Chameleon Witching
Apparently fighting with dark lords, meddling with time, and saving the day - while making toxic relationships left and right seemed to be the trend in Harriet Potter's life. A trend which didn't seem to go out of style – even if she was Sixty years back in the past.
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Warnings: gore, angst, mature language, mature situations, torture and madness.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter doesn't have my ring on him, but Harriet Miguel Potter does. Also reference from modern world – songs, actors and what not – also doesn't belong to me, so yeah.
Declarations: This work is purely fiction and in no matter, whatsoever related to real life people. This is a fan fiction with all rights reserved – on matter that do not belong to the Harry Potter fandom - that is Oc's, or any original matter. Piracy of this work on any other site than ffnet will get you ass on grass and baby, I'm all about mowing the grass off my lawn.
A/N: Another Harry Potter fanfic, I know, don't worry Machiavellian Martyr will be updated soon enough. It's just that you know me with my overactive brain and hyperaware brain and 24/7 open fan fiction sites. Ouchy. So this is a fic in which Harry has titts, was send back in time, is a lot more passive-aggressive and one badass bitchy witchy.
Oh and there will be Riddle and Grindewald in this fic, so cheers! Hit me up for more ideas – I think I'll make a one-shot book or something – or just plain time pass. Also THIS FIC WILL NOT BE ONLY FOCUSED ON ROMANCE – NO. THIS WILL HAVE A PLOT AND ADVENTURES. So yeah, it's a very, very slow burn. Yeah im a sadist, bite me. Not really, no.
So, let's dive in.
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"No one escapes from life alive."
Michael Crichton, Congo.
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Harriet James Lily Potter was absolutely, utterly, horrendously shit deep in a big fuck bucket of trouble.
She had utterly, positively fucked up so bad that there was no bloody way in merlin's soggy titts that she wasn't going to end up soul-deep in a big, big, chaotic ball of TROUBLE. Honestly? She could still feel hysteria creeping up her throat as she chugged her throat raw – at least she was still herself. Only, she wasn't herself – because she wasn't born yet.
Hell, she wasn't going to grace this world until a roughly sixty years later.
A small, hysteric laugh did burst out from her lips – as she just barely managed to drown out the sob trying to break through. It had been a rough month since she travelled back in time – a feat which shouldn't be possible, but fuck life, because she had disarmed Draco and now she had the elder wand, and Grindewald would find her and bloody rip this wand from her cold, dead hands – she shook her head.
Focus, Harry. It's going to be… not alright, but when the fuck ever did she let that stop her? The answer is – never. She fought Volde-fucking-mort, for merlin's sake.
It had been comical – the relief she felt when she saw Professor Dumbledore (Alive that is, Merlin's balls!) and blurted out her horrible, horrible dilemma of a 'fuck you' from fate. Really, seeing the still auburn haired professor had her in big, sobbing tears – she felt no shame in admitting that. The man had immediately took her to his quarters in a near-by pub in Barcelona and soothed the witch with lemon drops and jasmine tea.
It was a big, big relief that she found the man who took a leap of faith after her letter was delivered to him when she arrived. (Thank merlin that she was forced by Hermione to carry a small bag with big amount of money in it – muggle and magical.) She had to prove herself by showing the respected man a part of her memories, telling him about her knowledge of him and his sister – oh, how she cringed – and of course telling him absolutely nothing about the future.
He didn't pry and she didn't give. She very much wanted to run, run away from this place, never to meddle with the future, but she didn't. She couldn't – Grindewald would kill her, if she did. She couldn't go anywhere other than Hogwarts – the only place that man wouldn't go. That is till the time he is unaware of her little possession, and of course she didn't utter a peep when the professor had promptly chocked on a particularly sour drop when he saw her wand.
And now here she was – muttering Lady Gaga songs yet to be released and drinking her worries away with a very strong fire whiskey, a moment away from going to the place that she considered her home. Only this time, she wasn't a student – only a daughter of a friend of Dumbledore, who needed a place to take refuge in. She was going to live in Hogwarts, in one of the spare rooms till the war, and not as a student, but as a War veteran.
She could almost laugh at the fate she was subjected to in both her life times.
She breathed deeply and threw away the empty bottle, and stared at the mirror in front of her. Dark, short hair that curled messily framing her left side of the face, a small – barley there, but very thick ponytail on the base of her nape. Brown, mocha skin seemed a bit swallow, dark freckles peppering the skin in a seamless pattern, only to be disturbed by the two gashes on her face – one right across her right cheekbone, and another messily strewn across her right eyebrow – the jagged white scar prominent. They were thin, but noticeable.
Riding a captured dragon to a rocky terrain wasn't her best decision.
Swollen pale lips from abuse and narrowed bloodshot green eyes framed by prominent eye bags, but gaze sharper than a Basilisks. Glasses perched low on a crooked nose from a stray bone crushing spell, frame tall for her seventeen year old self- a good, nice 5'11. Heavily built with muscles dusted with scars and stray ink from the drunk debauchery of a party in her fifth year.
She looked like a War veteran good enough, she knew from the wary pitying gazes shot to her, that it was apparent too. It stopped meddling good-for-nothing sexist people from commenting on her skin tight trousers, sleeveless vests, and wand hostlers – the original and the current headache. Drinking wasn't going to help her, and Sirius was good reminder of that – a pain twitched inside, but she numbed and pushed - it wasn't the time, she'd have enough time to wallow. (Seven months were not a short period of time, after all.)
After years of begging for it, she was finally alone from the fame her status bought her, and now that she was no longer the girl who lived, she wished she was. It was irony at its finest.
"My girl, are you alright?" The worn, warm voice of the manipulative old man echoed, and a little tension melted away from her shoulders. Her scar – the lighting one, thumped with phantom pains from the presence of the old man. No, she was just having a hangover, but she didn't want to admit it (After all, Voldemort was dead.) "No, not really." She replied after contemplating.
"But you will be." He said with such convention, that she couldn't help but smirk at the old man. "But I will be." She confirmed, snapping straight from her sprawled position. Straitening her short cloak, she gave a one look over to her clothes. Really, she could play it off as a native Spanish thing, it wasn't that uncommon. Okay no, it totally was, why was she posing to be a Spanish witch, once again?
Because that is the cover story. Here she stood wearing pants – accompanied with a half sleeve maroon button up shirt, a baggy black coat, dragon hide boots and a short cloak ending past her butt. She wore no jewelry, except her mum's locket, Sirius's personal ring and her nose ring. She nodded at Dumbledore and with a slight crack and the faint whiff of ozone later, they were gone.
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They stood in front of the bridge – just where the apparition wards started, and Harry had to stop herself from heaving at the familiar sight. "It's just like before…" she muttered chokingly, trying not to cringe away from the warm hands consoling her. "My girl, calm down. Are you ready to go in?" he asked her softly, patiently. As if a parent consoling a child. She hated that.
"Yes. Come on, Professor, I've been waiting for this for the past one month." She kept her tone light, as if her condition didn't bother her – and honestly, it wasn't really that daunting, but memories had hit her like a bitch, she was. She tried not to think about how she was going to meet a younger Voldemort. She really didn't want to think about it – lest she kills the boy herself.
"I'm home..."
Hogwarts recognized her immediately and soon she was wrapped in the warm proverbial arms of her – magic cooing nonsense in her ears – but it was nice, that she remembered her. "Ah! You must be Harriet Rodriguez?" Armando Dippet was a jolly man, but he wasn't really fit to be a Headmaster – no sensible person would let a war veteran in a school, for merlin's sake. "Señor Dippet." Instead of her bold, British voice, her voice came out as a thickly Spanish accented one.
Her cover was simple – she was the sole daughter of one of the grey families in Spain, Huesca. Just along the border of Spain-France, she was supposedly involved heavily in the war between Grindewald frantics and free wizards – which she actually had been. Grindewald followers were particularly taxing in avoiding, persistent little buggers who don't understand no. She had spent days in a duel with those bastards.
Form a young age of barley twelve, little Señorita Harriet Miguel Rodriguez, had been a part of the struggle initially as a small spy and later on as a full fledge soldier. After years of taxing struggle of freedom, not-so-little Harry had been compromised and family had been taken away in a particularly violent struggle. Tired of her fugitive/soldier/criminal/spy life, she had reached out to Uncle Dumbledore for help.
Well, she wasn't quite the imaginative one for sure. So, thank fuck for those linguistic classes she took, no?
"I am sorry for your loss, my girl. Rest assured, no harm shall come to you in this castle." she gave a faint smile to the warm-hearted head. "Señor Dippet, I am most gracious for your help. May I know what am I to do?" she was tired, and worned. Armando smile sympathetically. "Oh dear, yes, let's get you settled in nice." Before he could dismiss her, Harry cut in, her voice strained. "Si, but May I know if I am allowed to go to the library? Or shall I stay away from the children – I understand completely." She assured the man that she was fine with not being included.
"Oh! No, no Miss. Rodriguez, you are to stay here as a student – you are not yet an adult." Her brows furrowed, and panic set ablaze. What did he mean that she was supposed to be a student? "Que? I'm sorry, I don't understand…?" she trailed off, face bewildered. "Miss. Rodriguez, you are seventeen, yes? I believe that you are perfectly in time to join our Eight year students. I'm sure it won't be a problem."
"I'm afraid, that can't be done, old friend." Dumbledore's voice cut in, before harry could have a mini panic attack. "Albus! Whatever do you mean?" Dippet demanded from the old wizard. "Harry is just staying here as a Refugee, I'm afraid it isn't safe for the girl to mingle with the crowd." He soothed the man, as Dippet frowned in return. "Nonsense! The girl needs to mingle with other students!" Dippet protested, face red.
Wow, even sixty years in the past, Old men still tried to make decisions for her. Just what she needed.
"Si puedo? Señor's, I'm not very good around people to say lightly. My Madre was a very powerful witch – she taught me everything I know of, and it has kept me alive. I hardly believe that studying one year is necessary. Also, I don't really think students would be very keen of me – or I of them." Harry elaborated. Her 'Madre' had been dead for her seventeen years, and wasn't to be born for the next sixty years. "But, my Dear! What shall you do in your time here, then? Surely you won't stay in your room for you time here?" actually she was, but improvise, improvise.
"I was hoping that you might allow me access to your library? If it wouldn't be much problem." She gave him a grimace of a smile – the first expression from her deadpan of a polite smile. Harry was naturally a passive-aggressive person, so it wasn't very hard. Armando Dippet relaxed a bit, as the worn war-torn child in front of him gave him a small smile, some ghost escaping from her haunted eyes. He could only silently mourn the bright child, and reluctantly agreed. Oh, how he hated war.
"Now, Albus? Let us discuss a few thing and let Miss. Rodriguez rest." Taking the dismissal, Harry was happily ready to bugger the hell out of there, when Dippet stopped her, laughing fondly. "Oh, dear child, you might get a bit lost if you hurry. Please, sit down. A prefect is on their way to escort you." Oh, yes. She was supposed to be a foreigner.
In some way she was.
So she nodded and sat down, eyes trained to roam systematically – a habit from her years in the run, she was hyperaware for most of the time, but it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye out. She sighed and drew her back, the bangs that hid her war trophies and marks bared to the world, along with her face. From the gasp from Dippet, he had got an eyeful of the canvas that was her face.
She secured the barley maintaining short pony with a tight knot. "Good Merlin! Child, what happened to you!?" Dippet stared in horrified wonder at the marks and the freckles at the face of the woman in front of her. Honestly, the child would be a beauty, but with those scars on her face and forehead… he really, really loathed war. "War." She said in a clipped voice.
Oh, of course, these people have a thing about scars and shit.
Dippet was visibly more upset but he backed off after some time. "Good Evening Headmaster Dippet, Professor Dumbledore." A high, pompous voice rung out in the office as a short, blonde haired girl swaggered in, nose high in the air, eyes blinking cutely at the men. 'Oh Merlin, please let this not be some distant grandmum of Malfoy.' Harry's lip twitched.
The girl took one look at her and narrowed eyes glared at her scars. "Ah! Mallory, my girl, show Miss. Rodriguez the Dorm in north tower?" Mallory Whatever nodded charmingly – how the fuck does one nod charmingly – Harry stood up, towering hilariously over the barley 5'1 – 4'12? Girl. "Pleasure, Señorita…?" she questioned, face anything but pleasant.
"Mallory Black."
Sirius's Great-Great-Grandmamma is a bitch.
Sorry Sirius, but she was serious in her statement. The girl's eyes screamed reluctance as she shook her dainty hand with her rough one. Her grimace was noticed by Harry and she just tried not to sigh. "Goodnight, Gentlemen. Once again Señor Dippet, Gracias. For all you have done." It wasn't very visible, but there was some warmth in her cold, cold eyes.
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Armando Dippet beamed at the war-driven child, this was why he became Headmaster – to see that precious childhood was preserved of the youths the held dearly in their arms. Miss Mallory Black cleared her throat, beamed out her greetings and off were the startlingly different duo. "What happened to your face?" the question came out as soon as they mad the out of the room.
"Where do you think it came from?" Harry snidely asked, raising her eyebrow a smidgen. Miss Black huffed, flipped her blonde hair and strutted ahead. "Well, whatever." The blonde didn't try to ask or talk anymore, the silence tense. "What are you doing here?" she finally asked. "Taking a break from war, usual stuff." Her voice was thick with accent and sarcasm.
"You'd gotten spanked if you talked to my mother like this." The blonde hissed, Harry stopped looked her dead in the eyes and just said, "Wow." Mallory-dearest turned a nice red and tried to march their way, but Harry was a seeker – her legs long and kept up without breaking a sweat. She sighed and removed the long robe she had worn and let her scars be covered, as they passive-aggressively marched.
"What in the name of Merlin are you wearing!?" Mallory's high pitched voice rose, and Harry visibly cringed. "Clothes, Señorita Mallory. Clothes." Mallory's horror grew into horrified annoyance. "Do you have no common decency? Look at what you're wearing, pa...pants!" the little miss actually shuddered at the notion of women wearing pants.
"You honestly cannot expect me to- whatever, kid." Harry brushed off the girl and went ahead. "You coming or what, moza?" The girl snapped out of it, marching right back to her. "Excuse me? What did you just call me?" Harry rolled her eyes so hard she felt them churn. "Moza, or in English – Girl." She told her, enjoying the way she turned even redder.
"I am a Woman!" Mallory gritted out, highly offended at this tourist. How dare this wench talk to her like she was a child? How dare she! Mallory bet that this girl was just a stupid teen – fifteen or some. She was sure that there was nothing womanly about the wench under the cloak she wore. And those pants! Does she have no modesty, what so-ever?
Harry paused, yet again, and looked the Moza up and down. "Nay, you're not. Neither are you a girl, Loco Niñita." She shot the short girl a small smirk, eyes glittering in mockery. Man, she was so fucking happy that she took those classes, there is nothing better than insulting someone to their face, with them realizing but not knowing. "Excuse me!?" Her shrieks were getting a bit annoying now.
"Not excused. You have yet to show me to my room, Loco Niñita." Harry used her best 'Talking to Malfoy' voice and definitely did not smirk when the girl steamed at the ears. "Look, here you little wench! You can't talk to me like I'm a house elf!" the girl tried to grab her, but her reflexes triggered in, and in a snap, the girl was pinned to the wall, wand digging into the vulnerable throat.
"Estúpido Nina, just because I'm seventeen doesn't mean that I will let this go, entendido? Understood?" she whispered in a low voice to the child frozen beneath her. "What is going on here?" a low, deep voice asked. Harry didn't give any reaction, or move, but shifted her body so both could be seen. She knew that they had been there, but whatever. She was a Gryffindor, after all.
Or was. Whatever.
"Theodore!" Mallory gasped out, as Harry slowly let her go. "Mallory, what's going on here?" 'Theodore' asked Miss. Mallory, as she gasped out the scene but not the story. How quaint, no? Just bloody well fantastic – not to mention the eyes of the fifteen year old Volde-fuckin-mort. Harry almost wished she didn't do what she did to Mallory, but impulse, impulse.
"What in the blazes do you think you're doing!? And where is your uniform? Do you think roaming around like that will get you a husband?" Impulses, impulses, mustn't strangle the idiots. Oh never- "Miguel? What are you doing here?" Professor Dumbledore, trust him to know when I'm about to commit homicide. Without breaking her stare off with 'Theodore', Harry replied, "La pequeña señorita Mallory pensó que sería una buena idea atacar a un 'Veterano de Guerra'."
Little Miss Mallory thought it would be a good idea to attack a 'War Veteran'.
"Espero que no haya daño permanente?" Hearing Spanish from Professor Dumbledore ought to be one of the most disturbing thing she ever heard – that included that hideous chuckle/laugh of Voldemort. Oh wait, he's here – just a rough fifty years younger and not Voldemort yet.
I hope there is no permanent damage?
"No. But, really, Alguien debería revisar su cerebro o falta de él." Harry pointedly ignored Dumbledore's little chuckle and mutters of 'Feisty girl' in Spanish. Yes, this was one of the most, if not the most disturbing things she heard. "Professor Dumbledore, this… girl attacked Mallory – she attacked a prefect! On top of it she isn't wearing the uniform."
Dumbledore and Harry shared a look. 'Seriously? This is what Hogwarts was like?' 'I am Afraid so, my girl.'
In the end, the old man pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed loooong and hard. "Really, my girl. Must you do this?" He asked her wearily, yet his eyes twinkled full force. Harry just tried to smother her smirk. "Whatever." With an unamused snort, she messily pulled back her hair – ignoring the gasps – and tightened it into a half knot. Seriously can't a witch wear her hair down, or what?
"Professor, De todos modos, ¿dónde está la habitación?" she asked, and the old man just pointed the door handle jutting out of the top of the roof. Harry shot him a look, and he just smiled his grandfather-ly smile at me. Anyway, where is the room?
"Honestly." she muttered, ignoring the now silent mob of people. As she pulled the lever down, and popped out a hanging ladder her eyes met dark obsidian ones. - Kill him, screw the timeline! Kill him, he kill's Sirius! He kills Mom and dad! He kills every fucking one!Kill him, screw the time, and avenge your parents! - Harry didn't look away from him till the time it was no longer possible not to.
Below the roof-door, dark eyes started endlessly at the said door – the eyes dark in every matter, and a certain someone's fate was sealed. "That, my boys, was Miss Rodriguez. Miss Mallory, I must warm you not to attack her, or lunge at her for the matter. It is a through sheer discipline and control that a war veteran such as Miguel didn't respond more accordingly to the incident."
The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes was suddenly a lot more ominous.
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A/n: Thoughts? Any dime for some thoughts? Any lone soul out in the dark?
Nah, but seriously, how is it? I hope it isn't too bad. On the other hand, tell me what you think about Harry. Also do you guys like the fact that Harry has scars? Because let me tell you, those scars are going to be very, very important in the near future. By the way did anyone see Crimes of Grindewald yet? No spoilers, just a yes or a no.
Fact: Harry Potter was a distant cousin of Tom Riddle Jr. it's mentioned in the family chart.
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"Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!"
Bram Stoker, Dracula.