let you communicate with serpents, and probably the greater serpents as well."

Harry quirks his head, a mannerism he's gotten from Evans more likely, and nods slowly.

"It would be nice not to worry about possession," he admits, and then smiles brightly. "Your gifts are always the most interesting, so I'm sure whatever you replace the parseltongue with will be too."

"Not sure if interesting is anything good," Boss grumbles, but none of them argue against it. It does need doing after all, if they want to have any chance of destroying Voldemort. Hopefully before he starts a war against the world.

—

The ritual is only a ritual in the vaguest of senses. They don't strictly need it, but sometimes the illusion of grandeur will make something so, and none of them want to screw something like this up.

Zephirus leans against the wall of the basement they're doing it in, dragonhide armour neatly tugged over clothing stained by potions and magical residue. He wasn't anticipating what's going to end up as major magical surgery this early in the afternoon, but he probably should have. Someday he will learn to anticipate the craziness that likes to invade their lives.

"You ready, kid?" Viper asks, brushing his pants off above the chalk circle they've just spent the past hour making. Harry nods vigorously, and Zephirus hides a smile in his palm at the sight. The scales on his hands tickle the skin.

"Yes!"

"Then we shall begin," Evans says from his position at the head of the circle. Viper steps back as the kid steps forward, and Zephirus can feel Boss tense besides him. The three of them are on damage control, since the magic knockback has the potential to be great, but he knows out of them all it's Boss who's the most likely to spot something amiss.

"I still think this is a stupid idea," the man complains, and he shrugs. Maybe, but it's a necessity. Just like Hogwarts is a necessity, and gathering the horcruxes, and trying to stay under the radar during all of this.

There's a lot they have to do that's going to be a bad idea. It's a good thing they've had such practice at it, that bad ideas are practically the definition of Harry Potters throughout the ages and dimensions.

"Step into the circle, child, and remember: keep on the path."

—