Disclaimer: Do not own Harry Potter for clear reasons.

In theory, it was to be carefully controlled. A stable insertion into the previous timestream, as it were. Well, maybe it was those damn butterflies in Brazil. That's all I could glean from what Hermione Granger had said, at any rate.

Don't get me wrong, she is - or was, or will be, but that's beside the point - a great girl, but, well, when it comes to mistakes like this...

Instead, I appear naked in a blazing streak of fire. It's not the type that burns, but it certainly tickles.

And I'm probably a kilometer above the ground, imagining what the Muggles are thinking right now, while more important problems like the English Channel approach at an alarming speed. Hitting that will not feel good; in fact, I'm going to die, unless I make a Portkey or something without a wand.

Wind rushes by, tickling my cheek as I approach the bottom...

I crash out the window, Moody gripping me to his body with one arm. The ground looms closer...

I run my fingers through my hair, and I catch a loose blond strand and pull it out. Now for the hard part. I focus, bringing all of my magical ability to bear. The ground comes closer. I visualize. Focus. Intend. The ground comes closer.

"Portus!" The dead hair cells glow blue and I whirl away in an explosion of color.

An object clenched in his hand glows blue, and we jerk away from our fall.

I appear on the floor of a forest, my head spinning. I'm drained, and really need to go to sleep... No! I drag myself from the ground, and long, gray hair falls onto my face. I reach up and feel dead skin cells peel away. I've aged.

Temporal discontinuity requires magic to sustain it, or something, so my life slowly whittles away whenever I do magic or even use energy, especially for something as major as a wandless portkey. On the plus side, it puts me closer to my magic - it's easier to access, since it's already constantly being drawn upon by whatever forces of time keep me anchored here. But that's not a trick I want to pull again.

There's a town nearby, and I quickly assault an unsuspecting stranger and take his clothes and money. I crop my hair with a discreet cutting curse. It's around sunrise, so few are out and about.

"Do you have a gun?" I ask, shrugging on the unfortunate man's jacket. Sorry, got a timeline to alter. Maybe he'll win the lottery or something. Brazilian butterflies, right?

"N-no."

"Not even a simple one, like a muzzle-loading pistol?"

"No, I don't - what are you even..."

Gun laws. Then again, the Resistance had acquired guns quite illegally - with Voldemort in rule and monitoring magic, sometimes it was better to limit wand use.

"Know anyone who does?"

"Y-Yes."

"Tell me where to get one," I order the naked civilian.

I am soon the brand new owner of a gun. It's not exactly suitable for fighting, except for a one-time, close-up surprise. A couple of modifications make it slightly better: I expand its capacity, making it essentially semi-automatic. If only I had a decent military-grade weapon... As it is, this is practically useless, but if I need to quickly assault a wizard I can use it for that.

And with more time, and more magic, I could do better, but I need to conserve all of my energy. And all of my time, too, which is pretty interchangeable with magic in my situation.

Now, all I need is to get a wand and avoid anyone who might interfere with anything else I need to do.

I sit in the compartment on the Hogwarts Express, watching the countryside pass by and wondering what Fourth Year will bring. Ex-Auror Mad-Eye Moody sits across from me - he's supposed to be a new teacher, but he elected to guard me on the way there. Because Death Eaters had assaulted the Quidditch World Cup and fired the Dark Mark, Dumbledore and the Ministry wanted assurance that I was safe.

Moody had scared off the rest of my companions with stories of gruesome violence, endlessly preaching "constant vigilance." He turns his head and looks at me, then rises. "Stand up," he orders.

I stand. "We forgot one important aspect of security, kid. What is it?"

"I don't know."

"At least you're honest. Better than your father, at any rate... Come over here."

I walk to where he's indicated. Suddenly he grabs me, pulling us both toward the window. It smashes on impact as he lunges out and we fall off the edge of a bridge...

The Portkey deposits us in an eerie graveyard. Tombstones circle all around, and he ties me up. "What's going on?"

He grins. "You can't trust anyone, Longbottom. And tonight, the Dark Lord will rise again..."

~~Mutable Reality~~

The entrance to the Leaky Cauldron is as ratty as it ever was, or rather, as it ever will be. Would have been. Whatever.

I push open the door and enter as a gust of wind pushes it back and forces the door closed with a slam. Huddled groups of witches and wizards turn and glare.

Right. Magical Britain's in the middle of a civil war. I hurry past a younger Tom and open the entrance to Diagon Alley, hoping that none of the patrons will attempt to accost me. None do, which is lucky, because I have little time to alter the future.

Diagon Alley is nearly deserted, as it was during Fifth Year - nobody wants to risk their skins to get supplies. The usually crowded streets seem bare, and the narrow pathway no longer beckons to me as it did when I came as a pampered and impressionable child. Instead, the shadows twist and whisper of hopelessness, death, and despair in the burnt out shops along the road.

Despite the cold welcome home, I continue down the alley, watching out of the corner of my eye all the minor paths branching off from the main street. Passerby shrink away, buildings loom and seem to sway as I walk underneath. The quicker I can leave, the better.

Instead of leaving, though, I enter even further into the belly of this beastly magical city, heading into the dark Knockturn Alley. After making some turns off of the main thoroughfare, I walk around, waiting for prey. When another shady and quite large wizard walks by, I turn and follow. He immediately turns, but he isn't prepared for my assault. I hit him on the forehead with the blunt of my modified pistol, and then take his money. Did he really expect to get by in this war unattacked by simply looking intimidating? Then again, that's probably most residents of Knockturn. I quickly return to Diagon Alley. As it is, I only have a gun to protect me from anyone who might try the same trick.

I walk through the streets until I finally find Ollivander's shop. I hope I can grab my old wand, though it might not be as good a fit as I need. My wand had grown and evolved with me and the war - would it, a blank slate, be able to adjust to me? It is too late now to ask these questions. The risk was already measured, the die already cast.

I enter and the wandmaker looks up at me. He doesn't look much younger than he did before, but considering that he's almost as old as Dumbledore, that's not really saying all that much.

"I wish to acquire a wand."

He peers at me, curiously. "And for that, you'd need a license, or, failing that, an age less than twelve... The Ministry does not take kindly to those who abandon the law in this time of suffering."

He would be surprised that I passed the second condition on a time traveling technicality, but I couldn't go spouting out something like that wherever I go.

"Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches precisely. That's all I need."

"Curious, indeed, that you ask for this wand... a great wand, no doubt, meant for a great destiny."

"Will you let me buy it, or...?" My hand strays to my jacket.

He laughed, "Oh no, my friend, such a crude weapon like your Muggle firearm cannot compare to the beauty and utility of a well-crafted wand."

I agree with the sentiment. Having lived in an era of restricted magic under Voldemort, the Resistance had become perhaps too well-acquainted with Muggle guns for protection. The Muggle government would overlook any such instances and deny governmental assistance to the Resistance when speaking with magical government. Needless to say, the Muggle and magical worlds had lived in a very delicate balance during those years, an unstable equilibrium that was near the tipping point.

"But neither I nor any government of man should have claim over magic, and if the wand accepts you, then I will gladly give it."

He walks to the back of the shop, and returns a little later with a familiar wand. He holds it out, and I reach and curl my fingers in a familiar grasp.

"It is indeed quite curious, Augusta... The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Longbottom, and you will produce great things, of that I have no doubt."

"It's just a wand. Why's it so important? I wanna get the Nimbus Two Thousand."

"Hush, Neville. Getting a wand is an important moment in every young wizard's life, and you should stop to appreciate this special connection."

"Nothing's more important than Quidditch!"

Ollivander chuckles. "Brooms are delicate things. They age, lose bristles, and snap. Their charms unravel at the worst of moments, and professional Quidditch players go through many in their career. But a wand, Mr. Longbottom - a wand will last you your whole life. It is your companion and friend. Precious little can break a wand, except powerful magic that may well kill the wizard as well. Treat it well, this wand. There may come a time when you rely on it to save your life."

Nothing happens. The wand is cold.

"Strange, that you would know of this specific wand and not be able to wield it..."

"I need another wand, then," I declare, still trying to wrap my head around this unexpected development. My wand would not accept me. Perhaps it is the experience that we no longer share, or perhaps there is a different reason. With all I want to change, I will soon cease to be Neville Longbottom, the child - or man - of prophecy, and that title would be conferred to an as-of-yet unborn child in this timeline, born to ill-fated parents who thrice defy Lord Voldemort, referenced in the prophecy that ruined my entire life.

The aging wandmaker does not seem to care and brings out multiple wands for me to try, but none have that spark of compatibility. They all feel wrong, feel weak, feel unready.

"Cherry and unicorn hair, thirteen inches," announces Ollivander.

I gingerly pick it up from his hand, almost expecting flame to explode out its tip - just as a particularly stubborn dragon heartstring wand had, requiring the wandmaker to douse the shop with water.

Instead, it becomes warm in my hand. It's welcoming, almost. I can tell that it's not quite perfect, but I have wasted enough time here - too much time. I take a glance at my watch. It's almost noon.

"A no doubt just as fine wand as the one you came here for."

"How much is it?"

"Thirteen galleons. A little more expensive than usual, but these are uncertain times and you do not have a license..."

"I understand."

I pay him, and quickly exit. There is still much work to do.

I make my way through the winding alleyway, this time gripping my newly purchased wand. I cannot afford to be caught by surprise.

Finally, I see Gringotts Bank and more importantly, tucked away in a corner, a tiny apothecary.

I head straight for it and enter. The owner, a ratty-looking man, greets me with a stiff nod, and continues putting ingredients on haphazard shelves. I choose an unoccupied aisle and loiter around, idly picking up and examining different objects.

Potion-making was never a strength of mine, and although Professor Slughorn did his best to encourage me, I never really got into it. Powdered billywig stingers and diced flobberworms never could fully grasp my attention. Herbology, though - the shriek of Mandrakes, the stink of bubotubers, even the tight grip of the Devil's Snare, and no, not in the way you're thinking - is my passion. Not any more, though. Only before fire coursed through Hogwarts, before the delicate greens, yellows, and blues of the greenhouses became a coarse gray. There's too much work to do these days to idle around gardening plants, too much constant movement to allow proper cultivation of rare magical breeds.

I walk around and inspect other items too, making enough casual noise so as not to attract suspicion. My path coincides with that of the owner a couple times, and during each he looks up, wary, before returning to his work. I notice, though, that he moves up and down the same aisle, and seems to pick back up the same items every time I walk by.

After minutes of our delicate dance, I speak up. "A curious shop you have, but a curiouser appearance."

"Indeed?"

I lean in closer, whispering this time. "We have a choice, always, between what is right and what is easy, and I choose what is right."

If anything, my words elicit more tension. "You weren't to arrive for another three days!" he whispers, and then he pauses. "You are not the messenger!" He reaches for his wand.

"I am an in-between," I interject, before he jumps to the correct conclusion and kills me. "The original messenger cannot speak with you - it is too dangerous."

"What does he have to say, then, that is so important?"

"There was a new development," I say, in a low voice. "New plans made by the Dark Lord himself. The Vance family. Today, right after dusk. Many, many men - to 'do it right,' in their own words."

The man's face pales significantly. "Are you - are you sure? The Vances - no, they wouldn't dare! Such a respected family, such a wealthy family."

"Exactly. To win this war, they will resort to any means to send a message to the opposition." I turn and walk towards the door as the stunned man still tries to grasp the reality of my message. I exit and walk into Diagon Alley, leaving Benjy Fenwick's apothecary behind.

"Emmeline was a dear friend," says an old Benjy Fenwick, his face haggard with grief. "As were all those who died in the First War... and the Second. If you truly make it back, you must save her. Her family's wealth and influence would have been indispensable to the war effort."

"And how exactly do I go about doing that?" I ask.

"There was a man who relayed information to me, back when I ran the apothecary on the corner - it was destroyed, but back then it still stood..."

"And?" I prompt, breaking the man out of his nostalgic recollections.

"There is a simple sequence of words that you must say, and pretend that this knowledge from the future comes from the past. Give the information, that the Vances will be attacked. You must not be too early, for fear of upsetting the timeline too much. I think you should start your journey there."

I copy down the phrases dictated to me. Just another thing to memorize along with the rest of the Resistance's plans and counterplans for the past. As well as my own.

~~Mutable Reality~~

I appear in the outskirts of the quiet Muggle town with a crack of apparition. I'm not concerned with the village as much as with a small house nestled within a grassy plain some distance away. Despite its outward simplicity, it houses the Vances, a relatively well-off wizarding family. They all perished in the First War, but I'm here to make sure that their fate changes, among other things.

I cast a Disillusionment Charm on myself, not strong enough to fool someone like Dumbledore, but hopefully he won't be paying too much attention to the edges of the battle, should he show up at all. I'm here only to make sure that what needs to happen happens. I can't risk getting injured or even worse, outed, for my primary objective has not yet been accomplished.

Soon enough, I reach the plot of land. There is a relatively large copse of trees off to the side, but other than that, there is little to no cover on the flat expanse of land. I make my way towards the trees, checking to see that none have noticed my approach. The Order will soon discreetly gather here; I will have to make sure they didn't notice that I, too, am here. Unfortunately, this rules out camping on the ground. I climb one of the trees, slowly transfiguring temporary supports and handholds as necessary. Finally reaching a large branch at the top, I straddle the branch.

The moment I get comfortable in my watchpost, I hear muted cracks of apparition as Order members begin to arrive. Though the Vances had most likely already evacuated, the Order of the Phoenix would let no chance to confront the elusive Death Eaters pass them by. They confer with each other in lowered voices, and disillusion themselves as well after checking carefully that no person is around. Or at least, that no person is around on the ground. No one ever looks up.

It appears that Dumbledore could not come. Hopefully the rest would be able to deal a blow to the Death Eaters, as well as Voldemort himself. I doubt they can truly hurt him, but they can at least bag his minions.

I look for two specific men: my father and James Potter. They both are important, in more ways than one; they will care for me and Harry Potter until their untimely deaths. Harry Potter, would end up arguably the strongest member of the Resistance, braver than I or any other person could ever be. He's dead, though, as we predicted - he knew the portal would rip him apart, but he had to try to accompany me anyway. Now he's just a fetus in Lily Potter's womb. And I am - well, I don't really want to think about whatever activities my parents may have engaged in. Neither of these two men are here, which is a problem for multiple reasons. They're both extremely talented duelers at this age - or so I always heard, anyways, in the comparisons between me and my father, Harry and his - and the Order will probably need all the support they can get right now.

There's nothing I can do about their absence however, since I likely won't be able to leave without attracting some sort of notice when apparating or jumping down from this tree.

Nothing happens for quite a while after they settle in to wait for the Death Eaters to arrive. The sun sets over the flat horizon, throwing red and orange and even green rays across the cloudless sky. As the sun finally dips below the land, I can almost hear the nervous breaths of anticipation from the Order members. Still no enemies approach.

Finally, though, as the last vestiges of light flee the evening sky, and when darkness truly falls, the Death Eaters apparate in. They need no subtle entrance or quiet gathering before attack - they appear, synchronized, alongside their snake-faced leader. Voldemort's body is not quite as warped as it was when he resurrected in my timeline, but rituals and magical abuse have made his form monstrous nonetheless.

The swarm of masked and cloaked figures rushes towards the tiny cottage, and they soon begin to break down the meager protections which guard the seemingly insignificant pinprick of light that is the Vance home. Voldemort leads the attack, continually assaulting the barrier with an array of powerful spells. Some of the men stay to the side and cast spells to restrict apparition. I draw my wand and gun, just in case I need to make a quick escape. Or if the Order appears to be losing. They don't actually have to win, since the Vances have, hopefully, already escaped, but nobody important can die on the Order side of things.

Underneath me, the Order slowly rises and then charges towards battle, their disillusionment wearing out as they attack the enemy. Spells of all colors light up the countryside, but it seems to be a stalemate. That, too, while Voldemort continues to assault the shields.

They soon crumble, and he stalks towards the home. An old couple exit out the front, shakily holding their wands out towards the evil wizard. Voldemort contemptuously flicks his wand twice, and with two bright green flashes the woman is dead. The man, enraged, tries to counterattack in vain. With another swipe, he falls next to his dead wife and they go up in flames, with the rest of the cottage. They, it seems, had elected to stay behind.

Voldemort apparently realizes that Emmeline Vance had evacuated successfully, despite her parents' deaths. Angrily, he turns to the raging battle and releases a flurry of spells. The ground quakes, the grass weaves into tangled vines, the sky seems to weigh down more heavily, and then - shit.

The trees around mine topple, and the one I sit in begins to lean as well. The Order apparently took Voldemort's obvious rage as a sign to exit the battle and be happy with the losses they managed to inflict in the Death Eater ranks. They back away from the trees, the Death Eaters following.

I hear a great snap, and my tree falls towards the ground. I lose hold of my gun.

"Arresto Momentum!" I try to whisper out the spell, and I slow just enough to land roughly on the ground, the tree crashing right beside me. Hopefully he didn't notice -

He walks purposefully towards me, and I realize with a start that my disillusionment must have dropped when I slowed my fall. He points his wand, and the tree beside me quickly transforms into a giant snake. He's playing with me, and then he'll interrogate and kill me. This, of course, cannot happen. It hisses, menacing, but does not move to strike.

I point my wand at it and slowly back away. Then it jumps, and jabs at my arm. My wand goes flying. It strikes two more times in quick succession. It's playing with me, too. Bleeding profusely, I scramble on the ground for my wand, but my fingers meet empty air wherever I feel. The snake rears back, and then -

My fingers grasp cool metal, and I bring the modified pistol up and fire several rounds into the beast as it lunges towards me. Blood sprays all over my face as the momentum behind the snake continues to bring it forward. I step to the side and quickly grab my wand, which lies under the trunk of a collapsed tree.

The gun flies from my hands as I break out into a sprint. I feel the heat of fire behind me, but don't turn to look. Green light flies past as I duck and dodge, hoping my random movement will keep Voldemort from hitting me. Interrogation's off of the table, then. He thinks I'm a stray Order member and is going to kill me.

"You are ingenious, wizard, combining Muggle and magic like in this... device. You would do much better to join me."

Fire burns around the edges of the room, herding me towards the ugly face of Voldemort. I quaver before his horrific visage, a grotesque appendage on the back of Quirrell's head.

"Our fates are intertwined, it seems...," he whispers. "Why not join me and seize the life you were always promised, Neville Longbottom?"

I summon my courage, but can only stammer out a pitiful response.

"No!"

Voldemort remains silent for a moment. "So be it."

The fire circles around me, now, monstrous shapes forming and spreading destruction throughout the once beautiful landscape. It cuts me off from running farther, and I hear Voldemort's triumphant laugh. But I've reached the edge of the Death Eaters' incantations and I apparate away, the scorching flames of Fiendfyre singing the hair off my face.

The Vance line will live on, but there are still more important tasks left to accomplish.