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Chapter Text

 Chapter 1- The Art Of Legalizing a Cat

Extract of The Unruly Hourglass : An Advanced Guide to Temporal Magic

by Emeric Tempus, O.M. (First Class)

Chapter 9 : Theories of Time and Temporal Devices

§3. Chrono-Selective Time-Turners

Among the many magical devices crafted to manipulate time, the Time-Turner remains the best known—and most strictly regulated. Standard Time-Turners operate by allowing the user to travel a precise and controlled number of hours into the past. The user determines the destination by turning the device’s dial, with each rotation corresponding to one hour. Such devices, though dangerous when misused, obey predictable rules of temporal causality.

However, a far rarer—and far more perilous—variant once existed: the Chrono-Selective Time-Turner. Unlike standard models, the chrono-selective variety is semi-sentient in its operation. Instead of transporting the user to a chosen point in time, it delivers them to what it “perceives” as the most opportune moment. The mechanism is said to attune itself to fluctuations in magical probability, emotion, and fate—though no witch or wizard has successfully explained how or why it makes these selections.

In practical terms, this means that when activated, a Chrono-Selective Time-Turner might decide to send its user to the day before a major historical event, to an ancestor’s deathbed, or to precisely five minutes before a regrettable decision. While this has occasionally yielded remarkable historical insights, it has far more often resulted in catastrophic accidents, paradoxes, and, in one particularly memorable case, an entire Department of Mysteries sub-basement being trapped in 1893 for three weeks.

Due to the unpredictable nature and autonomous judgment of these devices, their use has been strictly prohibited under the Ministry of Magic’s Temporal Regulation Act of 1899. Nearly all Chrono-Selective Time-Turners have since been confiscated or destroyed, and only a handful remain in secure Department of Mysteries containment, under strict supervision. Persistent rumours suggest that certain old wizarding families may still possess one or two hidden specimens, though such claims are widely dismissed as improbable and unverifiable.

In short: while the notion of a Time-Turner that “knows best” may sound enticing, the reality is one of chaos and calamity. Should you ever encounter such a device (highly unlikely, unless your family’s attic is unusually cursed), do not attempt to use it. Hand it over immediately to the Ministry’s Time Management Division—preferably before it decides you need to visit the Cretaceous Period.

***

Alexandra's POV

Let the record show that time travel was less an art, less a science, and more an elaborate prank orchestrated by Fate with a sick sense of humour.

Hermione and I had a plan—oh yes, neat little bullet points, colour-coded parchment, and a margin note that read “absolutely no improvisation.” The idea had been elegant: I would slip back to 1981, mere hours after the deaths of Lily and James Potter, all noble-cloak and tragic timing, ready to nudge history into slightly less misery.

Except the Chrono-Selective Time-Turner, heirloom of my venerable and questionably sane Rosier family, had decided to express its independence. Instead of obediently landing me in 1981, it had hurled me—quite literally—into 1987, because apparently destiny ran on a drunken GPS and refused to ask for directions.

I had materialized in a back alley behind Flourish and Blotts, graceful as a dying flobberworm, clutching the treacherous Time-Turner while it rattled with the sort of smug energy one normally associated with cursed heirlooms and pure-blood aunts.

So there I was: a week stranded in 1987, living at the Leaky Cauldron—a place that smelled like spilled butterbeer and generational regret. My neighbours had been three goblins, a hag who insisted she was “only mostly retired,” and a mirror that gave unsolicited life advice. I had spent my mornings reading the Daily Prophet in mounting horror (“Perms are back?!”) and my nights plotting how to save Harry Potter with the resources of a small, displaced teenager and a questionable moral compass.

But that day—that day—had been dedicated to the most dreaded of magical trials: paperwork.

Hermione had said, “Blend in. Be ordinary. Register your Animagus form and don’t draw attention.”

Right. Because I, Alexandra Rosier, professional disaster in lace cuffs, had ever been capable of being ordinary.

Thus, I had invented a persona: Alexandra Selwyn, age sixteen, French transfer student, charming accent, suspiciously well-read. Entirely normal. Not from the future. Not plotting destiny. Not at all.

The Ministry of Magic had awaited me like some grand temple to administrative suffering. I had entered via the ancient red telephone box, which had smelled faintly of regret and old chewing gum. The descent into the atrium had been suitably dramatic : gold everywhere, fireplaces roaring, a thousand witches and wizards bustling about with the urgency of ants who’d just realized they’d misplaced the Queen.

At first glance: elegance. Efficiency. Civilization.

On closer inspection? Pure, gilded chaos. Quills had been duelling mid-air. Someone’s memo had caught fire and was being beaten to death by another memo. A wizard had sprinted past yelling about “reversing an accidental transfiguration” while half his head was still a teapot.

Ah yes, I had thought. The heart of magical government. Looked like fun to work here. (I stored that for later.)

The lift had been a brass coffin with delusions of grandeur, clanging its way downward while announcing departments in a tone far too cheerful for an institution powered by misery. “Level Four,” it had chimed, “Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

Splendid. Bureaucracy and beasts. My two favourite things.

I had checked my reflection in the polished metal: robes perfectly pressed, hair semi-tamed (a small miracle), and expression arranged somewhere between innocent and menacingly cooperative.

According to Hermione, that day I was to meet Senior Registration Officer Amos Diggory, to make my Animagus form “legal.” (Because obviously what time-stranded witches needed most was government approval.)

I had stepped into the corridor, where brass plaques gleamed with the names of people who probably dreamed in triplicate forms. The air had smelled like tea, dust, and the faint despair of interns.

Somewhere, a quill had scratched steadily, like a countdown to bureaucracy.

I had adjusted my sleeve, squared my shoulders, and muttered, “Alright, Rosier, time to convince an entire department that you’re just a harmless French schoolgirl who occasionally turns into a cat.”

Then, with all the misplaced confidence of a Gryffindor on a dare, I had knocked on the door marked:

Amos Diggory — Senior Registration Officer, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (Section B: Animagi & Transformational Peculiarities).

The door had creaked open.

And thus had begun my brief but spectacular career in out-bureaucrating time itself.

Amos Diggory’s POV

It was, in the annals of wizarding bureaucracy, a most curious and paradoxical delight to observe a witch registering her Animagus form. One might have thought it a mundane act of paperwork, signatures, and solemn oaths. One would have been spectacularly wrong. For paperwork, like dragon dung, often contained surprises—and that day’s surprise arrived as a sixteen-year-old girl with hair like sunlight trapped in honey and eyes of molten amber, twinkling with the sort of mischief that ought to have required a minor health warning.

As I held the relatively responsible post of Senior Registration Officer for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Section B: Animagi and Other Transformational Peculiarities, I was, at that moment, thoroughly enjoying the mild chaos inherent in watching someone else prove themselves capable of dangerous magical metamorphosis—rather than dealing with my own children causing minor explosions in the kitchen.

Speaking of which—my son Cedric, aged eight, was currently with Iris, my wonderfully competent wife. I thought of him often, and not merely because I was a proud father. The boy already showed a natural talent for charms, seeing tiny sparks of magic in his morning tea. I imagined him eventually in Ravenclaw, sitting at a desk that barely contained his enthusiasm, dreaming of clever inventions and perfectly executed spells. But enough of parental indulgence; this was business.

Before me stood the girl, Alexandra Selwyn. A French upbringing, she said, which explained her absence from the Ministry’s registry—a messy bureaucracy, no doubt worsened by the persistent tendency of French wizards to draft laws in cursive so ornate that even their dragons appeared confused. She was tall for her age, posture impeccable, gaze steady, and she carried the subtle flair of someone who knew she could get what she wanted simply by deciding to.

“Miss Selwyn,” I began, attempting my usual official gravitas while resisting the urge to comment on the suspiciously perfect way her hair caught the sunlight, “today we will be registering your Animagus form. It is imperative that you demonstrate full control and compliance with all relevant regulations. This will, of course, include verification of your transformation, duration, and stability.”

She tilted her head at that—curious, intent—and something about the gesture softened the starch of the moment. Some children fidgeted; some feigned confidence. This one listened. Truly listened. Curious and calculating both, and I felt an inconvenient flicker of approval.

“Very well, Miss Selwyn,” I continued, tapping my wand against the registration scroll. “Proceed with your transformation.”

A hush descended upon the office, as if even the enchanted parchment were holding its breath. I had seen many Animagi over the years: dignified, nervous, occasionally catastrophic. But Alexandra Selwyn—my word. She stepped forward with measured grace, and within moments, her form began to shift.

I noted the subtle elongation of her spine, the gentle rounding of her shoulders, the narrowing of her face. And then—the transformation completed, and before me sat a tiny, delicate feline, grey as morning mist, with snow-white mittens. She flicked her tail, surveyed the room with keen interest, and then, almost playfully, twined around my desk leg.

Impressive. Highly impressive. The transformation was fluid, complete, and fully controlled. She exhibited the kind of innate talent that eluded even the most rigorous training.

I leaned back in my chair, allowing myself a modest display of smugness. “Remarkable, Miss Selwyn. Very precise. I approve your registration. Please note that all legal obligations and responsibilities associated with your Animagus status are henceforth binding, and your name will now officially appear in our registry.”

She tilted her head, ears twitching slightly, eyes sparkling behind her feline disguise.

With a blink and a flick of her tail, she became herself again—young, golden-eyed, and mischievous, as though the brief feline interlude had been a private joke shared with the universe.

 “And my name will be Selwyn, officially?” she asked, curiosity tinting her words.

“Yes,” I replied, tapping my quill against the parchment. “Legally recognized. No longer an absence in the records. Welcome to the registry.”

She let out a soft, almost satisfied chuckle, and I couldn’t help but marvel at her poise. For a child— sixteen—she possessed the demeanor of someone who could command a room without raising her voice.

“I was raised in France,” she explained, “and the French Ministry’s records are… chaotic. I suppose that explains why I am not listed?”

“Indeed,” I said, smiling faintly. “Bureaucratic anomalies are to be expected from time to time. We simply ensure that those with talent and diligence are properly documented. Which you certainly are.”

I allowed myself a brief daydream about Cedric’s possible admiration for her abilities. Yes, I thought. He would have been fascinated. He would have taken note. And perhaps, in time, he might have learned a thing or two about responsibility—or at least been inspired to try.

I finished the scroll, sealing it with a flourish of my wand. “Registration complete”

“Thank you, sir,” she said politely, her voice carrying that charming French precision, yet unmistakably youthful.

I nodded, standing. “You’re welcome, Miss Selwyn. And do remember: control, patience, and proper record-keeping are the marks of a responsible Animagus. Fail in these, and the consequences are… unpleasant.”

She inclined her head. “I shall be careful.”

And as she turned to leave, I allowed myself a final, private thought: What a remarkable girl. If Cedric ever met her… he might actually have a proper role model.

I sighed softly, returning to my papers. The Department might have been filled with rules, forms, and occasionally terrifying magical creatures, but on days like that—witnessing raw talent tempered by diligence—it was undeniably satisfying.

Alexandra’s POV

I left the Ministry of Magic that morning—under my brand-new name, Alexandra Selwyn, aged sixteen, perfectly registered, perfectly legal, and, if I may say so myself, perfectly smug about it. According to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, I was a “responsible young witch” capable of self-transfiguration into a small, fluffy cat.

I considered being offended by the “small” part, but honestly, they weren’t wrong. I am adorable.

Still, there was something profoundly satisfying about walking out of that dull bureaucratic building with the ink on my registration still drying. For the first time since landing in this timeline, I existed here, in 1987. Properly. On parchment, in law, and probably in triplicate somewhere in the bowels of Magical Records.

And honestly, the cherry on top of my morning paperwork sundae? The look of utter admiration on young Amos Diggory’s face.
Yes—that Amos Diggory. The very same future father who, one decade from now, would spend a spectacular amount of energy lecturing me about my “mischievous influence” on his golden boy, Cedric. To think that once upon a time, the man had been impressed by me. Positively glowing, even. Life—time travel—had a delicious sense of irony.

Clever Hermione had once said: “No matter how your name appears in the Ministry’s records, once it’s there—you exist.”
And she was right, as usual.

So registering as a legal Animagus wasn’t just a matter of formality—it was strategy. One stone, two catches: a magical license and a legitimate identity.

The next step? Gringotts.

I needed to officialize my existence as a Selwyn there too—to open a proper vault, one that belonged to Alex Selwyn, not Alexandra Rosier, Time-Turner enthusiast and walking paradox. I’d brought a tidy sum of galleons from my Rosier vault (future me had excellent taste in both jewelry and financial planning), and now I had to deposit it somewhere that wouldn’t cause a goblin-led existential crisis.

The moment I laid eyes on Gringotts, I felt the kind of awe reserved for mountains, dragons, and particularly dramatic goblin-run financial institutions.

Its white marble façade gleamed like it had been buffed by a team of overcaffeinated house-elves with a lifelong grudge against dust. The place sparkled so much it could’ve given the Mirror of Erised a complex. Towering columns framed the entrance, and the arched windows threw back the London sky in shards sharp enough to cut through your self-esteem.

Inside, the atrium stretched upward like it was trying to impress the Astronomy Tower, all gleaming marble and echoing grandeur. Chandeliers of enchanted crystal turned lazily overhead, scattering rainbow light with the smug satisfaction of a unicorn that knows it’s prettier than you. The floor was so polished it looked like it wanted to reflect not just your shoes, but your financial inadequacy.

And the goblins—Merlin’s ledgers, the goblins—moved about like elegant, razor-edged ants who charged by the glare. Their suits were tailored within an inch of their lives, creases sharp enough to duel with, and their eyes gleamed with the precise, predatory intelligence of beings who not only knew how much you owed but also the interest rate on your soul.

I had an appointment, of course. Nothing impromptu in this house of money, magic, and bureaucracy. My mission: open a bank account in the name of Alexandra Selwyn. Not Rosier—not after the weight of that name, no matter how illustrious in pureblood circles. Death, power, grudges, and scandal came with it. Selwyn, thanks to Vespera Rosier née Selwyn, my distant cousin in this timeline, was clean, respectable, and—most importantly—less likely to spark a goblin scandal if questioned.

I adjusted my bag, which extended and contracted at will, as if it had been crafted specifically for my brand of time-traveling, child-rescuing chaos. Inside: a tidy fortune in galleons, a few silver sickles, and the odd family heirloom. One never knew how tightly goblins measured generosity against suspicion.

I passed through the tall, iron-wrought doors, and the scent of polished marble, aged parchment, and a faint undercurrent of gold-rich ambition washed over me. The lobby was immense, buzzing with muted incantations and the occasional metallic clink of coin vaults. It was like walking into a cathedral dedicated to wealth, ruled by creatures who judged you as thoroughly as any high priest, only with sharper teeth.

A goblin with a waistcoat so tight it looked painted on stepped forward, peering up at me with the kind of scrutiny that could detect a counterfeit galleon from a mile away. “Name?” he demanded, voice crisp as breaking crystal.

“Alexandra Selwyn,” I said, letting the syllables roll like a perfectly executed incantation. I watched his eyes flicker, registering both the Selwyn lineage and the very faint whisper of Rosier beneath. Hermione had been very clear: this was the safest timeline-approved identity. I wasn’t close enough to Harry to warp the world too much, and I wasn’t her—Hermione. Less genius, more charm. Less timeline-shattering, more paperwork.

“And purpose?” he asked, scribbling notes with a quill that seemed alive.

“I’d like to open a vault,” I said, smiling politely, “and deposit three thousand galleons. As well as some family heirlooms.”

At the mention of the galleons, the goblin’s posture shifted instantly. A subtle, appreciative twitch of his fingers, a glint of delight in his sharp eyes. Money, it seemed, was their favorite magic of all. “Three thousand galleons, you say?” he purred, almost reverently. “And heirlooms?”

“Yes. Very old, very precious, very insured.” I set the bag on the counter. It expanded obediently, revealing the stacks of glinting gold, a few jewel-encrusted trinkets, and a delicate, filigreed necklace that had belonged to my great-grandmother. The goblin’s eyes practically sparkled, and I allowed myself a small, victorious smile.

“Follow me,” he said, gesturing toward a private office guarded by enchanted doors that hummed with protective spells. The office smelled of polished cedar, candle wax, and faint traces of spellwork—like walking into a wizarding version of a Swiss bank vault, with just a hint of menace. The walls were lined with shelves containing scrolls, enchanted boxes, and vault keys that seemed to hover slightly, ready to spring into action.

“First,” the goblin explained, “the blood test.”

I raised an eyebrow. Hermione had assured me this was standard procedure for new accounts of significance, particularly when ancestry verification was required. I extended my hand. The goblin pricked my finger with a delicate, silver lancet—less threatening than it sounded, more precise than anything the Muggle doctors had ever managed. I hardly flinched.

A single drop of my blood hovered above an enchanted parchment. Slowly, it spread, blossoming into an intricate, living family tree. Names appeared in gilded script, twisting and interweaving like ivy: Rosier, Selwyn, even Black. Each branch pulsed faintly, as if alive with my lineage.

I studied it carefully. Rosier had history, yes, but weight—too much for someone just starting out in the eighties. Selwyn, however… Selwyn was clean, stable, respectable. My choice was clear. I traced the branch with my finger and whispered, “Selwyn.”

The goblins nodded in satisfaction, making small appreciative noises—like cats, only with fangs. They adored money almost as much as they adored clever clients, and apparently, clever clients who carried three thousand galleons in an expandable bag were especially delightful.

Documents appeared, quills scribbled, and seals shimmered magically on parchment. The vault number was assigned. My gold was counted, checked, and magically confirmed. The heirlooms were stored in reinforced enchanted boxes. Every magical precaution possible had been applied, and every goblin involved looked positively thrilled to be handling such treasures.

I left the office with a spring in my step. My existence was now fully official: registered in the Ministry as an Animagus, recognized by a bank as a legitimate Selwyn, and flush with enough wealth to cover the unpredictability of a teenage shopgirl life—and, more importantly, the needs of a certain six-year-old ward who had no idea how lucky he was about to get.

Stepping back into the alley, the sunlight catching the gold in my hair and the glint of galleons in my bag, I allowed myself a small, victorious smile. Hermione had been right, of course. Legal identity, magical credentials, financial stability—one could not ask for a better start.

She had also been right about the name. Having an old wizarding family name opened more doors than Alohomora ever could. Jobs, leases, credit lines—it was suddenly all possible. A Rosier name in 1987 would have been a liability; the Selwyns, however, were aristocratically bland and comfortably uninteresting.

It also helped that the real Alexandra Rosier already existed in this timeline. She was seven years old, in France, blissfully unaware that a future version of herself was gallivanting about London pretending to be her cousin. Which was precisely why I’d needed to reinvent myself.

Goodbye, icy platinum curls. Hello, golden warmth—more “sunlight in spring” than “ice queen of doom.” My grey eyes had become a soft amber, courtesy of a glamour ring crafted by a slightly suspicious French jeweler who’d only asked twice if I was evading the law. (Technically yes, but I paid in cash.)

I did, briefly, consider wearing glasses for that Clark Kent anonymity effect, but decided against it. Glamours would hold better, and besides—glasses fog up during pranks.

So, behold: Alexandra Selwyn, distant cousin of Vespera Rosier. Perfectly plausible. Perfectly elegant. Entirely fabricated.
A name like that deserved a suitably dramatic setting — and Britain, ever the overachiever in dreary theatrics, provided one. The spring air had that damp, indecisive chill that made even the castle owls look mildly offended by the weather.

It was not Hogwarts’ grand, romantic tower — no, this one was decidedly utilitarian: all stone, straw, and faint guano glamour. A symphony of hoots echoed through the air, mingling with the scent of parchment and feathers. The owls blinked down at me with the weary professionalism of postal clerks who had seen it all.

I had, in my gloved hands, a letter that would decide my near future — or at least make it slightly less absurd. Written on fine parchment, sealed with the modest wax crest of House Selwyn, it was addressed to the Hogwarts Administration Office, Attention: Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Keeper of Sanity in a World Gone Mad (unofficial title).

“Dear Professor McGonagall,” I’d written in my best, most prim handwriting,

I am writing to inquire whether it might be possible for me to sit for my N.E.W.T. examinations at the end of the current academic year. I have recently arrived in Britain after being homeschooled abroad, and due to family obligations, I have been unable to attend a formal institution.

I am currently sixteen, turning seventeen on the 21st of March, and have completed advanced coursework equivalent to the Hogwarts curriculum. I would also like to request permission to register for the Apparition test, as I will shortly be of age and, as I understand, legally qualified to apply.

I am fully aware that these requests are highly irregular, but I am more than willing to sit for an academic evaluation or demonstration of magical competency.

With my kindest regards,
Alexandra Selwyn

The letter was short, polite, and sounded exactly like the sort of thing an unremarkable, well-bred young witch might write — which, for my purposes, was perfect. Nowhere did it mention time travel, reincarnation, or bureaucratic terror.

The truth was simple: I needed credentials. No NEWTs meant no respectable job, and no respectable job meant the Ministry would laugh me straight into St. Mungo’s if I tried to adopt a child. The adoption forms asked if you could provide “stable employment.” Apparently, “time-displaced witch with a penchant for chaos and biscuit bribery” didn’t count.

I glanced up at the rows of owls, hundreds of them watching me as if assessing whether I was worth their effort. “All right, who wants to make history?” I asked grandly, holding up the sealed envelope.

A proud tawny owl hooted and fluffed his feathers, looking as though he’d delivered royal decrees before breakfast. “Excellent choice,” I said, fastening the letter to his leg. “Destination: Hogwarts. Deliver to Deputy Headmistress McGonagall. Preferably without dropping it in the lake or eating it, yes?”

The owl gave me a look of dignified offense, then launched into the grey morning with a sweep of wings, disappearing into the clouds.

I watched him go, the cold wind tugging at my hair, and allowed myself a long breath. Hermione had helped me forge a plausible backstory: homeschooled in France, recently relocated to Britain, family obligations, yada yada. It was neat, tidy, and not technically a lie — just... creatively arranged truth.

Now came the practical matters. I needed a place to live — somewhere close enough to Diagon Alley that I wouldn’t have to rely on apparition (illegal until my birthday) or the Knight Bus (which, in my humble opinion, was an affront to both physics and human dignity).  Something modest but well-situated — a two bedrooms flat, if I could manage it, because one day soon that second room would belong to a small boy who deserved soft blankets and breakfast that wasn’t begrudged to him.

And a job. Merlin help me, a job. Preferably one that didn’t involve cauldrons exploding or the words “entry-level.” Something temporary, respectable, and close enough that I could walk there without risking my life on magical public transport.

In less than two weeks, I would turn seventeen. Seventeen, which meant legally adult. Seventeen, which meant I could officially apply to adopt Harry. The thought made my heart flutter and my stomach knot all at once.

But first things first: I needed to be employable. No one adopted a child on charm and chaos alone (tragically).

I turned from the railing, brushing owl feathers off my cloak, and descended the stone steps with renewed purpose. Bureaucracy, paperwork, magical education credentials — fine. I would jump through every hoop the wizarding world demanded. I would even smile while doing it.

If the universe wanted Alexandra Selwyn to be respectable, then by Merlin’s quill, I would be the most dazzlingly respectable witch this side of Gringotts.

At least until after I signed the adoption papers. Then, all bets were off.

For now, however, respectability required transportation. I glanced at my watch, sighed, and prepared myself for the daily ordeal: the Knight Bus. That garish, violently purple monstrosity that careened through London as if driven by a banshee on espresso.

Because of course, until I could Apparate, I needed it to reach Little Whinging.

To Privet Drive.

Where my future ward , my poor, lonely, stubborn little hero, lived under the stairs.

Every evening, I made the same trip: cat by night, witch by day, lurking under hedges and lampposts like some deranged feline guardian. Watching. Waiting. Making sure the Dursleys didn’t reduce him to tears or starvation.

It wasn’t glamorous, no. But it was necessary. And if fate had sent me back to rewrite Harry Potter’s beginning, then by all the gods of magic and mischief, I was going to do it properly.

One owl, one letter, and one absurd Knight Bus ride at a time.

Harry’s POV

If I had to explain it — and I’m not very good at explaining things, Aunt Petunia says so all the time — I’d say it started with the cat.

Not Mrs. Figg’s cats. Hers smelled like cabbage and disappointment.
This one was… different. Lovely, in a way I didn’t have a word for yet.

She showed up one morning, sitting neatly on the low garden wall outside Number Four, tail curled like a question mark. Her fur looked goldish in the sunlight, the sort of gold you see when butter melts, and her eyes were strange — bright, honey-coloured, like the toffee Aunt Petunia bought for Dudley at Christmas but never let me taste.

I’d seen plenty of cats, but none that looked at me like that.
Like she knew something.

She didn’t even flinch when Dudley roared past on his new bike, training wheels rattling like thunder, or when Uncle Vernon slammed the car door so hard that the alarm on Number Seven’s car went off. She just watched me. Calm as a Sunday morning.
It made me nervous, being watched kindly. No one ever did that.

The first time I saw her, I was on my way to weed the garden — Aunt Petunia had said the dandelions were “mocking her.” (They weren’t, but I didn’t argue. Dandelions never get a say in things either.)

When I knelt down, the cat hopped off the wall and came closer, soft as a whisper.
I froze. Animals usually didn’t like me much. Once, a dog had barked so loudly when I walked past its gate that Aunt Petunia accused me of “provoking it with my oddness.”
But this cat? She walked straight up to me, sat beside my knee, and blinked. Slowly. Deliberately.

I didn’t move, barely breathed. Her fur shimmered faintly when the wind ruffled it, and I could see the tiny quiver of her whiskers, the careful stillness of a creature that didn’t trust easily.
Then, very carefully, I reached out my hand.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The air between us felt like a string pulled too tight. Then she leaned forward, sniffed my fingers once — a warm, tickly little breath — and pressed her head against my hand.

She let me touch her.

Her fur was warm and impossibly soft, like the inside of my cupboard under the stairs when the sun hit the door crack just right. My fingers sank into the fluff, and something uncurled in my chest that I didn’t know had been tight. I hadn’t realized how much I missed soft things until then.

She purred — a low, steady sound that buzzed against my palm. It wasn’t loud, but I could feel it, like she was humming a secret straight into my skin. I froze again, terrified that if I moved, she’d stop.
She didn’t.

Her tail brushed my arm, light and feathery, and my throat ached in a way I didn’t understand. No one had ever leaned on me like that before — not out of trust, not out of comfort. It was small, silly maybe, but it felt like being… chosen.

After that, she started appearing often. Not every day, but enough that I began to expect her.
Sometimes she’d be perched on the garden fence, tail swaying like she was conducting the breeze. Sometimes behind the dustbins, eyes glinting like twin lanterns. Once, I swear I saw her sitting in the tree outside the kitchen window, tail flicking like she was laughing at me.

I didn’t tell Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon. I wasn’t stupid. They didn’t like me noticing things, let alone strange things.

And strange things did happen sometimes.
Like when Dudley pushed me hard enough that I fell behind the bins — and somehow, the next moment, Dudley’s trousers had shrunk so tight he waddled like a penguin.
Or the time Aunt Petunia’s favourite vase exploded into tulips after she’d said I’d never bring anything nice into her house.
Or the day the cupboard lock just… opened on its own after I’d spent the night hungry and cold and wishing I could be anywhere else.

They always said it was me. The freak. The unnatural one.
I didn’t really know what freak meant, but it always came after shouting and before no supper, so I figured it wasn’t good.

But the cat never looked at me like that.
When she watched me, her gaze was steady and soft, like she was trying to tell me something important, something I couldn’t quite hear yet.

Sometimes, when my stomach growled loud enough to make me blush, she’d tilt her head and almost… sigh. Then she’d vanish for a bit and come back later, sitting near me again, looking smug. Once, I found a single piece of toast lying on the garden step — still warm.
Coincidence, maybe. But I’d never been that lucky with coincidences before.

When Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia were around, she was gone. Every single time. Like she could smell danger. Or like she knew that if they saw her near me, something bad would happen.
She’d wait until I was alone.

Sometimes I’d talk to her, just quietly, so no one heard.
“Hello,” I’d whisper, pretending I was saying it to myself.
Or, “You’re not supposed to be here, you know.”
Or, once, “You’re lucky you’re not me.”

She’d blink slowly, tail flicking. I liked to imagine she understood.
Sometimes I even thought she smiled — not in a cat way, but in a knowing, secret way.

The first time she climbed into my lap, I nearly forgot how to breathe. It was a slow, careful thing — like we were both afraid to scare the other away. She put one paw on my knee, tested her weight, then another. My whole body went stiff. Then she curled up in a perfect little circle, warm and purring, like I was something safe.

I didn’t dare move. My hands hovered in the air for ages before I finally touched her fur again. She was heavier than I expected, and warm — really warm, the kind of warmth that sinks into you. I could feel her heartbeat, tiny and quick, against my leg.

For the first time I could remember, something living was choosing to stay close.
I sat there until Aunt Petunia’s sharp voice called me back inside, and even then, I stayed one minute longer — just to feel her purr one more time.

When she left, she brushed her tail against my cheek, and it felt like a promise.
I didn’t know what kind, but it made the cupboard seem a little less dark that night.

Maybe, I thought as I drifted off to sleep, not all strange things were bad.
Maybe some were magic.

And maybe…this cat was mine.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Paperwork, Pistachio, and Peril

7: Chrono-Selective Time-Turners – Operational Options

Chrono-Selective Time-Turners, as previously discussed, represent a rare and particularly perilous branch of temporal instrumentation. Unlike conventional Time-Turners, they operate with a degree of semi-sentience, deciding the moment in time the user will arrive based on what the device perceives as the “most opportune.” While the consequences of this autonomy are unpredictable, historical usage has allowed identification of two primary, user-activatable functions:

1. Temporal Reversion within 72 Hours
   This function allows the user to return to their original temporal frame, provided the following conditions are met:

• Activation requires the user to physically wear the Time-Turner at the moment of reversion.
• The user must be within seventy-two hours of the original departure from their native timeline.
• To initiate, the user performs a clockwise rotation of the dial while simultaneously reciting the incantation “Tempus Revoco”. The device will then transport the wearer back to the point of departure, effectively undoing all temporal displacement within the permitted window.

While this function is reliable in theory, any interference—such as removal of the device or disruption of the wearer’s magical signature—may result in partial or incomplete reversion, often with catastrophic paradoxical side effects.

2. Temporal Merging with the Original Self (Highly Hypothetical)
   A far more exotic and largely theoretical option allows a temporal traveler to merge with their future self under extremely constrained circumstances:

• The traveler must arrive in the past at the exact moment corresponding to their original departure time.
• If activated, the traveling body will fuse seamlessly with the original body, restoring continuity to the timeline and eliminating temporal duplication.
• Activation is performed by rotating the dial counter-clockwise while whispering “Convergo Temporis”, accompanied by a precise visualization of one’s own departure point.

This option, however, is exceedingly rare in practice. Successful cases are largely anecdotal, and attempts to replicate the procedure have frequently resulted in either chronal stasis, identity dissonance, or permanent dislocation from one’s native timeline. Consequently, this function is primarily of theoretical interest rather than practical utility.

Cautionary Note: Both functions require meticulous attention to magical, temporal, and bodily alignment. Improper use has historically resulted in irretrievable displacement, timeline divergence, and, in one documented instance, a subject being partially fused with a goat for three hours.

Extract of The Unruly Hourglass : An Advanced Guide to Temporal Magic

by Emeric Tempus, O.M. (First Class)

*

McGonagall’s POV

It was one of those rare, deceptively peaceful afternoons at Hogwarts when the castle appeared to be resting—though I knew from experience that “resting” usually meant “gathering momentum for its next catastrophe.”

The staff room, at least, was calm enough. A fire crackled with the precise efficiency of a well-trained prefect, and a tray of tea cups hovered nearby, slightly crooked but doing its best. Professor Sprout was cheerfully pruning something that looked both carnivorous and optimistic in a pot by the window, while Severus sat opposite me, grading essays with all the enthusiasm of a man dissecting flobberworms for pleasure.

It was into this delicate peace that the morning owl post arrived—delayed, disheveled, and apparently bearing a personal vendetta against my scone. One letter in particular landed upon my plate, narrowly missing my teacup, sealed with immaculate silver wax. The handwriting was elegant, the kind that practically curtsied before you read it.

I opened it, already braced for nonsense.

“Dear Professor McGonagall,” it began in a graceful, slightly dramatic flourish,

I am writing to inquire whether it might be possible for me to sit for my N.E.W.T. examinations at the end of the current academic year. I have recently arrived in Britain after being homeschooled abroad, and due to family obligations, I have been unable to attend a formal institution.

I am currently sixteen, turning seventeen on the 21st of March, and have completed advanced coursework equivalent to the Hogwarts curriculum. I would also like to request permission to register for the Apparition test, as I will shortly be of age and, as I understand, legally qualified to apply.

I am fully aware that these requests are highly irregular, but I am more than willing to sit for an academic evaluation or demonstration of magical competency.

With my kindest regards,
Alexandra Selwyn

“Selwyn?” I murmured, setting the letter down. “I haven’t heard that name in years.”

Severus didn’t look up from his parchment. “Lucky you.”

Sprout chuckled, trimming her plant with suspicious enthusiasm. “Selwyn… oh, one of the old families, aren’t they? Thought they’d all decamped to the continent.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “And apparently they brought their tutors with them. Homeschooled, she says.”

Severus made a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh. “That could mean anything from ‘educated by a retired Charms master’ to ‘taught transfiguration by an enthusiastic great-aunt who once turned a cat into a pudding.’”

“I’ve seen worse,” I replied dryly. “You recall the Parkinson cousins? Their tutor taught them Latin first, then spells, and the poor girls spent a term conjugating hexes.”

Pomona laughed so hard she nearly dropped her shears. “Oh, heavens, yes! ‘Expellere est!’ wasn’t it? I heard that story in the staff room for years.”

Severus merely raised an eyebrow. “Charming. Well, if this Miss Selwyn intends to sit for her N.E.W.T.s, I assume you’ll have to test her first. You can’t very well hand out credentials to a stranger with a nice pen.”

“No,” I said, folding the letter neatly. “Though she seems earnest enough. Sixteen, nearly of age, homeschooled abroad. There’s a regulation regarding that—applicants must undergo a magical competency examination prior to any certification. And for Apparition, she’ll need to attend two instructional sessions before she can even attempt the test.”

Pomona looked up from her plant, leaves in her hair. “When’s the next session?”

“Mid-April, after the spring break,” I said. “I could arrange for her to attend, perhaps evaluate her abilities then. If she’s as advanced as she claims, it should be clear enough.”

Severus tapped his quill against the desk, his tone somewhere between curiosity and disdain. “You sound intrigued.”

“I am intrigued,” I admitted, because I refuse to lie before witnesses. “It’s not every day one encounters a homeschooled pure-blood girl requesting N.E.W.T. examinations at sixteen. It’s… unusual.”

“Unusual,” Severus echoed, “is your polite way of saying ‘potentially catastrophic.’”

I sipped my tea. “Experience has taught me that catastrophe, when wrapped in polite parchment, is at least well-behaved to start with.”

Pomona gave me a conspiratorial grin. “You do have a weakness for the curious ones, Minerva. Remember the Prewetts brothers?”

I fixed her with my best professorial stare. “I am trying not to.”

The fire popped cheerfully, as if amused by our collective misfortune. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes like a student demanding attention.

“Perhaps she’s brilliant,” Pomona suggested, brushing soil off her robes. “You always like the brilliant ones, even when they give you headaches.”

“Especially when they give her headaches,” Severus muttered.

I ignored him. “If she’s half as capable as this letter suggests, she may well be worth the trouble.”

Pomona leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Speaking of trouble—have you heard the latest about Rolanda Hooch?”

I sighed. “Is this the part of the afternoon where professionalism dies?”

“Oh, come on, Minerva,” Pomona said. “It’s just a bit of gossip! Apparently she’s seeing someone new—some alchemist from Bruges.”

Severus looked faintly horrified. “Bruges. The one with the flying boots?”

Pomona nodded. “That’s the one! They say he brews love potions that actually work.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Merlin help us if she starts serving them in the staff tea.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Severus murmured. “Sprout would start serenading the mandrakes, and you’d finally confess your deep affection for the Transfiguration curriculum.”

“I have no need to confess,” I said crisply. “My affection for the curriculum is well-documented, properly filed, and entirely chaste.”

Pomona nearly choked laughing. “Oh, Minerva, you’re impossible.”

“I strive for consistency,” I said, though my lips might have twitched a fraction.

When the laughter subsided, I looked again at the elegant script of Alexandra Selwyn’s letter, still glinting faintly in the firelight. There was something about it—poised, deliberate, yet quietly daring—that set it apart.

“I’ll write to her,” I said finally. “Invite her to Hogwarts for an evaluation in April. If she’s truly capable, she’ll prove it. If not, we’ll have an interesting afternoon, at least.”

Severus smirked. “And if she’s both brilliant and catastrophic?”

I sighed, already knowing the answer. “Then, Severus, she’ll fit right in.”

The fire crackled its approval. The tea tray refilled itself with a faint clatter. Somewhere beyond the window, a student screamed, followed by the unmistakable bang of a misfired spell.

I set the letter aside with the faintest of smiles. Hogwarts, it seemed, was preparing for the next chapter of chaos.

Alexandra’s POV

I had imagined this moment differently.

In my mind, the job interview at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour would be simple, elegant, and deliciously aesthetic: a charming conversation over pastel sundaes, me dazzling them with wit, they dazzled by my sheer competence and cheekbones. We’d share a polite laugh. I’d be hired on the spot. Possibly celebrated with a complimentary scoop of raspberry ripple and eternal glory.

Reality, however, had other ideas.

The first sign that things were going downhill arrived in the form of the manager himself: Mr. Virgil Fortescue, allegedly a distant cousin of the famed Florean. He looked like a lemon tart that had achieved sentience and deeply regretted it. His hair was violently curly, his waistcoat violently green, and his smile—dear Merlin—was the strained grimace of a man who’d seen too much sugar and not enough therapy.

“Miss Selwyn!” he declared, arms spread wide as though I were a long-lost relative or an unexpected tax refund. “You’ve arrived! Splendid, splendid. Tell me, how do you feel about the metaphysical implications of pistachio?”

I blinked. “I—sorry, the what of—?”

“Pistachio,” he repeated gravely, as though it were the cornerstone of magical philosophy. “You see, some claim it’s merely a flavour. But others… others believe it’s a state of mind.”

“Right,” I said brightly, because one must never show fear in the presence of madness. “Personally, I’ve always found pistachio very grounding.”

He squinted at me, eyes sharp and suspicious, as if I’d just confessed to crimes against gelato. “Grounding, you say? Hm. A dangerous attitude. The pistachio spirit prefers transcendence.”

It was at that precise moment I realised I was in trouble.

The ice cream parlour was empty except for us, sunlight filtering through the enchanted glass windows and bouncing off the enormous jars of toppings—hundreds of them, stacked in precarious rainbow towers. Somewhere, a sundae spoon levitated menacingly. The air smelled of sugar, anxiety, and impending doom.

Virgil clasped his hands. “Tell me, Miss Selwyn, what is your opinion on sprinkles?”

I hesitated. It was, apparently, a question of moral consequence. “They’re… cheerful?”

“Cheerful?!” he hissed, as though I’d insulted his ancestors. “Sprinkles are a statement, Miss Selwyn. They say, ‘I refuse subtlety.’ They say, ‘I am chaos incarnate!’”

“I—yes, I see that,” I said quickly. “I, too, am fond of chaos.”

That seemed to placate him. For a moment.

He began pacing. “You see, we here at Fortescue’s do not merely serve ice cream. We channel emotion. A customer does not simply order strawberry—they reveal their soul. A scoop is confession, Miss Selwyn. An act of divine vulnerability.”

“Yes,” I said faintly. “Of course.”

“Good. Then,” he said, spinning abruptly to face me, “what would you say your aura pairs best with—chocolate fudge or salted caramel?”

I stared at him. “I… wasn’t aware I had a flavour profile.”

“Everyone does,” he said darkly. “Some people are rocky road and denial.”

I opened my mouth, closed it again, and decided that survival depended on agreeing enthusiastically until I could make an escape.

He perched on the edge of the counter, peering at me like an owl judging a particularly unimpressive mouse. “Now. The practical portion. Pretend I am a customer. I approach you. I say—” (he deepened his voice dramatically) “‘Good afternoon, Miss! I should like a double scoop of existential dread with a drizzle of ennui.’ What do you do?”

I blinked. “...Offer whipped cream?”

“Wrong!” he barked, slamming his fist on the counter, nearly toppling a jar of chocolate buttons. “You redirect the energy! You guide the customer toward catharsis, perhaps a raspberry sorbet to balance the melancholy!”

“Of course,” I murmured weakly. “How could I be so foolish.”

By now, my confidence was melting faster than a snowball in July. I had thought this would be the perfect job—quaint, easy, slightly whimsical. Instead, I was being spiritually interrogated by a man who clearly communicated with his freezer.

He gave me a long, assessing look, then whipped out an astrological chart. Of course he did.

“Now, one final detail,” he said gravely. “Your star sign, Miss Selwyn?”

“I—Aries.”

He froze. Blinked once. Twice. Then inhaled sharply, as though I’d just confessed to setting fire to a gelato deity.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear, dear.”

I hesitated. “Is… that a problem?”

“A problem?” he gasped, clutching his emerald waistcoat like it might protect him from astral combustion. “Miss Selwyn, Aries is the sign of fire. And we,”—he gestured dramatically to the counter, to the tubs of innocent-looking ice cream—“are frozen essence. Do you not see the danger? You could cause a flavour implosion!”

“A… flavour implosion.”

“Yes!” he said, eyes wide with tragic conviction. “The last time we hired a Leo, the entire pistachio batch curdled itself into sentience and joined a jazz band in Knockturn Alley. I cannot risk it again.”

“I see,” I said faintly. “You’re rejecting me because… I’m too flammable for the ice cream.”

“Not I, dear girl,” he said gravely, pressing a hand to his heart. “The cosmic confectionary balance. The gelato knows. It always knows.”

And with the solemnity of a man bestowing last rites, he produced a sympathy coupon from his pocket, embossed in gold foil: ‘ONE FREE SCOOP—REDEEMABLE IN THIS OR ANY PARALLEL REALITY.’

I stared at it. “This expires last year.”

“Temporal metaphor,” he said, ushering me toward the door. “Now, off you go. Before the raspberry ripple senses your aura.”

The bell above the door chimed mournfully as I stepped into the street, blinking in the sunlight and wondering if I’d just survived a fever dream or joined one.

“Well,” I muttered, stuffing the coupon in my pocket, “at least I didn’t have to battle a sentient sundae.”

I squared my shoulders, straightened my robes, and set off toward interview number two. Surely—surely—nothing could be stranger than this.

(Somewhere in the distance, destiny snorted.)

By the time I reached Quality Quidditch Supplies, I’d emotionally recovered from being rejected by a man who consulted the stars before scooping pistachio. Barely. The air still smelled faintly of sugar and trauma.

The moment I stepped inside the shop, I was greeted by the scent of leather, broom polish, and testosterone. Rows of gleaming broomsticks lined the walls like sacred relics, and a massive poster of the Puddlemere United team smiled down from above the counter. Every witch and wizard in the image looked like they’d been born gripping a Quaffle and a dream.

Behind the counter stood a man with greying hair, a walrus mustache, and the posture of someone who’d once blocked Bludgers with his face and been proud of it.

“Ah! You must be Miss Selwyn,” he boomed, striding toward me with the buoyant energy of a man who’d replaced half his joints with enthusiasm. “Percival Fizzwizzle—owner, manager, broom whisperer, Puddlemere United reserve keeper, circa 1959. Don’t look it, I know.”

He winked. I smiled, because my survival instincts told me to.

“Lovely to meet you, sir. Thank you for seeing me.”

He looked me up and down, as though unsure whether I was there to sell brooms or enchant them into singing. “You’re a bit of a surprise, Miss Selwyn. Most applicants look like they’ve fallen off a broom in the last twenty-four hours. You look like you’ve stepped out of Witch Weekly.”

“Thank you,” I said sweetly. “I trip with great style.”

He barked a laugh. “Good answer! But tell me—do you actually know your way around a broom, or do you just look decorative?”

I resisted the urge to transfigure him into a quaffle. “I’ve played since I was little,” I said. “School team, Chaser. Broke my wrist twice and a record once.”

“Ha!” His face lit up like a Quaffle on fire. “Now that’s the spirit! Nothing like a few bone fractures to show commitment. Sit, sit—let’s see what you know.”

The interview began with questions so rapid-fire it felt like a duel disguised as a trivia game.

“Model differences between a Nimbus 1700 and a Comet 260?”

“The Nimbus has superior acceleration but heavier handle weight. The Comet’s charm core is more stable for wind resistance.”

“Handling quality on the Cleansweep Five?”

“Fine if you don’t mind occasionally veering left into existential despair.”

He wheezed with laughter. “Merlin’s kneecaps, girl, you’ve flown one, haven’t you?”

“I’ve flown worse,” I said solemnly. “My grandfather’s old Éclair du Vent 120. Gorgeous speed, suicidal steering.”

Fizzwizzle clutched his chest in delight. “The French model! Haven’t heard of one in years! Bloody marvellous craftsmanship. Handle like a buttered eel, though.”

“Exactly,” I said, warming to him despite myself. “You had to lean three degrees left to convince it not to kill you.”

For the first time, I felt like I was doing well. The conversation veered from broom models to Quidditch history to Fizzwizzle’s golden days at Puddlemere (“Reserve Keeper, mind you, but I caught one Bludger with my eyebrow once!”).

He tested me on teams and scores. I parried with statistics, player transfers, and minor league controversies. At one point, I quoted the Appleby Arrows’ 1974 defensive stats from memory. He looked ready to adopt me.

“Impressive,” he said at last, nodding. “You know your brooms, your teams, and your theory. But the most important question…”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if about to discuss state secrets.

“…Who’s your favourite team?”

Ah. The trap. The social equivalent of asking which Dark Lord one sympathised with.

I gave him my most innocent smile. “I prefer to remain neutral, sir. I wouldn’t want to alienate potential customers.”

He slapped the counter, beaming. “Smart girl! That’s exactly what you’ll tell every boy who asks you. And they will ask, Miss Selwyn, they will ask. You keep that mystery. The mystery sells brooms.”

“I’ll guard it with my life,” I promised.

He chuckled approvingly and scribbled something on a parchment. “So far, you’re my top candidate. Sharp mind, good manners, probably better posture than half my staff. Just a few formalities, then.”

“Of course,” I said. “There are two things I should mention.”

His eyebrows lifted warily. “Go on.”

“The first is that I will be soon responsible for my younger brother. I’d need permission to bring him with me during shifts. He’s very quiet. Mostly. Unless there’s sugar involved.”

Fizzwizzle stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “Hmmm. A boy in the shop, eh? Could be good for business. Customers like seeing family values. Teaches the lad about sport, discipline, capitalism. Fine, bring him along.”

I exhaled in relief. “Thank you. And the second thing is—I’ll need some time off for my N.E.W.T.s and Apparition lessons at Hogwarts.”

He blinked. “You’re still in school?”

“Technically,” I said. “Spiritually, I’m in debt and holding coffee.”

He laughed again, then waved it off. “No problem. We’ll work around it. You’re a bright witch, Selwyn. Quidditch shops need clever ones—it keeps the Bludgers from running the place.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Fizzwizzle!” he corrected. “Everyone calls me Fizzwizzle. Makes me sound approachable.”

“Yes, sir—Fizzwizzle,” I said, suppressing a smile.

He leaned forward, voice suddenly conspiratorial. “Start next week. Spring break rush, you know—students coming home, brooms to repair, Quaffles to re-enchant, you name it. We’ll need all hands—and yours seem capable.”

“I’ll be there,” I promised.

He grinned. “Good. And Miss Selwyn?”

“Yes?”

“If anyone asks your favourite team…”

“I’ll smile enigmatically and change the subject.”

He slapped the counter again, delighted. “You’ll go far, girl! Very far indeed!”

I left the shop floating somewhere between triumph and exhaustion. My robes smelled faintly of broom varnish and optimism.

“Well,” I murmured to myself, glancing at my reflection in the shop window, “from cosmic gelato rejection to professional Quidditch consultant in one afternoon. Character development, thy name is Alexandra.”

And with that, I pocketed my sympathy ice cream coupon and strutted into the sunlight like a witch who had—against all odds—finally won the day.

***

It was a bright, aggressively suburban afternoon when I arrived at Number Four, Privet Drive—an address so offensively normal it could have been generated by a spell designed to repel personality.

I adjusted my skirt suit for the fourth time. Grey. Crisp. Professional. The sort of outfit that said I bill by the hour and have no emotional capacity left. My magically aged face (mid-twenties, neat bun, minimal makeup) smiled pleasantly in the reflection of a very polished car window. I looked like every overworked solicitor I’d ever been forced to have lunch with in my previous life. Perfect.

“Right,” I muttered under my breath. “You’re Alexandra Selwyn, distant cousin of James Potter, entirely Muggle, and allergic to whimsy. Try not to hex anyone.”

I straightened my posture—lawyer mode: activated—and rang the doorbell.

Petunia Dursley opened the door after a moment, narrow and precise, like someone carved entirely out of ironing boards. Her eyes swept over me with suspicion finely honed by years of HOA meetings.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Dursley?” I asked, smiling with every tooth of false civility I could summon. “Alexandra Selwyn. I’m a distant cousin of the late James Potter. May I come in for a moment? It’s about his son.”

Her mouth twitched. Oh, the name Potter still had that effect.

“Ah,” she said tightly. “Yes. Well. He’s—he’s at school.”

“Excellent,” I said warmly. “I was hoping to speak with you privately.”

If looks could iron shirts, hers would have done my entire wardrobe. But she stepped aside, motioning me in.

The Dursley home was everything I’d imagined and worse. Beige walls. Beige carpet. Beige soul. Family photos everywhere—smiling Dudley in various stages of smug evolution. Not a trace of another child.

I resisted the urge to mutter Exhibit A: Suppression of Magical Ward.

“Tea?” she asked automatically, out of social obligation more than hospitality.

“That would be lovely,” I said, folding my hands neatly in my lap as I sat on the world’s most judgmental sofa.

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me to take in the decor. Everything gleamed. Not a speck of dust. The kind of house that looked like it had been polished by shame.

When she returned, she set a teacup in front of me with the reverence one reserves for sacred rituals and Tupperware. I accepted it with lawyerly grace.

“So,” she said, sitting upright. “You’re… a cousin, you said?”

“Distant,” I confirmed smoothly. “My mother was related to the Potters through her second cousin. I only recently discovered the full connection, as I’ve been living abroad for some time.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Abroad where?”

“France,” I said promptly, because no one questions France. “I’ve only just returned to London for work. I’m a legal consultant.”

Petunia visibly relaxed. Magic was one thing she loathed—lawyers, however, she understood.

“I see,” she said, her tone thawing by a single degree. “And this is… about the boy?”

“Yes,” I said gently, as though discussing a tragic inheritance. “You see, I’ve recently come into the position to offer him guardianship. It seems only right, considering our family connection.”

Her teacup paused halfway to her lips. “Guardianship?”

“Yes. I know this must seem sudden, but I wanted to come in person. Letters can be so impersonal, don’t you think? And this is rather a delicate matter.”

“Indeed,” she said, blinking rapidly. “You mean—you would take him? Entirely?”

“That’s correct.” I smiled the practiced, reassuring smile of someone who has said trust me, I’m a professional far too many times. “You and your husband have your own child to care for, and I imagine it’s been quite an undertaking to manage two boys.”

Petunia made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like relief muffled by politeness. “Well, it has been… quite the arrangement. Of course, we’ve done our best.”

Oh, yes. I’m sure you have, I thought, eyeing the pristine carpet that clearly hadn’t suffered any toy car races or muddy shoes belonging to a certain nephew.

I reached into my bag and produced a sleek, leather folder—enchanted to look mundanely legal, though inside were Ministry-grade adoption papers glowing faintly with magical bureaucracy.

“These are the documents I’ve prepared,” I said, sliding them neatly across the coffee table. “All standard. Custody transfer, financial responsibility, health arrangements—the usual formalities.”

She stared at the papers as if they might explode. (Fair, honestly.)

“I realize this is a great deal to take in,” I continued calmly. “You’ll need to discuss it with your husband, of course. I simply wanted to bring everything directly, since I was in London on business.”

“Yes… yes, of course,” she murmured, eyes darting from the documents to me and back again. “You’ll want to… speak with Vernon.”

“Naturally.” I sipped my tea. It tasted like dust and despair. “Perhaps I could phone you later this week to arrange a proper meeting with him—and the child.”

Her expression twitched. Alarm. She didn’t want me to meet Harry. Not yet. Possibly ever. Probably afraid I’d discover he wasn’t allowed to exist beyond the cupboard under the stairs.

“Oh, well,” she said quickly, “I’m not sure about… phones, and Vernon’s schedule is so dreadfully busy—”

I raised a hand, smiling pleasantly. “Please don’t worry. I’ll be happy to take him regardless. I understand how busy life can be.”

Her eyes widened. “Regardless?”

“Yes,” I said smoothly, setting my cup down. “After all, he’s my responsibility now. You’ve done so much already. It’s only right I take it from here.”

There was a moment of silence in which I could hear Petunia Dursley’s very soul reheating itself in pure relief.

“Well,” she said faintly. “That’s… very kind of you, Miss Selwyn.”

“Please,” I said, rising gracefully. “Call me Alexandra.”

I handed her a business card—charmingly mundane, with a fake phone number that rerouted through the Leaky Cauldron. “Do take your time discussing it with your husband. I’ll be in touch within a few days.”

She escorted me to the door herself, practically vibrating with the restrained joy of someone about to offload an unwanted responsibility.

As I stepped into the blinding neatness of Privet Drive, I heard her call softly, “You’ll—truly take him, then?”

I turned, giving her my warmest professional smile. “Mrs. Dursley, I’d be delighted.”

And with that, I walked back down the path, heels clicking like punctuation marks in an absurd sentence.

Once I was out of sight, I dropped the glamour, letting my face return to its sixteen-year-old state. The suit vanished into robes with a flick of my wand.

“Well,” I said to myself, smirking, “one step closer to kidnapping the Chosen One. In a legally binding, paperwork-heavy way. Mother would be so proud.”

*

The Knight Bus appeared with its usual subtlety: that is, a sound like imploding brass and the faint scent of despair.

“Every. Single. Time,” I muttered, clutching my handbag as I stepped on board, already bracing myself for the inevitable near-death experience disguised as public transportation.

“Afternoon, miss!” bellowed the conductor—a lanky, gap-toothed man with the unmistakable air of someone who’d had far too much caffeine and not nearly enough supervision. His name tag read “Stanley Shunpike Sr.”, which explained quite a lot about his offspring.

“Leaky Cauldron,” I said crisply, handing him my fare.

“Lovely! We’ll get you there faster than you can say ‘Department of Magical Transportation Violation!’”

“I have no doubt,” I said dryly, gripping the nearest bedpost as the bus gave a violent lurch that nearly redefined gravity.

The interior, as always, looked like a magical fever dream. Beds rolled freely across the floor. Teapots poured themselves onto nonexistent tables. A portrait of a screaming banshee hung upside down. And every time the bus turned, the laws of physics took personal offense.

I sat down; well, clung; while the bus shot forward with a sonic boom that probably violated at least three international treaties. My stomach performed a slow pirouette of rebellion.

I’d been taking the Knight Bus almost daily for a week now—commuting between the Leaky Cauldron and Privet Drive to transform in my Animagus form (small, elegant cat, highly suspicious of garden gnomes). My glamorous new life as a time-traveling cat-lady-lawyer hybrid had truly peaked.

As London blurred into streaks of surreal color outside the rattling windows, I tried to focus on the positive.

Petunia Dursley’s face had been a sight to behold: cautious hope wrapped in polished politeness, with just a dash of “Can I gift-wrap the boy for you?” If all went well, she and her walrus husband would sign the papers, and Harry would finally—finally—be free.

I smiled faintly, though it felt precarious in motion. “You’re doing this, Rosier,” I murmured. “One bureaucratic miracle at a time.”

The bus hit a particularly aggressive pothole (possibly a small crater), and I was launched half a foot in the air before landing unceremoniously on the next seat over. The wizard occupying it—a frail old man surrounded by twelve identical caged canaries—glared at me as if I’d personally offended birdkind.

“Apologies,” I said with my best aristocratic composure, trying to extract my robes from under a rogue teapot.

He sniffed. One of the canaries sneezed glitter.

“Lovely creatures,” I said weakly.

He narrowed his eyes. “They bite.”

Of course they did.

“Hold tight!” shouted Stanley Sr. “We’re taking a shortcut through Tottenham Court Road—mind the temporal distortion!”

I did not want to mind the temporal distortion, but apparently, the universe had other plans. The bus folded, briefly, in on itself like a reality pretzel, and when it unfolded again, we were upside down for several seconds. My hair attempted to escape the laws of geometry.

“Why do I do this to myself,” I hissed, clutching the nearest curtain rod for dear sanity.

Because, whispered the reasonable part of my brain, I couldn’t apparate yet, near Privet Drive and risks the Trace. The Knight Bus was the only option.

I made a mental note: when Harry came with me, we were renting a car. A good, solid, Muggle car. Preferably one that obeyed Newtonian physics. I hadn’t driven since my previous life, but how hard could it be? Right-hand wheel, wrong side of the road, London traffic fueled by existential rage—what could possibly go wrong?

I imagined it: me, Alexandra Rosier, respectable faux-Muggle guardian, whisking Harry away in a modest second-hand car while pretending I knew what the clutch did. Maybe I’d even play the radio and hum something wildly anachronistic just to confuse fate.

The bus jolted again, this time sideways. My teacup (where had that come from?) performed a brief midair ballet before smashing into a portrait of Merlin, who scowled at me like a disappointed teacher.

“Sorry,” I said automatically, brushing tea leaves off my sleeve.

By the time the bus screeched to a stop outside the Leaky Cauldron, I was approximately three parts motion-sick, two parts determined, and one part ready to hex gravity.

“Here we are!” announced Stanley Sr. with pride, as though we’d landed a starship instead of a glorified tumble dryer. “Smooth journey, eh?”

“Exceptionally,” I said through gritted teeth, stepping off the bus with all the dignity I could muster while my inner ear performed jazz.

“Come again soon!” he called cheerfully.

I gave him a brittle smile. “Not if I can help it.”

The Knight Bus vanished with a BANG that rattled the windows of the Leaky Cauldron. I stood there for a moment, straightening my robes and taking a steadying breath. The afternoon air smelled like smoke, bread, and faint optimism.

If Petunia signed the papers, I’d finally have him. I just needed to find the right flat—somewhere big enough for two, cozy, close to Diagon Alley but Muggle enough to keep the Ministry’s eyebrows relaxed.

Three properties to see. One overexcited magical estate agent. And hopefully, no more magical vehicular trauma.

A breeze fluttered past, carrying the faint sound of laughter—mine, probably, from some alternate timeline where I made better life choices.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Light Under the Stairs

Harry’s POV

Aunt Petunia was in an oddly good mood that afternoon.
It was the sort of mood that made the air feel dangerous — like the calm before Uncle Vernon’s sneeze at Sunday dinner. She hummed as we walked back from school, swinging her handbag like it had done something right. Even Dudley noticed.

“Did something good happen, Mummy?” he asked, kicking a stone down the pavement.

“Oh, nothing you need to know, Diddykins,” she said, smiling in that sharp way that showed all her teeth but none of her kindness. “Let’s just say I had a very pleasant visitor this afternoon. Very proper. Very… refined. Not the sort who comes sniffing around for trouble.”

She looked down at me when she said that. I didn’t understand what she meant, but I smiled anyway. Smiling usually made things hurt less later.

The sky was the colour of dishwater, and Dudley was eating crisps loudly beside me. Every few steps, he tried to trip me with his foot — for sport, I suppose. Aunt Petunia didn’t notice. Or maybe she did and decided not to.

By the time we reached Privet Drive, my shoes were full of gravel and my head was full of questions. Aunt Petunia kept glancing at the front garden as though she expected someone to be there — someone nice, judging by the way her mouth twitched upward. Then she saw the empty wall and sighed, disappointed.

Dudley ran ahead and flung open the front door, shouting, “Mummy! Harry did something weird again!”

My stomach dropped like a stone.

Aunt Petunia froze in the hallway, halfway through hanging her coat. “What do you mean, weird?” she said, in that thin voice that made the back of my neck sting.

“At school!” Dudley puffed out his chest, thrilled to be the hero of this story. “At recess! Me and Billy were chasing him—”

“Why?” she asked, though she didn’t sound like she really cared.

“’Cause,” Dudley said vaguely, “he looked funny.”

Of course. That was reason enough.

“And then,” he continued, eyes wide for dramatic effect, “he disappeared! And then he was on top of the big shelf in the corner! The one taller than Mr. Gibbins!”

Aunt Petunia’s mouth fell open. “You climbed that?” she hissed at me.

“I—I don’t know,” I said. Which was true. I hadn’t climbed. I’d just… wanted to be away. And then I was.

Her eyes narrowed, lips thinning to a knife-edge. “Unnatural,” she muttered. “Absolutely unnatural.”

Later, when Uncle Vernon came home from work, Aunt Petunia wasted no time telling him about the incident.
He was in the sitting room for all of ten seconds before the stomping began — heavy, furious steps shaking the hallway like distant thunder.

His face was already purple by the time he reached me. He didn’t ask what had happened; he never did. The verdict was always quicker than the crime.

“No supper tonight, boy!”

A shove between the shoulders, the smell of his aftershave — sharp and sour — and then I was stumbling toward the cupboard under the stairs. The door slammed shut behind me with a thud that made the lightbulb flicker.

The lock clicked a heartbeat later.
That small, metallic sound — neat, final, practiced — was one I knew far too well.

Inside, the dark felt almost friendly. I’d learned every shape of this little space — the triangle of light from the crack under the door, the cobweb that hung above the boiler pipe like a ghost’s lace, the soft hiss of air when the house settled. It smelled of dust, old socks, and something faintly metallic. My cupboard wasn’t nice, exactly, but it was mine.

When you never have anything of your own, even a cupboard starts to feel special.

I sat cross-legged on the thin mattress, tracing the marks on the wall where I’d once tried to count the days by scratching lines with a nail. I’d stopped after Aunt Petunia noticed.

Sometimes I hated it in here. Sometimes I dreamed of running away, all the way to the end of the street or maybe to London itself — though I wasn’t sure what you needed to get there. A map, maybe. Or just not to be scared.

I reached up to turn on my tiny torch — a birthday gift from myself, found in the bin after Dudley broke it — and that’s when I saw them.

Tiny paw prints.

They led from the door toward the deepest, narrowest bit under the stairs where even I couldn’t stand upright. The prints glimmered slightly in the dust, like they’d been made only moments ago.

My heart jumped. I crawled closer.

At the end of the trail sat a small cloth bag, tied with string. There was a doodle of a cat on it — a fat little cat with whiskers so long they almost met in the middle. I stared at it, half expecting it to vanish if I blinked.

When I untied the string, something like a dream spilled out.

A chocolate bar. A small box of apple juice. Grapes, real ones, not the squashed kind Dudley threw at me. And a piece of golden, crusty bread that smelled faintly of butter and something Aunt Petunia once called “baguette” in a voice that made it sound like an insult.

I stared at the treasure in silence. My throat felt tight, like I’d swallowed the wrong kind of magic.

I hadn’t had chocolate since forever. Food that wasn’t leftovers, that wasn’t given with a sigh or a glare — that was new.

For a moment, I thought maybe I was dreaming. Or maybe someone had made a mistake, and any second Aunt Petunia would fling open the door and take it back, saying, “You don’t deserve that.”

But the door stayed shut.

And the smell of the bread was too good, too real.

I broke off a piece carefully, like it might disappear if I wasn’t gentle enough, and tasted it. Warm, soft, kind. I didn’t know food could taste kind before.

Somewhere above, the house creaked — but I wasn’t afraid. I looked at the little paw prints again, glowing faintly in the dim light, and smiled.

It had to be her. The grey cat with the honey eyes.

Maybe she was my guardian angel.
Or maybe, for once, the world had decided to be a little less cruel.

Either way, I whispered into the dark, “Thank you.”

And for the first time in a very long while, the cupboard felt almost safe.

*

Alexandra’s POV

If one ever needed proof that fate had a sense of humor, it was the fact that I was spending my birthday eve in the Leaky Cauldron, waiting for a real estate agent named Mortimer Brickenshaw.

Yes. Brickenshaw. You couldn’t make it up if you tried.

The man was late — of course — and I was on my third cup of tea, which had long passed from “revitalizing” to “I’m ninety and gossiping about curtains.” The pub smelled of firewood, stale butterbeer, and faint ambition. Behind me, a witch was loudly explaining to her friend how her Kneazle had hexed her new boyfriend, and honestly, I related on a spiritual level.

I stirred my tea idly, trying not to think too hard about whether Harry had found the little stash I’d slipped behind the cupboard door that afternoon — a chocolate bar, some fruit, a bit of baguette, all wrapped in a bag with a cat doodle I’d made on instinct.
(Yes, I doodle. Don’t judge. It adds whimsy to smuggling calories.)

Petunia Dursley had been as brittle as a biscuit left out in the rain. She’d smiled through gritted teeth—the sort of smile that said, “If I had a wand, you’d already be a scorch mark on my carpet.” Still, the visit had done what it needed to. She now believed me to be some impossibly polite French cousin of the Potters, a lawyer with “excellent breeding, suspiciously good posture, and an unfortunate fondness for cats.”

My teacup rattled — the door had opened.
In swept Mortimer Brickenshaw, late, puffed, and dressed like a galleon had vomited an accountant. His waistcoat was pinstriped in gold, and his spectacles perched precariously on the end of a nose built for sniffing out profit.

“Miss Selwyn!” he announced with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for clients who don’t haggle. “Apologies, apologies — the Floo connection was dreadfully congested. I trust you’ve been comfortable?”

“I’ve been many things,” I said smoothly. “Comfortable isn’t one of them.”

He blinked, uncertain if I was joking. I wasn’t sure either.

“Splendid!” he said briskly. “Let’s find you a proper London pied-à-terre, shall we? Something… with character.”

Ah, yes. Character. Realtor code for “haunted or structurally unsound.”

Our first stop was an ancient brick building at the edge of Knockturn Alley. The sign above the door read Hawthorn House, but the ‘H’ was missing, so it looked distressingly like Awthorn House. Which was, frankly, accurate.

Inside, the flat smelled faintly of mildew, despair, and what I strongly suspected was hemoglobin.

“It’s very atmospheric,” I said delicately.

“Indeed!” said Mortimer, beaming. “It’s currently occupied by a—er—a long-term tenant, but he’s set to move out at the end of the lunar cycle.”

“By ‘move out,’ do you mean coffin transfer?”

Mortimer hesitated. “...Possibly.”

A tall, pale figure in a velvet dressing gown emerged from the shadows, blinking at me with glowing red eyes. “You’re early,” he said mournfully.

I blinked back. “You’re undead.”

“I prefer post-vital,” he said, vanishing back into his bedroom.

I turned to Mortimer. “Let’s try another, perhaps one that doesn’t come with blood type preferences.”

The second flat was located above a shop that sold enchanted chamber pots. I should have known.

It was, as Mortimer put it, “a study in vertical innovation.” By which he meant there were stairs everywhere. Stairs to the loo. Stairs to the sitting room. Stairs to a cupboard. Stairs that led directly into a wall.

At one point, I turned a corner and found a staircase that went up half a meter, ended, then turned into a bookshelf.

“I assume this was built by a wizard with vertigo,” I muttered.

“Original owner was a half-goblin architect!” Mortimer said proudly. “He specialized in non-linear spatial design.”

“Yes, I can tell. It’s like living in a bad Escher sketch.”

I imagined myself, half-asleep at midnight, tripping down seventeen steps to fetch tea, and decided this flat was a future obituary waiting to happen.

“Next,” I said firmly.

At last, we arrived at Crescent Moon Row — a narrow, crescent-shaped lane tucked just off Diagon Alley, lined with tidy wizarding buildings that leaned together like gossiping aunts.

The flat Mortimer showed me was on the top floor of a charming old townhouse. Two bedrooms, one cozy sitting room, and a little bow window that caught the afternoon sun. The air smelled faintly of parchment and lavender polish.

It was tiny but warm, like a secret that wanted to be kept.

There was even a small spiral staircase leading up to a terrace — a terrace with warded runes carved into the railing, allowing for private broom flight without Muggles noticing. Mortimer called it a “Discretional Altitude Zone.” I called it “perfect.”

“Top floor!” Mortimer said proudly. “Splendid view, minimal noise, excellent protection wards—oh, and a portrait in the corridor. Unmovable, I’m afraid, but he rarely speaks.”

The portrait in question was of a stern-looking wizard with enormous sideburns who muttered, “Rent the place, don’t haggle,” as I passed.

It was slightly over budget — but then again, so were most of my decisions.

I walked to the bow window, looked out at the crooked chimneys and the sliver of the private square below, and smiled. From here, I could even glimpse a little lane where a small Muggle school stood — one where wizarding families often sent their children before Hogwarts.

Perfect for keeping an eye on one certain future Chosen Child, without drawing suspicion.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

Mortimer blinked. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He clapped his hands together in delight. “Marvelous choice! I’ll draw up the parchmentwork immediately — deposit, rent schedule, all the fun bits.”

As he babbled on about security charms and key duplication policies, I barely listened. My mind was still back in Surrey — picturing a cupboard, a small boy, and hopefully a few crumbs of baguette left behind.

That night, as I stood in my new little flat, my new life quite literally under lease, I allowed myself a grin.

It wasn’t Rosier Manor. It wasn’t France. It wasn’t even remotely sane.

But it was mine.

My very first birthday present in this timeline: a home, a roof, a future — and, Merlin help me, monthly rent.

Tomorrow, I’d turn seventeen.
Time to celebrate like a responsible adult: with champagne, confetti, and the thrilling realization that I now had to buy furniture.

***

The morning light in the Leaky Cauldron was the colour of milky tea — soft, sleepy, and slightly jaundiced from years of pub smoke clinging to the walls. Dust motes drifted through the air like tiny, aimless fairies, and the smell of frying sausages waged a glorious battle with the aroma of burnt coffee.

I sat in my favourite corner table, a mismatched chair wobbling like a drunk on ice, and sipped from a chipped teacup that proudly declared World’s Best Wizard (Tom said it used to belong to Gilderoy Lockhart; I decided not to ask).

I was still sleeping upstairs in one of the Leaky Cauldron’s rooms — mostly because I had yet to acquire anything resembling furniture. My “home” at the moment consisted of a single broomstick, a borrowed kettle, and a remarkable echo.

“Morning, Miss Selwyn,” Tom said warmly as he shuffled over, polishing a glass with the sort of determined futility only barkeeps and mothers possessed. His bald head gleamed in the light like a well-loved Snitch. “You’re still with us then? I thought that new flat of yours would’ve swallowed you whole by now.”

“Not for lack of trying,” I replied, dunking a piece of toast into my tea like a barbarian. “I need furniture before I can officially be devoured by domestic bliss. Know any good places?”

Tom chuckled, the sound like gravel and honey. “Try McGarrigle’s Magical Antiques, just off Spindle Lane. You’ll like it — bit of everything there, and half of it only mildly haunted.”

“Perfect,” I said, finishing my toast. “I’ll take my chances with the cursed armoires. They can’t be worse than bureaucracy.”

“Tell Mrs. McGarrigle I sent you,” Tom added, wagging a finger. “She’ll give you a discount if you charm her. And maybe an ancient clock if you don’t.”

The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into the brisk spring morning. The sky hung low and grey, threatening drizzle, but Diagon Alley was already awake — the smell of fresh parchment from Flourish and Blotts, the hum of broom polish from Quality Quidditch Supplies, the faint yowl of a Kneazle from the pet shop window.

McGarrigle’s Magical Antiques sat at the end of a narrow street that looked like it had been doodled into existence by a slightly tipsy architect. The shopfront was a patchwork of crooked windows, brass doorknobs, and one very confident gargoyle serving as a rain spout.

The inside was a delightful mess — a labyrinth of towering furniture, ticking clocks, and enchanted chandeliers muttering to each other about the decline of craftsmanship. The air smelled of lemon oil, old parchment, and faint ozone from malfunctioning enchantments.

“Good morning, dearie!” trilled a voice from somewhere near a mountain of hatstands. A tiny witch with spectacles like twin moons poked her head out. “You’re the one Tom sent, aren’t you? Lovely man, terrible taste in waistcoats.”

“That’s me,” I said. “I’m looking for furniture. Nothing cursed, nothing likely to bite me in my sleep.”

“Oh, picky, are we?” she said with a wink. “Remus, dear! Fetch the good stock, not the screaming sofa!”

I turned — and there he was.

Remus Lupin looked much the same as I remembered him — though technically, he hadn’t met me yet. Twenty-seven, a little too thin, hair already dusted with grey at the temples, and a kind face that looked permanently caught between amusement and apology.

He was carrying a floating tea tray that wobbled nervously at the sight of me. “Mrs. McGarrigle said you wanted un-cursed furniture?” he said, voice mild, slightly rough.

“That’s the dream,” I said. “Preferably something that doesn’t scream when you sit on it or whisper financial advice at night.”

He laughed softly. “That narrows it down considerably.”

We spent the next hour exploring the shop’s chaotic aisles. The first armchair tried to bite my sleeve (“Antique French,” Lupin said dryly, “and very passionate about personal space”). The second wardrobe smelled strongly of wet dog (“Don’t,” he warned, “it is one”).

Finally, we found a charming little collection: a writing desk that hummed lullabies when you signed letters, a velvet armchair that refused to let go once it liked you, and a small brass lamp that glowed warmer whenever someone nearby was telling the truth.

“Oh, and this for the spare room,” I said, nodding to a small child-sized bed. “Something cosy.”

Lupin raised an eyebrow. “For a sibling?”

I smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

He studied me for a moment — that quietly observant, kind stare of his. “You live nearby?”

“Crescent Moon Row,” I said. “Top floor flat. It’s my birthday today, actually — my first in this timeline.”

He blinked, clearly unsure if he’d misheard the “timeline” part. “Well. Happy birthday, Miss Selwyn.”

“Thank you,” I said cheerfully. “Best present ever: rent.”

He chuckled. “I can deliver these for you this afternoon — I help out here from time to time. And if you ever need help with repairs or moving things around, just owl me. I’m not far.”

“Noted,” I said, trying not to grin too wide. “But I warn you, my furniture and I have a complicated relationship.”

As if on cue, the self-assembling chair I’d just purchased unfolded itself in the corner and hissed, “Mauvais goût, mais passable!” (“Bad taste, but passable!”)

Lupin blinked. “Did that chair just insult your taste in French?”

“Yes,” I said brightly. “And I’m keeping it. We understand each other.”

Mrs. McGarrigle clapped her hands. “Well, that settles it! Remus, dear, deliver her purchases and be back by supper. And you, birthday girl — come join us tonight for a drink at the Cauldron! No one should spend their birthday alone.”

I hesitated, touched. “You know what? I’d like that.”

As I stepped back into the street, a faint drizzle began to fall — London’s idea of confetti. My new furniture floated obediently behind Lupin, and the French chair was still muttering obscenities under its breath.

The cobblestones glistened, the air smelled faintly of sugar and spell residue, and I felt the rare and glorious satisfaction of someone who had just acquired furniture without being cursed in the process.

It was, I decided, an excellent day to treat myself.

After all, one only turned seventeen (again) once.

I stopped by the red telephone box just outside the Leaky Cauldron, dialed with one hand and waited for Vernon Dursley’s nasal baritone to grace my ears.

“Dursley residence.”

“Good afternoon, Mister Dursley,” I said sweetly. “Alexandra Selwyn speaking. I just wanted to confirm everything’s in order for next Sunday.”

There was a brief pause, the sound of a man rearranging his self-importance. “Yes, yes. All in order. We filled in those forms you left with Petunia on Tuesday. The boy’s been told, he’ll be ready. You can come fetch him then.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “And thank you again for your… cooperation.”

“Oh, think nothing of it,” he said, with the tone of a man being very magnanimous while holding a grudge. “He’s been oddly quiet since we told him. But perhaps that’s for the best.”

I smiled tightly. “Indeed. I’ll be there on Sunday. And thank you for your time, Mister Dursley.”

I hung up before he could congratulate himself further.

Harry was coming home.

Not today, not tomorrow—but soon. And that thought alone made the drizzle feel like confetti again.

So I did what any responsible adult would do on their birthday: I went shopping.

***

The magical stationery shop was tucked between a cauldron-polish store and a wand repair boutique, and smelled like ink, parchment, and mild chaos. Shelves sagged under the weight of enchanted sketchbooks, some of which whispered ideas to passersby (“Try shading the moon!” one murmured encouragingly as I passed).

“Good afternoon!” sang a quill the size of a raven feather as I entered. It hovered eagerly above a display, dipping itself in ink like a diva preparing for an aria.

“Good afternoon,” I replied, pretending not to notice that the display of sketchpads was subtly trying to rearrange itself into a smiley face.

I wandered the aisles, fingers brushing over textured paper and charmed pencils that sharpened themselves with a smug little snick. One set of watercolor brushes promised “self-blending hues” and “absolutely no accidental explosions,” which felt like a personal challenge.

I chose a few supplies — parchment that shimmered faintly when you drew something magical, a set of quills in jewel tones, and a travel-sized sketchbook that whispered compliments about my linework every time I flipped a page. (“Stunning!” it gasped. “Michelangelo could never!”)

It would be my little nook — something peaceful, something that felt like me again after years of running, reincarnating, and improvising.

But as I paid, a thought tugged at me — small and insistent, like a child’s hand.

Harry.

He’d be coming to live with me soon. And though he didn’t know it yet, I had no intention of letting his first home be dull.

So I crossed the street to a shop with a window full of bouncing plushies and toy broomsticks, a painted sign reading:

“Puffskein Parade: Quality Toys for Questionable Bedtimes.”

The door chimed merrily as I entered. The place was alive — literally. A parade of enchanted marbles rolled past my boots, spelling “HELLO” before scattering again. A stuffed Puffskein was serenading a rubber unicorn. Somewhere in the back, something giggled and exploded confetti.

“Help you, miss?” asked a witch behind the counter, adjusting her star-spangled spectacles.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m looking for a few things for a young boy. About six. And not too magical, if possible.”

“Ah,” she said knowingly. “A gentle introduction to the world of enchantment.”

Exactly. No flying broomsticks that might traumatize him, no screaming Quidditch bludgers. Just… softness.

The first thing I chose was a plush Hippogriff — all big eyes, soft feathers, and a proud little bow of its beak. When I stroked it, it made a sound somewhere between a chirp and a dignified sneeze.

The second was a small wooden toy that assembled itself into different shapes when tapped — dragon one moment, train the next, occasionally a very confused-looking teapot.

The third was a simple game box, “Gobstones Junior: Now With 90% Less Slime!” The clerk assured me that the new version only spat when you lost spectacularly.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the little pile in my arms — soft toy, silly puzzle, slightly judgmental game — and felt something warm bloom in my chest.

It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

The start of a room that wasn’t a cupboard.
The start of laughter that wasn’t a punishment.
The start of… family, maybe.

“Will you need these wrapped?” the clerk asked.

“Yes,” I said smiling. “A birthday present—for someone who’s owed quite a few.”

By the time I made it back to the Leaky Cauldron, my arms were full and my heart was light. The fire crackled, Tom gave me a nod, and I could already picture it: a small bed, a plush Hippogriff sitting proudly on the pillow, and a boy discovering, maybe for the first time, what it felt like to be wanted.

Tomorrow, I’d start arranging the flat.
Next Sunday, I’d bring him home.
And tonight — well, tonight I’d celebrate.

A toast to second chances.
To reincarnation.
And to finally having someone worth buying toys for.

Lupin’s POV

The Leaky Cauldron was at its most charming when the sun went down — all flickering candlelight and low laughter, the sort of glow that made even the scuffed tables look almost dignified. The smell of buttered bread and firewhisky lingered in the air, and somewhere near the bar, a wizard was arguing passionately with his own enchanted pipe.

Tom, bless him, had reserved the best little table by the hearth, and Mrs. McGarrigle had already claimed her seat with the air of a queen inspecting her loyal subjects. I arrived last, brushing the rain from my coat, and found our birthday girl sitting primly between them — Alexandra Selwyn.

She was younger than I’d expected. Sixteen, perhaps seventeen at most. Golden blond hair pulled into a messy knot, sharp eyes full of laughter she tried (and failed) to hide, and the posture of someone pretending to be more composed than she truly was.

Tom beamed when he saw me. “Ah, Remus! Good. You’ll keep these two in line.”

“Doubtful,” I said, hanging my coat. “Mrs. McGarrigle’s a menace.”

She raised her glass. “Takes one to know one, Remus.”

Alex laughed — a bright, unrestrained sound that lit the dim tavern like a charm. “I think I like this place,” she said. “It’s delightfully mad.”

“It grows on you,” Tom said, setting a small cake down between us. It looked a bit lopsided but in a heroic way, as though it had battled gravity and won. “Seventeen today, is it?”

Alex nodded, cheeks pink from either the fire or the attention.
“Seventeen,” she said airily. “Legally adult now — which is both thrilling and deeply inconvenient.”

That earned her a curious look from me. “Inconvenient?” I asked.

“Oh, I mean—” She waved a hand, grinning. “It’s one of those years that makes you feel about a hundred by the end of it.”

Mrs. McGarrigle chuckled. “You sound older than your years, my dear.”

Alex grinned. “That’s what constant paperwork does to a person.”

We ate and talked — or rather, they talked while I quietly observed. She was full of energy, clever turns of phrase, and an accent that danced between French lilt and British mischief. When Tom refilled her glass, she thanked him with a perfect curtsy that made him laugh like an old kettle.

“So, Alexandra,” Mrs. McGarrigle began, tearing into a piece of bread, “you never told us how a young lady like you ends up setting up house near Diagon Alley instead of finishing her schooling at Hogwarts.”

Alex swallowed her bite, dabbed delicately at her lips with a napkin, and said, “I was homeschooled, actually. In France, mostly. Circumstances changed, and now I’ve had to come here. Family obligations.”

“Obligations?” I echoed.

“Yes.” Her tone softened, the laughter dimming into something warmer. “A child in my family needs care. I’m to look after him.”

The table went quiet for a heartbeat.

Mrs. McGarrigle leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “A child? At your age? That’s a heavy task, dear.”

Alex shrugged, her smile small but fierce. “It’s not heavy. Just… important. And I can’t wait, honestly. I’ve wanted to take care of him for a long time.”

There was something about the way she said it — not casual, not performative, but real. It tugged at something I hadn’t felt in years.

Tom patted her arm gently. “You’ll do fine, lass. You’ve got kind eyes. Kind people make good guardians.”

Alex blinked, looking suddenly shy. “Thank you, Tom.”

She recovered quickly, though, launching into her next revelation with the brisk enthusiasm of someone afraid of getting sentimental. “Anyway! I’ve written to Professor McGonagall. She’s agreed to let me take my N.E.W.T.s in June— provided I prove I won’t explode during an exam. And I’m registered for apparition training after the spring break. Once that’s done, I’ll be legally qualified to—well—do almost anything a responsible witch should.”

“Except rest,” I said dryly.

“Exactly!” She laughed, delighted that someone understood. “And I’ll need to study hard. I don’t know how I’ll manage with a child to care for, but I’ll make it work.”

“Bring him to my shop if you ever need quiet,” Mrs. McGarrigle said briskly. “Fewer drunks than in here, and I can keep an eye out while you study. The boy can play with the old charmed mirrors — they like company.”

Tom huffed, mock-offended. “Oi! My drunks are well-behaved.”

“They snore louder than your fireplace,” she retorted.

Alex looked between them, laughing helplessly. “Honestly, you’re all wonderful. I was worried about how I’d manage once he’s here, but—thank you. Really.”

She meant it. Every word.

“So what will you be doing for work?” I asked, partly to keep the conversation light and partly because I genuinely wanted to know how this odd, determined young woman planned to survive London rent.

“Oh!” she said, brightening instantly. “I start the day after tomorrow at Quality Quidditch Supplies! Only afternoons for now, since I need mornings free to study.”

Mrs. McGarrigle nearly choked on her wine. “Quality Quidditch—? Merlin’s broomstick, Fizzy Fizzwizzle will have a field day! He’ll sell double his usual stock with a pretty little thing like you at the counter. He’ll be rubbing his hands all spring!”

Tom barked a laugh, and Alex groaned. “Oh dear. I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think teenage boys are really that—?”

“Yes,” we all said in unison.

She sighed dramatically. “Then I shall defend myself with politeness and sarcasm. And possibly a broom.”

The table dissolved into laughter. For the first time in years, I felt it too — the easy warmth of companionship, of belonging somewhere, even for an evening.

Later, after Tom brought out another round of drinks “on the house, for our birthday girl,” we played a small game of “guess the secret profession.” Mrs. McGarrigle declared she’d been a dragon tamer. I claimed to be an opera singer. Alex announced she was secretly a broomstick inspector, which led to Tom pretending to faint into the butter dish.

By the time the candles burned low, the conversation had settled into softer tones. The kind that drifted rather than danced.

Alex was watching the fire, a faint smile on her lips. “I used to think birthdays were just reminders that time was running out,” she said. “But this one feels… like the opposite.”

“How so?” I asked.

She looked at me — clear-eyed, thoughtful. “Because this time, I get to build something. Maybe be happy.”

Something in my chest ached, quiet and familiar. I raised my glass. “Then here’s to construction work—and a bit of happiness on the side.”

Mrs. McGarrigle lifted hers too. “And to furniture that doesn’t bite.”

Tom added, “And here’s to your new rented kingdom — may the plumbing behave and the neighbors stay quiet.”

Alex laughed. “And to friends who didn’t exist this morning but somehow feel like they always have.”

We toasted, and for a moment the room shimmered with the sort of unspoken magic that didn’t need a wand.

When she excused herself to fetch another round, Mrs. McGarrigle leaned toward me, whispering, “She’s quite something, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “She really is.”

“Too good for the world,” Tom muttered fondly.

“Too mischievous for sainthood,” I added, remembering how she’d swapped his mug of butterbeer for the decaf mead earlier when he wasn’t looking.

We chuckled together, watching her return — all brightness and mischief and hidden depths.

Maybe it was the firelight, or the way her laughter filled the space like a spell, but something in me eased that night.

After five years of solitude, it felt oddly right to sit at that small table, surrounded by laughter and light — to remember, however briefly, that warmth could still exist for people like me.

And as Alexandra Selwyn blew out the tiny candle on her cake, eyes gleaming with a wish she didn’t share, I found myself silently wishing for one thing:

That she would find her happiness.
And that perhaps, by knowing her, I might find a little of mine again, too.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: The Wrong Turn to the Right Life

Excerpt from “The Bewildering World of Muggles, Vol. II: Mechanisms of Mundanity”

By Professor Belinda Boffle (Order of Merlin, Third Class, for Services to Muggle Understanding)

Chapter 4: The Car — A Self-Propelled Muggle Carriage (Of Questionable Sanity)

Muggles, being tragically deprived of Floo Powder, broomsticks, or any sense of practicality, have developed a fascinatingly dangerous contraption known as the car.

A car is essentially a large, metallic beetle that Muggles climb inside of and command through mysterious pedal enchantments and a turning wheel of destiny (technically called the “steering wheel,” though there is precious little evidence of steering actually occurring).

The car moves thanks to a liquid known as petrol — an explosive potion that Muggles pour directly into the creature’s stomach before every journey. Despite the high likelihood of combustion, this seems to be considered perfectly normal.

Inside the car, several curious instruments may be found:

• The Gear Stick — A slender lever used to confuse passengers and occasionally to change “gears,” which are the metallic equivalents of mood swings. Muggles insist these are vital, though they never seem entirely certain why.
• The Rearview Mirror — A small reflective charm mounted on the front window. Its primary purpose is to allow the driver to make dramatic eye contact with those sitting behind them, or to practice their “determined commuter” expression.
• The Seatbelt — A non-magical restraint charm that Muggles willingly strap across their bodies, as though preparing for a crash at all times. (Perhaps this is part of a cultural ritual of humility before the gods of traffic?)
• Indicators — Tiny blinking lanterns that communicate a driver’s intentions. Interestingly, many Muggles seem to believe these lights are optional, resulting in frequent arguments and hand gestures that appear to be part of an elaborate road-based duelling tradition.
• The Horn — A small brass trumpet located in the centre of the wheel, which Muggles use to express anger, joy, or confusion — sometimes all at once. It emits a loud honk designed to startle both the guilty and the innocent.

It is important to note that Muggles often become deeply attached to their cars, giving them names such as Bessie, The Beast, or The Deathtrap. This emotional bond is puzzling, given how frequently the cars betray them by refusing to start in the mornings.

In conclusion, the car remains one of the finest examples of Muggle resilience and collective madness. It is a testament to their determination to travel long distances without the aid of Portkeys, magic carpets, or a functioning sense of self-preservation.

----------

Alexandra’s POV

I woke up to the faint hum of London magic — distant clinking mugs from some early-rising pub, the soft whoosh of an enchanted kettle somewhere down the street, and, naturally, someone shouting about a missing toad.

For the first time in weeks, I woke up somewhere that was mine. Not a dingy Leaky Cauldron room, not a borrowed bed above a shop — mine. A modest little flat on Crescent Moon Row, where the wallpaper shimmered when the sun hit it just right and the floorboards creaked like they had opinions.

The flat was small but charming in that “wizarding-real-estate-agent-promised-me-it’s-rustic” way. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a kitchen that could generously be described as “bravely optimistic.” But it had windows that caught the morning light perfectly and a fireplace that didn’t threaten to murder me in my sleep. Progress.

I stretched luxuriously, my hair an unholy mess of curls, and grinned. I had an entire week before Harry arrived. Seven days to adjust, prepare, and remind myself that I was now seventeen, legal, wand-licensed, and allegedly a responsible adult.
Ha.

The plan for the day was simple: survive my first shift at Quality Quidditch Supplies this afternoon. But first, academia awaited.

I sat cross-legged on the sofa, textbooks open in a precarious tower beside my teacup. Charms, Transfiguration, Advanced Magical Theory — all the light morning reading a girl could want.
After all, I had NEWTs to pass — a year early, mind you — which felt mildly insane even by my standards.

When I’d left my own time, it had been early spring of fifth year at Hogwarts. I’d started late in the first place, thanks to that delightful little genetic hiccup — the one that came with a second soul and a lifetime’s worth of healer frowns. Grand-mère Victoire’s blood magic ritual with Maman had fixed it enough for me to function… mostly.

Now here I was, cramming six years of academic chaos into sleepless nights and tea-fueled mornings, pretending this was all perfectly reasonable.

Hermione’s voice echoed in my head like a sanctimonious ghost: “Preparation prevents panic.”
“Yes, yes, you terrifying oracle,” I muttered, flipping to Practical Applications of Partial Transfiguration.

I practiced a few wand movements, thrilled to finally be doing so legally. Magic tingled through my fingertips, obedient and eager, like a dog just released from its leash. I turned my quill into a small dancing figurine, which promptly did the Cha-Cha across my notes before combusting in a puff of glitter. “Graceful as ever,” I sighed, coughing pink sparkles.

Between spells, I couldn’t stop thinking about Harry.
He’d grown up surrounded by dull walls and duller people; a house where laughter probably had to be filed in triplicate before being allowed. Soon, he’d be in a world where portraits talked back, staircases wandered, and even the tea could sass you. I wanted his new life to feel magical — but not terrifying. Gentle magic. Crepes for breakfast. Books that moved only a little.

Thank Merlin for Hermione’s “Expendable Bag” trick. I’d smuggled half a library from the future — parenting guides, child psychology, even a few muggle fairy tales. The irony of me, a reincarnated witch with a questionable moral record, reading “Raising Emotionally Healthy Wizards” was not lost on me.

By noon, I swapped my study robes for my new work uniform — which was really just my own neatly pressed blouse, high-waisted trousers, and the sort of confident smirk one wears into battle. A flick of my wand tamed my curls into something halfway between “professor” and “escaped nymph,” and I grabbed my satchel.

Quality Quidditch Supplies was already buzzing when I arrived. The shop smelled like broom polish, leather gloves, and adolescent dreams. Percival Fizzwizzle — the man, the myth, the Quidditch enthusiast — was adjusting a display of Nimbus 1500s with military precision.

“Ah, Miss Selwyn!” he boomed, spotting me with the delight of a man whose team had just scored. “Excellent timing! Spring break rush today — every broom-obsessed lad in Britain is about to descend upon us like Bludgers.”

“Good to know,” I said brightly. “Should I duck or smile?”

He chuckled. “Smile! But redirect all the youthful energy toward the merchandise. If they flirt, sell them polish. If they boast, sell them gloves. If they faint—well, that happens sometimes, don’t worry.”

“Delightful,” I said. “Nothing says job satisfaction like adolescent hysteria.”

Within fifteen minutes, the shop was full. Fizzwizzle was right: the customers were mostly teenage boys, and nearly all of them seemed to think I’d been placed behind the counter for their personal emotional education.

“Excuse me, miss, are you the owner’s daughter?”

“No, but I do share his deep, spiritual connection with broom varnish.”

“Do you play Quidditch?”

“Only when I’m not busy flying over the patriarchy.”

That earned a few snickers — and one horrified look from a pureblood boy who clearly wasn’t sure if ‘patriarchy’ was a Dark creature.

Even the smaller ones joined in. A freckled boy with a baby face and a grin big enough to power Hogsmeade approached the counter, clutching a broomstick nearly taller than him. “Hi! I’m Oliver! I’m going to play for Puddlemere United one day!”

“Of course you are, Oliver,” I said solemnly, tapping the handle. “Start with practicing your flying and, very importantly, your dramatic post-match interviews.”

He nodded like I’d bestowed upon him ancient Quidditch wisdom and left looking ready to conquer the league.

Behind him, an eleven-year-old Marcus Flint was loudly asking another boy if I was single. I turned, raised an eyebrow, and said in my most solemn tone, “I’m afraid I’ve taken a vow of eternal broom maintenance. My heart belongs to the Cleansweep Series.”

That shut him up. Mostly.

The day went on like a fever dream of teenage awkwardness.

One boy leaned over the counter and whispered, “Do you think Nimbus brooms make you go faster if you polish them with dragon oil every night?”

I smiled sweetly. “Only if you whisper encouragements to them before bed. Might I suggest buying two bottles? You’ll want to stay consistent.”

Another asked, “Can you recommend something to make me look cooler while flying?”

“Yes. Confidence and these limited-edition goggles, twelve galleons and worth every knut.”

Two fourth-years tried to impress me by debating the aerodynamics of the Firebolt prototype — a broom that wouldn’t exist for another few years, but I wasn’t about to ruin their fun.

“Gentlemen,” I interrupted, “while you’re reinventing physics, would either of you like to buy some polish to go with your delusions?”

Mr. Fizzwizzle was practically vibrating with delight in the background, muttering something like, “Brilliant marketing instincts, this one!” as he rearranged a shelf of quaffle stands.

At one point, a particularly dramatic Ravenclaw asked if he could test the cushioning charm on a display broom by jumping off a shelf.

“You absolutely may not,” I said. “But you may buy the broom first, and then break your neck with full warranty coverage.”

By mid-afternoon, I had answered questions ranging from “What’s the best broom for seducing a girl?” (“None, but perhaps she’ll appreciate your honesty if you buy her a helmet.”) to “Do you sell anything that makes bludgers less violent?” (“Therapy.”)

Every ridiculous question became another sale. The more nonsense they threw at me, the more I leaned into the absurdity — part flirtation, part stand-up routine, part survival instinct.

By closing time, I’d charmed half of Hogwarts’ male population into buying enough broom wax to keep the shop afloat until next Christmas. My feet were aching, my smile was about to fossilize, and my brain was one flirtatious pun away from spontaneous combustion.

Mr. Fizzwizzle patted my shoulder proudly. “You’ve got the gift, Miss Selwyn! You’ve turned teenage hormones into pure profit!”

I smiled, rubbing my temples. “I’ve always aspired to become the patron saint of awkward adolescent consumerism.”

He laughed. “Keep this up and you’ll be running the place by summer. Same shift tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said — though my legs disagreed.

As I stepped into the cool evening of Diagon Alley, the lamps flickering to life overhead, I felt a strange, glowing satisfaction. Exhausted, yes, but proud. I’d survived bureaucracy, cosmic gelato rejection, and now hormonal Quidditch enthusiasts.

I was building a life — chaotic, patchwork, entirely mine.
And soon, I’d have Harry in it.

The thought warmed me more than any Butterbeer could.

Tomorrow, I’d buy curtains. Maybe a rug. Definitely a stronger hair charm. But tonight, I allowed myself a small, victorious smile.

One job, one flat, one absolutely unhinged destiny at a time.

Bill Weasley’s POV

By Saturday afternoon, spring had finally remembered it existed. The Burrow’s Garden buzzed with life, the air smelled faintly of damp soil and Molly Weasley’s impatience, and I was halfway through pretending to revise when Mum kicked me out of the house.

“Go! Get some fresh air, Bill — and take your brother with you before you start sniping at each other over quills again!”

Charlie, Fergus Kinnaird, Scott Fenwick, and I had all returned home for spring break, despite Mum insisting we stay at Hogwarts to revise for our N.E.W.T.s and O.W.L.s. But I couldn’t bear the thought of her managing all the younger ones alone. Besides, Charlie had missed home almost as much as his broom.

Fergus Kinnaird — pureblood Gryffindor, loud, charismatic, and brave to a fault — came from a proud but not particularly wealthy Scottish family that ran a broom repair and ward-engraving shop in Inverness. He could charm a hippogriff and still get himself bitten five minutes later.

Scott Fenwick, on the other hand, was our anchor — half-blood Hufflepuff, steady and kind, with a dry humor that made chaos feel manageable. Where Fergus brought the fire and I tried to contain it, Scott brought the balance.

Together, we made an unlikely trio: the loud one, the calm one, and me — the one who kept pretending I was in charge.

So there we were, a gang of four self-proclaimed scholars (read: academic procrastinators), sitting outside the Leaky Cauldron, nursing butterbeers and pretending to talk about exams.

“Remind me again why we’re not studying?” I asked, stretching my legs.

“Because,” Fergus said solemnly, “one must nourish the soul before tormenting the mind.”

“Ah, yes,” Charlie muttered, “the soul diet of butterbeer and gossip.”

Fergus leaned forward conspiratorially, freckles gleaming in the sun. “Speaking of gossip — apparently, there’s a new girl working at Quality Quidditch Supplies. Young, gorgeous, and apparently, she can recite broom specs like scripture.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Rumors. Probably just someone’s niece earning pocket money.”

“Not this time,” Fergus said, eyes lighting up. “Word is, she put two Ravenclaws in their place about Firebolt prototypes. I say we go buy some broom polish and confirm the facts.”

Charlie grinned. “Translation: let’s all go embarrass ourselves.”

I sighed but stood anyway. “Fine. But if Mum finds out I’m enabling your idiocy, I’ll tell her you dragged me.”

“Bill,” Fergus said gravely, “we’re not dragging you. We’re enlightening you.”

The moment we stepped into Diagon Alley, I knew he was right — it was chaos. Spring break meant the streets were filled with Hogwarts students on the loose, laughing, flirting, trying to look older than they were.

And inside Quality Quidditch Supplies? Pandemonium.

The place smelled of broom polish, leather, and teenage desperation. And in the middle of it all — there she was.

No name tag, of course. Just the air of someone who knew exactly how inconveniently curious she made people. Mysterious. Teasing. Infuriating.

She stood behind the counter, calm as a Seeker mid-dive, explaining handle weight distribution to a boy who looked moments away from melting into a puddle. Her long curls caught the light — golden and wild, but somehow tamed, gathered into something that looked professional yet stubbornly alive. Merlin help me, I’d always had a thing for blondes.

Fergus let out a low whistle. “I see the rumors were correct. She’s an actual personification of the phrase poor concentration in exams.”

“Behave,” I muttered, though my own focus wasn’t much better.

A commotion broke out near the front — a group of Slytherin boys, our year, trying (and failing) to charm her.

“Come on, sweetheart, just tell us your name,” one of them coaxed, leaning over the counter like he thought charm was something that could be achieved by proximity alone. “You can’t stay mysterious forever.”

She didn’t flinch. “Oh, but I can,” she said sweetly, that faint French lilt curling around her words like silk ribbon. “It’s in my job description — right between ‘polish sales’ and ‘ignoring bad flirting.’”

The Slytherins laughed, though one of them looked vaguely affronted. Another leaned closer, elbows on the counter, giving her what he probably thought was a winning smile. “Maybe we’ll guess it, then. You look like a—”

“Customer?” she interrupted, too smoothly. “No? Then perhaps you’d like to buy something instead of auditioning for rejection?”

That earned a bark of laughter from Fergus beside me, and even one of the other Slytherins winced. But the boldest of the lot pressed on gamely.

“All right, not Customer,” he said. “You don’t look like one. You look like… hmm… a Celeste.”

“Close,” she said. “If you pronounce completely wrong.”

Another boy snapped his fingers. “Colette?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Too fancy. I’m far more trouble than a Colette.”

“Marianne?”

She gasped in mock horror. “What am I, a revolutionary pamphlet?”

The smallest of them, probably the designated coward, tried hopefully, “Er… Marie?”

“Too sweet,” she said, grinning now. “And I bite.”

That effectively ended the guessing game. The Slytherins exchanged glances, clearly out of their depth.

“Fine,” the first one said, folding his arms. “At least tell us what letter it starts with.”

She tilted her head, pretending to think. “L,” she said after a dramatic pause — then, when they all perked up, she added brightly, “for Leave me alone.”

The whole shop burst out laughing — a few Gryffindors in the back even clapped — and one of the boys muttered something about her being impossible.

“Merci,” she said cheerfully, giving a little half-bow before turning to rearrange a display of broom handles. “I try my best.”

That was when I decided to step in, mostly because they looked ready to self-destruct under the weight of her smirk.

“Afternoon,” I said, placing a tin of polish on the counter beside them. “Sorry, lads, didn’t mean to interrupt the performance. Looked more like a queue than a fan club.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, sharp and amused. “Oh, thank you, I was starting to fear they’d unionize.”

“Occupational hazard,” I said lightly. “Comes with charm and excellent broom sense.”

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “And you are?”

“Bill Weasley,” I said. “Chaser for Gryffindor.”

A tiny spark of recognition crossed her face — the kind of look that said she knew what that meant.

“Ah,” she said, smiling slightly. “So you’re one of the ones who think strategy is optional.”

Fergus barked a laugh. “She’s good.”

“Miss ,” I said, leaning a little on the counter, “if you know so much about Quidditch, I suppose you play?”

“Dabbled,” she said airily.

“Dabbled?” Fergus echoed, already grinning. “All right, Bill — bet you ten Sickles you can’t guess her position.”

“Fifteen,” I countered.

“You’re on.”

I studied her — the easy stance, the confident shoulders, the faint scar near her wrist (Quaffle burn, maybe?). Then she said something about once being “smacked in the face by a Bludger,” and I grinned.

“Chaser,” I said. “No Beater would admit that sort of injury, and Seekers are too vain to bruise.”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Correct,” she said, tone impressed. “Maybe you do have strategy after all, Mr. Weasley.”

“Careful,” Fergus said. “He’ll take that as encouragement.”

“Good,” she said, eyes flicking between us, “I like seeing Gryffindors work for something.”

That earned a laugh from half the shop. Even Charlie, hanging by the doorway, looked impressed.

“Now,” she added briskly, “are you actually here to buy polish or just to test my patience?”

Fergus clutched his heart. “Both.”

“Well, I only charge for the polish,” she said, sliding a tin across the counter. “The patience is complimentary — for now.”

I paid before Fergus could make it worse. She handed me the tin, her fingers brushing mine — just for a second, but it was enough to make my pulse do something inconvenient.

“Try not to get hit in the face,” she said.

“No promises,” I replied, and she laughed — a soft, unguarded sound that made every word worth it.

As we left, Fergus nudged me. “You’re gone, mate.”

“Am not.”

“Bill, you just blushed at broom polish.”

“I was warm,” I muttered.

Charlie grinned. “Sure you were. Warm and deeply smitten.”

I ignored them, though my ears were probably pink.

As we stepped back into the sunlight, I glanced once more through the shop window. She was there, restocking shelves, curls glinting gold against the soft lamplight, completely unaware that she’d just rewritten the entire rhythm of my day.

Maybe she was just another clever girl in Diagon Alley. Maybe I’d forget her by next week.

But I doubted it.

Some people didn’t just enter a room — they shifted its gravity.
And the mysterious shop girl had just tilted mine completely off its axis.

Alex’s POV

I should have known.
The red hair. The freckles. The easy grin that screamed “I was born to charm and/or mildly annoy.”
Of course they were Weasleys.

Because apparently, fate had decided to turn my first week in this new timeline into a running joke.

I had gone to work thinking it would be a simple Saturday at Quality Quidditch Supplies: sell a few Bludgers, smile at eager boys, maybe threaten one with a Beater’s bat if he called me “sweetheart.”
Instead, I found myself trapped in what could only be described as Quidditch-flavoured purgatory — surrounded by teenage boys asking increasingly stupid questions purely to hear me talk.

By the time I looked up from the register, the crowd had thinned — except for the two standing by the counter. Tall. Freckled. Polite. The older one smiled — easy, quiet, devastating.

Oh no.

Not them.

Anyone but them.

Bill and Charlie Weasley. Because of course they were.

And Bill — well, Bill had gone and been charming. In that quiet, mature sort of way that’s far more dangerous than any prankster.
Polite, confident, thoughtful eyes. The kind of man who probably had opinions about wand-core ethics and actually folded his laundry.

Absolutely lethal.

Luckily, he’d left, and I was quite certain I would never see him again. Or his brother. Or his brother’s brothers, of which there were — what — twelve? Thirteen? I’d lost count somewhere between “Arthur” and “Chaos, redheaded edition.”

No, thank you. I’d had enough Weasleys for one lifetime.

...Or two.

My chest tightened slightly at the thought of them — Fred and George — but I brushed it away before it could take shape. Not now. Not when the air still smelled faintly of broom wax and teenage cologne. Not when I had work to finish and a whole new life to pretend to be stable in.

Because the truth was: thinking about them hurt in the strangest way.
Like laughter with a bruise underneath.

So, I didn’t think. I stocked shelves. I locked up. I told myself that was that.

The next morning, Sunday sunlight poured through the curtains of my little London flat, and I took a long, deep breath.

This was it.

Time to go pick up Harry.

It was such a strange thought — that I, Alexandra Rosier, seventeen now, was about to collect a boy who had once been my friend. And now he was six. Small. Vulnerable. Unaware.

And the Dursleys were just… letting him go?

I had expected resistance — shouts, paperwork, maybe a restraining order — but no. Dumbledore’s arrangements had been perfectly effective, of course. They’d signed the forms, muttering something about “finally getting the boy out.”

Maniacs. Every one of them.

I dressed with care: a light cream blouse, neatly tucked into a navy skirt. A blazer — posh, but not intimidating. The perfect blend of trustworthy guardian and woman who could hex you into next week if you looked at her nephew wrong.

Tamed curls, perfume subtle. A Rosier could at least look composed while internally screaming.

The car — an elegant little thing from a Ministry garage — gleamed in the morning light. I admired it for a full minute before remembering one very small, very crucial detail:

I had learned to drive in France.

“Ah,” I muttered, opening the door and sliding in. “How different could it be?”

Answer: very.

First of all, the steering wheel was on the wrong side. That felt like betrayal. My right hand kept reaching for the gear stick, only to find door handle and existential dread.

Second, the road itself seemed to have been designed by a sadist. Everyone was on the wrong side. Cars whizzed by with a sort of polite British fury, as if saying, We see you, madwoman, and we disapprove.

Still, I adjusted my mirrors, took a deep breath, and turned the key. The engine purred to life, smooth and confident — unlike me.

“Okay,” I said aloud. “How hard can it be? Left side. Just stay… left. Easy.”

I rolled forward slowly, the car gliding like a particularly judgmental cat.

Five minutes later, I was feeling almost smug — until the roundabout appeared.

The roundabout.

A perfectly innocent circle of doom, lined with signs, arrows, and about six cars doing interpretive dance at once.

I slowed down, heart pounding. “Okay. Roundabout. You yield. You merge. You… oh, mon dieu, where do I—?”

A honk. Then another. Someone waved angrily.

“I’M TRYING!” I shouted through the window. “Do you think this is intuitive?”

I turned left. Or right. I honestly couldn’t tell anymore. The car lurched, the wheel squealed, and for a moment, I was certain I’d die here — elegant corpse, found clutching a Ministry parking permit.

“Bloody hell!” I swore, gripping the wheel. “Which way do I—PUTAIN DE MERDE—oh, it’s fine, it’s fine, we’re fine, we’re alive!”

Somehow, miraculously, I exited on the correct road. My hands trembled, my heart thundered, and I had aged ten emotional years.

“Excellent,” I panted. “Only… forty more minutes of this. Lovely.”

The radio crackled on by accident, blaring a cheery pop song. I snorted, brushing hair from my face.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?” I muttered to the car, to fate, to whatever cosmic entity kept throwing Weasleys and traffic laws at me.

The engine hummed like it was laughing.

By the time the hedgerows of Surrey came into view, I’d regained a semblance of composure. The countryside rolled by — green, gentle, deceptively peaceful.

Soon, I’d meet Harry.

The thought steadied me. My Harry — tiny, shy, with the kind of cautious curiosity only a six-year-old could muster. The boy I had watched in secret, who had seen me as a curious, gray-furred feline but never in my own skin. Not yet. Just a child who needed someone to care for him, and who had no idea what was coming.

I smiled softly, the chaos of roundabouts and Weasleys fading to the background.

“I’ll take care of you, petit sorcier,” I whispered to the wind. “Even if you’ve never seen me properly, and even if I die of road confusion before getting there.”

And with that noble declaration, I took the next turn — the wrong one, of course — and muttered, “Oh for Merlin’s sake, who invented British roads?” as the car bounced off onto yet another roundabout of doom.

Harry’s POV

I woke up before the sun. It wasn’t on purpose. My body just seemed to know that today was the sort of day you couldn’t sleep through. The kind where something big might happen — good or bad, I wasn’t sure yet.

The cupboard had always been quiet, but the bedroom they’d moved me to for the occasion was worse. Too big. Too clean. No dust, no corners to curl up in. The air smelled of lemon polish and fake flowers. I missed the smell of wood and dust — at least that had been honest.

Aunt Petunia had said last night, with her mouth tight and her eyes sharper than her words, that someone was coming for me today. A cousin of my father’s. “A proper woman,” she’d said, like “proper” was something you could wear like a medal. “She’s asked for guardianship. You’re to be on your best behaviour, boy. Do you understand?”

I’d nodded. Best behaviour. I’d had a lot of practice at that.

I wasn’t sure what a cousin of my father’s meant. I didn’t remember my father, or my mother either. Just their names — words that people spoke too softly, or too harshly. A cousin sounded like a fairy-tale sort of thing. A distant, polite person with tea and gloves and the faint hope that they’d forget about you eventually.

Uncle Vernon had laughed when she’d told him. “A cousin, eh? Must’ve been from the odd side of the family,” he’d said, like there was another side that wasn’t. “Best get him dressed up proper then. Can’t have her changing her mind when she sees what she’s taking home.”

That’s how I ended up here, sitting on the edge of the bed in clothes that actually fit me — soft cotton shirt, trousers without holes, socks that didn’t slide down my ankles. It was strange. I could move without hearing fabric tear. I could breathe without the waistband digging into my ribs.

It made me nervous, wearing clothes that belonged to a child instead of a scarecrow.

The mirror on the dresser showed a boy I didn’t quite recognise — hair sticking out like it always did, but his face was clean, pale, too serious for his age. I looked like I was pretending to be someone else.

Aunt Petunia had brushed my hair with the enthusiasm of someone scrubbing a floor. “Sit still!” she’d hissed, as if my head had offended her. “She won’t want you if you look wild.”

I’d bitten my tongue and said nothing. I was good at that.

Uncle Vernon had been muttering about the “paperwork” all morning, like the word itself might catch fire if he said it too loudly. “Best be rid of the boy before lunch,” he’d grumbled. “Can’t have him lingering about.”

They didn’t seem sad that I was leaving. More like they were cleaning out a stain.

Still, part of me wondered — was this a trick? Some elaborate Dursley punishment where they told me I was leaving, made me pack my bag, and then laughed when no one came?

It wouldn’t be the first time.

The clock ticked. The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and Dudley’s cereal. Outside, the sun was bright, too bright — the kind of day that didn’t match what was happening inside.

I stared out the window at the street. It was neat and boring, like everything else on Privet Drive. The cars gleamed. The hedges stood at attention. The pavement didn’t have a single crack big enough to hide in.

If I left, would I miss any of it? No. Not a bit.

But leaving meant change, and change was scary.

I thought about the cat. The little one with grey fur and clever eyes. The one who had somehow — I still didn’t know how — brought me food once when I’d been locked in the cupboard. I found paw prints in the dust, a bit of bread, and a soft jingling sound that felt like a secret.

She’d come more than once, I was sure of it. Sometimes I’d felt the air move, or seen the faint shimmer of fur before she vanished. Maybe I’d dreamed it, but I didn’t think so. No dream had ever felt that kind.

Maybe she was watching now. Maybe she knew I was leaving.

My chest tightened. I wished I could say goodbye.

Aunt Petunia’s voice broke the quiet. “Harry! Are you ready?”

I stood quickly. “Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

She came to inspect me like I was a loaf of bread she wasn’t sure was done. “Hmm. Well. You’ll do. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t touch anything. And for heaven’s sake, don’t mention… any of your weird behaviour”

I nodded, small and silent.

Dudley came into the hall, eating biscuits from a tin. He looked at me like I was a goldfish being flushed away. “Bye, freak,” he said cheerfully, crumbs falling on the carpet.

“Dudley!” Petunia snapped. Then, after a pause, “Well… yes. Goodbye, then.”

I almost laughed. It came out wrong, like a hiccup and a sigh mixed together.

The house felt too bright — all sharp sunlight and polished surfaces that smelled like lemon cleaner and nerves. I stood by the front window, trying not to fog up the glass, while Aunt Petunia hovered behind me, pretending to dust the same spot on the sill for the third time.

Uncle Vernon stood at the end of the hallway, craning his neck to peer through the curtains every thirty seconds like the queen herself was due to arrive. “She’ll be here soon,” he grunted, tugging at his tie. “Best look presentable, boy. No gawking. And for heaven’s sake, don’t speak unless spoken to.”

I nodded, though my heart was already doing a jittery sort of dance in my chest.

Outside, the sun hit the pavement in clean, hard stripes. Everything looked too neat — the trimmed grass, the silent cars, even the bird perched on the fence like it was waiting for the show to start.

Maybe this cousin would be kind. Maybe she’d have eyes that didn’t look through me, and a voice that didn’t sound like thunder. Maybe she’d tell me to sit somewhere that wasn’t the cupboard. Maybe she’d even smile.

But what if she didn’t like me? What if she saw me and changed her mind?

The thought made my stomach twist.

I wanted to believe this could be the beginning of something different. I really did. But believing was dangerous. Every time I’d tried before, it had hurt.

Still, I couldn’t stop the smallest spark of hope flickering inside me.

And then—

A car turned onto the street. Sleek, grey, proper-looking. It glided to a stop at the curb with a hum that didn’t sound quite like any car I’d ever heard.

Uncle Vernon straightened his tie. Aunt Petunia froze mid–dust swipe, staring.

My breath caught.

The door opened.

And there she was.