Chapter Three
Fact and Fiction
I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all
Snow Patrol, Chasing Cars
So far, the morning had been a nightmare for James Potter.
It all started when his mother woke him up (at the unholy hour of eight o' clock, no less) to tell him they had an "appointment" with Professor Dumbledore. That had been half an hour ago, and he was still trying to burrow under his covers.
Mrs. Potter walked into the room and wrenched the curtains of his bed open for the third time.
"James," she hissed in his ear. "Wake up."
He groaned. "Mum, it's the holidays. Can't it wait?"
"No," she said firmly. "Now get out of bed and put something decent on. We have to see the Headmaster."
"I swear I didn't do anything!" he mumbled, trying to cover his head with a pillow.
She snatched the pillow away. "That isn't what this is about. And keep your voice down," she added.
"Why?"
His mother didn't answer. She pulled the blankets off the bed with a flick of the wand and said, "You have ten minutes," in her most dangerous tone.
James gulped as she left the room. Muttering things that were sure to get him grounded, he shuffled over to his wardrobe and pulled out a set of robes and a reasonably clean pair of jeans.
It was going to be a long day…
No matter how many times he tried to wrap his mind around it, Albus Dumbledore was still having difficulty accepting the truth.
He considered himself a logical man, and one who was slightly cleverer then the average wizard. However, all his logic and cleverness had not prepared him for a fact that he now knew to be true.
Through the use of some highly unorthodox magic, a witch had managed to send herself back in time. This witch, whoever she happened to be, had no records in either the Muggle or Magical world. She had numerous injuries and was still unconscious, something that could, at least in part, be seen as proof that the future would not turn out well at all. Facts.
However unusual the facts may be, he was able to cope with them rather well. Certainly, he was faring better then Professor McGonagall. When she had been informed of the situation, she had informed him, Scottish brogue very much apparent, that she would spend the rest of the night with a bottle of Ogden's, and if he tried to stop her, she would "thump him."
The old wizard's lips twitched at the thought of that conversation. It took quite a bit to rattle Minerva McGonagall, but once she was…
However, that was not the problem.
He understood the facts perfectly. He could even accept them. It was the theories that were driving him mad.
Voldemort will take over the Wizarding World. The girl is a Death Eater in disguise. Something terrible enough to require blood magic will happen in the future. Someone has managed to travel several decades in time – and that person will probably have no way to return. Theory. Theory. Theory.
There were so many different theories running through his head, and for the first time in years, he didn't know where to begin.
"I always said you'd have done well in Ravenclaw," the Sorting Hat piped up, as if it knew how lost he felt.
Then again, it probably did.
He was seriously contemplating loaning it to Fawkes (he doubted anyone would notice a few new scratch marks) when his fireplace roared to life, recalling him to his duties.
Moments later, Abigail and James Potter stepped out of the emerald green flames, brushing soot off the front of their robes.
"Ah," he said, shifting his glasses slightly. "Abigail, James, right on time. Do take a seat."
The Potters nodded and sank into identical squishy armchairs in front of his desk. He noticed that James seemed a bit nervous, and wondered why. He'd thought the elder Potters would be above letting any information slip…
"Sir, whatever it is, I didn't do it," James burst out, as soon as he'd settled into his chair.
So that was it, the Headmaster thought, fighting back a chuckle.
"Mr. Potter," he began. "I have not called you here to punish you for anything. I simply wish to aid your parents in explaining something."
"Wha-?" James began. Then, he colored. "No! Er, I mean – I already know about the, er, brooms and the hoops."
Mrs. Potter coughed loudly and elbowed her son in the ribs. "That is not what he is talking about," she whispered.
James shut his mouth quickly, and tried to stop blushing. Unfortunately, it didn't work. The Headmaster didn't seem to mind, though. His lips began twitching, and his famous blue eyes became suspiciously mirthful.
"Abigail," he said, drawing Mrs. Potter's attention away from her son. "Minerva said she was available to answer some of the questions you had last night."
Of course, Minerva had said no such thing, but Albus had no doubt that she'd quickly come out of whatever Firewhiskey-induced stupor she'd elected to put herself into in order to help Abigail better understand her situation.
Once Mrs. Potter had left, he turned to her son. James was, at present, trying to figure out what was going on. Surely, it had to be important. Dumbledore was usually very busy, especially with the rumors about a new Dark Lord floating around.
At present, though, the Headmaster looked anything but busy. He was leaning back in his chair and sucking on a lemon drop quite contentedly.
"Mr. Potter," he said suddenly. "Can you please tell me the date?"
"Er, it's January 2, I think," James answered, bemused.
"And the year?"
"1972."
Dumbledore nodded as if this was all new information to him. He didn't say anything else for quite a while, forcing James to wonder if maybe the Headmaster had lost his marbles after all. He hoped not, because he didn't fancy his chances against any new Dark Lord without the older wizard on hand. After a few minutes (ten, to be exact – James kept track), Dumbledore came out of whatever reverie he'd been in.
"Tell me, James," he began, and James immediately noted the use of his first name. "What do you know of time travel?"
"Time travel?" James repeated. His eyebrows knit together.
It isn't fair, he thought. Remus always kicks my arse at Magical Theory.
"It's supposed to be when a wizard – or witch," he added, thinking of Lily Evans – "travels through time with the aid of a spell or device."
Dumbledore made a gesture for him to elaborate. What else was there to say, though?
"Er, it's never been done for longer then a few minutes, although the Ministry has been experimenting with a device that may be able to send a person back for hours," he added, thankful they'd covered Time Travel in Charms just before the break started. "But people aren't sure it's a good idea, because if someone goes back too far, it might be impossible for the original timeline to exist."
"A brief, yet accurate summary," Dumbledore agreed. "Yet, you left out one very important fact from your definition. Have you ever heard of the great Egyptian wizard, Abra-Melin?"
The name seemed familiar, but James couldn't quite remember where he'd heard it.
Dumbledore chuckled. "I see you've been…resting in Professor Binns' class. Very well. Abra-Melin was a very talented magician, one whose primary focus was on bending the fabric of the universe – time travel, if you will. He experimented with it almost his whole life, trying to figure out a way to undo the past. Eventually, his interest grew into obsession, and his methods became darker. At last, however, he unlocked the key to time travel – not for minutes, or even hours, but years.
"A generation, to be exact. Abra-Melin theorized that time travel in the conventional sense of the word was impossible. You see, a person's magical core is such a volatile thing, that ripping it from the person's natural time – the span of years in which the witch or wizard is supposed to spend their life – would destroy it, and therefore, the person who it belonged to. However, he believed that it was possible to recreate the person in a different time. That is, have a person reborn in a time some years preceding their own, with that person's magic "calibrated" to the new era.
"From his notes, it seems it took him some time to learn how this might be done. Eventually, however, he managed to discover a process that would do it. By using the blood of your parents to magically create a new body in another time, then using a complex spell to send that body through time, Abra-Melin's theory would be possible. Another spell ensured that the caster's soul would be sent to that body upon death. Of course, the plan had its drawbacks. The magic could only recreate a body in the generation directly preceding the caster's – the date of the time traveler's conception. And so it did, sending Abra-Melin back far enough for him to write his grimoire detailing the darkest of magicks."
Dumbledore sighed heavily, his piercing blue eyes fixed on James, who swallowed.
"That's – er, well not exactly nice. But what does any of this have to do with me?" he asked nervously.
"Everything," was the reply. "You see, last night a new name appeared in the Hogwarts Registry. "Hermione Jane Granger, born January 1, 1977, age eighteen." That same night, certain friends of mine found an unnamed girl in the woods not far from your house – a girl covered in blood that couldn't all be hers, with newly-healed wrists and heavily depleted magic."
The Headmaster paused and looked at him gravely.
"And on January 1, 1977, you gained a long-lost sister by the name of Hermione Jane Potter."
James said nothing for a full five minutes, something that was sure to be a first. He was in shock. Just what was Dumbledore thinking? There was no doubt about it, now, the Headmaster was definitely mental. James said as much as soon as he regained the power of speech. He said several other things, as well, none of them complementary. In fact, by the end of his tirade, he was slightly surprised he hadn't been stricken down by lightning – or, at the very least, by his Headmaster, who he was sure would be angry, no matter how bonkers said Headmaster might be.
However, Dumbledore looked calm. It was as if he'd been expecting this.
"Lemon drop?" he asked politely, holding one out. At James's incredulous "No," he continued. "Very well, then, sit down."
Before James could tell him exactly where he could shove his lemon drops and what he'd do with the chair the professor was currently gesturing at, Dumbledore had withdrawn his wand. James scarcely had time to let out an indignant "hey!" when another chair zoomed out from behind him and knocked his legs out, forcing him to either sit or land in a crumpled heap on the floor.
He chose to sit.
"I don't think you understand the importance of what I'm telling you," Dumbledore said, and suddenly James could see that, lemon drops to the contrary, he looked grave. "Whether or not the Wizarding World at large wants to admit it, Lord Voldemort happens to be a very serious threat. I shudder to think what would happen if he were to get his hands on someone with the future knowledge this young woman must possess."
The younger wizard opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off.
"There will be enough time for you to speak later. The witch of whom we speak is currently resting in your house. Unfortunately, she is still unconscious, but I have seen her, and believe me when I say there is no doubt that she has traveled here from a different time. Now, we must all take the utmost precautions in keeping her safe from the enemy. That includes placing her somewhere where she would be above suspicion – someplace where no one would guess that she was from the future.
"To tell the truth, I would not have chosen your family to be the ones to hide her. Oh, I know you all are good people, and I respect your parents very much," he added, seeing the offended look on the teenager's face. "But the fact remains that the Potters are too well known to simply pass a daughter off as having always been there. However, Fate seems to have decreed otherwise, for she was found in a place too far from any other house but yours for us to have transported her without suspicion, and so, you have a new sister."
"Won't someone notice?" James asked immediately. "Everyone knows I'm an only child."
"Your parents and I have discussed that," Dumbledore said. "You may not remember this, but you did once have another sister. She died within a few months of being born, when you were – two-years-old, I believe. Her name was – "
"Charlotte," James said suddenly. "After my grandmother. But no one ever knew about her – she was so sick when she was born, and after…"
He trailed off, suddenly understanding as he remembered the rest of the story.
Dad had only told him about his sister once, just before he entered Hogwarts. He'd been cautioned to never mention her, especially since Mum had never really gotten over her death.
His parents had been getting on in years when they had James. They weren't ancient, but they were hardly the young, hearty types James usually saw having children, like the Weasleys, for instance. They'd been even older when they had Charlotte, not quite a year later. She'd been born premature, and had been plagued by a number of problems that not even the best of Healers could remedy. Eventually, she had died of dragon pox. Charlotte had never been registered with the Ministry. At first, she'd been too sick to take out of the house, and after the dragon pox hit, there hadn't been a need.
"You want this Hermione person to replace Charlotte," he said, looking back up at the Headmaster.
"Yes," he nodded. "Your parents have already agreed to this. The Registry book has modified itself accordingly. All that remains is to secure your participation in this endeavor."
"You want me to lie." It wasn't a question.
Dumbledore nodded anyway. "You must. Keeping this girl hidden is our surest way of defeating Voldemort. She may very well have information that could help us. Even if she didn't, the consequences of letting her fall into enemy hands could be disastrous."
James was the one nodding now. Dumbledore's eyes were sharp on him, appraising.
"I am asking you honestly, James. Do you think you can do this? Do you think you can be a brother to this girl, and protect her secret above all others?"
James stopped himself from nodding again. "Sirius would have to know, and so would Remus. Sirius lives with us, and Moo – Remus is just too smart not to notice if something's up."
Dumbledore nodded. "I expected that. I will be speaking to each of them myself, of course. I notice that you did not mention Mr. Pettigrew."
James shrugged. "Peter's one of my best friends, but he can't keep a secret well. He's sort of like Hagrid," he added, thinking of the friendly gamekeeper.
"A wise decision," Dumbledore approved.
He spent the rest of the morning detailing the cover story to James, and impressing the need for secrecy. One mistake, he warned, could get people killed.
It wasn't until Dumbledore had sent Fawkes to let Mrs. Potter know the meeting was done, that James remembered something he'd wanted to ask.
"Professor," he asked. Dumbledore turned back to him. "You said that the spell to send someone back in time – " The Headmaster nodded for him to continue, so James took a deep breath and finished. " – required a blood sacrifice. Does that mean that the girl – er, Hermione, killed her parents?"
The last part came out at once, so it sounded more like "Er, my knee killer paren."
James couldn't remember a time where Dumbledore had looked so serious.
"That is something we won't know until she wakes up."
And on that disturbing note, Mrs. Potter entered the room and swept her son into the fireplace.
When they returned home, neither one of the Potters said anything.
Abigail had always been the quiet parent. She was hardly a recluse, but she was more sensitive then loud, brash Harold Potter. She understood things about people. And just then, she understood that both she and James needed more time to process things.
So she made no move to stop her son when he disappeared up the stairs. Instead, she sank into a chair at the dining room table, and indulged in a long overdue cry.
Upstairs, James was pacing the halls restlessly. Never before had he felt so glad that his house was large. The sheer number of halls, rooms, and hidden passages here and there were more than enough to distract him.
It was such an impossible scenario, that he almost laughed out loud. Almost. How was it that things could change so quickly? In the morning, his largest concern had been worry that his best friend would come home from the funeral feeling depressed – maybe even too depressed to help plan their last grand entrance to Hogwarts. Now, he was housing a possibly-homicidal time traveling witch who could easily end up getting his whole family killed. And on top of all that, he had to pretend said possibly-homicidal witch was his beloved long-lost sister who'd been kidnapped and presumed dead, or some other rubbish like that.
Fuming at the unfairness of it all, he kicked at a random door. It swung open slightly, but he ignored it and walked on. It wasn't until almost an hour later, when he decided to pace that hallway again, that he noticed what was inside the room.
Or, rather, who.
It took him a few seconds to realize that there actually was a person in the room. All he could see was a shapeless lump on the bed and a cluster of house elves scurrying about the room. Feeling curious, he stuck his head inside saw that it was, in fact, a person, and probably the person who'd been occupying his thoughts for the past few hours.
"Master is not supposed to be in here!" Bitsy squeaked, turning away from the pile of clothes she'd been about to pick up.
"It's alright," he soothed. "They already told me about her."
Bitsy was shaking her head franticly, now, and the other two house elves had joined her. One of them – he thought her name was Holly – was waving a pair of trousers in the air while she attempted to convince him to leave the room.
Wait – trousers? He looked closer. Yes, those definitely belonged to a man. Suspicions rising, he quickly scanned the room. There was a muddy trainer poking out from under the bed and a crumpled black cloak not far off, just behind Bitsy. What really gave the secret away were the strands of bright red, almost orange, hair poking above the blankets.
Eyes narrowed, James bounded across the room and tugged the covers away, much as his mother had done to him just a few hours ago.
"Fabian?" he said in surprise. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
Fabian made no reply other than reaching for the blankets James was currently holding. James let them fall to the floor with a snort and reached out to punch the Auror on the shoulder.
"Wake up," he said.
Fabian opened his eyes and glared at the teenager.
"I was trying to sleep," he snapped, but he was grinning. "'Lo, Potter. How've you been?"
James grimaced. "Okay," he said. "You?"
Fabian shrugged, sitting up.
"Moody's been working us hard," was all he said, but James winced in sympathy. He'd heard all about Alastor Moody's no-nonsense methods in the Auror Department from his father.
"What are you doing here?" James asked again.
Fabian looked wary, now. "Er, me and Gid, we helped your dad out with something last night."
James nodded. Thanks to his talk with Dumbledore, he understood what that meant, but he didn't want to tell Fabian that. If he did, the older wizard might want to talk about it, and that was something James really didn't want to do. His thoughts were so muddled at the moment, that he wasn't even sure he could handle thinking about it for much longer.
"Where is your brother?" he asked, instead.
"'Cross the hall, I think," Fabian said. "I'm not sure. I passed out as soon as I got to the bed."
James nodded and sprinted across the hall. He thrust the door open and jumped onto the bed without missing a beat.
"Wake up, you prat," he shouted.
By this time, Fabian had joined them. Together, they managed to pull Gideon from the bed, despite his loud protests. Bitsy and the other house elves were looking on in horror, every now and then piping up with something like, "You is not supposed to be disturbing the guests, Master James." Unfortunately, Gideon had at least two inches on Fabian, and was stockier then James, so it took the other two wizards some time to wrestle him to the floor.
They were so busy convincing Gideon to "get off his arse" and play a game of Quidditch with them that they didn't hear the footsteps come up behind them, or the soft chuckle that followed.
"I sent Holly to fetch your brooms – I hope Sirius won't mind letting us use his," Mrs. Potter said, smiling indulgently. There was no trace of tears on her face.
"Thanks, Mum," James said from the floor, where he was helping Fabian pin his brother down.
Mrs. Potter stood in the doorway a while longer, letting the Prewetts pass her as they left for the field behind the house. When James made to move past her, too, she grabbed his arm and pulled him into a hug.
"The girl is awake," she whispered in his ear. "Dumbledore is speaking with her now. Try to keep them busy for the next few hours."
He gave her a brief nod and followed Gideon and Fabian outside.