(Disclaimer: Most belongs to J.K. Rowling, the creator of the wonderful Harry Potter series. Most of what doesn't belongs to Anne Walsh / whydoyouneedtoknow, the creator of the amazing Dangerverse. I make no claim to anything that is theirs. And honestly, you should know that by now.)
This story is the sequel to "The Twist of Time." If you haven't read that one, you might be very confused. Basic premise, which should be enough for Dangerverse readers: Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione were thrown back twenty-one years in time on August 11, 1997/1976. It's now the beginning of summer 1977, so the trio have graduated and the Marauders and Ginny have just finished their sixth year. Danger (Gertrude Granger, Hermione's latent twenty-years-older sister whose magic was awakened by the terrible shock of her parents' deaths by Death Eaters) and Aletha (Freeman, from the Dangerverse) are in fifth. Peter is good, and is dating a rising seventh-year Ravenclaw named Rachel Trent. James and Lily are going out. The Marauders, the time-travelers, Lily, Rachel, Aletha, and Danger are magically bound to each other as a Pack. Remus and Danger have their unique bond, and Harry and Ginny have the mental aspect of it. If you're still confused, read ToT!
Chapter 1: Past and Present.
In a realm not entirely of this world, ten well-known people were having an enthusiastic discussion.
Few, though, would have believed this if you told them the details. For one, these people had something of a legendary status. For another, they had been dead for over nine hundred years.
"I'm impressed," Helga Hufflepuff said appreciatively. "They've adjusted to this much better than I expected they would. Swearing that oath—precious few teenagers would even think to do that. Precious few adults, for that matter."
"And now we reach the unpredictable bit," Brenna Ravenclaw said with a sigh. "More work for us."
Rowena shot her a sharp Look. "Brenna, just the other day you told me you were becoming bored with our young friend in the other universe. Should not a bit of excitement do you some good?"
It was Sophia who answered. "Well, I guess I can't deny I like this Harry better than the others. It's just so much work! These twelve are so completely unpredictable that absolutely none of the things they touch can be predicted! Don't you know how rare that is?"
"Yes, yes, of course I know," Rowena responded placatingly, but with a cutting undertone. "You do recall that I was the one who taught you all of this?"
"Of course, Mother."
"Enough," Godric Gryffindor said softly. "Once again we deviate from the topic at hand."
"And what topic was that?" Alexander Slytherin asked cheekily. "I was under the impression this was just a Ravenclaw squabbling match." Rowena shot him a Glare much worse than the one she had used with Brenna. Almost unconsciously, Alex shut his mouth.
"Thank you," said Godric. "Now, I believe that topic was our little twist of time, as my youngest Heir put it. Events are going to become rather hectic soon, you understand. Tom is gathering his forces, and with what he now knows of the 'Pack', as I believe they've taken to calling themselves . . . Well, let's just say it's not going to be pretty."
"Do you think they'll make it?" Maura Gryffindor asked, concerned. Her concern was forgivable, of course, considering it was two of her Heirs at issue here.
Godric frowned slightly in thought. "Make it? Of course they will. Maybe not all of them—group that large, conditions that dangerous, it'd be a small miracle if they all did survive. But they know what to expect, at least. I'm sure they'll at least defeat Tom."
Adam Hufflepuff laughed slightly. "Godric, we just listened to Brenna complain that even we don't know what do expect. I know it's your Heir, but still—be realistic."
"I am always realistic, Adam." A few seconds' pause, during which Godric looked thoughtful and Adam slightly fidgety. Finally: "I suppose, though, that it would be wise to give them a few tools for the tight situations in which they will inevitably find themselves. End of July, probably. I think they can manage till then."
"The Heart of Hogwarts has accepted them, Godric," Rowena reminded him. "By all rights, they deserve the status. Certainly they have proven themselves more than adequately."
"Unlike some people." Alex's expression turned stony. "That Snape may have sworn the oath, but he hasn't proven it, and I damn hope he fails."
"Alex," Helga chided. "You know we're not supposed to develop emotional connections to people in the living world without good reason."
"And I daresay this is good reason," Alex shot back darkly. "Considering what he did after Dumbledore's death—"
"No one is impenetrable, and that Unbreakable Vow really did hurt him deeply, you know. Not to mention he's not this Snape. You're as bad as Lily, vowing revenge on Petunia for might-have-hurting her not-yet-born son . . ."
"She deserves it," Adam said simply.
"Hear, hear!" Paul Gryffindor agreed. "After what she did to my n-times-great-nephew—"
Margaret Ravenclaw cut him off. "We've got more pressing concerns at the moment, Paul," she said briskly. "Like my Heir. Or the fact that this castle is, shall we say, 'booked' for the 30th? You do know how boisterous the Pride is going to be, don't you? Voldemort's dead! This place may be a dream world, but it's still not infinitely large."
Godric thought for a moment. "I suppose it'll do the past Pack some good to see that," he said levelly, surprising most of the Founders. "After all, the Pride already did what this group is trying to do. It seems that it would be rather inspirational. And I have a feeling they'd like each other regardless."
"Not to mention it would be hilarious," Alex said. "Especially Harry's reaction to my honorary Heir. And Aletha's, to her counterpart's last name . . ."
"Fine, fine," Margaret relented. "You win. But if this all blows up in your face—"
"I'll come to Brenna, like I always do."
Brenna groaned.
Some things change with time; some always stay the same. This is the story of the variations.
Meanwhile, a gray car, ordinary to all appearances, drove up a narrow dirt road off the small village of Godric's Hollow. It stopped at an inviting-looking stone house—not a mansion, certainly, but spacious enough for a large family to live comfortably.
Of course, it was only the magical people who saw that house for what it was. The Muggles all thought it was old, decrepit, and haunted.
The back door of the car opened, and eight people piled out: two very similar-looking boys with messy black hair, one of which was holding the hand of a freckled girl with long red hair; her brother, another redhead, who was smiling and standing very close to a bushy-haired girl, who was next to her very similar-looking sister, who in turn was grinning at a brown-haired boy in some secret joke known only to the two of them; not to mention the other black-haired boy, this one with hair that actually obeyed his attempts to tame it, standing on the first boy's other side . . .
It was a very interconnected group of people. They had been to metaphorical Hell and back together; their bonds of friendship and more-than-friendship were reinforced by ancient magic, and they would never break apart. They called themselves the Pack, and had developed over the past year a variety of odd but meaningful private traditions.
They also spanned two generations, despite the fact that the age range among the group was at most two years.
Every one of them was unique, and each would have his or her role to play in the war against Voldemort—but that didn't mean they couldn't have a bit of fun first.
"Welcome to Potter Manor," James Potter said gallantly, indicating the wrought-iron gate of the house with a flourish. "We hope you enjoy your stay."
Sirius Black, James's best friend, emitted a short bark of laughter. "Oh, come on, James, don't go all formal on us now. We are among friends, you know. Not to mention your not-yet-conceived son."
James looked thoughtful for a minute as Harry Potter grinned slightly. "What's this I hear?" Charles Potter, James's father, asked as he got out of the car. "Finally found an explanation for why our tapestry has been acting up?" His eyes held an almost Dumbledoreian twinkle.
Harry's grin widened in size, and he walked over to shake Charles's hand. "Harry Potter, born July 31, 1980, to Lily and James Potter. Nice to meet you, er, Grandpa."
Charles laughed. "Certainly never expected I'd be called that by someone James's age! Of course, these aren't exactly usual circumstances. I'd love to hear the whole story sometime later—I'm sure it's an interesting one—but for now, make yourselves at home."
Paige Potter, James's mother, walked up to stand next to her husband. She smiled genially at her guests. "I know I told James any of his friends had a place here for as long as they needed, but I must say I wasn't expecting any time-travelers. I suppose it doesn't really make all that much difference. You're still teenagers, I'm sure all of you still eat like there's no tomorrow . . . There haven't been this many of you before, though. Has some crisis arisen?"
Harry shook his head. "No, none at all, save that we—that is, me, my girlfriend Ginny, her brother Ron, and his fiancée Hermione—" He indicated each person as he named them.
Paige's eyes widened in delighted surprise. "Fiancée? Oh, congratulations, you two! I wish you all the best. Have you set a date for the wedding yet?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Potter," said Hermione, blushing slightly. "And no, we haven't. Ron only just proposed to me a few days ago. We'll be looking for a house, but obviously we haven't really had a chance to find one yet. I think maybe sometime in August . . ."
Harry cleared his throat. "Anyway, we four don't have anything here except what was in our trunks, so we're very grateful for your hospitality."
"Of course, dears," said Paige. "And Sirius I know, of course, and I heard from the Lupins about their trip, Remus; you know you're more than welcome here, even if this is the first time you've chosen to take us up on the offer. Which leaves . . ."
Danger extended her hand. "Gertrude Granger, known as Danger, Mrs. Potter. Pleased to meet you."
"And you." Though her expression was polite, Paige was still obviously curious.
Danger elaborated on her situation. "Last October, during a set of very trying circumstances, I accidentally managed to create a unique bond—soul bond, I guess you could call it—with Remus here." She poked him playfully. "The negative side-effect is that we get physically ill if we're separated for more than a day or so. Of course, I'd say the positive consequences dwarf that pretty strongly."
"What might those be?" Charles asked, curiosity written on his face.
"This, for one," said Danger's voice out of Remus's mouth as their eyes swirled with color—blue for Danger's brown, brown for Remus's blue. "A mental connection between us," she continued, using her own mouth. "And no more 'furry little problem' to worry about."
Remus's head whipped around to look at Danger worriedly.
"Oh, don't worry, dear, we've known for years," Paige assured him. "What wonderful news! We know the Lupins quite well, hasn't your father mentioned that?"
Remus regained his voice. "Yes, of course, it's just—I wasn't sure they'd mention that, to anyone. I guess I'm still sensitive about it, even if I am the first person who could technically be called a 'former werewolf'." He winced as the last word passed his lips.
"Well, let's not worry about that right now," Mrs. Potter said. "We're very glad to have you. If you'll just follow me in . . . Potter Manor isn't nearly as luxurious as a lot of the old families' homes; the name is more a matter of tradition than anything. It's definitely more than we need sometimes, though."
As Harry passed through the gate, the wards around the Manor flashed red for a second. He looked at Charles questioningly.
"Ah, it seems our wards have accepted you as a Potter heir, with all that entails, if you catch my drift." Harry nodded and, remembering what James had told him about the Gryffindor gift, surreptitiously produced a small fire behind Charles's left ear. The older man's eyes widened. "I see that you do. I suppose you do possess some degree of good judgement after all, James," he teased. "Anyway, that seems to fully bear out your story." He looked at Harry more closely, with a concern that was almost—parental? The messy-haired youth had never really been the object of such fatherly affection, but he still was pretty sure he saw it for what it was.
Maybe that'll be me, someday . . .
I'm glad you think so, said a female voice in his mind. I sure do.
Charles stopped walking. "Do you have one a bond like Remus's too, Harry? Your eyes turned brown there for a second."
Harry grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, with Ginny. It was a gift from Margaret Ravenclaw—tell you later," he hastily amended, seeing the shocked looks on the elder Potters' faces.
"You really are the most unique bunch of people I've ever known," Charles said, impressed. "As I was saying, Harry—well, I know it might not really be my place to tell you this, but you're family, not to mention a friend, and we Potters take care of our own. I'm sure it must be hard for you, getting thrown into this time period, but if there's anything you need—anything—don't hesitate to ask."
"That applies to all of you, really," Paige amended. "I always wanted to have more children after James, but I was already getting up there in years as it was, and the Healers recommended against it. . . . This is almost as fulfilling, though."
Real family . . . Harry pondered the concept for a second. I've never had it. It's been wonderful knowing James, Lily, Sirius, everyone at this age, but they're more my friends than my parents. We're all on equal footing in the Pack.
Having real people, family, who care for me like my parents would have, that I get to know because of these circumstances—
I'm really thankful Godric sent us back.
Second chances are nice.
Peter Pettigrew sighed as his mother pulled up to the suburban house, similar in character to most of the others on its street, that now was home to just the two of them. He hadn't been back for Christmas, or for Easter; all his friends were at Hogwarts, and for the first time he had felt like declining his mother's "I'd love to have you home" in order to stay with them.
Friendship. Yet another of the things I've come to learn the meaning of this past year.
After Dad the Death Eater died.
The death had been in late August last year. Thomas Pettigrew was found dead in their living room, the Dark Mark exposed on his forearm, clutching a note written in a reddish ink Peter really didn't want to know the origin of. "Thus always to those who defy the Dark Lord," it had said, and to date no one knew just what he had done to merit death.
Well, I'm sure some people do, but they're not telling.
And I was the one who found him, Peter remembered. Mum was out shopping or something . . . Talk about a shock. I mean, he definitely wasn't the greatest dad, but I never would have thought him a Death Eater.
Though in hindsight, he realized he really should've suspected. His father had been becoming more and more distant for years now, ranting occasionally about pureblood superiority, neglecting his job, his family, and his home.
Still kept the money coming in somehow. Guess now I know how.
"Are you going to come in, dear?" Elaine Pettigrew, Peter's mother, asked him. "You seem lost in thought."
"Sorry, Mum. Yeah, I'll be in in a minute."
"All right." Elaine stood up, got out of the car, and walked inside the house.
That's my mother for you. Never knows whether to smother me or let me be.
She guessed right this time, though.
As his thoughts continued to drift, Peter realized just how lucky he was to have the friends he did. Eleven of them, and we would do anything for each other. More than most people can claim. Definitely more than I would've claimed this time last year. Friendship, Peter had discovered, went both ways; the Marauders had always helped him out, he doubted he would ever know why, but he'd never really felt any loyalty to them until this past year.
What did Rachel call it? Oh yeah. A 'fence-sitter', I was being.
Well, not anymore.
Funny how one little thing can cause such a large change . . .
Peter's thoughts were interrupted by the pained meow of something just outside the car. Gingerly, he opened the car door and spied a small kitten covered in pitch-black fur, its yellow eyes wide and mournful. Looking closer, he noticed its front left paw was a bloody mess.
He didn't know why, but Peter felt a strong connection to the injured kitten. It was something it reminded him of . . . he couldn't put his finger on it . . .
Me, he realized. I've always been the underdog. Without James, Sirius, Remus, everyone really, I'd never have become someone I could be proud of.
Which I have, despite all expectations.
So I guess I hold a bit of sympathy for the hurt . . .
Carefully, Peter stepped out of the car and picked up the cat. It cried for a moment as he jostled its foot, but soon settled into the crook of Peter's arm and fell asleep.
Maybe I can even do something for it. It's not as if its lot would be any better without me.
Now if I only could balance this kitten and my trunk . . .
If he had had the free arm to do so, Peter would have slapped himself on the forehead. Oh. Right. I'm of age. He checked carefully around for any wandering Muggles, then surreptitiously took out his wand and pointed it at the trunk now standing next to the car. "Locomotor trunk!" he muttered. He hadn't really gotten the hang of nonverbal casting yet.
Peter walked in through the open door. He heard pots and pans clanging in the kitchen, and the beginnings of a wonderful smell coming from it. "Welcome home, Peter," she called as his footsteps echoed through the hallway.
Peter shut the front door softly behind him. "Thanks, Mum," he said. "Listen—I found a kitten outside. Its paw is hurt. Could I take care of it? I don't really have much else to do this summer, except homework—"
"Of course, Peter," his mother replied. "As long as you're the one doing the taking care of, I'm fine with it."
"Thanks." Peter walked up the stairs quietly, contemplatively, his trunk still floating behind him. He reached the door to his room, stepped inside, put down his trunk, and lay down on his bed. The kitten blinked sleepily, snuggled into his chest, and looked at him with doleful eyes.
"I need a name for you," he murmured. "Let's see . . ."
"How about Midnight?"
The kitten began to purr.
"I'll take that as a yes, then." Peter smiled. "You know, Midnight, I think I could get used to caring for you. Even though I don't even know what gender you are yet." Peter quickly rectified that problem by gently lifting Midnight above his head. She proved to be female.
Peter sighed, exhausted. It's strange how tiring it is to come back to a calm environment. There're always three dozen things going on at Hogwarts, and then I get home and it's just—me. And Mum, but she's usually cooking by now. And Dad before he died, but I hardly ever saw him except when he was making some stupid rule for me . . .
All that pent-up energy, I guess.
He was tired enough to take a nap, and the kitten purring sleepily by his side made that quite a bit easier, but there was something he wanted to do first.
Peter waved his wand. "Accio." Quill, ink, and parchment came over to land on his bedside table. Sitting up slightly, he put the three together and began to write.
Dear Rachel . . .
Rachel Trent sat on her bed in a small house in a small town in Scotland, watching through her window as the sun went down.
What a year. She had a sort of tradition by now, of taking at least a few hours to unwind from the stresses of Hogwarts when she got home, but this was the first time she had ever really felt joy at the memories. Content, sure; she had done quite well on her Charms O.W.L. last year, for instance.
But this was the first year she had really had friends.
It helps to offset the problems, I think. To this date, Rachel had no idea what had caused the dramatic change in her personality in the wake of her mother's death at the hands of Death Eaters in 1974, during the summer after third year. Gallatea Trent had always been a bit of a scientific with an interest in divination, scrying, and those sorts of things; some of the more uncharitable folk in the village called her a "mad scientist." But she came up with a breakthrough every so often, the Ministry paid good money for it, and the family's daily lives could continue relatively normally.
Rachel's father, Patrick Trent, was a simple-minded, hard-working man. Gallatea hadn't informed him of her magical nature until after their marriage, and though it rather perturbed Patrick at first, within a few days he had accepted it with equanimity. Before the attack, Rachel hadn't been much of an odd child at all; very introverted, to be sure, with not many friends, but Dad could understand her, and he helped her through the trials of life.
And then it happened. No one knew why, or how the target had been chosen, but Gallatea was sent a letter hiding a tracking device, and Death Eaters used it to Apparate straight into her room.
Fourteen-year-old Rachel leaned against the wall of her room, thinking. She had been doing that a lot lately. Most of the kids she knew seemed to have a lot more fun than she did, and they also seemed to have a lot of friends; maybe the two were connected?
Her contemplation was interrupted by a faint sound of a few staccato pops from below, followed shortly by a scream.
A scream she recognized.
"MUM!" Rachel bolted out the door to her room; running down to the cellar where her mother kept a laboratory. That was where the noise had come from.
She reached the top of the stairs leading down and stopped dead in her tracks. Volleys of spell fire were visible heading in multiple directions below; as Rachel looked closer, she saw a few hooded and masked figures and her mother in the center of it all, doing her best to fight them off.
A stray spell made Rachel shift her weight nervously. The stair creaked, catching the attention of more than one person in the room. A couple of Death Eaters trained their wands on her and said something she couldn't make out. In a flash, though, Rachel's mother had set up a basic shielding ward and started reinforcing it with all her concentration and energy. The spells bounced off—
—and headed straight in the direction of one of the many substances her mother had constantly told Rachel never to touch. The red flash illuminated a few words on the label. 'Volatile.' 'Caution.'"
One of the Death Eater's eyes widened as he noticed the danger. "Get out!" he yelled, just as a cacophony of sounds rent the air. There were a few Apparation pops amidst an explosion that shattered glass for five feet around. The shards flew and fatally impaled two people.
One was a Death Eater. The other was her mother.
"NO!" Rachel yelled as the wards set up a few seconds earlier glowed and began to fade. She ran through them, encountering only slight resistance, and stopped, kneeling, at her mother's side. "No, Mum, you can't be hurt, you just can't—"
"I am, sweetheart," Gallatea Trent said weakly, so softly Rachel wasn't sure she had heard right. It must have been a trick of the atmosphere, the stress was getting to her—
"Listen . . . to me . . . Rachel . . ." Rachel tried to look her in the eye, but something was blurring her vision. She blinked a few times, and noticed detachedly that the back of her hand was now slightly wet.
"I'm listening, Mum." She was surprised at how shaky her own voice sounded.
"It's bad. . . . I won't . . . lie to you, Rachel . . . it's bad. I might not . . . live much longer . . ."
There was no doubt as to cause of the blurriness in her eyes now. Rachel wanted to break down sobbing, but she forced herself to remain calm, to hear what her mother had to say.
Gallatea Trent's eyes brightened, though Rachel couldn't see them, as she spoke with surprising passion. "Listen . . . Rachel, I love you so much. You will . . . do great things, I'm sure . . ."
"I hope so. And that you're there to see them," she added fervently. This couldn't be happening, it just couldn't
"Maybe not . . . Rachel, the war . . . it's getting bad. In your lifetime . . . you might have to make . . . choices, hard choices . . . you might feel like . . . giving up, sometimes. Don't. Don't ever give up." She coughed once, and the blur in Rachel's vision became a little more red. "Because you can suceed," she wheezed. "Because you will. Just believe . . . believe in yourself . . ."
"I will, Mum. I will," Rachel choked out.
"That's all . . ." Gallatea Trent's voice drifted off. The sound in the room lessened slightly. With a terrible apprehension, Rachel wiped her eyes so she could see what had happened.
The image she received confirmed her worst fears.
She sat there, sobbing, unwilling to move, until her father came home.
And I've never been the same since. Rachel had no idea what had caused it, but ever since the incident, she had noticed things about other people that were hidden to most. Their true loyalties, their motivations, their flaws—the sort of thing one normally discovers only through close friendship, she found herself seeing just by looking at someone.
It was highly, highly disconcerting.
It's really hard to get close to people when you know exactly how they're likely to hurt you . . .
In fact, most of the students at Hogwarts, Rachel found, were actually afraid of her. She knew things that "no one should know," and found herself losing the acquaintances she had. Especially in Ravenclaw, where most everything had to be logical and well-substantiated, she was none too well liked.
And thus passed her fourth and fifth years, keeping afloat academically, surviving but certainly not thriving.
Who knew people could be so petty?
Actually knowing pretty much how most people are going to respond to you—negatively—really shreds your confidence.
And the first person Rachel found without such an apparent knee-jerk rejection was Peter Pettigrew.
Maybe it's only the downtrodden who can ever truly appreciate each other . . .
She refocused her eyes. An owl was tapping at her window.
"All right, all right, I'll get it," she muttered, standing up and walking over to open the glass pane before the little creature broke right through it. It was a rather small owl.
And eager in disproportion to its size. The bird flew in, made three swift circles around Rachel's bedroom, dropped the letter it was carrying on her head, and flew right back out again.
Shutting the window idly, Rachel slitted the envelope open and began to read the parchment inside. She smiled as she noticed the handwriting; it was familiar, and quite welcome . . .
Dear Rachel,
I just realized this is the first time I've ever written to you. It seems strange; I feel like I know you so well, at least as well as the other Marauders, and yet it's not even been a year since you said "Hi" to me at that D.A. meeting. (But what a year!)
Arrived home just recently. It's weird without Dad around—well, he actually wasn't around so much, I guess it's more the absence of the looming feeling. It's weird period. I know I've changed so much in the past ten months, and the house has hardly changed at all. Mum still cooks when she's feeling gloomy. She's being even more quiet than usual, but I guess she's been coping.
Getting out of the car, I found a little black kitten with a hurt paw meowing at me. I decided to take care of it, keep it if it likes me. (From the way it's purring right now, I'd say that's a big "yes.") Everand is really my mum's owl, not mine, and I really felt a connection with the kitten. I named her Midnight; trust me, you'll know it's appropriate as soon as you see her.
Really, I think I kind of like the idea of helping the helpless. I'm definitely not cut out to be a Healer—blood still makes me a bit queasy, and I don't think I could stand four more years of school—but maybe I'll wind up doing something for injured animals, like Aletha says her mum does. Somehow, I have a feeling you'll understand where I'm coming from, though I'm not sure the rest of the Marauders will.
You know how it feels.
I hope you're doing well there. Remember, if you ever want to Floo over, the address is number thirteen, Scarborough Crescent. My mum's told me I can invite my friends over anytime. I actually think she's worried about me; summers past, I usually tended to be pretty bored . . . I doubt she'd believe me if I told her about the Pack. She still acts as if I'm a kid. I'm not. It's not so bad, really, but— oh, you always know what I'm thinking anyway. :-) Love,
(I'm still amazed by that word,)
Peter
Rachel smiled as she finished the letter. I've always known we were meant for each other. This just proves it.
Thank you, Peter, for seeing the best in me.
Little did she know, Peter's thoughts at the moment echoed her own.
A few days later, the now-quite-numerous residents of Potter Manor sat down at the (magically enlarged) breakfast table.
"Any luck finding a house yet?" Harry asked Ron and Hermione as he grabbed a few pieces of bread. Ron immediately looked at Hermione. Harry stifled a laugh. Guess we know who's the responsible one in their relationship, he remarked mentally.
Ginny smiled across the table at him. We already did. Lesson one of dealing with Weasleys: Never, ever depend upon the sensibility of my brother, because it may desert him at a moment's notice.
"Actually, some," Hermione said. "We've decided we want to get a place in a wizarding village—actually, Ron made that decision, and I agree, it would be fascinating. And, well, there aren't all that many of those, but I think I've found a nice place for sale . . ."
Ron's eyes widened. "Where?" he asked, gaping.
"Oh, I thought I'd keep it a surprise." Hermione's tone held a teasing lilt. "I think I'm perfectly justified in assuring myself that you'll love it."
"How do you know?"
"Now that would be telling, wouldn't it?" Hermione was grinning widely.
"I guess."
"What are you going to name it?" Sirius asked.
Hermione frowned. "Name it? What do you mean?"
"All wizarding houses have a name," James explained. "Well, most do, anyway. It's for Flooing and stuff like that, plus it's pretty traditional. Like how this is 'Potter Manor', except you're expected to be a lot more creative than that."
"Or 'The Burrow'," Ron said.
"My family's is 'The Cottage'," contributed Remus, "though we usually just use the address for Flooing. No idea how it turned out that no one else chose that name. I don't think we ever filed the name papers with the Ministry, actually. Ever since—well, you know—my folks haven't liked them too much."
Hermione smiled bemusedly. "There is so much I still don't know about wizarding culture . . . All right, a name." She closed her eyes and thought for a few seconds. "I can't think of anything that doesn't sound utterly ridiculous. Anyone else, ideas?"
Silence reigned for about ten seconds. "How about Lions' Lair?" Ginny asked suddenly.
"Lions' Lair . . ." Hermione tested the name. "I like it. Seems to fit; we really are all Gryffindors, after all. And one other thing: The house is pretty big. Enough room for four." She looked at Harry and Ginny meaningfully.
"Enough room for—huh?" Harry said.
"Merlin, you've been distracted lately, mate." Ron shook his head slightly. "She means you and Ginny could live with us, if you want."
Dead silence.
"If there were flies indoors, you'd be catching them," Danger said lightly.
"Well?" asked Hermione impatiently. "What do you think?"
"I—" Thoughts?
You already know what I'm going to say.
True, that. "I really like that idea, actually, though I'm sure I never would've come up with it on my own."
"So do I," Ginny said. "Harry and I are almost as close to you two as we are to each other—in different ways, obviously—and I think it would do us all some good."
"That's great!" Hermione grinned excitedly. "And I'm sure you'll like the location just as much as Ron, Ginny."
"Ever since that troll," said Ron. "There's no way any of us could ever have had a normal life. Good, meaningful, sure, but never normal."
"What's this about a troll?" Charles Potter asked. "Another one of your infernal adventures?"
Hermione laughed. "Oh, this one's the first of them all. Halloween of our first year, 1991 . . ."
Ron pushed his chair away from the breakfast table and stretched. "Anyone for a game of Quidditch?" he asked eagerly. James, Sirius, and Ginny instantly gave their assent, smiling.
"Who'll play Seeker, though?" Sirius asked.
The three time-travelers turned to look at Harry, apparently now noticing the conspicuous absence in the cacophony of responses.
You don't want to play? Ginny asked Harry incredulously through their mental link.
I don't have time to, Gin! Between Voldemort, my job for next year, . . . I'd love to, but I just can't.
Ginny's expression turned stony. "Excuse me," she said shortly. "Harry and I need to discuss something in private." She stood up and walked briskly toward the unused bedroom upstairs. Harry followed her silently.
Still keeping her features carefully schooled, Ginny walked into the bedroom, waited for Harry to follow her in, then closed the door delicately. She covered the distance between them in two steps, and before Harry could react, kissed him.
Very thoroughly.
A minute or so later, Harry's mouth reappeared, this time formed into a smile. "I guess I needed that," he said, a bit sheepishly.
"I guess you did," Ginny agreed. Her voice dropped slightly. "Now remind me. What is the 'power the Dark Lord knows not'?"
"Love," Harry said without thinking. "Or—"
Ginny cut him off. "Thank you, that's all I need to hear. Now, in light of that, do you really think you're approaching this in the most sensible way?"
"Well . . . okay, I guess not. But—"
"No buts. You're not going to defeat Voldemort by throwing yourself into your work so much that you shut out your friends." Ginny grabbed Harry's right hand and moved it to rest on her breastbone, pressing against the pendants they all wore. "Remember these?"
"How could I forget? We swore the oath, we're Pack—"
"And what, exactly, do you think that means?"
Harry didn't even have to think before he answered. "We help each other out," he said firmly. "We're in this together." Then he realized what he was saying, and how it connected to his current situation, and he blushed a bit in embarrassment.
"Don't you see?" Ginny asked softly. "It's great that you're so determined. We need that—some of it. But you can't burn yourself out." She paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to best explain herself. "If all your friends left you alone until you beat Voldemort, like I'm sure you wanted us to at some point, do you honestly think you could win?"
"Well—"
"Harry, Voldemort is one of the most powerful wizards alive. He has had ages to hone his skills. You, alone, against him and his Death Eaters—there's no way you would win."
"So what do I do, then?" Harry asked worriedly.
"You let us help you!" Ginny responded instantly. "Voldemort knows nothing about friendship, about love. His Death Eaters are just servants. They're bound by fear. Their individuals might be stronger than ours, but their bonds are much weaker—I have a feeling there are elements to this Pack-bond we know nothing about. Remind me of your thoughts last den-night again?"
Harry smiled in spite of himself. "You heard that?"
"How could I not? It's one of the most uplifting moods I think you've ever been in. Here, I'll remind you. 'By living, I defy you. And I'm going to live.' Harry, answer me this. If every element of your life is dictated by him, do you honestly think that's really living?"
The two were silent for a long while. "No," Harry said finally. "You're right; it's not. I've been a bit of an idiot, haven't I?"
Ginny beamed at him. "Only a bit. And at least you recognize your idiocy now, with minimal prompting. I don't think I could handle another repeat of fifth year."
"Don't remind me," Harry groaned. "That Umbridge woman . . . So yeah, I'll do my best to forget about Voldemort and the Horcruxes, at least for a little bit." His expression brightened considerably. "Now what was this about a game of Quidditch?"
"That's what I was looking for!" Ginny said, laughing. "Come on, let's go!"
The two raced back to the kitchen, hand in hand. "Introducing Seeker Harry James Potter!" Ginny announced gallantly.
"Great," said Ron. "So we've got five people—two Chasers, a Beater, a Keeper, and a Seeker. How do we want to divide up the teams? Maybe you and Ginny can be one team, Harry, since you're so good at catching the Snitch, which leaves the three of us . . . I think that'll work."
"The Old versus The New?" Harry suggested with a wicked grin.
"Hey! I'm not old!" Ron protested indignantly.
"You're engaged to be married, Ron," Sirius pointed out. "Compared to most of us, that's ancient."
"I guess." Ron sighed. "Well, get your brooms and let's get out there!"
As three blurs raced off in different directions, James hung back. "Er— Harry?"
"Yeah, James?" Harry turned to look at him; the slightly younger boy was fidgeting nervously, wringing his hands together. "What's wrong?"
"Um . . . are you sure you want me to play?"
"Of course! Why do you even need to ask? Especially ask me, of all people? You played great in the Gryffindor games last year, and heck, we're at your house!"
"Well, I mean, most people don't like to play Quidditch against their dads. I know I don't." James tried to smile but failed miserably.
Harry sighed and gave James a doleful look. "Oh." He was barely restraining himself from laughing. "Is that what's been bothering you?"
"What do you mean?"
"James, the past few days you've been a lot more distant from me. Acting like—well, like you'd expect a parent to act, I guess. Am I right or not?"
"I guess I have been trying to be more—well, you know—"
Harry looked James in the eye. "Listen. I lost my parents at a very young age. I don't remember them. Apart from photos, and whatever memories the Dementors dredge up . . . I have no memories of how you acted towards me, or what you were to me, except a general sense that you loved me greatly. So you don't need to worry about acting the same as you might be acting twenty years from now, because I'm definitely not judging you based on that."
"What do you mean?"
"I would have loved to have had a father I knew, definitely, but don't try to be someone you're not. You're still in school, James. You're not married, you don't have any kids, your life still has a lot of changing to do. I don't need a parent, really. I'm somewhat used to living without one. I just need a friend."
James sighed. "Sorry."
"Sorry? There's nothing to be sorry about," Harry said matter-of-factly. "Let's just call this a small misunderstanding." He grinned. "Now, ready to try and trounce me at Quidditch?"
"You bet!"
The teams were assembled: James, Sirius, and Ron ("the Old") versus Harry and Ginny ("the New"). Charles Potter amused everyone with his dry commentary.
"And the players have taken off. The Snitch is released. The Bludger is released. Yes, this game is being played with only one Bludger. We have no Healer on site, after all, and only one skilled Beater on the field. The Quaffle is taken by Ginny Weasley, who rockets off, passes it to herself, herself, and—yes, folks, that looks like herself again—and fires it past her brother for the score! New 10, Old 0. . . ."
". . . And is that the Snitch? Old leading, folks, 70 to 30, as both Harry and Ginny make an abrupt change of course. They're turning—flying straight towards each other now—what is this, a mid-air high five? James rushes in to intercept the tiny ball, but too late—Harry and Ginny have pinned it between their hands! POTTERS WIN!"
Laughing, the impromptu teams descended to the ground, feeling much more relaxed and at ease.
"That was a great idea, Ron," Harry said gratefully. "We needed that. Thanks, mate."
"Oh, you'll never have trouble getting this lout to play Quidditch," Hermione said affectionately. (She had come out to the pitch to watch the game.)
"Or this one," said Danger, pointing to Sirius.
"Hey! I'm not a lout!"
"Sorry," Danger said with mock contrition. "I meant 'mangy mutt'." She grinned.
The slight incongruity of Mr. Potter's last couple words went unnoticed.
(A/N: Well, here we go. The sequel to "The Twist of Time," in all its glory.
I'm writing this for NaNoWriMo 2006, so expect very frequent updates for the next month. This will be about my average chapter length from now on; ToT chapters were just getting far too long, so I picked a more manageable size.
If you read it, and you're not completely indifferent to it, please review. Reviews are good. Flames are bad. Praise is nice. Constructive criticism is preferred. Questions are welcomed. Proper grammar is appreciated. Got it? (And yes, that particular bunch of sentences was lifted from an A/N by MercuryBlue144.)
Here's to Variations; may it be even better than its prequel!)