So uh, I'm a sucker for Heathers time travel fics. I've mainly only read ones where only Veronica goes back in time, though. I thought it'd be fun to write one from the perspective of a character that's not only far less morally sound than Veronica, but also doesn't have as much of a full picture of the events they're trying to prevent as they think they do. I chose Heather Duke because she's my favorite.

Warning: This story contains references to eating disorders, explicit language, implied/referenced suicide, implied/referenced sexual assault, internalized/period-typical homophobia, underage drinking... y'know, the usual Heathers stuff.

All Heather Duke wanted was to sleep. For the past five and a half hours, she had been periodically changing position in her bed, trying in vain to get some rest before she had to get up for school. Currently, she laid on her back, staring up at her ceiling fan with her eyes half-closed.

Finally, she began to drift off to sleep.

...Only to have her blissful blanket of nothingness pierced through not even ten minutes later by the sound of the phone ringing.

"Ugh, are you kidding me?" Heather hissed into the darkness of her room. She dragged her hands over her face as if it'd do anything to slough off even the thinnest layer of her annoyance or exhaustion. Seriously, who had the nerve to be calling her a half-hour before her alarm went off? She just fucking fell asleep too! Nobody who had her number was talking to her, so it was probably some dipshit who misdialed. Or maybe somebody wanted something from her? Either way, Heather wasn't interested in having a conversation right now.

With a sour expression that felt as though it ought to have been carved into her face at this point, Heather blindly fumbled in the darkness for the phone, knocking a nail file and something else off of her nightstand in the process. Promptly after managing to pick up the handset, she slammed it back down onto the hook.

No more ringing.

Sweet silence.

Heather settled back down and pulled her red comforter further over herself.

The phone started to ring again.

Fine. She probably wouldn't be able to fall back asleep anyway! Heather grabbed the phone and held it to her ear. "What do you want?" she snapped.

"Excuse me? You want to try that again?"

A chill shot through her body like lightning, turning her blood into ice. The voice on the other end of the line was not one she ought to have been hearing.

Was this a joke? Another god-awful dream?

"Heather…?"

"Yeah, christ. Someone's pissy," replied a voice that could only belong to Heather Chandler.

Did Chandler not know that she was supposed to be dead? She had died months ago. Heather had gone to her funeral. Had visited her grave. Had read a mimeographed copy of her suicide note handed out by their shitty school counselor.

"Sorry, Heather…" That was all Duke could say. A response that had almost always been prepared to leave her lips when she talked to Chandler. That was the only sentence her brain could formulate while it was also trying to process what was happening.

"Whatever. Make it up to me by giving me a ride to school."

"A ride? Something happen to your car?" Heather decided she was going to pretend this was a normal situation for now. Just until her rapid stream of thoughts started to slow down to the point of coherency.

"It's not important. All you need to know is that I need you to drive me because I am not walking or taking the bus."

Typical reply. A sliver of Heather's disbelief and utter confusion was replaced with a very familiar and almost mechanical feeling of irritation. What a surreal experience. And a weirdly familiar one at that. As in, it was starting to give her a strange sense of déjà vu.

"Heather? I swear to god if you fell asleep on me—"

"I'm still awake," she told her. "I'll be at yours in about an hour."

"Great." And with that, Chandler hung up.

Heather slowly put the phone back. She was fairly certain she had an idea of what was going on now, but it sounded so ridiculous that she needed something more to prove that she wasn't currently losing her mind.

She reached over and switched on her lamp.

Her room did not look the way it did earlier. The difference wasn't stark, but it was enough to be noticeable and vaguely unsettling. Objects out of place. A few things missing. Some stuff that didn't belong at all.

Duke's red scrunchie - well, it was Chandler's scrunchie - was missing from its spot on the top of her dresser.

Usually, Heather liked to hang what she was going to wear the next day on her closet door. Instead of what she prepared the night prior, a green blazer, white collared shirt, and grey plaid skirt that she had shoved to the back of her closet a while ago hung there.

Then there was the copy of Moby Dick sitting beside the nail file she had knocked to the floor.

Carefully, as if she could somehow scare an inanimate object off by moving too fast, Heather picked up the book. It certainly looked like her copy, from the harsh white creases on the corners, to the fuzzy edges of the pages, and Heather's own name in her shaky sixth grade cursive on the inner cover.

The only missing thing was her bookmark. Except it wasn't actually a bookmark, it was a hall pass. The very first one that Veronica Sawyer had ever scrawled the Heathers' names onto. Chandler, who tucked it into her red blazer while Veronica awkwardly introduced herself to them, had later balled it up and threw it at Heather's face to get her attention during math. Heather ought to have thrown it away but she never did.

She also sort of regretted not taking it out of the book before she tossed it to that JD kid in one of the school's science labs, even if it was literal garbage.

The pass was gone.

Jason Dean should not have been around to return the book. And even if he was still around, what did he do? Climb through her fucking window and put it on her nightstand?

Either the ghosts of Heather Chandler and Jason Dean had gotten bored with their afterlives and decided to start screwing with her, or Heather Duke had gotten sent back to the start of senior year during the ten minutes she was sleeping. Of the two, the second one sounded more likely.

…

Heather had gone back in time. The universe or whatever had decided to give her a do-over that she definitely didn't deserve. Another chance to not end up lonely and miserable after getting drunk off of Chandler's power and making series of terrible decisions. And other questionable choices she made even before that.

…

She probably should have been having some sort of strong reaction, but after the initial surprise of hearing Chandler's voice again, Duke wasn't feeling anything. Maybe she was in shock or something.

What was she supposed to do now? What could she even do?

Heather picked up the phone a third time, the droning sound of the dial tone drilling its way into her eardrum as her finger hovered over the buttons. It had been so long since she tried to dial McNamara's number that it took her a second to recall what the last two digits were.

If it was the beginning of the school year again, then another… week and a half? A week and a half would have to pass before Kurt got a car, meaning that Mac was still taking the bus to school. Chandler only ever gave her rides when the weather was terrible.

Heather felt like she owed McNamara a ride, even if Heather telling her no when she asked had technically never happened now. Plus, Heather wasn't sure if she could stand to sit in a car alone with Chandler for the entire drive to school. She hadn't been able to since Chandler's stone-cold bitch shell had finished hardening, and certainly wouldn't be able to after looking down at her lying in an open casket.

Eventually, McNamara answered. "Hello?"

"Hey, Mac."

"Heather, hi!" It had been a while since McNamara had sounded that happy while speaking to her. She supposed that was her own fault. "Do you need something?"

"What makes you think I need something?"

"Well, you don't call me that much anymore."

"I'm just— No, listen, I don't need anything. Some shit happened to Heather's car and since I'm stuck giving her a lift now, I figured I'd call and offer you one too."

"Oh! Sure, that would be great. Thanks, Heather. I really appreciate it!"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't make a big deal out of it. I'll see you in about forty minutes, okay?"

"Okay!"

Duke ended the call. After getting ready and successfully avoiding her parents, she hopped into her Jeep and started heading to Mac's house to pick her up.

McNamara could undoubtedly afford her own car by saving up just a bit of her allowance, but she was also the worst driver that Heather knew.

One time, Mac had begged Heather to help her with driving. Apparently, her dad (aka her only parental figure) was far too busy to accompany her for the fifty required hours of practice driving with a licensed adult. He had just waved Mac off and told her she didn't need to worry about it, that he'd lie and sign the affidavit confirming the practice hours had taken place anyway.

Heather had given in. Usually, she was completely immune to The Sad Mac Stare™ - one of the few powers she had that Chandler didn't. But if there was one area in which Chandler would always hold her ground, it was when it came to her Porsche. Nobody drove her car but her, so Mac came to Heather next and dialed the pleading up to eleven.

Heather had thought it wouldn't be that bad. She assumed that since Mac had managed to obtain her permit, she had to be exaggerating about how bad her driving skills were. But then Heather had let the blonde get behind the wheel of her Jeep Cherokee in an empty parking lot and had, for the duration of the experience, legitimately feared for her life.

Heather shuddered at the memory, pulling up in front of her destination. While the house Chandler lived in could only be described as a mansion, in comparison to McNamara's house, it looked small and unimpressive. She honked once to announce her arrival. In a matter of seconds, Mac was out the front door. She gave Duke an enthusiastic wave on her way over, which she returned with less than half the energy.

Mac opened up one of the rear passenger doors.

"What, don't want to sit next to me?"

The blonde paused in the middle of placing her bag on the backseats, meeting Heather's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Well, Heather usually likes to take shotgun, doesn't she?"

"Heather isn't here. And it's my car, so I get to say who can sit where."

Was it totally like Chandler to complain over something as petty as not getting to sit in the front? Yes. Did Heather care? Not particularly…

Okay, maybe she did. But not as much she used to.

After a moment of consideration, McNamara hesitantly took the front seat. "Are you sure she's not gonna be upset?"

"Eh, she'll probably just throw a few dirty looks our way. Maybe a snide comment. Don't worry about it." Duke began driving in the direction of Chandler's house.

It was time to face the demon queen again.