Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to the incomparable J. K. Rowling. No money is being made from this.
Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition – Season Seven – Round Five
Beater 2 for the Tutshill Tornados
Round Five: In A Dimension Far, Far Away
Alternative Universes are already a popular writing trope but let's spice it up a bit. What if the characters are sent to different worlds? I'm currently very interested on theories about the universe and was very glad to come across various types that will surely make your head spin.
BEATER 2: (Multi-verse Dimension) Write a story about a character meeting his/her doppelganger from another universe.
Additional Prompts:
(setting) Grimmauld Place
(dialogue) "Love is one long sweet dream... and marriage is the alarm clock."
(last line) Gladly, I succumbed.
Thanks to the Tutshill Tornados for betaing!
No Place Like Home
Words: 2,826
Apparating with allergies is not ideal.
Especially when you are Apparating through time as well as space.
Mid-way through my inner mantra of destination, determination, deliberation, my nose starts to itch, my lungs expand, and I sneeze. The compression of Apparition and the swelling of my lungs is not a pleasant experience. An implosion and explosion working in perfect disharmony.
Needless to say, I don't carry off the landing with my usual aplomb. I land flat on my arse, and my beaded bag bursts open, disgorging a portion of its considerable contents onto the pavement. Stuffing several books, a small cauldron, and a jigsaw puzzle back inside, I struggle to my feet. I'm getting too old for this.
There's something off about the street. I always check the cars first—technology is the best indicator of the time period. The Fords, Volvos, and VWs crammed along the street are nothing out of the ordinary for the late noughties. But something still seems strange.
I walk down the street, looking as casual as a person can after bursting into the past, and stop between houses eleven and thirteen. It takes a moment, but Number Twelve Grimmauld Place elbows the Muggle homes aside and reveals itself to me. Except, it's not quite the grim, old place I remember from my late twenties. The door has been given a fresh coat of black paint, the knocker has been polished to within an inch of its life, and a brand-new plaque has been affixed to the ivy-free brick wall next to the door. 12 Grimmauld Place, Home for Heroes.
I snort. Home for Heroes. It sounds like the kind of nonsense I'd have come up with as a teenager. But then a far more sinister thought hits me: this was never here before.
What, in the name of Merlin, is going on here?
I'm torn. My instincts are screaming at me to run—terrible things can happen to people that meddle with time—but I can't seem to bring myself to leave. I need to figure out why the world isn't quite right. I walk up the stairs, nerves tying my stomach into knots, but freeze on the top step.
I'm being stupid. A reckless Gryffindor. I need to leave.
Destination, determination, deliberation. Just as I'm about to twist into nothingness, the door swings open.
And I'm staring at myself. Only younger, fresher, and smiling.
Shit.
I should just leave. I try to, really I do, but my limbs are frozen. My mind is spinning.
"Hi! I thought another fox had set off the wards," the other me says brightly and holds out a hand. "Can I help you?" I don't respond. I can't. "I'm Hermione We—" She breaks off, her face crumpling slightly. If I weren't her, I might not have noticed. "Granger. Hermione Granger."
I take the outstretched hand in my own and notice the word carved into her bare arm. "Hi, Hermione. This is going to sound mad, but—" I'm cut off by her gasp as she notices my own scar. She drops my hand as if burnt and lunges for her wand. I drop my bag, lifting my hands to chest-height in surrender.
"Don't panic. My name's Hermione Sn—" I catch myself just in time. "Granger. And I appear to be lost."
"How can you possibly expect me to believe that?" Her wand is levelled at my chest, her hand steady despite the situation.
"You, or rather we, wrote a terrible collection of poetry dedicated to Professor Lockhart's hair during our second year at Hogwarts."
The corner of her mouth twitches. "I never told anybody that."
"Neither did I."
She lowers her wand but doesn't put it away. "Well, I think you'd better come in then."
"Yes, I think that's best."
My story comes out over tea and lemon cakes in the warmly familiar kitchen.
"So," she says, eyes bright with excitement, "you're telling me that the theory of Apparition can be applied the same way to time as it can be to space?"
"I was shocked too. At first, I thought it was madness. Surely, we'd be caught? What would happen if we got caught? Would it disrupt the timeline? But then I realised the importance of the work we do—by accurately documenting the past (or in as unbiased a manner as possible anyway), we may be able to keep people from repeating the same mistakes in the future."
"Knowledge is power, after all," the other Hermione says in agreement. "But if you're worried about the timelines, why did you come here?" Sharp as always.
"Now, that's where I've run into a problem. Grimmauld Place was always empty when I was your age."
"But—" Her nose wrinkles and her eyebrows furrow. "What? How can that be? I'm here."
"Well, either someone with my abilities has drastically disrupted the timeline or…" I trail off, unwilling to face reality.
"Or…?" she pushes.
"Or I'm not in Kansas anymore."
"You're thinking parallel universes?" she asks. It's the same question I'd have asked in her place.
"Exactly."
"And you think you managed to unknowingly Apparate between universes?" She sounds sceptical, using the same tone I always assumed when dealing with Professor Trelawney.
"It's the only thing I can think of."
"And how did you manage it?"
"I sneezed."
"You sneezed? And ended up in an alternate reality?" She snorts into her tea.
If you ignore the fact that I'm trapped in a universe that isn't my own, separated from my family, it is rather funny.
"At least in Star Trek they always have some kind of valid-sounding catastrophe."
"What's Star Trek?" the other Hermione asks, mouth frowning.
"I know reality has diverged, but it can't be that drastic! How do you not know about Captain Kirk?" I stare at her aghast.
Her blank expression lasts mere seconds before it begins to crumble and she bursts into laughter.
"Your… face…" she gasps between giggles, smacking the table with her hand.
I can't help it. The laughter is contagious.
"Why are you laughing, Mummy?" a young voice asks from table-height. "And who is this lady?"
I'm still chuckling half-heartedly, but my doppelganger immediately slips into what my husband calls mummy mode.
"My new friend told me a joke," she explains kindly. "Rosie, this is… uh…"
It's clear that she has no idea how to introduce me. I jump in. "I'm Jean." I hold my hand out to the delightful little girl. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Rosie."
She's all red curls, freckles, and toothy grin. Her blue eyes are all Ron, and her hand is sticky in my own.
"It's a pleasure to create your acquaintance," Rosie says seriously.
"Make, sweetie. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Yes, that." Rosie drops my hand. "Mummy, can I have an apple?"
"What's the magic word?"
"Accio!" Rosie squeals and a shiny green apple zooms from the fruit bowl and lands in her outstretched hand.
"I was actually thinking of please," the other Hermione mutters as Rosie dashes out of the room and thumps her way up the stairs.
"So…" I start, not really sure where I want this to go. "That's your daughter?"
"Is she not yours?"
I shake my head. "I didn't have kids until later. I don't know how to ask this, so I'm just going to do it."
"Sometimes you just have to dive elbow-deep into the Snargaluff stump."
"Exactly!" There's something incredibly comforting about talking to yourself. They get you. "What happened between you and Ron?"
"Ah… Well, I wish I knew, to be honest. We finally got together after the war. It felt destined and right and perfect…"
"But?" I ask.
"Things kept falling apart. We had Rosie and then Hugo, each pregnancy bringing us back together only for us to become strangers once again. Love is one long sweet dream... and marriage is the alarm clock. At least, it was for us. I wouldn't change our marriage for the world, of course, it gave me the lights of my life. But I sometimes wonder if we'd have been better off as friends. Marriage is just not something I'm good at." She stares unblinkingly into her mug, lost in thought.
"It doesn't have to be," I say quietly, almost to myself.
"Have to be what?" she asks.
"The alarm clock."
She looks up sharply, eyes narrowed.
At that moment the door bangs open and my husband storms into the room, robes billowing and clutching a giggling child. Except, he's not my husband. His hair is too dark, his eyes and mouth are missing the laughter lines I have kissed my way along time and time again, and his teeth, currently revealed by the curling snarl of his mouth, have yet to benefit from the expertise of my parents.
"Granger!" he bellows. I haven't heard him shout like that since my school days. "Do something about your Merlin-forsaken progeny!"
He dumps the red-haired boy on the table.
"And what exactly is the problem?" She shoves her chair out from beneath the table and stands toe-to-toe with Severus. Her chest is heaving and her hair crackles.
"Your child was hiding in my store cupboard again! He jumped out at me whilst I was carrying Erumpent fluid. We could have both been seriously injured!" Unlike my other self, I can tell he's saying this out of worry for her son.
"If you don't want him messing with your stores, you should ward them properly!" Her voice is raised, and her hands are firmly lodged on her hips. "Try and get over your distaste for silly wand waving and sort out the problem yourself!"
I watch as the wind disappears from Severus's sails, and he sags.
"I did," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. I can't help but smirk.
"I'm sorry," Hermione says, cupping a hand around her ear, "I didn't quite catch that."
"I said," he growls, "that I did ward my stores. Perhaps you should occasionally take time out from being an insufferable know-it-all and keep half an eye on your children." His words are harsh, but I can see the fire in his eyes. I know that he lives for these confrontations.
"Why you nasty little sna—"
I cut her off. "Is anyone going to introduce me?"
It's clear that the other Hermione had momentarily forgotten all about me, and that Severus hadn't registered my presence at all.
"I'm Hugo!" the small boy says, proudly presenting me with a fist. A little unsure, I bump it with my own.
"I'm Jean," I say with a smile.
And just like that, Hugo loses interest in me. My own children are the same; I can have their full attention one moment, only to lose it in the next. I need to get back to them.
"Can I go play now, Mummy?"
"Of course, sweetie. Stay out of Professor Snape's stores."
He gives her a beaming, angelic smile before scrabbling down from the table and disappearing through the kitchen door.
"I've asked you not to call me that." Severus glowers at her.
"And I can't say I'm partial to being called an insufferable know-it-all in front of my son."
He has the good grace to look guilty. "Right. I apologise." He looks to me and nods. "Pleasure to meet you, Jean."
"Believe me, the pleasure is all mine."
He sweeps from the room, and I sag in my chair.
"What's Severus doing here?" I ask. "In fact, what's the deal with…" I think back to the sign I saw on the wall outside. "Why is it a home for heroes?"
"Ahhh." A half-smile spreads across her face, and I just know she's trying to hide how proud she is of the place. "That was my idea. Harry couldn't stand the thought of living here after the war. He couldn't even bring himself to come back here. So, I volunteered to clean the place up." Her smile droops. "If I'm completely honest, I needed somewhere I could get away from Ron when he was in one of his moods."
"But why turn it into a home?" Although, I have a feeling I already know why. It's the kind of thing I wish I'd come up with myself.
"So many people were left displaced after the war, and it just seemed like the right thing to do. We've had all sorts here: older wizards and witches who'd been left with no family, children with no parents, people who'd been turfed out of St Mungo's. It's a place for them to get back on their feet. We place children with families as quickly as possible." She talks with her hands, and it reminds me of the way Severus grabs my hands when I get too excited. He says it's to save the furniture. I think it's just an excuse to hold my hands.
"Who foots the bill?"
"Harry and a bunch of other people," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Mostly families with dubious loyalties during the war, desperate to get back into society's good graces."
"Like the Malfoys?"
She nods. "We're currently drinking tea courtesy of their plantations in India."
And it's damn delicious.
"But why…" I trail off. Though I've already asked, I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
"Why is Snape here?" she finishes for me.
"Well, yes."
"His house was burnt down whilst he was in Azkaban—"
"Severus went to Azkaban?" I cut her off, slapping my hand on the table. "But he's a war hero! That's outrageous." How dare they throw him in that miserable hell-hole?
"You don't have to tell me that," she says, a tad defensively. "He—Wait, Severus?"
"What?" I'm beyond confused.
"You've been calling him Severus," her tone is curious, but I can hear a waiver of shock beneath.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"What would you have me call my husband? Professor Snape?" I probably could have delivered the news more tactfully, but years of marriage has never stopped the pitying looks people give me when they see us together. I'm proud to be married to the love of my life. I'm not about to hedge around the subject.
Her mouth falls open, but there's no pity there. Her eyes are bright.
"You mean there's a chance?" she asks in a quiet, breathy voice.
I can't help but smile. Of course, she likes him—she's me, after all. And then I remember what we're talking about, and my stomach drops, suddenly leaden.
"Why did they imprison him?"
"It was awful. He left Harry memories to examine, to tell him the truth." I nod. "Somebody stole them. We never found out who. Snape was in St Mungo's for nearly six months after the battle, and then he was carted straight into a trial. He didn't come to his own defence, just sat there staring blankly ahead. They said that war hero or not, he was still a Death Eater. He'd still killed."
"How long?" Anger is bubbling in my gut, making my own hair crackle this time.
"Seven years. He's been here ever since he got out." She shrugs. "He runs a potions business out of the basement. I know full well that he could easily buy his own place, but…"
"But you don't want him to leave?"
She shakes her head. "I don't. And he hasn't mentioned it either."
"I see," I say with a smile.
We each sip our drinks, and the smile on her face tells me all I need to know about where her mind has wandered off to.
Mine is also filled with Severus. My Severus. The one I've accidentally left behind.
"I have to get home," I say abruptly. "Any ideas?"
Her eyebrows knit together. "I think it's safe to say that your sneeze disrupted your Apparition."
I nod in agreement.
"Did you end up in the correct time?" she asks.
"Right time, wrong place," I confirm. "Well, right place too. Wrong universe."
"I'm obviously not an expert, but I think that you messed up your three Ds. You weren't concentrating properly on the correct Grimmauld Place."
I think it over, rolling the idea around in my mind. It seems reasonable. I can't think of another reason for the mistake.
"So," I start, "you think I should do a Dorothy?"
"Pretty much," she says with a laugh. "There's no place like home, after all."
It's odd to say goodbye to someone knowing that, if all goes right, you'll never see that person again. It's even odder when that person is yourself.
"Good luck," I say as I make my way down the front steps and onto the street.
"Good luck?"
"With Severus," I explain. A shy smile lightens her face and pinks her cheeks.
Destination, determination, deliberation. I think of Severus. My Severus.
The constriction of Apparition feels almost like an embrace. Gladly, I succumb.