It's time travel. Cliché, I know, but it could be worse…maybe. It's got an OC as an MC, if that helps at all. I like OCs.

I feel like this is a bit obvious and that there shouldn't be a need for me to actually point this fact out, but I don't own Harry Potter (or anyone else, because I don't believe that people are property. I'm just so liberal it's shocking, right?)

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"Hey, Flora," whispered my brother, who was currently standing back-to-back with me, wand drawn. "I think we may be in a bit of a pickle."

"More than a bit." I whispered back. The bad guys were closing in on us, and by bad guys, I mean Death Eaters. We knew how to fight, of course. We had both been in the DA my sixth year (it had been his seventh), and Harry Potter was a hell of a teacher. But no one can prepare you for a surprise attack in which you're outnumbered by four and one of you is—seventeen or not—still a student. "This is kind of a crap situation."

"Thinking makes it so." He said before he took a shaky breath to steady himself.

"Bloody Ravenclaw." I scoffed. Of course he'd say some philosophical shit like that.

"Said the Hufflepuff." He retaliated.

It probably came from being such close siblings in different houses, but neither of us had ever bought in to the house-wars that the rest of Hogwarts seemed so keen on. We bashed each other's houses often, but it never hurt our feelings, and it was always just between us. I never bothered the other Ravenclaws, he never bothered my fellow Hufflepuffs. It was our kind of sibling banter.

So if we were in a rough situation, we bantered. Banter wasn't exactly helping us survive, but it was better than silence. At least it reassured us, reminded us that we had each other's backs.

"We kill with kindness." I deadpanned, and I felt his silent laugh against my back.

"That's working well."

"Well, Mr. Intellect—Howsabout you think your way out of this?" I asked, focusing on the task at hand.

"I'm working on it," was the simple reply.

No curses had been thrown yet; there was no need. They knew they had us, and we knew that initiating a fight where there wasn't one was basically suicide. They were slow, taking their time, which they knew they had plenty of. We had already tried apperating with no luck. They must have had the foresight to guard the building.

"Why do you think they're after us?" I asked, "We're not important." I tried to hold back the silent tears that were trying to escape, but decided that it was a waste of focus. No one would care if I was crying.

"I don't know why they're here, Flower, but you are important. You're important to me. You need to keep yourself safe." He said.

"That doesn't seem like the most viable option here, Macs."

"Thinking makes it so," he repeated, "and I know you can think through this. I love you, Flower."

Before I could return the sentiment, he said some spell I couldn't quite make out, and I felt a sharp pain in my head.

I didn't yelp at the pain, even though I really wanted to. It hurt like a mother—enough to cloud my vision. But the HP had taught us not to acknowledge our pain unless we wanted to tell enemy where to attack.

Speaking of the enemy, they weren't there. I blinked several times to clear my vision and found myself alone, exactly where I was before—the stockroom of Scrivenshaft's. Macs had taken up an internship his sixth year and a full job came soon after. I hated the place—it always smelled like the earthworm gizzards they used in the EverChange™ rainbow ink, and the barbs that floated everywhere as he worked made my nose itch. But penmanship was his passion, and if dressing quills all day got him an amazing employee discount in the end, who was I to judge?

The room was dark and empty; every step I took as I slowly checked my surroundings echoed loud enough for me to flinch. The shop was closed, just like it had been when I was with Macs. I was only there because he stayed late on Sundays, training the Quick-Quotes before a new shipment of feathers came in. Each school holiday for the past two years, I had gone to town with him in the morning, spent the day mopping floors and fetching tea for Dominic Maestro in order to save up for the hideously overpriced crystallophone charm package for my glass armonica, and met him back at Scrivenshaft's in the evening. Mum always insisted we stick together, considering the whole wartime bit.

Because that had helped.

"Macs?" I called out. No answer. Macs always answered. It made hide-and-go-seek a bit of a bore growing up, but now it gave me a definitive response. Macs wasn't here.

And if Macs wasn't here…shit.

I ran out of the stockroom and into the actual shop, my lavender robes billowing around my tights. Out here, there wasn't as much echoing, though I couldn't tell why with my very limited knowledge of the physics of sound. I didn't stop running until I had shoved my way through the door and was out on the cobbled walkway of High Street. It was empty and, even with the illumination from the streetlamps, full of creepy-looking shadows that could've been hiding anything. I recalled the stories of lethifolds that Macs used to scare me with when I was little.

Because that was a productive chain of thought. Great way to up the horror level of the moment, Flora.

Also, great way to distract myself. As I snapped out of it, I heard footsteps behind me. They were too close; I should have heard them from at least five yards away, but I had been thinking about death cloaks. Smooth move.

I swiveled with my wand still drawn, ready to cast a locomotus wibbley on my attacker. I justify it as my go-to because attackers don't anticipate pathetic prank-like spells, but mostly it's that I'm just really good at it; I've been jelly-legging Macs since I got my wand. Immediately, he put his arms up in surrender.

"Who are you?" I snarled, trying to be as threatening as possible.

He didn't look like a threat. He was… "slight" would be a nice way of putting it but "scrawny" would be more accurate. His hair, a dirty blond that actually looked dirty, hung in a shag cut in desperate need of a trim, emphasizing an extremely angular face and an unnaturally pointy nose. He had high, defined cheekbones, which made his cheeks look hollow, even more so in the shadows. His eyes, however, were very round. It could have been because he had a wand pointed at his jugular, but it seemed more as if God had tried to make up for all of the sharp corners.

He said his name, but his voice was fast, quiet, high-pitched, and frankly scared, and all I could glean was that it was bi-syllabic.

"Louder!" I barked. God, I was starting to sound like freaking Mad-Eye.

"Peter."

"What is your business here?"

"I could ask you the same." He said. He was gaining confidence, though his hands were still raised. "It's way past curfew."

"Curfew?"

"Yeah. 9:00 curfew. Where've you been living? 1805?"

A comedian, ter-franking-rific. I didn't have time for this. "1996." I replied, hoping a serious answer would get him to explain this "curfew" bit.

"Ha, ha." He deadpanned, "Very funny."

"What?" I responded, confused.

"It's 1978." He said, seemingly equally confused.

"No, it's not," I immediately protested, but after I thought about it, it began to make sense. Macs had said some strange spell, and I had ended up in the same place, but a different circumstance. He had told me to "think through this" and time travel, as strange as it was, was a viable explanation.

"Stay." I commanded Peter (ya know, because he's totally an owl, and therefore must obey me) then backed away slowly until I was beside a newsstand. It was closed, but a copy of The Spell in the window confirmed that it was December of '78.

I lowered my wand, but kept it in my hand just in case. He didn't go for his right away, but you can never be too careful.

"So, Petey—can I call you Petey?" I didn't wait for a response before I continued, "I'm not from around here. Can you explain this curfew to me?"

"Erm…" He stammered, still shaken from the whole threatening gig and all.

"I'm sorry for frightening you." I said, honestly, but also hoping the kindness would hurry him up.

"Well. Er. There's a curfew. No one's allowed out-of-doors past nine—floo travel only. They're going to be putting the charms up next week to enforce it," He said, with much stuttering. Then he asked the question that I had been hoping he wouldn't, "What did you mean: 1996?"

"Maybe later." I responded carefully. He seemed like he could potentially make a good ally, which I was sure to need, but I'm not so trusting. I'd keep my eyes open and figure a bit more out before revealing more than I already had.

He nodded; hopefully that was sign that he understood why I was being evasive. Of course, it could also be because he had more than zero brain cells and had pieced together my situation. I hoped it was the former.

I wrapped my non-wand arm around his shoulders and grinned. "Lead the way, Petey—which way to shelter?"

He steered me away from Scrivenshaft's to what I hoped was a safe place.

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So there you have it. Now, I recognize that I suck at math. Like, suckity-suck-suck at math. Despite my avoision, the nature of this fic requires me to use dates. I will probably get them wrong. In fact, I am almost positive I already have screwed up every year mentioned in this chapter (even though I tried my very hardest). To help you readers out, here's a breakdown.

-Flora is in her seventh year, one year above Harry. She is out of school for Christmas holidays. Macs is one year older than Flora

-Peter is in his seventh year and is out of school for Christmas holidays

If any of you clever people can figure out which years I should have used, please message me so I can fix them.